After we set off, the wind picked up considerably, turning into a roaring, howling thing. Braylar pulled his scarf up to his eyes to keep the grit out of his mouth and nose. I tried asking him a question, and he swore repeatedly and told me to be silent, as if I were in league with the wind.
When we finally halted for the day, the wind hadn’t abated at all. We ate and I attempted to sleep. But between listening for Lloi’s return or the ripper’s approach, it was largely a restless night. Lloi didn’t return. But at least the ripper didn’t either.
The next day was much of the same. No reprieve from the wind. No sign of Lloi.
After feeding the rest of the horses, Braylar saddled Scorn. As he was getting ready to ride off, his crossbow and quiver on either side of the saddle, I asked him what I should do if the ripper showed up.
He either failed to hear me or failed to care and rode off without a word.
So abandoned, I sat inside, the wagon rocking back and forth, the canvas quivering against the wooden ribs, and the hand axe at the ready, though I knew I had little chance of fending a ripper off if those Grass Dogs fared so poorly.
Hours later, Braylar returned and dismounted. Alone. One glare killed any questions I might have had.
Another restless night. And another dawn without Lloi.
By mid-afternoon the following day, the wind finally ceased. The grass stopped churning, the horses lifted their heads once more, and we began to move at our normal pace.
After another quiet hour, I sat next to him. He said, “And you were worried this wouldn’t be a pleasant journey.”
Whatever mirth he was trying to summon disappeared when I asked, “Is Lloi… does she usually go this long? Is she—”
“I can’t say,” he replied. “You must have failed to notice, but I’m not with her, I’m with you. She’s alive or she’s dead. One of those is a certainty. Beyond that, it’s pointless to question. I would have her rejoin us, but I can’t will it—”
Braylar stopped mid-sentence and closed his eyes. The twitch returned on the edge of his lips, the scars lifting and falling. He cocked his head to the side as if he were straining to hear something far away, then stood and pulled the flail off his belt, the corners of his mouth beginning to twitch more rapidly. And his lips opened and closed slightly, as if he were trying to find the beginnings of words that refused to come out.
Suddenly, he raised the haft of the flail in the air, the two spiked Deserters swinging gently on their chains. Then he began spinning the heads, slowly at first, so they began a gentle arc, and then faster, until the chains were whistling through the air. With each pass, he mouthed the non-words more frantically.
He stood on the seat, spinning the flail, turning at the waist, this way and that, like some twisted, warlike weathervane moved by a wind only he could feel. I’d never had direct dealings with a man afflicted with madness, but I was sure those were likely signs.
Not knowing what else to do, I asked, “Captain Killcoin? Can I get you something? Some, uh, some wine perhaps?”
He cursed, told me to be silent, and continued turning.
All I could do was watch, until, like a storm that threatens but is blown past by the wind, the spinning slowed and then stopped, and he grabbed the chains with one hand to still them before placing the weapon back on his belt. And then, as suddenly as he stood and began the madness, he sat again, as if nothing occurred at all. Leaning forward, hands on his knees, he stared straight ahead, sweat on his brow.
I was trying to think of something to break the silence when he jumped off the wagon, moved a few feet off into the grass, pulled his trousers down, and emptied his bowels as loudly and grotesquely as I’d ever heard bowels emptied, a wet explosion as if all his insides murdered him and were trying to flee the scene of the crime at once.
Disgusted, I turned away.
A short time later, he walked back toward the wagon, face pale, hands shaking slightly. I couldn’t begin to think of what to say, but he said, “I always have to shit before a fight. Now go into the wagon, Arki. Bring me the crossbow and bolts. The quiver should be propped up alongside it.”
I didn’t move right away and his head snapped in my direction. “Be quick about it.”
Utterly confused, I did as he asked and returned a few moments later, laying them on the seat. “Not for me. For you. You’re going to learn how to span a crossbow today.”
At a loss, I asked, “Span?”
“Span it. Load it. Load the crossbow, yes? That’s what I said, was it not?”
He unloaded the crossbow and handed it to me. “This bow is beyond the pale. With some, usually for hunting, you load with your muscle and a foot in a stirrup. With more powerful ones, you need tools—a belt hook, pulley, crannequin, or demon’s tongs. Here, you have the tongs, but as you can see, they aren’t a separate tool, but a built-in mechanism. This decreases the load time. Especially mounted. But you have it easy—you’ll be in a wagon and not a saddle. Now pay attention.”
He pushed the lever forward and slipped the short pair of curved hooks on the thick hempen bowstring—if that’s what it’s called on a crossbow, I didn’t know and didn’t want to deal with more derision by asking. There was another pair of slotted prongs, much longer and gently curved, that were fitted on a metal rod protruding from either side of the stock. With a quick pull of the lever, the long prongs slid along the rod as the short hooks drew the string back and fitted it to a nock. He maneuvered the lever forward again, releasing the hooks, and then folded the contraption flat against the top of the stock.
So prepared, he dropped a bolt—at least I knew enough not to call it an arrow—into the groove in front of the string. He preceded to unload and load it once more as an example, unloaded it a final time and handed the crossbow and bolt to me, asking me if I had any questions.
I had dozens but withheld them.
He commanded, “Now you.”
I made an attempt, albeit clumsily. While the lever mechanism eliminated the need for brute force, the action wasn’t nearly as easy as he made it appear—the short hooks slid off the thick string several times.
Braylar scowled. “Faster. You must go faster. You aren’t loading this to shoot quail, you’re loading it to kill a man who wants to kill you. Now faster.”
I tried to speed up, and fumbled even more.
He leaned over me. “A man is going to kill you. He’ll do this if you aren’t quicker. Be quicker.”
I reached for the trigger and he grabbed my hand. “No. No loosing without a bolt. Very bad for the weapon. We’ll simply have to do with losing some bolts until you get the hang of it, yes?”
With shaking fingers, I dropped the bolt in place as he’d done, aimed it off into the grass, and squeezed the long trigger. The crossbow jerked, the string twanged, and the bolt disappeared almost faster than I could see. I repeated this a few more times and noticed that Braylar was scanning the horizon to the south.
I looked as well and saw nothing and he said, “Did I tell you to cease? Continue. Continue, continue, continue. You must be fluid, you must be fast. Or you’ll die. Continue.”
Not understanding any of this, I continued nonetheless.
Over and over, losing count, bolt after bolt into the deep grass, my fingers getting sore until they began to blister. The demon’s tongs, as he called them, made the process much less strenuous than it would’ve been using the back and legs alone, but my hand was still starting to cramp. Finally, after what seemed an eternity of repetition, he said, “Still too slow. But we have no more time. Which is just as well—I don’t have an endless supply of bolts.” And then he looked at the horizon again. “Very soon a group of riders will approach us. I don’t know who they are. But there will be a handful or more. They’ll be armed. And they won’t be friends.”
Predictably, I said, “I don’t understand. How do you know that?”
He looked at me, eyes narrow. “You do remember our night at the Three Casks, yes? Our little rude awakening?”
It took me a moment before I understood what he was getting at. He hadn’t spun his flail like a madman, but he’d somehow known blood would be spilled. “I still don’t—”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s enough that I know. Now give me the crossbow, hide in the wagon, and be ready with the quiver. And hand me a blanket.”
I simply looked at him, sure I’d misunderstood the directions.
He raised an eyebrow. “Was that too complicated, Arki? I thought it fairly simple. You didn’t think I wanted you to shoot it, did you?” And then he laughed, though I clearly didn’t know why.
I had no interest in handling the thing, let alone shooting it—I’d never even threatened someone with violence, let alone carried it out—but I didn’t appreciate being made sport of. “Why did you have me reload it until my fingers bled if you didn’t want me to shoot it?”
“Because, if I hand it back to you it will be empty. And you’ll need to span it. I thought that much had been clear. You practiced reloading because… you’re going to reload it. One job. That’s all. And if you do it half as poorly as you just practiced, there’s a very good chance we’ll both die. Do you understand me now?”
I nodded numbly.
He took the crossbow from my hands. “Good. Now get in the wagon and keep your mouth shut. And hand me a blanket.”
I was reaching for a blanket when I saw him open a chest near the front of the wagon. A moment later, he slipped a cuirass of brass scales over his head and then pulled another larger tunic on over that, covering the armor completely.
He saw me staring. “I did mention a battle was forthcoming, didn’t I? I thought that much was clear. Now hide yourself.”
After handing him the blanket, I sat down in the wagon and set the quiver next to me. At that moment, I thought Lloi was lucky to be running around in the grass with a ripper.
⊕
I was considering that riding off into the wilderness with a stranger, no matter how much fame or money might be won, was perhaps the worst idea ever, when I heard something. Hoofbeats. Faint, so much so that I didn’t recognize them as such at first. But real enough. As they got closer, I could tell they belonged to several horses.
Braylar whispered, “Six. Better than seven. Much worse than four.” I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to me, himself, or the flail.
I scooted against the wall of canvas, and noticed a worn spot, just thin enough that I could see out without anyone seeing in. There were six riders. One had a shirt of rusty and poorly-patched mail that barely stretched over his wide girth. He was much older than the other five, and I assumed he was the leader. He had straight gray hair hanging in a sweaty curtain beneath his iron helm, and a thick white mustache that obscured most of his mouth. In his hand, a round, wooden shield, and a sword in a scabbard at his side. On his other side, a cracked and weathered horn hanging from a baldric. That didn’t bode well.
The other five riders wore dirty gambesons, similar to the quilted jerkins the city watch wore in Rivermost, though these were raw, undyed, and thicker. They had either short axes or long daggers at their hips, and carried spears and shields, each with a quiver of javelins alongside their saddles. These soldiers looked around as they approached and shifted in their saddles like they ached to be out of them. They look inexperienced, bored, and young. But they were definitely a handful of armed men. Just as Braylar predicted.
Our wagon rumbled and creaked along slowly, tack and harness jingling. The five young soldiers halted about thirty feet away, with the leader riding a bit closer, and Braylar stopped the wagon. And I began to sweat in earnest. Three of the soldiers moved out of my square of vision, still maintaining their distance, fanning out slightly, but I could still see Braylar’s back, the leader, and two of the young men in quilted armor.
The man in mail spoke—he sounded congenial enough, and I hoped Braylar was wrong about their intentions. “Greetings. I’m Hornman Urlin. And you are…?”
“Very pleased to see you.” Though I couldn’t see his face, it sounded like he was smiling. Smiling was good. Unexpected, but good. “I am Thutro. Sometimes called Thutro the Prosperous, though few enough remember the second part now.”
Hornman Urlin crossed his arms in front of his substantial lap and leaned forward. “Heading to the Great Fair, then?”
Braylar sounded nothing but affable, which must have taken heroic effort. “Yes, I am. I suppose you hear that quite a bit this time of year?”
Hornman Urlin nodded. “A good number of folks on the way to the Fair. A good number, true enough. But you picked a strange road to take, stranger. No road at all.”
“I thought it looked suspiciously grassy as well.”
“Why not take the trade roads, friend Thutro? Safer on the road, with fellow travelers.”
“Fellow travelers, yes. But also brigands who prey on them. You and your men, you do a good job protecting travelers, I have no doubt. But you can’t be everywhere, no? So, being undefended, I thought it safer to stay away from the roads.”
The Hornman didn’t take long mulling this over. “Maybe. Maybe safer. The Grass Dogs might have a thing or three to say about that, I’m thinking. But maybe it’s not safety you’re worried about at all. Maybe you’re carrying something you wouldn’t want inspected on the roads. Maybe your cargo, you don’t want inspected at all. Could that be it?” He said this casually, jovially even, which seemed to be at cross-purposes with the intent.
“Possible? No. It’s true. I don’t want my goods inspected. But that’s only because of their extreme paucity. It hasn’t been a good year. A good stretch longer than that, truth be known. Ten years ago, I had five wagons, all outfitted with drivers and guards. Five years ago, three, outfitted with my reluctant brothers and their lazy sons. This year, as the last of my fortunes deserted me, my family did as well. So I’m left to shepherd myself and depend on the good fortune of meeting protectors in the wilderness, rather than brigands and nomads. So you’re correct, I’m reluctant to show my small goods, but please, if you would shame a broken man further, inspect as you must. It won’t take you long. You’ll find nothing objectionable.”