“No,” Rezkin replied, for the seventh time.
“Yer a selfish bastard, thinkin’ that beast you pass off as a war horse is too good to be pullin’ a wagon. We’ve got half the wealth of the White Crescents in that wagon.”
“I’ve told you. That horse won’t pull a wagon,” Rezkin said. “You try to hitch him up, and you won’t have a wagon left to pull.”
“You whip him good, and he’ll learn,” Orin groused.
Rezkin scoffed. “He’s a finely trained war horse. Ain’t no one gonna break him to pull a damned wagon.”
Kai said, “You try to whip that horse, it’ll be the last thing you do.”
Orin spied the stallion out of the corner of his eye. He shouted to his men to gather what they could carry and then push the wagon into the grass, covering the tracks as best they could. As he turned away, he muttered, “Bloody horse killed more drauglics than I did. I don’t know how you got such a beast, but he’s as ornery as you. The both of you—killin’ things and doin’ whatever the hells you want. You deserve each other!”
A strange sound erupted beside Kai. Rezkin had never heard Farson laugh, but he was laughing now. Rezkin had no idea what was so funny. He and Pride were both trained to be efficient and effective in battle. They were a matched pair, as they should be.
Those well enough for the task dug shallow graves for the fallen mercenaries and then put as much distance between themselves and the carnage as they could. With a single camp, the healthiest kept watch in shifts while the injured fell into fitful, feverish slumber. When Orin became too delirious to reject the healing draught, Rezkin poured it down the mercenary leader’s throat. Although Orin’s death would have been an opportune time for Rezkin to claim his men, he was disinclined to suffer the trouble. He was satisfied to let Orin keep the other mercenaries in line, and Rezkin was reasonably sure the man knew where he stood.
The following day was worse. The wind whipped across the prairie, and every inch of skin not covered suffered its ill effects. Seeds and pollen danced on the breeze like tiny pixies, and every time the travelers were forced to leave the road, the grasses lashed at their arms and legs. The aches from the previous day’s abuse had set in, and no one had slept well during the night. They were all too aware that an unknown number of drauglics had escaped and could attack again at any time. Eager for the safety of walls and other men, they trudged forward, injured and without horses, forced to carry their own supplies.
Just after midday, a plantation came into sight. It was far from the road, but the dirt wagon trail had been well maintained. The main house was a large, one-story affair, the kind that wrapped around an inner courtyard. The trim and sills were painted yellow, and white lace blew in the breeze from the open windows. Several outbuildings dotted the property, including quarters for field hands, a barn, smokehouse, and drying shed, along with three squat silos. A trail of large stepping stones led through the shorn lawn to a rustic gazebo that stood in the shade of a few cultivated trees beside a small pond. With autumn near, the cool breeze swept over the short stone wall, still warm from the late summer sun, and insects buzzed and snapped a soothing cadence. It was a tranquil scene, designed and sustained by the loving care of a tender heart, except for all the blood.
Bits of bloody hooves and tufts of fur were scattered in the pens. Smeared across the front porch and along the yard was a dry, rusty trail, and scraps of shredded clothing were strewn over the dirt and grass, some still containing body parts. Carrion birds squawked as they fought over the remnants. Pride snorted and stomped over the debris toward a low trough to one side of the barn. The horse vigorously expressed his displeasure as he was forced to wait while Rezkin inspected the water.
Meanwhile, Kai motioned to Brandt. “Check the well,” he said. “Mal, watch the field by the house.” He switched to Leréshi when speaking to Yserria, instructing her to keep an eye on the road. He then followed Farson toward the other outbuildings while Orin and his men prepared to enter the house.
Rezkin drew Bladesunder and stepped into the barn. It was dark inside, and his eyes required a moment to adjust, but his nose had already told him what he wanted to know. Once he could see properly, he checked each stall for confirmation. Rats scattered upon his approach, screeching their displeasure with his arrival. Everything that had been kept in the barn at the time of the attack had been killed. The carcasses of the larger beasts remained, mutilated and divested of their flesh. One did not have to study the plethora of vaguely manlike tracks and deep gouges to know what had happened.
A pained shout sounded from the yard, and Rezkin rushed to meet the foe. When he arrived, though, he saw only his party rushing toward Brandt who was tugging something heavy from the well. Tears streamed down Brandt’s face as he gripped the pale, sodden lump in his arms. It was a small-man, a child, Rezkin reminded himself. The boy appeared to be around nine years old. He could not have been dead for more than a few hours, and he bore no visible injuries.
“He was tied to the rope,” Brandt said through choked sobs.
Rezkin scanned the grasses in the distance as he spoke. “This attack appears to have occurred a few days ago. His parents probably lowered him into the well for protection. The water is cold, though, and he likely lost consciousness before drowning.”
Malcius frowned down at Brandt, obviously disturbed by the sight of the boy but also concerned for his friend. “He is not Alon. Did you hear me, Brandt? He is not your brother.”
Brandt squeezed his eyes shut and took several deep breaths. He lowered the child to the ground and turned away as he regained his feet. “I know. I, ah, need a moment.”
“Do not go far,” Rezkin said. “We know not what dangers lie in wait.” He motioned to Wesson. “Cap the well and mark it. We should not drink the water. We can get what we need from the troughs for now.”
Malcius’s face screwed up in disgust. “You want us to drink from animal troughs?”
“The one by the barn looks clean enough, or would you prefer to drink from the well of the dead?”
“No, the trough will do,” Malcius said begrudgingly.
Orin came tromping from the house with a dagger in hand. “What’s all the fuss about out here?” Then he noticed the lifeless boy. “Ah, I see. We’ll get him buried. Yer priest can say a few words.” He cleared his throat and motioned back at the house. “It’s a bit of a wreck, but looks like most of the blood’s on the outside. It’d be better to take up in the house tonight than risk the fields. If we start early, we’ll be in Behrglyn before sundown.”
The mercenary was looking at him, but Rezkin glanced toward Kai. The striker jumped at the silent instruction. “A’right, sound like a plan. Let’s see what food stores they’ve got. Don’t think we’ll be huntin’ ’round here.”
Orin grumbled, “Like as not, we’ll be the ones is hunted.”
Hours later, the sun had not yet met the horizon and the group had already reinforced the doors and windows. They had just finished eating their meal when one of the mercenaries came rushing in to alert them of the new arrivals. A mounted Gendishen military patrol was moving up the road toward the house. Rezkin and Kai shifted to the nearest window, and Malcius and Brandt ducked in beneath them for a view. Dozens of soldiers rode Gendishen reds—at the front, a dergmyer, an army rank roughly equivalent to an Ashaiian major. Beside him was a myer, which was similar to a captain. Behind them were two older men and a young woman in brown robes. Each was adorned with a snakeskin baldric upon which glinted numerous small metals and talismans. The woman carried a wooden pole with two iron rings holding multiple sets of chained shackles dangling from the top.
“Who are they?” Brandt said.