Western Watch (3rd Draft)

Chapter 20

Hurry, damn, it. They're coming. In seconds a thousand clan hooves will be pounding up to Little Westhold!

Merreth looks up sharply and peers along the road. No clan. Of course, if they were on the road there'd be no need to bait them here. Save for a rare breeze whispering through the tree line everything is quiet.

Bloody over-active imagination. Scowling, she tugs at the buckles holding the saddlebags in place. They're snugged tight, biting into the belt holes, and her fingers slip as she pulls at them. She works the last one free, rips the bags off the courier mount and tosses them aside. Can she discard anything else to lighten the load? The banner harness? No. Why waste time?

She unsnaps the lead rope from the bridle, swings up into the saddle and urges the sleek bay out onto the road. It's not far to Charadell's pavilion and she ignores the temptation to knee her mount into a gallop. She'll need the bay fresh for what she has in mind.

The deserted encampment is eerie and despite the heat Merreth shivers when she dismounts and ties off her horse. The buildings of Little Westhold are only a few hundred feet away and they're packed with Totlenn's and Arric's men, but the illusion of complete abandonment makes Merreth skittish.

Inside the pavilion she slashes the bindings holding the clan standard to the tent pole. She fingers the simple wooden staff and coarse horsetail at its end. "Doesn't look like much," she mutters. How did it really come to wind up in Charadell's pavilion? Totlenn had one story, Charadell another. Merreth hopes Totlenn's is the truth. Because, she thinks, I've wagered everything – everyone – on him, his character.

In seconds Merreth's out of the tent and into the saddle, with the standard secured in the banner harness. She canters down the road past stout wooden cottages filled with watching eyes and pointed weapons. A single arrow from some brigand who hated her leathers more than valued her mark could drop her. Her life, and the lives of those depending on her, would be just so much blood in the dust.

In twenty minutes, she covers the distance to the crossroads. Behind a sagging fence squats the empty tavern, its doors and windows yawning open. Little reason to secure the building when the clan would likely burn it. The road leading into the steppe is deserted, the armoury and Totlenn's camp are visible in the distance. Her leathers creak as she shifts in the saddle, scanning the horizon. There's no wind, just heat, sweat, and the odd fly. This is where the clan will turn north to Little Westhold, where I must make sure they turn north, she thinks. All of them.

Merreth's horse rears, screaming, when an arrow punches into its neck with a meaty thunk.

"Shit!" She grips the saddle horn, clamping her knees tight to keep from falling backwards. A mounted figure in dirt-brown trousers and vest charges forward, bow in hand.

Merreth's horse collapses, legs kicking, chest heaving. She sprawls into dirt and sharp, stubby grass, and lies frozen, hat askew half over her face. Drumming hooves draw close, then stop. The clansman's feet hit the ground with a thud.

Dear Goddess, let him think I'm already dead! One sword thrust to make sure, and she'd be just another corpse baking under the sun. Her mount's gurgling snorts are cut short.

She tenses, holding her breath. A boot prods her head and back. There's a grunt and something warm and wet spatters against her cheek. Another grunt and the clansmen's footsteps recede.

Merreth slits open an eye, slowly exhaling.

He's squatting down, tugging at the clan standard pinned beneath the dead courier mount.