Western Watch (3rd Draft)

Chapter 22

Agaric wrenches the sword from the dirt-scratcher's throat and the man spasms one last time.

Pain-filled gurgles, and the slick crunch of blades hacking through bone fills his ears as his warriors dispatch the last of the armoured men who surprised them, then took so cursed long to die. Copper-thick blood scent lingers in the still air.

He tosses the weapon aside. Better to dirty their steel than his own providing a merciful death. His warriors argue for leaving the wounded enemy to the sun, the vultures, and the slinking coyotes. Were they to end every dirt-scratcher life here time would lost in joining the Clan-Father after what would be their greatest victory. Tempting, but Agaric decides against it. Word would get back to the old Shield-Arm and he'd have to put up with yet another story about Clan honor and all its different forms. Better to leave only dead behind them. Things would be different when Tewkinn carried the Clan-Father's axe.

Lifeless arms and legs sprout red-slicked arrows and contort like gnarled branches grown out of broken stumps. Agaric kicks aside a hand here, steps over a body there, until he aain strides through clean, dry grass. "Mount," he shouts.

A handler brings forward his horse. Agaric swings into the saddle, settles himself, and checks his bow, axe, and frown at his arrows. Not as many as he'd like, and no time to retrieve them from the fallen. Little enough time to lay out their own dead before they rode on for that matter.

Warriors gather about him, horses snorting and pawing the ground. Agaric smiles. He is making a fist here. His fist. A dangerous thought, never to be revealed, but who knew what paths the Sky-Father might place before him? He snaps his arm forward. The warriors gather into a trot and chase their shadows eastward.

Though the Clan-Father has already trod this ground, double the usual number of scouts ride ahead.

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"Get that damned cart-horse out of the way, western peasant!" A Red Hand noble saws back on her reins and stands in her stirrups. She keeps up a stream of invective as a hapless Watch ostler backs a horse off the southern ferry pier.

"Hey, hey!" A reed-thin Watch noblewoman threads her way through the chaotic throng of horseflesh and nobles. "That's my horse, you witless fool!"

"Fool is it? Bah! You're as unmannered as a commoner," says the Red Hand woman, waving her away.

"Courtesy to those who deserve it, low-born lout!"

Samretta sighs as she watches Red Hand nobles streaming down the road toward the ferry. Each new arrival sparks another argument, adding to those already bubbling around the crowded pier. Instead of resting their mounts and slaking their thirst, the Red Hand are here at the ferry with little idea of why. There's no room, no order, no plan, and, Samretta shakes her head – Dear Goddess – the bulk of the Watch nobles had yet to appear. This is turning into a bloody disaster, she thinks, even without my 'help'.

"Lady Samretta! Attend me at once!" Ashttia beckons her over to where their replacement mounts are hitched.

Samretta skirts the crowd, dodging horses, sullen Red Hand nobles, and a sprinkling of dorrymen trying to prevent anyone being pushed onto the ferry, or worse, off the pier.

Ashttia waves her hand. "This is unacceptable. Just look at this mob. Red Hand nobles mixed in with what few of our Watch are here, and a couple of doddering old constables all shouting, cursing, and displaying damnably poor manners. Bad as commoners on a market day after harvest."