James West - Lady Of Regret

“Or, I can do as I am obliged,” Rathe said. “I have little enough honor as it is. I mean to keep what is left to me.”

“To the Abyss with your honor,” Yiri snapped, hurling the now fleshless bones of her dinner into the fire. “You cannot have what was promised to us by our mother, and neither will Jathen. ‘Tis ours!”

“Perhaps we should talk about this on the morrow,” Loro interrupted, gaze roving between them.

“Just so,” Rathe agreed, then fixed Yiri and Horge with an uncompromising stare. “Do not think to escape in the night.”

Yiri flashed a hard smile. “If I want to flee, you cannot stop me.”

Rathe stared at the ratty little woman, and decided he did not like her much. Best get done what needed doing in a hurry, and be free of her.

“I’ll take first watch,” Loro said, rubbing a hand over his bald head.

Rathe banked the fire, while Yiri and Horge took their blanket rolls off of Samba and laid them out nearby. Rathe made his bed near the warm stones of the fire ring, and lay down on his back. He fell asleep looking at the hard glint of stars through the tree branches.

He started awake to find a woman kneeling over him, the same he had seen outside of Wyvernmoor. She leaned in close, hands cupping his cheek. He tried to move, but felt as if ice had encased his bones. Rathe struggled to speak. “Who are you?”

She answered with question of her own. “I warned you away, yet you are here. Who sent you into this forest?”

“A monk,” Rathe admitted, unable to contain the truth. “Brother Jathen, of Skalos.”

Her expression became rigid as carved granite. “Once more, the fool has chosen a larger fool to do his bidding. This must end.”

Rathe began to ask her meaning, but the sound of someone smashing through the forest cut him off.

“Up!” Loro roared. “For your lives, up!”

One moment the woman loomed over Rathe, the next she stood at the edge of camp. “Survive, if you are able,” she called with a doubtful smile. “If you do, then come to me at Ravenhold.”

Rathe flailed about, throwing off his blankets and jumping clumsily to his feet. A wild rustling sounded where Yiri and Horge had bedded down. They were gone, a pair of rumpled blankets marking where they had been. Rathe glanced at Loro bashing his way through a tight weave of saplings. When Rathe looked back to the woman, she had disappeared.

Loro stumbled into camp, the edge of his sword rippling with moonlight. He cast about. “Horge and Yiri?”

“Fled,” Rathe said, bringing his own blade to bear. “What did you see?”

Loro gave himself a shake. “Riders coming.”

“Armed?”

“Aye.”

Rathe turned a slow circle. After all the shouting, the forest lay still. “I do not see….”

He trailed off when a horseman came into view not twenty paces distant, a pale form against the backdrop of dark forest. His mail gleamed cold and silvery, like wet ice. A red-and-white quartered shield emblazoned his snowy tabard, upon which soared a jet raven. Thick darkness oozed through the slitted visor of his helm, surpassing even the darkness of the night.

“I see but one rider.” Rathe said, as the warrior raised a long-bladed spear.

“There’s another,” Loro said, pointing out a second guiding his destrier through a clutch of trees.

Rathe waited, tense, the dreamlike quality that had plagued him falling away. Once the commander of the finest company of cavalrymen in all of Cerrikoth, he knew too well the difficulty of besting armored horsemen from the ground. It could be done, with luck and blessings. Having been woefully thin on the first of late, he offered up a fervent prayer to Ahnok.

As if in mockery to that silent plea, a third horseman emerged from the forest. Dread filled Rathe when another rider appeared, silent as the first three. Without warning, the four riders hurled their spears with stunning force and accuracy.

Rathe flung himself down beside Loro. Four shafts passed through the empty space they had occupied, and lanced into the ground. Rathe raised his head to find the horsemen thundering forward.

Rathe leaped up. “Do you know what to do?” he asked, voice hard and sharp as the sword in his hands.

Slower to his feet, Loro growled, “Aye, but that will not help us.”

The riders closed, mounts soaring over fallen trees and bursting through hedges of bramble. Rathe tried to think of rousing words, but could find none.

As the first horseman reached them, his great broadsword swung, a deadly silver stroke. Rathe and Loro dropped into crouches, their own swords hacking the horse’s forelegs. The destrier made no sound of pain as it streaked by.

The last three riders charged into the camp, bowling Loro over. Rathe threw himself wide, but a line of searing cold slashed across his shoulder before he could fly clear. He hit the ground and rolled to his feet. Wet heat replaced the cold, as blood flowed down his back. He shook off the shock of pain. Feet nimble and sure, he ran at the four horsemen, stunned that the first rider sat upon an uninjured mount.

Veering at the last instant, Rathe wrenched a spear out of the ground and hurled it at a rider. The warrior’s helmed head swung, the black of his slitted visor seeming to reach out and steal away Rathe’s breath. With a casual air, he swung his sword and splintered the haft.

Rathe dropped his sword to catch up another spear, even as Loro did the same. Together they stood ready, no more than a handful of paces separating them from the warriors. The riders charged. Rathe rammed the butt of his spear into the ground, angled the tip upward, and the spear’s blade sank into the horse’s breast. As the beast charged past, it ripped the spear from Rathe’s hands, and knocked him sprawling.

He came up gasping, dizzied. Stumbling, he retrieved his dropped sword. The riders wheeled. Two of the warhorses bore deep gouges, from which hung a pair of spearheads. No spot of blood marred their coats.

“It cannot be,” Loro said. He looked to Rathe. “Fleeing is in order, methinks.”

“This is their land,” Rathe said. “There’s nowhere to hide that they will not find us. We fight, or we die.”

“I do not mean to die,” Loro growled.

When the horsemen came again, Rathe feigned terror and darted away, drawing one rider from the other three. Passing a broad tree trunk, he scampered round it, and came out on the backside as the horseman galloped by. He grabbed the rider’s wide leather belt, heaved himself up behind the saddle. Teeth bared in a rictus snarl, he plunged his sword into the man’s side, ground the steel deep, popping links of mail, until the tip burst out the other side. The man did not bleed any more than his horse. Neither did he seem to feel pain.

Keeping one hand on the reins, the warrior flapped the other one over his shoulder, trying to grasp Rathe. His first attempt failed. The second try caught Rathe by the hair, yanked him forward. Rathe’s neck gave an alarming crack, and for a moment he feared the horseman would rip his head from his shoulders.

The rider lost his grip when the horse jumped a downed tree. Rathe reared back, struggling to fend off that seeking hand. Still gripping the sword hilt, Rathe used all his strength to lever the blade through the horseman’s midsection. Rings of mail split, one at a time, under the press of his blade. So too did the rider’s flesh tear, and his ribs snap. The rider never made a sound, never grew weaker.

Desperate to end the fight, Rathe gripped the flailing hand before his face, yanked it back. At the same time, he jammed his feet against the back of the rider’s knees and pushed hard, while sawing his sword back and forth.

When his steel reached the rider’s spine, Rathe wrenched the warrior to the side. Unsupported bone and gristle gave way with a dry crackle. A blast of red dust burst across Rathe’s vision, and a tangle of desiccated entrails spilled over his thighs, like old roots. With a revolted shout, Rathe chopped his sword against the last tendrils of withered meat and sinew, and the rider’s torso fell away.