Shadow of Hope XXVII
“Can you handle the wagon?” Borlak asked of Katarina, “I will ride ahead a bit and see if I can find a safe route.”
He hurried Galagina ahead with practiced agility. Heels administered a sharp tap to her withers, prompting the horse to step smartly forward and a bit to the right; a slight, follow-up tug on the reins brought the well-trained horse to a halt.
The barbarian secured the reins to the saddle’s pommel whilst taking up his shield; best to guide the horse with just his legs. A few practiced motions secured the shield to his left forearm, and he rested his now-free right hand on the grip of his sword. He glanced back to ensure that Katarina was ready to proceed before starting toward the eastern edge of Westerly.
‘What an unfortunate turn of events,’ he thought to himself, ‘The last thing we really need is to lose our newly-acquired supplies. Worse yet is the possibility of wounded, or dead. That’s no way to start an expedition.’
Knowing how important the supplies were was the only thing that held him back from charging into the fray. True to his warrior spirit, he would rather be doing the Death dance; life was all about it. It, and the tending of the horses that were his peoples’ legacy.
A scene repeated itself in his mind’s eye. He stood in the midst of the fray, his cold iron nimbly weaving lines of death amongst the enemy. Alas, not today, or at least not at this time. If the chance were to present itself then he would gladly take it, but for now the wagon was his first priority.
Borlak lead it closer to the bridge, all the while watching the streets, shadows, and inhabitants; behind as well as ahead, lest someone take advantage of the diversion to come upon them unawares. The members of this tent town certainly didn’t stand above suspicion.
‘If we can gain the bridge, then with a little luck we’ll find safe passage across it. Then, perhaps, we can reunite with the others.’
Kurn saw the fight go out of the attackers, first in the back ranks that seemed no longer so eager to press, then in the men nearer who began to widen the space between them and take tentative steps backward, and finally a quick glance from the field commander who was realizing the death of the situation.
“Go,” Kurn told the man. “Forward, choose well from whom you accept gold and for whom you will fight,” Kurn advises the mercenary, a mutual respect offered. “Not all who offer the first deserve the second. You and I are more than just weapons to be wielded by others.” Kurn took one step back, toward the advancing line, cleanly disengaging and giving no indication that he would pursue.
Katarina and Borlak encountered Erellia racing toward them on horseback and who, after questioning them about Marcus’ whereabouts, escorted them back to Daroun, Haron and the relative safety of the shelter.
On the emptying field, Kurn walked heavily back to where one mount lay dead and two more struggled and protested in pain at their broken limbs. Kurn noted the crushed body of the field lieutenant still in the military saddle of the dead mount, twisted in ways a living man would not be able to fold. Kurn cautiously approached the prone, wide-eyed horses and ended their suffering, his original riding horse one of those two. He wiped his bloodied sword blade clean on the deceased lieutenant’s cloak and sheathed it. The smell of death permeated the air like an unseen fog; blood-sweet iron, churned mud, and oils from steel and leather. The scent of charred flesh on the wind prompted Kurn to turn to regard the line of burned bodies leading back to Marcus.
Kurn’s wounds required attention; stubbornness and adrenaline were holding him sharp, though he knew blood loss from his side and his leg would take their toll far too soon. He couldn’t well dress them with anything close at hand without being assured of the binding causing festering.
He crouched and undid the buckle of the riding saddle from his sacrificed horse, then roughly pulled it free from under the animal, slinging it over his shoulder. He winced at some small wound on the back of his shoulder he hadn’t realized he’d taken. Kurn stood and walked the short distance from the field back towards Erellia’s shelter, his edge-bent shield hanging heavy and still on his arm.
Kurn became aware of a slightly looming presence as he took the first few steps back; the lizardman had approached whilst he’d been busy with the grim task which the horses presented.
Cheskith had retired his sword, though the silvery buckler remained in place. He’d come through the battle unharmed and unstained save by a few small flecks of mud that had been churned up.
“You are wounded, I see?” the reptilian voice swept to his ears, no longer filled with the same eerie power, yet retaining a certain presence regardless, “And would prefer that they be mended, those wounds, before they pain you further as you move? Do this for you, I can, if you are willing?”
Kurn paused at Cheskith’s presence and offer, considering, wondering if it carried a price. He finally nodded assent and merely stood in place, the saddle still over his shoulder, to be directed as Cheskith needed to see to the wounds he carried.
A hint of power crept back into Cheskith’s voice as several more chanted syllables issued forth. Not nearly so dramatic in their effect; he merely brushed his fingers over the bleeding gashes, which sealed over under the spell’s power.
“Much more comfortable to walk this way, is it not?” Cheskith threw a curious glance in the direction of the lone rider who’d escaped the pursuers by dint of bringing battle to the town. “More comfortable than to ride as that body does upon the horse of the new arrival.”
If Kurn was surprised at the news that the rider had someone strapped over her mount with her, it doesn’t show through the mess of mud and blood — some his, some others — upon Kurn’s face. He rolled and tested his shoulder, and similarly reached down and tested his side and his thigh. He nodded succinct gratitude at finding that the tender wounds yet
ached but would no longer risk infection or further loss of blood. Simple pain he could deal with.
“Yes,” he agreed absently as he searched out the rider in the aftermath. Seeing her still mounted and approaching the others, he resumed his walk toward the shelter.
Borlak dismounted lightly onto the ground as they reach the shelter; his horsemanship was evident, even to an untrained eye, with both rider and mount working together like extensions of one another.
He glanced at Erellia, then turned to survey the windswept battlefield while asking, “Have you any idea what the attack was about? I did not see much of the battle, but we heard talk in the street of a rider coming in just before. Do you know anything of this?”
“Indeed,” Erellia replied, nodding in the direction of the rider, “That rider is Zulian. One who will be joining us, but I know nothing of these attackers, though I suspect she may.”
Erellia dismounted as well, offering the reins of her horse to a tentative Haron.
“You performed valiantly, Haron,” she offered the boy a smile, then turned quickly to the others, “Borlak, you and Daroun keep a watchful eye until the others return. We don’t want to be caught off guard should the raiders return. Katarina, let us begin preparations to tend any wounds that our comrades may bring with them.”
The new arrival Cheskith indicated rode across the battlefield, paying little heed to any of the stragglers or the dwindling chaos as the wounded are gathered or sent onward to the spirit world. As the mount and rider move away from Marcus and past Kurn and Cheskith, a snatched glimpse was all that could be managed through the rain and the heavy traveling cloak.
The figure was undoubtedly female as the well fitted leather armor across her chest indicated. Thick, black hair spilled from around the sides of her hood, framing dark skin and pale eyes that almost glowed with their lack of color. Elven features were quite discernible across her face, though the bloodline was not pure. She still clutched the length of bloody scimitar as she rode by, and it became apparent that the overburdening of her mount was from a humanoid figure, bound and draped over the front of her saddle.
A handful of gallops later, and the Elven woman reined in her steed near the squat form of Rôhn, who was presently dislodging his sword from the clavicle of a rather unfortunate brigand.
“Rôhn! We have a problem. Where is Erellia?” her voice rang out.
Nearby, after having given a half-hearted charge toward the retreating force, the greatsword wielding fighter could be heard shouting at the top of his lungs, taunting those that were fleeing, “That’s right ya heathen bastards! Turn tail and run! I swore if you set foot on this bridge again I’d see you off to the netherworld myself!”