shone from the houses in the distance and the horses strained at their bits as they caught their riders’ tension. Well trained and obedient—it didn’t do to cross Commander Verris—the men curbed their restive mounts, waiting for the order to charge.
Soon they reached the outskirts of the hamlet, still unseen. Slit-pupiled eyes scanned the gloom; teeth gleamed in the lamp light as lips parted in predatory smiles. Verris took them as close as he dared before forming them into prearranged groups. He intended to cause as much panic and confusion as possible; if some of the villagers were killed, that would only add to the havoc.
He checked his men—they were ready. He took a small flint from his pouch and dismounted, then kindled a small flame in the earthenware bowl he had brought. He passed it around to the men and they each dipped a tarred branch into the bowl. Once the torches were lit, Verris tossed the bowl aside and remounted. He grinned in anticipation as he raised his arm, gave a cry, and released his eager band.
With whoops and yells, making as much noise as possible, the raiders set heels to their horses and raced into the hamlet, tossing firebrands into thatch, barns and vegetable gardens. The noise and the torches brought the villagers pouring from their homes, desperate to douse the flames. Any villager unfortunate enough to stumble into the path of a raider was cut down, but, obedient to their orders, the invaders didn’t actively seek victims. Chaos was their goal and chaos they caused.
Unfortunately, the raid didn’t go as smoothly as planned. Alerted by other attacks in the province, the local garrison had sent patrols to watch. Normally, they wouldn’t have stood a chance of countering such a random raid, but as fortune would have it—or misfortune—a small unit of Kingsmen had been offered billeting by the hamlet’s elder. Aroused by the noise and trained to react swiftly, they raced for their horses and prepared to repel the outlanders.
From his vantage of safety, Verris yelled for a retreat. Not all his men heard the call and he sacrificed them to the swordsmen. Serves them right, he thought as he galloped away, the rest hot on his heels. Their deaths might teach the others to pay closer heed.
As he yelled at his men to close up, Verris raced for the open fields where they could lose their pursuers in the dark.
After supper, Taran, Cal and Rienne walked to the inn. It had no name as it was the only tavern in the area, drawing its clientele from the surrounding farmlands and the village. Because of this, it was only full at the end of the week, and this was when Taran felt most comfortable. Folks from the outlying farmsteads were not as familiar with his nature as the villagers, and he and Cal could relax with their ale.
Paulus, who had been a good friend of Taran’s father and knew very well what they were, had a philosophical outlook. He took their custom happily, knowing their coin was as real as anyone else’s. He also often accepted Taran’s help behind the bar and the wage he paid supplemented the small amount of gold Taran had inherited from his father. Taran’s strength also helped relieve Paulus’ back.
They entered the large, smoky common room with its warming smells of food, and found a vacant table by the wall. The barkeep came over as soon as he saw them; it was early yet and he still had time to chat. He brought their drinks with him—mugs of dark, mellow ale for Taran and Cal and mulled wine for Rienne. They smiled appreciatively as he set the tray on the table and sat down.
Taran opened the conversation.
“Rienne said you had a company of Kingsmen here, Paulus. Are they still around?”
“No,” he said, “they moved out earlier. Got word by messenger of more trouble, they said, though I don’t know where.”
“And you don’t know any more about them other than where they came from?”
Paulus flicked a glance at
Soon they reached the outskirts of the hamlet, still unseen. Slit-pupiled eyes scanned the gloom; teeth gleamed in the lamp light as lips parted in predatory smiles. Verris took them as close as he dared before forming them into prearranged groups. He intended to cause as much panic and confusion as possible; if some of the villagers were killed, that would only add to the havoc.
He checked his men—they were ready. He took a small flint from his pouch and dismounted, then kindled a small flame in the earthenware bowl he had brought. He passed it around to the men and they each dipped a tarred branch into the bowl. Once the torches were lit, Verris tossed the bowl aside and remounted. He grinned in anticipation as he raised his arm, gave a cry, and released his eager band.
With whoops and yells, making as much noise as possible, the raiders set heels to their horses and raced into the hamlet, tossing firebrands into thatch, barns and vegetable gardens. The noise and the torches brought the villagers pouring from their homes, desperate to douse the flames. Any villager unfortunate enough to stumble into the path of a raider was cut down, but, obedient to their orders, the invaders didn’t actively seek victims. Chaos was their goal and chaos they caused.
Unfortunately, the raid didn’t go as smoothly as planned. Alerted by other attacks in the province, the local garrison had sent patrols to watch. Normally, they wouldn’t have stood a chance of countering such a random raid, but as fortune would have it—or misfortune—a small unit of Kingsmen had been offered billeting by the hamlet’s elder. Aroused by the noise and trained to react swiftly, they raced for their horses and prepared to repel the outlanders.
From his vantage of safety, Verris yelled for a retreat. Not all his men heard the call and he sacrificed them to the swordsmen. Serves them right, he thought as he galloped away, the rest hot on his heels. Their deaths might teach the others to pay closer heed.
As he yelled at his men to close up, Verris raced for the open fields where they could lose their pursuers in the dark.
After supper, Taran, Cal and Rienne walked to the inn. It had no name as it was the only tavern in the area, drawing its clientele from the surrounding farmlands and the village. Because of this, it was only full at the end of the week, and this was when Taran felt most comfortable. Folks from the outlying farmsteads were not as familiar with his nature as the villagers, and he and Cal could relax with their ale.
Paulus, who had been a good friend of Taran’s father and knew very well what they were, had a philosophical outlook. He took their custom happily, knowing their coin was as real as anyone else’s. He also often accepted Taran’s help behind the bar and the wage he paid supplemented the small amount of gold Taran had inherited from his father. Taran’s strength also helped relieve Paulus’ back.
They entered the large, smoky common room with its warming smells of food, and found a vacant table by the wall. The barkeep came over as soon as he saw them; it was early yet and he still had time to chat. He brought their drinks with him—mugs of dark, mellow ale for Taran and Cal and mulled wine for Rienne. They smiled appreciatively as he set the tray on the table and sat down.
Taran opened the conversation.
“Rienne said you had a company of Kingsmen here, Paulus. Are they still around?”
“No,” he said, “they moved out earlier. Got word by messenger of more trouble, they said, though I don’t know where.”
“And you don’t know any more about them other than where they came from?”
Paulus flicked a glance at
Similar Books
