Chapter 35

  Day Sixteen – Sundown

  Father Sun made his bed in the same way he did every day. Two carts entered a mountain grove, away from any road or path, in an accessible valley. The peasants and their rescues were met by a camp of even more carts and wagons, with oxen, a couple of draft horses, and a small herd of swine and chicken. Men, women, and children were roaming around small fires and makeshift tents.

  Zaber and one of Franque’s men were carried in on makeshift stretchers. The latter had his neck bandaged, and pressed down by a comrade. The former had his armor removed from his torso to relieve the pressure from his broken ribs. His left forearm was swollen black and blue, and the sound of his breathing was impossible to ignore. The greasy and unkempt man hadn’t spoken in a long time, his facial burns covered with a wet cloth. He stared at the sky with an angry grimace.

  “Let me help you,” said Thyra to Torm.

  The apprentice followed his mentor. Zaber was carried by that old man, and his near-identical-looking son, who had helped them before. “Th–” Torm groaned in pain. Moving his face burned, with all that dirt on his torn skin. “Thanks.”

  “This needs vinegar or alcohol,” said Thyra, wiping Torm’s face with a wet piece of cloth. Her gaze followed that of the young man, resting on Zaber. “He–” she halted and switched to a whisper. “He hasn’t said a single word. Didn’t even make a sound when I checked on his ribs.”

  “I know,” nodded Torm. He didn’t care if Zaber heard him or not. “We fucking blew it. That was our last chance.”

  Down on her luck and covered in dry sweat, the rugged woman didn’t know what to do or say next. Or what to feel. She looked around the camp and the abundance of folk crept under her skin. Seeing how Franque and his men kept together, supporting him and each other, she was drawn to stay with Torm and Buron.

  Nancia walked next to Breg, spearheading their group. Both were still wearing their armor, and the woman-at-arms even her helmet. The unreasonably tall man still carried Buron. The way he looked at anybody that came close, a bark or bite might slip any moment. Next to him, Nancia looked dignified to Thyra. With that much fear in his whole demeanor, the giant man that broke into her and her mother’s house was gone.

  “You can let go of me,” whispered Buron, holding onto his companion’s strong shoulders.

  “A bit more,” replied Breg, his eyes glued to Buron’s. “Please.”

  “Alright,” said the scrawny man, and pulled his companion’s helmet off. Carefully, he fixed Breg’s hair and beard for him.

  “You scar,” mumbled Nancia under the frog-mouthed helmet that hid her away from the peasants’ curious gazes. “I saw.”

  “Got my knee pierced clean,” said Buron, who had only eyes for Breg right now. “Six or–” He thought. “Five years ago.”

  Even though neither of them could feel human touch under their armor, Nancia placed a hand on Breg’s shoulder. “Tout va bien?”

  The giant turned his head slowly with a confused furrow of his brows. “What?”

  “You–” The woman-at-arms stuttered a couple of half-wrong words without finishing any of them. “Good?”

  Breg looked forward at Buron again, who smiled as he felt strong arms tighten around him. “We are,” replied the bald one instead.

  Thyra listened to her allies and watched them closely. Seeing how Franque’s men treated each other, and Nancia warming up to tall and bald, she mused if these folk were her friends or… did she even want that?

  “It wasn’t for nothing,” said Zaber, breaking through Thyra and Torm’s wandering minds. “We’ll try again. We’ll get our horses and try again.” He still stared into the sky. With each word, his face was filled with more anger, though his voice was restrained from the broken ribs. Even more so from the voice that burned hot in his neck.

  “That’s what I told the peppersack,” said Torm. He walked right next to the stretcher, restraining himself from touching it or Zaber. The old peasant and his son were pointed through the camp by their fellow men and the one-eyed woman. “But what’s there still to do? We need to recover first, our advantage is gone, and–”

  “Tomorrow we’ll ride again,” interrupted Zaber. “We have two days left.”

  “Have you lost it?” Torm was baffled. “You and Franque need to rest. All of us have to, but you two and his–”

  “Then I’ll do it alone.” Zaber raised his arm to silence his apprentice, but the pain struck down soon enough. “You go back to Teblen. Take her with you, leave Breg and Buron a share from the chest and what’s left of my belongings,” he uttered detached. “Tell Hanifa and Marghe–” He stopped. “You know what.”

  Children of all ages flocked around the wounded until their parents pulled them away. Straw mats and blankets awaited the brigands and former mercenaries. Water was brought to them. Franque’s men struggled to contain their leader, who wanted to check on all of them. When standing on the side of his ear wound, they had to yell at him.

  “Did you hear that, Buron?” Thyra knelt next to where Breg placed the bald veteran. “He wants to do it again; tomorrow!”

  “Zaber, please,” uttered Torm, as he sat down. With a sunken head and slouched shoulders, his mouth opened and closed. It took a while before he had something to say. “You can’t do this to me. I messed this up, I need to learn more from you firs–”

  “Shut up,” said Breg. He didn’t squat down for long, standing as tall as ever, looking down on Torm. “You did well. We all failed.” One piece after another, he got rid of his armor. “We fight uphill, no matter how much we prepare. We can’t do this anymore.”

  “By the Stars,” gasped Thyra, grabbing her mouth as her body sunk into itself in relief. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your minds.”

  “We need to break into the prison,” said the unreasonably tall man, wiggling off his maille. Buron couldn’t suppress a burst of laughter, hearing their friend talk like nothing happened. “That’s the kind of plan Ash would come up with. We’re that bastard’s marauding children.” He took off his old gambeson as well, towering over everyone in his fully glorious strength. Sweaty and hairy, his arms and core were like a tree with many scars as bark.

  “Are you insane?” Thyra’s mezzo rose a tinge. “Are you all fucking insane?” It rose even more. “I can sing to you, but more folk means it’s spread out further. The lightly wounded may be alright tomorrow, but Buron and Torm will take at least two nights. And you and Franque even longer.” The rugged woman looked back and forth between their allies’ camp next to them and Zaber. “Our belongings, and the poppy juice, are with the horses.”

  “’aight, we’ll borrow one of their horses and get ours tomorrow,” said Zaber, finally expressing more than just anger. Knowing his friends were at his side brought back the confidence, even though he still stared into the sky and barely moved. “Torm will take you somewhere safe. You can begin your own life there. I’ve heard the right words now; I still got Airich’s sword. This ain’t over, we still have to avenge Asher, right?”

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  “Damned right,” replied Breg and joined Buron on the ground, who held his knee but also nodded. “I want to rip that dirt knight in half. No matter if they’re beyond us or not.”

  “Are they?” A deep female voice reached them from behind. The one-eyed woman wore her brown hair in a knot at the back of her neck, presenting no smile. She was in the midst of her forties, and the underfed ox of a man to her right was at least fifty. They were followed by her son, a thin but worked boy, about two or three years younger than Torm. “Bigge here told me you fought two knights to the ground.”

  “We’re having a talk here,” said Zaber, not able to see them. “You saved our arses, but we got planning to do.”

  “Thank you so much.” Thyra tried to get up, but her legs wouldn’t move. She caught a glimpse of Bigge’s children, who took care of Franque and his men. She also noticed that Nancia was still wearing her armor. “What are your names?”

  “I am Roda,” said the one-eyed woman. She waved at her son and Bigge, who straightened his gugel and adjusted the remaining hair on his half-bald head. “This is my brother-in-law, and this is my son Telf.”

  “’aight.” Zaber tried to get a look at their saviors, but was kept down by Torm and Thyra. Pain seared through his body. “Zaber, Torm, Breg, Buron and Thyra. Come back later, we have–”

  “You’re no merchants, are you?” asked Torm, counting the many folks around them. Old, young, parents, children; hundreds of them. “Those are farming carts and animals and no goods for selling.”

  “I thought they were a funeral procession,” said Thyra, mustering their clothes. All adults’ clothes were dyed with dark oak. Her gaze lasted the longest on Roda, wearing pants, without covered hair. “That’s the rite, isn’t it? I don’t mean to be rude, but you should move on fast. We mean trou–”

  “Don’t worry,” said Bigge with an awkward, yet kind, smile.

  “Let her speak, Bigge,” said Roda and her brother-in-law bit his lip and clenched his fist. “Y’all can stay with us for now, we have nothing to fear. Our other hunting troop brought back a deer and its fawn. We don’t have much, but we are eager to share.”

  Hearing the one-eyed woman speak, a spasm flashed through Thyra’s chest. She wanted to speak, stop the conversation between the veterans, but her tongue and thoughts choked her.

  “They didn’t have any luck with the other villages,” said Telf from behind his mother. His tunic and leg wraps were rather simple, as were his shoes and belt. That made the folded leather cap he wore stand out even more, adorned by a hand-carved wooden button that showed a may tree. “We can’t stay too long.” His eyes were distracted by all the weapons and armor. Especially the longsword right next to Zaber.

  “We’ll discuss the matter over supper,” replied Roda and ran her eyes through the misfits in front of her. “While we hold counsel, make yourself comfortable. I’ll return as soon as you are done.”

  “Who are you?” asked Buron before Roda and Bigge turned away. He rubbed his hands and held the warmth against his knee.

  “We told you.” Telf shook his head, blinking confused. “My ma is Roda, my uncle is Bigge, and I am–”

  “That’s not what he asked,” interrupted Breg, grizzling his voice. “Who are you?”

  “He ain’t wrong,” said Zaber, breathing unsteadily and holding his torso. “We ain’t poking into your business. But if we stay with y’all, we need to know who we share camp with.”

  “Fair,” nodded Roda. “That is the matter I wanted to speak about anyways.” She came closer until she stood right next to Breg, making this average woman look tiny. But not intimidated. “We are the subjects of Sir Ludwald of Luphon. That’s a small mountainside keep, roughly–” She halted and looked at Bigge.

  “Forty or less,” said the stout man, shaking his hand in a guess.

  “Forty or less miles northeast of here,” repeated Roda. “My family, and a dozen others, are from Penram, which his forefathers were granted lordship over. The other families are from Bromwich and Luphton, all a stone’s throw apart from each other. And under his rule. We’re traveling south for…” She halted once more and looked at her brother-in-law.

  “As the young woman said, a funeral procession.” Bigge finished the sentence with a nod, which was repeated by Telf and Roda.

  Buron linked his bloodshot eyes with Breg’s and Zaber’s, giving each other invisible nods. He felt his nostrils and looked at his hand – but the bleeding had stopped. “We’ve heard of you,” he said. “Unruly rabble and all. Word’s reaching the neighboring princedoms.”

  “Really?” Torm looked at Thyra, shrugging equally confused.

  Just before Roda was able to speak, wasting time on a concerned look towards her brother-in-law, Breg interjected her. Much to her displeasure.

  “You followed?”

  “Likely,” said Roda. “No village we’ve spoken to has heard of Sir Ludwald coming after us. It’s a month and we’re forced to move slowly.”

  “He’s–” Zaber’s closed his eyes to concentrate. “He’s a small time landed knight. He got a handful of armored retainers at best. Enough for a small feud; taking a hostage, if he could levy y’all.” After some waving with his hand, Torm helped the broken veteran up, against Thyra’s gestures to stop. “He’s either hiring sellswords or petitioning his liege for aid. Worst case, a retainer or two are keeping track of you.”

  “I make it you speak from experience?” asked Roda, squatting down and leaning towards Zaber. “We haven’t heard of Countess Adeldine, nor the local clergy either. Now that we’ve introduced each other, mind sharing who you are?”

  With Torm bracing him, and Thyra trying to convince him otherwise with her eyes, Zaber spoke through his gritted teeth. “This is Torm, I am Zaber.” He looked at Breg, who made room for the one-eyed woman, but kept close enough. Buron’s gaze was hard to read with how smashed up he looked. “Handsome over there’s Buron, the other’s Breg. We’re vagabonds and beggars. The tinned arseholes you saw are tax collectors who felt the need to punish us,” said Zaber, barely able to keep his breath steady. “This here is Nancia, she–”

  “Is a traveling performer,” said the rugged woman. “I’m with Nancia and her posse.” Torm’s face snapped at her, asking silent questions that went unanswered.

  “Oh, Franque already told us that he’s a merchant and got in trouble with the tax collectors,” said Telf from behind, crossing his arms like he got them. “Said you’re his hired muscle, because the mountains are so dangerous. No word of a Nancia.”

  “Yes,” barked Breg at the boy, making him flinch. “We drifting around for coin. Any problem with that, funeral boy?”

  “Excuse my boy,” said Roda, glancing at Breg as if she had any power. “Whatever the truth is, we’re all in trouble. We’ll treat you well, if you behave.”

  “Understood,” nodded Zaber, and Buron and Breg joined in.

  “I overheard the bit where you wanted to borrow one of our horses.” The one-eyed woman stood up, patted her clothes straight and adjusted her cleaver. “Describe the spot and I’ll send a man or two over night.”

  Thyra tried to make sense of what was happening. Everyone around them was armed with what little a village had to offer. Long knives, lumber axes, quarterstaves and small hunting bows. Many tools, hay for the animals, and spare planks, metal and wheels were lying around. Children were still trying to sneak closer to them, but were scared away by Roda’s face alone. The one-eyed woman looked neither like Nancia, nor the peasant women they’d met before. Everyone here seemed to have their guards up, but there was an aura of respect in the air.

  “I need to talk to Franque first,” replied Zaber after gathering his thoughts through the pain. “Our belongings are all stored at the same place.”

  “I understand.” Roda passed Bigge, placing a hand on her son’s shoulder. She squeezed him just a little, so that he let go of his gobshite expression. “As I said, there’s drink and supper after our sit-in. We are humble folk. Do not hesitate to ask us anything.”

  After waiting until the peasants were gone, Thyra stood up. She held her stomach for a brief moment, remembering the gut punch from the stone. “I want to speak to Nancia,” she said. “I’ll tell Franque you want to speak.”