Sam Barone: Rogue Warriors 2

“I’m sure it won’t, friend Hitha,” Bracca said. “But perhaps you could have one of your servants keep an eye on our steeds while we’re your guests. That way we’ll all sleep well tonight.”

Hitha finally pulled his gaze from Eskkar’s stony face. “I will. Let me pour your friend some ale.”

Supper came soon after, a savory enough stew of vegetables, rabbit, and chicken meat. The ale proved to be as foul as Eskkar expected, but any strong brew was better than nothing, and he drained half his cup without stopping. “How much are we paying?”

“Three coins for both of us. But I did convince Hitha to include one of his girls for the evening, so there’s that,” Bracca said. “Unfortunately, there’s only one worth paying for, so we’ll have to take turns. I’ll go first, so she won’t be disappointed.”

Eskkar shrugged. His friend would also likely go last, as his appetite for women, no matter how old or ugly, was seldom satisfied with only one or two romps.

Outside the inn, alone or in small groups, the villagers and nearby farmers left their fields and took their rest after the day’s labors. Most had no coins to spend, so they just sprawled about in the marketplace and complained, as dirt eaters everywhere did, about how hard they’d worked. A few of the more prosperous entered Hitha’s tavern, one man trading a fat white hen for the promise of a few cups of ale.

The sun slipped below the horizon and the gloomy interior of Hitha’s establishment grew even darker. The owner’s wife or servant lit a fire in the hearth, which did little more than add wood smoke to the various smells, but still an improvement. The two friends had snared a corner table, where they could both have their backs to a wall. Now they finished their meal and had started enjoying their second cup of ale. Bracca glanced around, already impatient for the innkeeper’s girl to appear and take care of his more personal needs.

A few moments later, she did arrive, bursting into the tavern with a scream. “Bandits!” She screamed the warning a second time, even louder. “Bandits!”

Loud as the girl’s shriek, it was nearly lost in the rumble of fast moving horses that suddenly shook the earth outside the tavern.

Eskkar and Bracca leapt up from their respective benches, both with the same thought in mind — to get to their horses. War cries and the shouts of men from without added to the spreading panic and confusion. One patron, closest to the door, dashed for the exit, but before he could clear the opening, an arrow struck him in the chest. The shaft penetrated deep into the man’s body, and he dropped like a sack of stones. Bracca and Eskkar, moving faster than the other patrons, reached the doorway even before the victim collapsed on the floor.

Bracca, leading by half a step, had nearly reached the entrance when Eskkar’s hand shot out, and he caught Bracca by the shoulder. Eskkar’s powerful arm jerked Bracca to a halt, a stride from the entrance. Hitha, rushing from the back of the tavern, stepped into the doorway, and a second arrow struck him low in the belly, dropping him to his knees, and wrenching a gasp of pain from his lips.

“We have reach the horses!” Bracca struggled against Eskkar’s grip.

“Not that way.” Eskkar dragged his friend away from the door. “Those are barbarian arrows.”

The open space in front of the tavern resounded with the din of horses and shouting men. Aside from the roof, there remained one other possible way out. At the rear, close to the fire pit, was the establishment’s only other opening, a small window covered by a dirty blanket.

Eskkar ignored the sounds of horses and fighting outside. The bandits’ first business would be to chase down and kill those trying to flee. Then they would return and search the houses, slaughtering all those hiding within. He tore the blanket from the window. Bracca needed no urging. He dove into the narrow opening, ripping his tunic as he wriggled through the tight space barely wide enough for his body.

The tiny window, purposely small to deter would-be thieves, would never pass Eskkar’s bulk. He raised his leg and thrust his sandal as hard as he could at the bottom of the opening. It took two tries, but one of the mud bricks crumbled under the second impact. In a moment, Eskkar had widened the opening almost enough to squeeze through.

Yet before Eskkar could finish, he heard a rasp behind him. Reacting to the familiar sound and without turning, he jerked himself to the side. The arrow, with a puff of mud dust, dug itself into the side of the window a hand’s breadth from his shoulder.

Eskkar never stopped moving. Whirling around, he launched himself toward the warrior who had taken a single step inside the tavern’s entrance. The bowman, accustomed to the slow reactions of those they called dirt eaters, reached toward his quiver. Even so Eskkar, always faster than he appeared, had already covered half the distance between the two men, and the warrior realized he would never get the arrow to the string before Eskkar was upon him. Dropping the arrow, he reached for his sword. But Eskkar, knife in hand, covered the last two paces and extended his arm, driving the knife deep into the warrior’s chest before the man’s blade had cleared its scabbard.

The warrior’s eyes stared into Eskkar’s, as he jerked the knife free. The dying man staggered backward, and collapsed in the opening. Two more fighters arrived, intent on entering the inn. Eskkar slashed at the first man’s face, ripping his cheek before he could step back or counter with his sword.

Fortunately, these new arrivals were not warriors, only bandits. One glimpse of Eskkar’s size, and another glance at the dying barbarian at their feet, and the two men backed off. Eskkar heard them shouting for more men, and he caught the word “archer” as well.

“Eskkar! Time to go!” Bracca’s voice boomed throughout the chamber.

Without hesitating, Eskkar turned and raced back to the rear of the tavern. The Sumerian had used the hilt of his sword to shatter a few more mud bricks to widen the opening. By the time Eskkar reached the window, Bracca had already moved aside. Eskkar pulled his sword and scabbard from his shoulder and tossed them through the window. Then he dove head-first into the breach. Eskkar had to twist his shoulders before he managed to wriggle his bulk through. All the same, his thigh scrapped hard against the crumbling bricks as he forced his body across the wreckage of the windowsill. Behind him, he heard the gleeful shouts of more bandits bursting into the tavern.

Bracca crouched beside the window, sword in hand. “We’ll have to run for it. They’ve already taken the horses.” Without waiting, he dashed away from the tavern and into the deeper darkness.

Eskkar swore under his breath, but he snatched up his sword and followed Bracca into the night. Hunched over, the two ran for at least a hundred and fifty paces before they flung themselves down on the ground, breathing hard, and looked back at the village.

Reddish flames lit the night. The tavern’s roof already burned, and from three more huts Eskkar saw the first flickers of new fires. The only cries now were those of the dying men and their captured women, already wailing for their dead and facing their own ordeal. Eskkar tried to count the bandits. He couldn’t be sure, but he guessed at least twenty men had ridden into the village and started killing everyone. None of the other patrons had managed to get out using the window.

“Barbarians this far west?” Bracca’s voice sounded uncertain. “Why didn’t they surround the village, and trap everyone?”

The usual tactics of the steppes warriors would have overwhelmed the village from every side, cutting off any chance of escape.