Western Watch (3rd Draft)

Chapter 24

Smoke and an acrid burning stench fill the air as the clansmen bring their screaming, bucking mounts under control. "Away from this cursed fire pit!" Agaric rasps at a warrior who tries to blow the proper signal on his horn. A halting 'blat' comes out followed by a dry, heaving cough.

It is enough. Agaric forces himself to be still while the warriors ride back up the road. To be the first to leave the drifting grey haze would speak of cowardice. The bodies of those who would never be leaving lie crumpled on the ground.

He doesn't hurry, as much as he wants to spur away from the crackling, shattered ruin belching smoke behind him. "How many?" he asks when he reaches the nearest group. The clansmen, many flecked with blood, are still settling their spooked mounts. Several meet his gaze, but most stare into the fire and drifting smoke, tight fists strangling reins or locked on their saddles.

"How many, damn you!" roars Agaric. "This was nothing. Nothing!" He sweeps his hand behind him. "Are you such children that you cower against a little smoke, some flame? We have seen feast fires bigger than this!"

"A hand," says one, "maybe two in the stone yurt. Another two outside."

Twenty warriors, thinks Agaric. Those not dead may as well be, for all the good they would be to him now. He swallows an oath. He's lost men, time, and any hope of looting arrows for clan bows. There will be no triumphant meeting with Gytega now, with a gift of shafts to sustain the clan's attack against the dirt-scratchers. Instead he will arrive bloodied and suffer the silent contempt of the Clan-Father and his old woman of a Shield-Arm.

A clan brother staggers towards him, arm outstretched, blood welling out from under a red-soaked hand clapped to his side. Agaric mutters a prayer. Sun flashes from his dagger as he reaches down and opens the warrior's throat. He collapses, his feet already on the path back to Mother Earth. Agaric wipes his blade and waves at the bodies around the stone building. "Don't sit like stumps rooted in the ground! See to our injured brothers. Gather their shafts. Help them on their way to Mother Earth if they can't sit on their horses."

The warriors shift in their saddles.

"Do it now! We'll have our vengeance. We'll wring blood from the vermin who did this. Every last one of them!" The warriors draw their knives. Even, Agaric thinks, if the last one sits high on a clan mount.

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"More horses! Why aren't you taking more horses?" Tiandraa shouts to be heard over the cacophony of mounts, nobles, and constables. She jabs a finger at Ashttia. "You're going to chase the clan on foot? Little wonder you've done so poorly against those savages."

"If I may, Lady Tiandraa," says Ashttia, "I will finish with the loading details. Once done, I will be happy to address your concerns."

Stevedore work, thinks Samretta. Well below Ashttia's rank, or even notice, though far more pleasant than dealing with that red canker. Over the last few hours the lines around Ashttia's eyes have spread, her face becoming worn like old leather and her brow knitted by a constant frown.

We all look like that now, thinks Samretta. All tired and on edge, especially after that great thundering explosion a few minutes ago. Probably the armoury. Gone, and with it most of the weapons that so incense Tiandraa.

Tired and on edge. Samretta watches Tiandraa, who sits high in her saddle, one hand on the pommel, the other perched on her hip. Except you, she thinks. You're not tired. Anything but. Excited. Like a cat scenting the mouse.

Samretta turns to watch the loading. Ostlers and dorrymen struggle to bring a half-dozen skittish horses onto the ferry. Their owners shout, cajole and do their best to help, yet only get in the way. There's room for another four. Ashttia ordered ten with riders, and another twenty nobles on foot with sword and crossbow.