“Good work then, lad. We'll make a guard of you yet!”
“You're a caravan guard?” wondered Devin. “I thought you were just a driver.”
“What did you think the bow was for lad? Shooting squirrels?” Garrit laughed again.
“I don't know, I didn't think about it,” replied Devin. He decided he liked the man. He had a ready laugh and an easy way about him.
“No, I'm no driver lad, but I hope on this trip all I'll be shooting is dinner.”
Devin looked at him, the unspoken question must have been obvious on his face.
“Killing a man is no small thing, lad. You take all he is and all he could be with one stroke,” Garrit explained, his eyes faraway. “I don't know a man who has done it and not regretted it in some way. An' those that say they don't, are either liars or less than men.”
The day passed pleasantly for Devin, as Garrit regaled him with tales of travelling to distant lands and time spent hunting.
Miriam woke just past noon and sat in silence, watching. It felt good to see him with a man and not be on edge for once. She had avoided thinking about whatever might have happened to Caerl. He had brought all of it upon himself. Her change of attitude was, in no small part, due to another lecture from Shalin that morning. She had been awakened at dawn and informed that Shalin had arranged passage with a caravan of wagons to Savarel for both her and Devin. They were leaving within the hour, and as she gasped and made weak protestations, Shalin had rushed her around the inn, packing old clothes for both Miriam and Devin from her and her son's rooms. The final straw had come as she stood outside the inn, when Shalin forced a fat purse into her hands.
“You'll need something to set you up in Savarel,” she'd advised and refused to take no for an answer.
Miriam had eventually accepted with tears in her eyes, promising to repay her friend as soon as she could, though who knew when that might be.
She sat up on the improvised bed in the back of the wagon, just behind the seat. Watching the scenery idly for a time, she listened to Devin pepper Garrit with questions. Eventually, she fell into a light doze whilst watching Devin's hero worship grow.
That evening, the wagons drew into a circle with a fire pit dug at the centre. Devin sat entranced, as a driver named Mika played on a wooden flute. Miriam made her way over to the fire and spoke to the woman at the pots. She was soon humming contentedly to herself as she cut vegetables on a long wooden board.
Dinner was a rough stew, but delicately seasoned, and Devin devoured it before asking for a second helping. Mika picked up his flute as soon as his bowl was empty, and Devin sang along and laughed at the wagoneer's tales as he nestled close to his mother. She sat, not really listening, her eyes and mind elsewhere as she picked disinterestedly at her food. How sad it was that Devin was only just now discovering simple pleasures. The guards, Miriam noticed, did not join in with the merriment. They ghosted amongst the trees, with only one or two at a time coming in to the fire for food every half an hour, until they were all fed.
“That was a wonderful meal, Ma'am,” Garrit hunkered down beside them. “Nancy is a good wife to Mika but she can't cook worth a damn, if you'll excuse my language.”
Miriam laughed. “I've heard far worse than that, Garrit, and it's Miriam. Please?”
“As you wish, Miriam,” he replied with a smile. He stood and moved off to speak to one of the guards for a moment before sitting back down beside her.
“It looks like your lad here's day is done.” He nodded at Devin with a smile.
Miriam looked down and saw Devin's eyes were closed. A half-empty bowl of stew was tilted dangerously in his hand. She reached down and took the bowl quickly, setting it on the ground beside them.
“He's had a rough couple of days,” she admitted. “I should probably get him bedded down.”
“It looks like you both have,” the grizzled man said gently. “I can put him down easily enough. It looks like he's good and gone. You stay here and I'll bring you something to drink.”
He moved quickly before she could protest and carried Devin over to the wagons. He was as good as his word though, and returned swiftly with a leather wineskin and two wooden cups. He poured out a good-sized measure of rich red wine and handed a cup to her. “So, what brings a lovely young lady like yourself to be running?” he asked with a smile.
“Not running,” she replied smoothly, as she sipped the wine, “Just travelling.”
“I think it's a bit more than that,” Garrit said, nodding at her face. Her eyes widened for second and her free hand drifted to her face and the bruise that had yet to fade.
“A man like that usually gets what's coming to him,” Garrit muttered.
“My husband,” she admitted as she stared into the dark wine.
“Well, I suspect you're better off without a man like that,” he said and took a deep drink. She copied him and they sat in a companionable silence for a time.
“What about you?” she asked, mostly to break the silence. “No one waiting by the door for you?”
“I was married, years ago.” He spoke slowly, as if dredging through something unpleasant.
“What happened?” Miriam asked, curiosity getting the better of her manners.
“I lost her to the red fever,” Garrit said with a tightness to his voice.
“Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I'm sorry, Garrit. I didn't mean to drag up painful memories.”
“It's fine,” he said, smiling sadly. “It was a long time ago.”
“Not that long, surely? I mean, you can't be more than thirty-five summers.”
“Are you enquiring after my age, madam?” he said, his lips twitching as he fought against a smile at her instant blush. He refilled their cups and nodded towards the wagons. “He's a good lad though. Your boy I mean. So it can't have been all bad.”
“No,” she said softly. “No, it wasn't. It was wonderful in the beginning.”
“So, what happened?” he asked, looking into the fire.
“This stuff,” she tapped the edge of the cup with a fingernail.
“Wine?”
“Wine, or ale. Anything that did the job in the end.”
Garrit gave a slow nod. “I've known a few men like that myself. The kind that are fine on the street, but their woman's eyes tell another story.”
Miriam sniffed into her cup and took another deep drink. The wine was strong but smooth, and slipping down entirely too easily.
“So, how did you meet him then?” Garrit asked.
“He was a caravan guard actually,” she admitted with a smile.
“Like me?” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“No,” she replied quickly. “No, he was nothing like you. He was young and brash and, well, everything that a stupid girl finds attractive.”
“Am I so very old and ugly, then?” he smiled as she blushed again.
“You're a rotten tease, is what you are,” she said laughing, swatting at his arm.
“No, he was fine when we first met. He promised me the moon and I believed he'd get it for me too.” Her lips tilted up at the memory, the expression at odds with the purple and yellow bruising on her cheek. Garrit sat in silence, waiting for her to go on.
“Then he started with the drinking. He'd be fine for a time, and then he'd go too far and we'd be struggling for a bit.” She looked at him. “We moved around quite a bit. Rent. Well, you can imagine how it was.” Garrit nodded, sipping his wine and holding her gaze.
“Then along came Devin.” She laughed suddenly. “We'd tried for a bit, but nothing came of it. Then, just as things were hitting rock bottom and I was ready to pack my bags, along he came.” She twisted her lips wryly. “Actually it couldn't have come at a worse time.”
“How did he take it?” Garrit asked.
“He was wonderful.” she smiled. “I mean, he changed overnight. He was kind, considerate. He stopped with this.” She held out her cup again and Garrit refilled it, overflowing it so the wine r
an down the back of her hand. She laughed and waved off his apology as she shook her hand and licked off the drips.
“But then it slowly slipped back,” she carried on. “He was drinking again and things got bad. Really bad.” She touched her face and grimaced unconsciously.
“So, what do you plan to do now?” he asked, ignoring the grimace and taking another drink.
“Well, we're going to go to Savarel,” she said, suddenly aware of how much the wine was thickening her tongue. “From there, I'm not sure. Start again, I suppose.”
“I spend quite a bit of time in Savarel,” he said, and his meaning was clear. She turned to look at him shyly and caught his expression, their eyes met, and then his head was moving slowly towards her. He didn't think...? Did he? She moved back sharply, turning her face away from him and towards the fire.
“I can't,” she gasped. “I mean, it's just too soon.” She turned to face him, expecting anger or confusion but his face was calm, apologetic even.
“I'm sorry, Miriam,” he offered. “I should never have...”
“It's fine.” She cut him off. “It's just too soon right now. Maybe once we get to Savarel.” She left it hanging but met his eyes for the briefest moment, flashing a smile.
***
The days fell into a pattern, with Devin at the reins more often than not and chattering away to Garrit. More than once Miriam had offered to tell Devin to leave the poor man alone, but Garrit rebuffed her with a smile and a laugh, seeming to enjoy the boy's attention. The fields had long since given way to trees. For close to two weeks, they had been travelling through woodlands, broken here and there by tiny hamlets or farms. By the fifth day however, they had entered the forest proper and the road narrowed as it twisted and snaked its way through the trees.
Devin noticed that the trees on either side of the road had been cleared. Every now and then one of the guards would ride off the path to hack down a sapling. “Why are the trees cut?” he asked Garrit curiously.
“This forest used to be a favourite for bandits,” Garrit explained. “It's been standard practice for all guards to cut down any sapling within two hundred paces of the road for years. Stops them shooting from the trees, see?”
Devin's eyes grew wide. “Real bandits?” he gaped.
“Real enough, lad. I shouldn't worry too much though. This road is well-travelled and we're a bit too large a caravan for most thieves. They usually stick to smaller groups or anyone fool enough to travel alone.”
Devin thought back to the few travellers he'd seen on the road. All of them had been in parties of ten or more, save the lone messenger travelling on a powerful-looking horse. “What about the messenger?” he said.
“Messengers are trained to fight, or run. The horse can gallop away from most problems. Plus, they're crazy.” Garrit grinned. “You couldn't pay me enough for their job. Roads are dangerous places when you're alone, fast horse or not.” He watched the boy scanning the trees fearfully, then picked up his bow and laid it on the lad’s lap. “Try this for size,” he suggested.
Devin lifted the bow, his eyes like saucers as he marvelled at the weapon. It was slightly longer than he was tall and strung with a hemp string. He stood and braced his calf against the seat for balance, drawing back the string and loosing an imaginary arrow.
“Did you get it?” Garrit asked with a smile.
“What?” Devin replied, confused.
“The deer. It looked like you did. It was a great shot.”
Devin grinned, and then sat quickly as the wagon hit a rut and lurched.
“Be careful, Devin!” Miriam cried from the back of the wagon.
“I'm okay, Mum,” he said back over his shoulder.
“Now you've gone and got me in trouble,” he muttered sideways to Garrit.
“Life's no fun without getting into a little bit of trouble now and then,” he said in a stage whisper.
“I heard that,” called Miriam sweetly. “Unless you want to be cooking for yourself tonight sir, you'll watch what you say to my son.”
Garrit laughed and turned his attention back to the road.
The skies had clouded over around mid-morning and a light drizzle had begun to mist down. By mid-afternoon, the rain had settled down and decided to put in a real effort. The wagon slowed and had to fight for every mile as the road surface became less of a road, and more of a muddy track. Devin left the driving to Garrit, who was now wrapped up in his cloak with a broad-brimmed hat crammed down on his head. He scowled at the road, as if the rain were a personal affront, and muttered darkly out at the wet.
“Looks like you've made a friend,” observed Miriam as he climbed over the back of the wooden seat and into the wagon.
Devin grinned and sat down in the space his mother had created by stacking and shoving the crates and sacks out of the way.
“He's funny,” said Devin. “I've never met anyone like him before.”
“He does seem to be a nice man,” agreed Miriam. “It would be nice if he could visit you, sometimes, once we get to Savarel.”
Devin smiled at the thought and then looked at her with serious eyes. “Where are we going, Ma?” he asked. “I mean, I know we are going to Savarel, but where?”
“We'll go and see if we can find your Grandpa first,” Miriam said. “If we can't find him, well then, we'll just have to see how things go. It's our adventure, right?”
“I suppose it is,” said Devin.
A commotion from the front of the caravan drew their attention, and their wagon came to halt. Garrit hopped down to the road in one smooth motion.
“What's going on?” Miriam called after him.
“Not sure yet, Ma'am, I'll be back shortly,” he yelled back, without bothering to turn.
Devin looked around at the trees set back from the road, his eyes darting this way and that as Garrit's tales of bandits came back into his mind. The rain was slowly turning into a steady downpour and it was hard to see more than a few dozen feet in any direction. He looked at his mother and they shared a smile which they both knew to be false as they waited.
The wagon rocked, heralding Garrit's return. “Something wrong with one of the wheels. We're going to be stuck here for a time while they try and fix it.” Garrit's easy manner was offset by his nervous glance towards the tree-line, while he reached into the wagon for his bow and slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder.
“Are you expecting trouble?” Miriam asked softly.
“Never hurts to be ready is all, Ma'am.” Garrit replied. “I can't see any bandit coming out in this though. Weather like this is best suited to being inside a tavern somewhere, trying to get the serving wench onto your lap...” He trailed off suddenly, as if he had just realised who he was talking to. Covering a sudden flush by clearing his throat, he gruffly muttered, “Stay here, and out of sight.” He reached down past Devin for a wicked-looking short sword, and climbed out into the rain.
Miriam pulled Devin down into the back of the wagon, and they lay quietly amongst the sacks and crates. The road was oddly silent after the creak and rattle of the caravan. The only noise was the soft hiss made by the rain striking the treated canvas roof of the cart and the sounds of their own breathing. Peering over the back of the seat, she saw Garrit talking with two of the other guards and gesturing towards the distant trees, before making his way back towards the wagon.
He hauled himself up and clucked at the horses, taking the wagon off the road, and positioning it into a rough circle to the side of the stricken wagon. As they passed, Miriam could see several of the guards and drivers struggling to hold one side of the wagon up in the air, as others placed thick sections of wood underneath to serve as a brace. One wheel lay on the ground nearby, damaged beyond repair.
“Right,” said Garrit, twisting around in the seat to speak to the pair. “They'll soon get that wheel changed, and then we can be on our way.” He looked at Miriam speculatively. “We may as well have a spot of lunch while we're here?”
; “That, sir,” said Miriam tartly, “was pathetic.”
He stood and as he extended an arm to help Miriam over the back of the bench, an arrow buried itself neatly into the seat beside his hand with a solid thunk. Garrit's response was instant. Shoving Miriam hard so she fell back down into the wagon, he used the force of the shove to propel himself out of the seat, and down next to the wheel.
“Stay down!” he shouted, as he nocked an arrow and crept to the corner of the cart.
Shouts of “bandits!” were coming from the rest of the caravan, and the guards flew into action, dropping tools and drawing weapons. Arrows continued to fly from the tree-line, travelling in a low arc to cover the range, but hitting little more than the ground and the occasional wagon.
Devin, lying in the back of the wagon, could just see Garrit through a gap where the canvas met the wooden side and saw the confused look on his face. Suddenly, a cry came up from the other side of the camp. Swearing viciously, Garrit tore around to the other side of the wagon. Devin flew across the wagon bed, ignoring Miriam who grabbed at him and made frantic hushing motions at him. With a sharp tug, he managed to create another peephole through which to watch the attack.
A group of a dozen or so rough looking men, had made it half-way to the wagons before the ruse had been uncovered, and were now charging with weapons raised. Four of the caravan's guards rushed to meet them, while the rest held bows and fired at the oncoming bandits.
Garrit stood tall, loosing arrow after arrow, but they either dropped short or flew off wildly. After four or five shots, the string snapped completely. “Cursed rain.” he swore. “Drop the bows and attack,” he bellowed, pulling his short-sword from its scabbard and a long knife from his belt as he charged.
The fight was vicious and brutal. Devin saw, almost at once, that the stories he had heard of battle held nothing in common with an actual sword fight. Men slipped and cursed at the wet even as they slashed and hacked at each other in desperate attempts to kill or maim. There was little or no grace in the fight, and Garrit was no exception as he slid in the muck and used the opportunity to strike savagely at a man's leg. The blade bit deeply into the bandit's leathers, and he cried out as blood sprayed from the wound. Devin's mouth fell open as he watched the man drop to one knee, only to meet Garrit's sword coming the other way.
The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set Page 3