On the road near Morva Torch, afternoon of October 6, 1347.
Written by Gordis, Angmar and Rian
Now all the band was on the road, clustered together around Algeirr and the Tark. Algeirr drew the man's wrists together and secured them with a piece of rope he always had in his pocket, just for occasions like that.
The young prisoner lifted his head from the dirt of the roadbed to shout something to his wench, but Algeirr's backhand blow across the mouth stopped his words. The Tark coughed, spitting blood from his bruised lips.
The woman wheeled her mare around and stopped, looking at them, apparently unsure what to do. Algeirr grinned back at her, and pulled out his long gleaming dagger.
"Get off your horse, wench, and come here," he beckoned hoarsely.
The girl looked back, defiance and contempt in her eyes. She was comely indeed. Algeirr's mouth watered, as he eyed her breasts and tights lecherously. He could show her a thing or two after all these long years in the country of Lossoth...
"Look what I will do to your man if you don't!"
Holding the Tark by his long hair, Algeirr moved his knife across the exposed throat. A thin red line appeared.
"I will cut his head off slowly, small cut after small cut, if you don't surrender immediately. You will do it eventually, you know it already. Just don't let him be hurt more than needed. Hurry up!"
Algeirr was going to use his knife again when slowly, very slowly, as in a dream, the girl slid from her horse and started walking towards them, her anxious eyes riveted to the captive man.
"No, Cae, NO!" the Tark whispered, but it was too late. Griss and Heggr already gripped the girl's arms, while Uffi got hold of her fine mare.
Algeirr gave the Tark a vicious kick with his boot, which sent him sprawling into the mud again, and approached the girl.
"Look, lads, what a little dainty we have here," he grinned. His brown callused fingers found the girl's breasts beneath her velvet tunic and pinched the nipples. "Like ripe strawberries ready for plucking!"
The girl seemed to come out of her stupor and started to fight back feebly, earning much amusement from the company and more pinches on her tights and bottom. Finally she stopped, seeing it was useless, but her eyes spoke her contempt.
"Cowards!" she hissed, as she tried to keep back the tears that she knew would only amuse them more.
Kviggr swallowed, feeling aroused and disgusted at the same time. He had never before been a robber on the road, but, knowing his band as he did by now, he had little doubt what was about to happen.
"There is one thing about it," Griss thought to himself, "Algeirr knows his business!" Griss had watched in fascination as the outlaw's knife sliced across the worthless Tark's neck, drawing a fine line of blood. Griss hoped that Algeirr would slice the fool's head off right there. He had never seen anyone slowly beheaded, bit by bit. He licked his lips in anticipation as he thought of how appealing the idea was.
He knew, though, that it was all a ruse to force the girl to surrender, and it had worked. Maybe this was better than seeing the Tark beheaded after all; that could always wait. He was all too happy to have his hands on some female flesh once again.
Griss enjoyed the way the Tark girl struggled as he held her. The ones who fought always excited him the most. He patted her firm hips just to experience the sensation of touching a woman once again. How long had it been since he had even seen a female? "Far too long," he thought as he experienced the ache once again. He had to stop thinking about how good she smelled and how her body moved as she struggled. He must force himself to stop thinking that way! A woman like this was not meant for the likes of him, but for the Jarl. Now if he could just talk sense into Algeirr, but he did not know how easy that would be, because it was obvious the outlaw wanted her for himself.
"Stop it, Algeirr. She is for the Jarl." Griss said with finality. "He will reward you, if you come to him bringing such a gift."
"Maybe I want to keep her for myself and my men." Algeirr looked at Griss as though he would hit him.
"This is not going too well," Griss thought.
"The Jarl likes fine, comely women," Griss said persuasively, "and will give you more for her if she is intact when she reaches him."
"All right then, let not a hair of her pretty little head be touched unless she makes trouble!"
Algeirr spat these words at Griss, hating the man with his very guts. But he stopped his hand that had crawled all by itself to his sword hilt, and took a deep breath. Algeirr was a sly old fox, and he knew that acting rashly out of anger was never a wise thing to do. If he would have to kill Griss, he would do it later, in cold blood.
As Griss and Algeirr argued, Caelen's mind raced frantically - what could she do? Her brother lay bound on the road, wounded and bleeding - were those horrible men just going to leave him there to die? She had to do something ... she pushed the raw, ugly memories of their groping hands into a dark place in her mind - that didn't happen to her ... not her, really ...
She looked anxiously at her brother, who was blinking hard, trying to clear his head. Suddenly Callon's wounded mare came into her view. A few of the men were trying to keep it still, but the animal, in its fear and pain, wanted to reach the only humans it knew. There had always been comfort and friendship with them - maybe if it could reach them, all these bad things would stop. They would make things better - they always did.
"All they care about is money," she thought, pushing the thoughts of other things they might want into the dark place along with the memories, and spoke up loud and clear, hoping no one noticed the tremor in her voice.
"Why don't you let my brother and me tend the wounded mare? If she recovers, she would be worth much to you."
Griss, trying to keep the role of top man present, assented gruffly. "Do it," he said.
She started to move towards the horse, but he grabbed her back and put his lips right up to her ear in an insulting, familiar way.
"No tricks, though, wench, or I won't be the only one making you pay! It's hard to keep my men back ... make it worth my effort."
Caelen fought back her disgust and fear and said meekly, "No tricks. Please, I just want to help her, she's in such pain..." Then remembering that these men didn't care at all about the animal, except for what they could use her or sell her for, she re-emphasized, "And she's worth a lot of money!"
Griss pushed her towards the horse. Caelen walked towards the injured animal and then stopped, deciding to take a risk. She boldly asked, "Would you untie my brother, please? Together we should be able to help the mare."
The men roared with laughter, but Caelen pressed on. "Look at her," she said, indicating the sleek, well-bred mare, trying to not think about her obvious distress and pain, "she's worth quite a lot of money alive, but worth nothing dead." Her gaze swept over the group, noting the youngest man - the archer - and his slightly sympathetic gaze. "Unless any of you are horse experts and can help me, that is," she added, and turned to Griss and Algeirr again with an air of a slightly exasperated expert that is trying to help the one that called her in even though he is hindering her.
Algeirr decided that Griss had taken enough of the commanding role, and motioned to one of his men. "Release him," he said, "the wench is right - the horse is a valuable one." Callon was jerked to his feet and his bonds cut off. Algeirr walked up to him and spat. Pulling out his blade, he jerked Caelen to his side and held the dagger to her throat, saying to Callon, "Know this, Tark - if you do anything I don't like, I'll give your woman a necklace to match yours!" Callon's eyes flamed with hate, but he was strong enough to not lose a chance out of anger, and he coldly nodded his assent.
As Callon walked over to his mare, she tossed her fine head and whinnied eagerly. At last, the one that smelled of green grass and fresh air; the one that brought her good things to eat; the one that helped her and made her feel good! She tried to walk towards him, but Callon held up his hand to her in the command to ground-tie, and she obediently halted and waited for him, trembling with distress.
He reached her head and caressed it gently, speaking soft words and rubbing the spot under her forelock that she liked so much. As he calmed her down, he tried to steal a glance at the young man holding the reins. Of all the bunch, he seemed the best bet to be most sympathetic to them. Callon decided to try to talk to the young man as much as possible and hopefully win him to their side - or at least win enough of him to where he might hesitate or even deliberately miss his next shot at them, if it came to that again. There were precious little other options Callon could see at the moment.
The mare lowered her head into Callon's caress and blew gently out of her nose. Her lovely coat was covered in sweat and flecked with foam, her nostrils were wide and red, but the sweet-smelling man was here now, and she visibly relaxed.
Callon turned to the young archer. "What's the arrowhead like? Can you show me?"
"Can't be pulled - gotta cut it out," Kvigr answered, trying to sound older than he was. Callon nodded and moved to examine the wound. As he moved, he kept one hand on the mare at all times, letting her know that he hadn't left her. He kept up the soft conversation with her, too. Kvigr was amazed at how the mare had calmed down by Callon's expert handling, and had a flash of anger and resentment. He could never afford a horse like this! The mare turned to look at him with her big, liquid eyes, and he forgot his anger. She nudged him gently and he awkwardly stroked her velvet-soft nose.
Callon was trying to decide the best angle to cut from when something caught his eye. He drew in a quick breath, and then slowly worked his hand down the mare's leg, squatting down next to her as he reached her fetlock. What he saw made him hang his head in despair - the delicate pastern bone had been broken in the horse's fall, and she was beyond anyone's help.
He leaned his head against her leg for a moment and tried to gather his strength and senses, still shaky from his own fall and subsequent beating. Slowly he stood up, again always keeping one hand on the mare, and turned to the young man.
"Her pastern - the bone just above the hoof - is broken," he said.
Kviggr looked at him. The grief in the Tark's eyes made him, for a moment, less alien. Kvigr liked animals - maybe Tarks weren't all bad, he thought.
"Can it - can you put a splint on or something?" he asked. The mare nudged him gently again, and Kvigr stroked her nose.
"No, I'm afraid not," said Callon. "There's no hope for a horse who has broken that bone. There's no way they can support their own weight while it's healing, and a horse can't survive on 3 legs - the other hooves will only get deformed and eventually infected. She must be put down."
Kvigr said nothing; he only looked at the mare's soft nose.
"I don't suppose you'd lend me your dagger to do the job," said Callon wryly.
"I'll do it - show me where," mumbled Kvigr.
"Let me tell my sister first, she'll want to help ease the mare," said Callon, revealing his relationship to the girl without even realizing he had done it.
He turned to call to his sister, and saw - nothing.
She was gone.