The Red Knight (13 page)

It was dusk by the time he’d finished tidying up the most obvious signs of a fight. After some consideration he decided to leave the Guthlander’s horse. Its shoes were probably marked, and he wasn’t dressed like a man who owned two horses. The last thing he needed was to be pulled by some overzealous provincial militia, curious as to why a cove like him had two horses and a stab wound. He didn’t want to end up being hanged as a horse thief. Although, the way his luck was running it wouldn’t surprise him. As for the Guthani, he had to assume they’d been headed to Prince Jerim in Carngarthe. He didn’t rule out the possibility there were other plotters, but given what he had found out already, that seemed unlikely.

That night, Garian camped off the path in a small copse. He didn’t light a fire, but sat huddled in his blanket, cursing quietly at the pain that shot through his leg every time he moved. He’d brought a small supply of bandages with him, but by the time he’d set camp, they were already soaked through. He wrung them out and reapplied them before trying to get some sleep.

After a restless night, he woke up damp and cold, sometime before dawn. Mist had pooled around the feet of the trees and the world was washed in shades of grey. The sombre morning matched his mood. He got up and tested his leg—it was stiff and sore but the bleeding had stopped. He had a good idea where he was and figured he could be over the border by evening, if he cut east onto the main road south.

By nightfall he was back in Antia, and by his estimation, two days from Weyhithe. He wanted to press on, but his leg had started to bleed again after a long day in the saddle. There was an inn nearby where he’d stayed before. It had clean rooms and hot food—two things he was badly in need of.

As he got closer, he saw a Hadami caravan had pulled over by the turning to the inn. Crescent moons and wildflowers were carved into the doorframes and painted on the sides of the wagons marking them as Vodoni.

Hyram wasn’t as scathing about this clan as he was other Hadami. He considered them to be excellent herbalists who often traded him herbs that they gathered on their travels. He saw one of the wagons was having a broken wheel levered off its axle. While it was being repaired, the rest of the Hadami had taken the opportunity to set up cooking fires and let their horses graze.

The smell of food and hot chai made Garian’s empty stomach growl. He nodded politely as he passed a Hadami man who was standing by the roadside, smoking a pipe. The man returned the gesture and approached him.

Garian was eager to reach the inn and rest his leg, but he couldn’t ride on without appearing rude and there were too many Vodoni around to start causing offence. The pipe smoker was middle-aged and typically well dressed. He was wearing a scarf wrapped around his head in neat folds, and a pair of exquisite gold earrings. Garian noted the curling tendrils of his family tattoo peeking out of the collar of his grey, silk shirt. His outfit was completed by a pair of grey linen trousers tucked into calfskin boots, and a rapier hanging from a finely tooled baldric. The hilt of the weapon was an elegant construction of woven steel and brass, displayed either as a warning or for show. Garian wasn’t sure if he was talking to a master swordsman or a braggart; neither was appealing.

“Good evening, friend. You wouldn’t be with the blacksmith, would you?” The Vodoni asked.

“Good evening, sir. No, I’m afraid not. I’m heading to the inn.” Garian pointed down the side road.

“Ah, t’was a hopeful enquiry—I’m growing impatient waiting for the man and rather wished you were he. My apologies, sir.”

Garian decided to take the beautiful sword as a warning and not merely for show. Few braggarts had the grace or confidence to be polite to strangers.

“As you’re headed that way, I wonder if you would do me a small favour?” the swordsman asked. “If you see a Hadami lass at the inn, would you be kind enough to ask her to hurry back? I sent her to fetch some ale, though it would seem from the time she’s been gone that she’s waiting for it to be brewed.”

“I’ll most certainly pass on your message if I see her, sir.”

It didn’t hurt to keep on the right side of strangers, especially those who according to Hyram could brew some of the most lethal poisons in Antia.

The inn was a welcome sight, huddled against a pine clad hillside beneath a sky streaked with ragged slashes of red and gold. Two dun-coloured dray horses were tethered outside. A huge cart stacked with hay was drawn up beside them. The freshly cut grass scented the air with the sugary sweetness of wildflowers. A round of raucous laughter escaped through the gap under the door. Garian felt the tension of the last few days begin to ebb away.

When he opened the door he was hit by a wash of hot air and beery smokiness. The room was crowded; all he could see was a wall of broad backed farmhands, judging by the smocks they were wearing. They were watching something, but he couldn’t make out what it was, probably a cock fight. He wasn’t interested; all he wanted was a bed, some food, and a few pints of ale. He began to edge around the rowdy group to get to the bar when a meaty arm thrust out and blocked his way.

“Weems closed, s’get lost,” slurred the owner of the arm.

Garian cast a glance beneath the fleshy arch and saw a girl huddled on the floor. She saw him. Her big, blue eyes were shining with unshed tears. Garian sighed. He looked up at the beer bloated face of the Ox in his way, then back to the girl. Without saying a word, he turned and left the inn.

“Fire! There’s a fire outside, ‘tis the cart!” one of the thugs finally noticed and raised the alarm.

Ignoring the girl, the farmhands bundled outside to rescue the burning cart and catch the spooked horses. Garian had been watching them through a hole in the kitchen door, willing the dolts to notice the flames before they got round to raping the girl. As it was, he’d had to watch them give her a beating which had tightened a cold knot of hatred in his gut. When they were all outside, he sneaked in to the bar. Cowering in the corner behind the counter was a man in an apron and a heavily pregnant woman, they were probably the innkeepers. Whoever they were, they looked scared witless. He put his finger to his lips; they nodded and kept quiet.

“Can you sit a horse?” he whispered to the woman. She nodded vigorously.

“Mine’s out back,” said Garian, “take it and ride to the Hadami caravan on the main road, tell them what’s happening. They may have seen the smoke already, so don’t rush and risk your unborn, alright?” Keeping his eye on the door, he steered them out through the kitchen.

When they’d gone, Garian went to help the girl. She’d pulled herself up and was leaning against the bar. Her face was bruised and her clothes torn, but her huge, blue eyes were defiant.

“Quickly, girl, get over here.” Garian beckoned her over.

She eyed him suspiciously and stayed where she was. He could see through the window that the glow was diminishing.

“For fuck’s sake, hurry up!” he hissed. A moment later, the Ox burst into the bar, smoke curling from his charred smock.

He glared murderously at Garian. “You little bastard!” he bellowed and charged.

The Ox was slow and lunged clumsily over the bar. Garian swayed back, easily avoiding the ponderous attack even with an injured leg. Before the Ox had chance to throw another punch, the girl snatched a jug off the bar, and belted him over the head with it. The stout, earthenware vessel bounced off his skull. The Ox swayed, momentarily stunned by the blow, giving Garian time to slip a bolt into the handbow. When he recovered what few wits he possessed, the farmhand lashed out, and viciously backhanded the girl across the face, lifting her off her feet. She landed amid a billow of petticoats and lay still.

Garian rarely
wanted
to hurt people, even though he did it often enough, but seeing the girl hit like that made him particularly keen to take down the Ox. He rested the bow across his forearm and squeezed the trigger. The bolt struck the Ox in the cheek. Garian cursed—he’d aimed for the bastard’s eye. The Ox bellowed his fury, and ripped the shaft from his face. Meanwhile, the others were stumbling back inside.

There was no point trying to reload. At most, he’d get one more off before they mobbed him.
All I wanted was a bed for the night.
The door to the kitchen was just behind him. All sense told him to run. He’d done what he could for the girl and had a duty to get his report back to Hyram. It was sheer folly to try and hold them off until help arrived, particularly in his condition. He wasn’t a hero; he was a spy—a killer.

“Why isn’t anything ever fucking easy?” he muttered and drew his knife.

None of the farmhands were keen to be the first to tackle him when he drew the long-bladed hunting knife. They backed off and threw mugs, chairs, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down. Even on one leg, he was far nimbler than his assailants were accurate. He could have kept them at bay all day, but then one of them had the wit to drag the semi-conscious girl to her feet and hold a bailing hook to her throat.

“Drop the knife, you little cunt,” the drunk snarled.

Garian considered his options; it didn’t take long. As soon as he dropped the blade, the cowards were on him. He was dragged over the bar by his hair and beaten to the floor. He could hear the girl cursing and shouting, but all he could see through the web of his laced fingers were feet and fists, raining blows from all directions. He curled into a ball, tried to weather the brutal onslaught like he used to do when he was six, when his father got bored of beating his mother. They kicked him, stamped on him, punched him… After what felt like hours, he was picked up, hoisted above shoulder height, and thrown through the window. He hit the ground and rolled onto his back. When he opened his eyes, he saw glass shards falling all around him. Someone was crying…was it his mother? No, she was already dead. Was he dead…?

“Weems gonna kick ya to death, ya runty little bastard,” one of them sneered.

Ah. Not quite yet then.
Unlike their boots, the threat lacked impact, why, dying like this was almost funny. After all the fights he’d survived against iron-hearted warriors and cold-eyed killers, he was going to be kicked to death by a gang of drunken farm hands. At least Jerim wouldn’t get his message. It would probably be used to wipe one of their big, hairy arses the next time nature called. If he’d had the strength he would have laughed.

A kick in the ribs flipped him onto his stomach. As his conscious mind ceased to function, primitive instinct took over and he tried to crawl away from the source of pain, harsh laughter ringing in his ears. Suddenly, the laughter stopped. Something was in his way, stopping him crawling. He looked up. Through the blur, he saw a pair of calfskin boots. The last thing he heard before he passed out was a dog growling.

The smell of bacon crept into Garian’s dreams and dragged him by the nose to hungry wakefulness. He opened his eyes to see a painted wooden ceiling. A thick downy quilt obscured the rest of his surroundings. Warm and sleepy, he wanted nothing more than to burrow into it and sleep for another week or two. Alas, duty wouldn’t allow him to indulge the fantasy. He propped himself up on his elbow and took a look around.

Everything ached and his head was pounding. Considering the beating he’d taken, he felt in remarkably good shape, and very hungry. He was in a wagon; the boxed-in bed was against the wall opposite the split door, the top half of which was ajar. The door creaked gently back and forth, allowing the smell of cooking and a wavering slice of sunlight to slip inside.

He was slightly perturbed to discover that he was naked except for bandages wrapped around his sore ribs and thigh. But there was something else his sleep fuddled mind was struggling to recall.
The wallet.
Panicked, he was about to leap out of bed when he saw it lying on a chest next to the bed with his other belongings. He grabbed it and checked that the parchment was still inside, which it was. Relieved, he lay back and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t sleep. The mouth-watering smell of food was too good to ignore. He wrapped the quilt around him, and limped to the door.

He opened the door; it was morning, his breath tumbled out in delicate, frosty curls. The sun was climbing over the horizon, but hadn’t yet chased the chill from the air. He wondered how long he’d been out. The Hadami wagons had been moved closer to the inn, the window of which had been boarded up. The burnt cart was gone, leaving only a blackened patch of earth to mark where it had been. There was no sign of the drunks. The swordsman he’d met earlier was sitting by a fire in front of the wagon, expertly flipping bacon in a large frying pan. It sizzled noisily next to a cluster of juicy tomatoes and a heap of glistening mushrooms. Garian’s stomach rumbled.

The Hadami called over his shoulder. “Come and join me, young sir. I’m about to break fast.”

“I’m not really dressed for it.”

The Hadami turned round. “Ah. I see what you mean. Your clothes were a mess. My beloved took them to wash after she cleaned you up. Wait there, I’ll go find out where they are.”

The Hadami went over to another caravan and tapped on the door. Garian was pleased to see it was opened by the girl from the inn. She looked well, save for a few bruises. After speaking with the swordsman, she disappeared inside and returned a few moments later with a bundle of clothes. Instead of giving them to the swordsman, she brought them over herself. It was only when she reached the steps of the wagon that he remembered he was naked save for a quilt and quickly made sure that it was covering his modesty. A bruise darkened her cheek and her lip was swollen, but her eyes were just as beautiful as he remembered; no, they were more beautiful.