Diannah cut through the woods, a shorter distance than back along the road. Thanks to years of sneaking about the valley for games of tag-you’re-dead, she slipped through the underbrush almost silently.
At the tree line she went to ground. The flames from the torched field hadn’t been permitted to spread so far. Drought-parched leaves crackled as her bodyweight crushed them. She fought a sneeze at the musty dust. Fortunately she was far enough away the sounds wouldn’t be heard.
A bush broke up her outline to hide her from the raiders, but left a clear view to cover her father’s escape. She laid out a fistful of quarrels within easy reach, levered back the cord of her crossbow, and set the first dart. The range was too far for accuracy, but if it came to a melee she’d have to try.
Da held the road against the raiders with no more than a crossbow and a handful of townsfolk. He hadn’t even raised his weapon.
Diannah felt her heart sink. Da rigorously avoided killing, unless he deemed an individual exceptionally deserving of eternity in M’Thumbra. The Cumberans knew this well, but had learned grudging respect for the creative alternatives he’d employed. The enemy milled, held back by no more than his reputation from twenty years past.
To the fore of the raiders fidgeted a restive black destrier. On its back a large man sat, foreign in his coloring and descent though not so dark as the part-Idgenarians of Diannah’s acquaintance. Had he been a horse, he’d have been a bay, with a ruddy cast to his tanned skin and black hair straight and coarse as a horse’s mane. This would be Blade, the bastard Dirk Alzarin sired on campaign in Mydicea. And a royal bastard he was, in more ways than birth, if his reputation were true!
It didn’t take any guesswork to figure out what a prince, even a bastard one, was doing in scout’s garb on a raiding party in enemy territory. Cumberans and Roenish alike, for the past twenty years, had been raised on the tales of Havoc. Diannah eyed his steed, and bared her teeth.
That black is un-cut! The fool wants to be Havoc, but hasn’t bothered to learn from the lessons Da taught the Cumberans during the last campaign. Oh, for a mare in heat! He wouldn’t keep control of that stud for long!
Diannah saw Da take his eyes off the raiders to speak to the men standing at his back. She was too far away to hear, but suddenly she didn’t need to.
Mist! He’s going to give himself up!
Avalanche took a step forward.
Behind Prince Blade, sunlight glinted off gilt hair as an eager young archer drew and released.
Da twitched the gelding aside…but not far enough.
Avalanche tossed his head, taking the arrow in his neck. A high-pitched scream sent Diannah’s heart stumbling. The dapple-grey wheeled, blood spurting around the shaft protruding from his silver throat. Then Avalanche’s scarred haunch buckled, and he went down.
Diannah screamed.
From her vantage she saw Da try to kick free of the stirrups. But when the gelding crumpled to the ground, thrashing out its life, one leg was still caught beneath.
Da, himself, didn’t move.
The townsfolk stared, shocked into paralysis. The raiders stared. Avalanche gave a final kick, then his hide only quivered and he lay still.
The prince shifted, and the stallion took a step forward. In an instant the entire raiding party was advancing on the Mirze-folk at a dead run.
The townsfolk broke and ran.
Diannah shot twice, by reflex, finding a thigh the first time and missing by a thumb the second; fair shooting for the range, but not good enough. Then the raiders were out of sight, beyond the woods, and the crossbow fell from Diannah’s hand, no longer of any importance.
He isn’t dead.
Diannah popped out of her cover like a flushed rabbit.
He isn’t dead.
A familiar mass against her shoulders, and stray russet strands whipping into her face told the cap had fallen away. No time for that, now. She cared only to reach her father. Her boots sped over bare earth, barely crunched on blackened stubble before lifting again.
Shouts came faintly from beyond the wood. The wagons were over-run.
Her heart pounded like hoofbeats in her ears. No, it really was hoofbeats. One, at least, of the raiders was returning. Too late to hide; Diannah lunged to reach the fallen horse. She had to know.
He’s alive!
His deep blue jerkin rose and fell as Da took in shallow breaths. But he did not move.
Diannah’s hadn’t quite met the ground at his side when a muscular arm encircled her waist from behind.
“No!”
Her feet left the ground. Diannah flailed, twisting. She found herself tossed over a shoulder broad enough to support her. It felt like landing across a tree limb. She was mouth-breathing for thin gasps. The air reeked of sweat, and horses, and man.
The scent was oddly reminiscent of home, and security. That seemed obscene under the circumstances.
Confused images ordered themselves in her memory: flashed glimpses of a scout’s browns and greens; a darkly tanned, handsome face; Cumbera’s red badge with its black raven.
She railed her fury and struggled, legs thrashing against the imprisoning arm. Bad enough to be captured by the enemy, but her father needed her. Diannah tried to lever herself up against the solid back, but her hand slipped. She fell, and again her body’s weight thrust the Cumberan’s shoulder into her gut. The world around was lost in a haze of her autumn red locks.
But then she spied the hilt of a dagger at his belt, and went still.
She knew that dagger. She knew the crusting of black diamonds on its pommel, and the pitted wood-grain texture of its business end that was currently hidden by a plain leather sheath. She knew its grip and heft. She'd held its twin on a number of occasions.
In childhood she’d admired its beauty, but that was before she knew its history.
Without thinking, Diannah reached down and snatched it with her preferred left hand. She twisted, despite the screaming agony to her ribs, and thrust the point as hard as she could beneath her captor’s right arm.
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quarrel - crossbow bolt
destrier - war horse
LMK if you note any other words that might need explanation :)
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Random question:
What sort of foods would you expect to find growing in a garden?
=A
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Havoc's Daughters
FantasíaThe legendary mercenary once caused the Cumberan invaders so much trouble they dubbed him ‘Havoc’. But twenty years have passed. Peace has transformed the mercenary into a respected Roenish lord who fights most of his battles in Court. Now th...
