Ten years have passed since I wrote what would be the last chapter of The Longsword and the Bow, and only recently I regained the energy and ability to take up the challenge once more. New pairings, new characters, and years' worth of editing growth will hopefully help tell a story spanning a decade of my life.
The Rain and the Merchant
In which men swim in mud and a horse is offended
On brief occasions she'd been gifted good days, when the roads were smooth, the skies were blissfully clear, and her clients were understanding and well behaved. More so, her days were marked by trails marred with obstacles, unpleasant, dark skies and travelers pessimistic about life on the road.
Then came the cold, soaked, and sodden days, with impassable roads and unrelenting grief, tiresome clients and their tedious complaints. Often, she'd mulled trussing one up to leave behind on principle alone.
It was one of those days.
The skies had opened hours ago, pouring out in an unrelenting torrent that stirred a chill in the air. She'd been hoping beyond hope the weather would hold out, just a bit longer, until they reached the way station. But of course, nature was entertaining other ideas; here she sat wrapped tight in an oiled cloak, hood drawn, one hand kept close to her chest for warmth and murmuring words of comfort to her equally miserable horse.
They had been steadily marching for two weeks, and she thanked anyone above their destination was only a two day's ride from the station. Conditions holding as they were, however, left her uncertain on force-marching the wagon and stoic riders any farther; something critical could give at the worst moment – be it a wheel, horse, or temperaments in general. Thus far, she'd been able to keep everyone in hospitable moods, their spirits only recently drowning in the steadily worsening, wretched weather.
One member, however, never reached hospitable.
He was a merchant of sorts, on his way to a town "in desperate need of his wares". The unlikely statement had garnered an unamused response; she took his money all the same. For the moment, he was grumbling, mumbling, and fussing about anything he could, shouting out laments about the frigid air and increasingly rough road, eventually moving to the fate of his clothing on their arrival. His antics were grating to her, enough to set her teeth on edge; from the temperaments of her men, she knew all felt the same, and were ready to cut the simpering weasel loose to whatever calamity struck him.
The first half of their payment mutedly tinkled in her saddle bag, temporarily sparing the man of such a fate; if the merchant became removed from his own trip, they wouldn't receive the remaining amount owed.
So, they all gathered a resolve reserved for orc raids and hysterical merchants, each man adhering to his post and praying silently their reprieve was just ahead.
They rode in that fashion for miles, her outriders monitoring the encroaching bramble and thicket. Her own eyes scrutinized the sodden and sloppy trail ahead while her charge groused about it all. A bruised sky overhead darkened the day more than the time allowed; what the sun called midday, the clouds called dusk. Rain blurred the forest edges and tricked the eye into seeing phantoms and specters; progress was delayed as riders slowed to peer deeper in the humid, oppressive darkness.
Fortune had been with them most of the journey, but "luck" had never been friendly, nor had it visited her often, as proved by their situation. On the very rare occasion the traveling went well, she attributed their "good fortune" to skill and experience.
Her associates were men forged from long nights under glinting stars and ragged encounters with beasts in the dark. In honesty, true trust was not shared among all, though admittedly at times, each of their lives had been placed in another's hands. The trio were a rare sight: not Rangers, not soldiers, certainly not knights, but excellent at their professions.
They were not all good men, but each worked well for coin and a good time.
The waystation was only an hour or so away, though the weather may have skewed her estimate. Her mental strength might hold for that hour if the insufferable man they escorted could keep himself together. If not, the threat of leaving him behind wouldn't remain a simple threat; paying the remainder amount would be the only action to ensure him and his inventory ending the journey in acceptable health.
Her thoughts had wandered, an act she'd often chastised others for; the musings may have hindered her eyesight but not her instincts. Lingering pensiveness dissolved with the sharp rainfall and left her eyes free to see the hazy outline of man-shaped objects, all lined across the dismal road a dozen horse lengths ahead. Weak, watery light obstructed an exact count; the shapes appeared perhaps eight in number, stretched in a living barrier designed to impede their progress.
Thieves.
Highwaymen.
The desperate.
With a small change of her grip, her mount was pulled up and his stride shortened. Her checked speed brought up two of her outriders, sharing not a word as both men scanned the area ahead. The pair's drenched and pitiable horses brushed alongside her, their riders' legs chafing her knees. One held up a gloved hand just outside his cloak to mime "five-three" with stiff fingers. She acknowledged his assessment, spurring their retreat back to the wagon to take up positions; one sent the same gesture to the rear rider.
The pair discreetly peeled away their cloaks, freeing up the well-cared for weapons of their trade. The act left them thoroughly soaked, but they preferred being prepared over comfort. The final rider, seeing the others ready themselves, widened his path and took an overlook post.
In regard to escort teams, the trio was a modest number. The doubling of expectations for their positions could weigh unbearably on other men, but she was confident in their capabilities. Said confidence encouraged a mindful focus on her own tasks, which removed her inclusion in the many minor decisions of the party. To the man, her outriders solidly held steadfast, including the youngest.
Tall and carrying the muscle of a hard-working youth, Tye would throw himself in any task put to him. The older men would tease, but both respected his talent with a bow. Carden, her indifferent, roguish knife-devil rarely had a word for anyone; if he indeed spoke to the boy, his curt comments reflected only on the bowman's performance or attitude.
Glibness was reserved solely for the swordsman Syloris. An elegantly lethal man in possession of devastating beauty, there was little to be done about the duelist's immediate draw to those around him. Their archer, too, had been ensnared by Syloris' vast aura and their wandering conversations spanned a world of interests.
The looming, manmade obstacle inched closer as she rode; more and more of that barrier solidified through the rain and allowed her to piece together their haggard appearance adorned with varying drawn weapons. One of their ragged numbers could always create unexpected luck in the messy muck around them and leave her and her three-man company in a tight spot; the desperation of men often filled the cracks of inexperience, leaving seasoned swordsmen at the mercy of the unknown. Often, she'd seen those "untrained" cause quite a headache to the more experienced; in the wilds she traveled, even the smallest of stumbles could prove deadly.
Heedful of such possibilities, she chose a tactful route, hoping to untangle the situation before any blood could be drawn.
After riding within a respectful distance of the center group, the woman dismounted. One hand loosely gripped a slippery rein while the other remained tucked under her cloak. The men were harsh in appearance: hair of varying colors laid plastered over their scowling, scruffy faces, and mixed clothing was thrown together under threadbare cloaks. Their weapons were old and abused, a mix of rusted swords and pitted knives, an axe tossed in for good measure. The presence of bows was lacking, though she didn't think overmuch on it; her own archer would find it tricky to shoot cleanly in the weather they suffered in, never mind the miserable troupe of thieves.
She waited a heartbeat before the man in the middle spoke up, his voice nasally and grating.
"T'is 'ere's a robb'ry."
Exasperation rose quickly. She understood their lack of acquaintance with the nuances of highway thievery, but for some reason their naivety irked her. Professional thieves were to the point, making demands and issuing threats necessary to move matters along. It was obviously, painfully evident what was not the case here.
Her accented voice cut through the clangorous rain, pitched high enough to be heard over the din.
"Yes. That is apparent."
When nothing more forthcoming, the man - with an impressive lack of teeth and bountiful angry blemishes - mentally hoisted himself and waggled a dirty butcher's knife at her cheek.
"Yer gonna give'us everthin', includin' that wagun o'there. Them horses, too."
His mouth split in a craggy smile as he reached for her animal's nose. With a toss of its head, the gelding took an agitated step back. The pimply man's eyes narrowed, and he scowled as his gazed fixed on her. Uncaring, she shrugged and scratched the wet horses' chin.
"I don't think he approves."
Before a retort could be made, she forged ahead.
"I will speak to your headman."
Others in the line looked slightly unsettled as their eyes cut to a man just left of her. Satisfied with the result, she shifted her attention to the larger, quiet man; the sly rat interrupted in a piercing, shrill voice while waving his dingy knife closer. The blade intruded her space, enough so she could feel its touch as knife-edge brushed the dripping hem of her hood.
"I be the man in charge! Me! So, listen good cause-"
Her right hand unsheathed, in part, the sword at her hip in a startling move. Its pommel impacted the sore-ridden man's jaw with a sharp crack, a noise heard by all and sending the thief crumpling to sloppy earth. A gurgling screech tainted the stifling air. He'd bitten his tongue nearly in two and bright red streamed down his chin in impressive amounts; it was no stretch of imagination to think him a dead man.
She'd unexpectedly come to her patience limit, and in the span of a thought she'd partially drawn her blade; the movement had been quick, and the action was completed before most highwaymen were aware. The last third of her unadorned longsword had remained sheathed and the rest was returned with a much-practiced, neat motion. Those men who'd managed a quick look at her swift action whispered to those who hadn't, sharing furrowed brows.
The competent looking man to her left gazed down at the mewling wretch on the ground, showing no emotion other than indifference. As he turned his gaze to her, his men crept in on her wide personal space. With little inflection, his gritty voice issued a few words to think on.
"I don't much like him either. All the same, we're taking the lot of it, including heads if we have to."
Nestled behind her hood, her narrowed eyes and slight frown weren't available for the approaching band. Her thoughts bent to the master of the thieves; he wasn't unprepared, his tone brooked no argument, and the chill in his voice mirrored the bite in the air. She studied his bearing, one of a man accustomed to armor and it adjusted her previous assessment of untrained thief.
Inwardly, she prepared herself for an onerous duel.
Regardless, the situation could have been resolved quietly. It was conceivable she could've diffused their messy engagement, but with a shout, the miserable and overdressed merchant chose to make himself shrilly known.
The balding fop had clambered out of the wagon and floundered in the mire under the protestations of her men. Hearing his sharp yowls, her brown eyes briefly closed; they opened when she noticed squelching footsteps behind her. The stick thin merchant was pompously dressed well above his station and squawked quite animatedly at the flustered thieves surrounding her. He seemed oblivious to the tenseness of the air, as the ragged group decided they might as well finish the unconventional heist with blood.
Primed for the start, she saw their opening move and reacted accordingly. The merchant's collar was snatched in time to haul him off his feet and into the sludge at her back. A sword swiped the space he'd just occupied, with enough force to cleave head from shoulders. The situation then erupts, shouting coming from all directions, the scream of her client mixed with wild utterances from the highwaymen. Above all, the pounding of hooves thundered on as Syloris and Carden streaked through the rain on horseback, blades drawn as they bore down on the hastily scattering line of thieves.
She in turn released the eager animal beside her, taking a single step back to form distance between her and the startled looters. The demoralized merchant was desperately crawling away, cupping great handfuls of mud, while the weight of his soaked, fine clothing dragged him down and twisted about his legs.
The highwaymen registered too late what was happening as her men took an aggressive run through their line, opening throats and rending arms; the riders wheeled about for another bloody pass before dismounting on the fly. She gazed blankly at the thief captain, his battered sword held high, both hands gripped tight on stained leather and a knowing look shadowing his face.
They were aware their clash wouldn't end well.
He rushed her in the chaos, no strategy just brunt force intent on bringing her down in a singular blow. He had been a trained soldier once, though there must have been hard years between then and now. No matter, as her mind saw the waiver of his strides in the mud, saw the white-knuckle of his grip, and knew his attack would be faulty.
It didn't mean she should take his charge lightly.
The distance was closed, and she allowed him the start of a downward swing. With swift efficiency her sword rang free, and the knell of their clashing steel was drowned by the cacophony surrounding them. She made no attempt to stop his attack; there wasn't need to waste energy her defense. Instead, her body contorted, the blade's honed edge harmlessly redirecting the incoming blow. Her counter sent his worn longsword out and away, rendering useless his superior strength. Capitalizing on the opening, she stepped in, a knife glinting in her free hand as it was slyly drawn.
With practiced violence, she slid the shorter blade past a gap in his shoddy armor and seated it deeply in his gut.
The captain's eyes grew wide, and his hand reached down to grasp at the smaller weapon, attempting desperately to wrench it free but unable to pry her loose. He staggered while scarlet poured from his middle, sword lowering as he stared, a curse forming on his lips until she twisted the blade again.
He choked in a stuttered breath as his sword was defiantly lifted once more. The stout captain was weakened but dogged, and a bat of her blade was enough to send his old steel away. Wanting to spend no more time on the man, she planted a mud coated boot on his waist and shoved. The highwayman stumbled backwards, finally freed but tripping over the slurry of muck before landing in a bloodied heap. Around her, she could hear the final sounds of combat and caught wind of her men calling to one another over the hushed cries of those still fighting.
The encounter had taken mere heartbeats. The thieves were anything but trained, and the surprise of her men riding them down was enough to scatter those remaining. She took a cursory look around to take in the dead, noting the number of arrows which had found accurate placement in armor weak points. The woman shot a glance to her Tye, noting the young archer had remained professional and held his protective post.
Her knife, still in hand, was being washed clean by the deluge, bright steel reflecting what little light remained. The band's leader was knelt at her feet, holding his insides in a valiant effort to keep them inside. Her first instinct called her to ignore his pain, as punishment for what he'd brought on them. A hard-learned behavior overtook those instincts and encouraged her to remember no living thing deserved a slow death. Driving her sword into the wet earth, she left it standing and went to a knee behind the chief, noting the suffering and anger and fear in his eyes. There were more differences than not between men, but pain was felt by all. Every man felt anger. Every man felt fear.
Every man suffered.
Threading her hand in his hair, she snapped back the captain's head to expose a vulnerable throat; her blade, sharp and true, slid easily into blue veins just under thin skin. Left behind was a blooming scarlet trail, vibrant in the dismal light. The blood coating her gloved fingers mixed with the grime on his scalp, an uncomfortable sensation to her skin as she tilted the highwayman's head farther, pulling the wound wide and spilling more scarlet onto his chest. The brilliant color quickly dulled as it met with rain and stiff fabric, creating a dark stain she carefully kept solely to him. The sounds of his bloody fate finally failed, and with an expression of distaste she released her hold and dropped his body back to the earth; she was never certain if her distaste was strictly for others or herself. The knife was made clean with a swatch of wool from the dead man's cloak. Once-elegant material had been made thin, barely able to keep cold at bay, sporting holes in places, patches in others; for the captain it had been a reminder of what was.
They had nothing, so they stole. They were starving and cold, so they stole. They had tried to survive.
To a man, they had died just the same.
Finished now with the bloodshed, the weary guide sheathed her short blade and stood; she would forever find disgust in such ludicrous combat but knew too well the hearts of men. She paused at those thoughts, before snatching up her orphaned sword and turning on her heel to search for the one person she had pressing words for.
She found him still crawling his way back to the wagon, covered in filth and clothes ruined beyond recognition. Anger swept up, and sheathing her sword became too passive a task. Instead, glinting metal cut through churned soil inches from the merchant's muddied face; the steel wavered as she released its well-worn grip to bear down on her client. Reaching down, she took hold of his collar from behind and hoisted him upright, causing a squeak of fright and pain. With a shove forward, she forcefully slammed the man against the wagon's swollen wood boards. He cried out again as she twisted him around, her grisly gloves fisting great handfuls of his tunic.
"Stop! Stop! I hired you! Don't forget who I am-"
His words halted abruptly as she cracked him against the boards a second time, loosening his teeth and rattling his brain. The woman released one hand long enough to rip her hood back, exposing a face that was, in a word, displeased.
"In this moment, your station means very little. If you instigate another problem for me or my men, I will pitch out your bleating arse and leave your stringy flesh for the orc."
Jarring his head one last time, she released his mud-stained clothing, walking away as he scrambled into the wagon's interior and sputtered out impotent threats. Ignoring the merchant and the amused looks of both the driver and Tye, she strode back out to the jagged line of bodies. Syloris and Carden had already performed a cursory search on the dead, picking out anything of worth, and fetching usable arrows for their archer. They were mounting up again, and once settled the knife-devil broke away to retrieve her wandering horse.
She didn't mind they appropriated whatever they found on the once-thieves, as those men were dead and had no need of material things. Tired eyes flitting down, she caught burgundy stains swirling in innumerable puddles, watching as red rivulets from the corpses slushed together with cold silt in the pounding rain. She didn't know why, but the image caused her to frown; she should have been accustomed to that scene, and though the killing of another wasn't nearly the upsetting act it had once been, there were times she felt...soiled. The current casualties were simply more added to a growing number, one she thought may never stop climbing.
Eight dead in an avoidable clash.
The dusky-haired woman dragged up her wet hood, cringing slightly at the feel of more icy water trickling down her neck. Though she wished otherwise, she would never escape days like today, where someone took a misstep, and the world went wrong. Her brown eyes were again drawn to the sight at her feet, watching as the rain spattered scarlet onto her boots.
"Rhegda."
Her gaze shifted and fell on the sight of her sword standing alone among the cooling bodies. Rain ran in swift rivers over the cold steel, cleansing the blade of remaining gore. Pooling below were the remnants of a preventable fight, but the sword was now untouched by markers of the violence it participated in. A thought formed then, of her indifference to death paralleling such a sight, of her numbness to brutality compared with unfeeling steel; the idea was uncomfortable but familiar, and perhaps not untrue.
"Rhegda."
Her name was softly repeated from above, jerking Rhegda free of her musings. Glancing up, her gaze met with Carden's as he handed down her sable gelding's slick reins. The worn leather straps were exchanged, and she tossed them over her horse's head. Leading him on, she wearily returned to the sword, pulling the weapon free of the sludge before quickly stowing it; the final whispers of meeting metals were silenced as the blade was seated home. Wasting no more thoughts on the dead, Rhegda smoothly mounted and gathered up her reins, shifting her cloak to accommodate. At her prompting, the wagon driver whipped up his team and the steadfast trio returned to their normal guard positions.
Rhegda settled in for the ride as her mount picked his way around the dead, and knew full well problems came in threes.