Sam Barone: Rogue Warriors 2

“These aren’t barbarians, not all of them,” Eskkar answered. “Most are dirt eaters, but they must have joined up with some outcast warriors.”

“Look! They even have pack animals.”

Two men, escorting at least seven or eight pack horses, rode into the village. “They must have raided more than a few scattered farms,” Eskkar commented.

Only a handful of riders still remained mounted, and he could see the bows in their hands. Few villagers knew how to use a bow, and almost none of them could do so while on the back of a horse. A combined group of barbarians and brigands would make for a formidable force for banditry, especially if their intention was the looting and destruction of small villages and farms.

But these bandits made no effort to search for any who had escaped their onslaught. As Eskkar watched, he saw swords rise and fall, as the helpless villagers who had dropped to their knees in surrender were struck down. Old or young, it didn’t matter. To the marauders, the more they left for dead, the fewer there would be to raise a hue and cry. The rapes had already begun, while those waiting their turn looted the tavern and the nearby huts. The bandits would be searching for gold and other valuables. As soon as the sun rose, the neighboring farms would be plundered as well.

Eskkar and Bracca’s horses, however, remained guarded by five mounted warriors.

“Damn those horsemen!” Bracca’s voice seethed with rage. “Can we sneak back later and get our horses?”

“Not likely.” Anger and disappointment sounded in Eskkar’s voice. “They’ll post a strong guard, and even if we kill a few and get away, the rest will pursue us. I’ll wager by dawn our horses and their new owners will be on their way.”

Another insignificant village wiped from the earth by raiders. Except tonight the bandits had found two prime horses in the village corral. That alone would make the foray a success.

“We should get moving,” Eskkar said. “In the morning, after they loot the nearby farms, they’ll probably make for the river, so we can’t go that way. I think we should head north, get as far away from this place as we can.”

“Damn, I left my sandals in the inn.” Bracca swore again, this time at the impulse that had led him to remove his sandals while he dined.

Eskkar didn’t bother commiserating. Bracca’s bad luck was his own. “We’d better be on our way.”

They starting jogging north, moving silently through the darkness. Though they both preferred to ride, they had traveled many times and covered many miles on foot. The two men could keep up that pace for days if necessary. Neither man wasted a moment thinking about their flight. There was a time to fight, and a time to run.

The only good news for now, Eskkar decided, was that Bracca’s usual complaints would be cut short, as he would need all his breath to keep up the pace.

Two days later, and a little after midday, Eskkar halted before he reached the top of the low hill. He shrugged the sword off his shoulder and eased himself onto the ground, then crawled to the crest to see what lay before him. After the disaster two nights ago, he and Bracca would take no chances, not with so many armed men running loose in the countryside. A man standing atop any elevation caught the eye of everyone within a mile or more, and Eskkar saw no sense in revealing his presence.

His eyes took in the ground beneath the hill. The river curved here, and he saw what he expected — a good-sized farmstead. Four huts nestled within the green water’s sweep. Now Eskkar caught the scent from the wheat field that surrounded the houses and animal pens.

“See anything?” Bracca’s words sounded weary, the voice of a man who had traveled too many miles without the benefit of sandals.

Eskkar let his eyes sweep over the landscape, covering every patch of brown earth that might conceal an enemy. Usually he let Bracca lead the way and scout the terrain, but for this, Eskkar knew his eyes would be more likely to spot something that his friend might miss. “No, nothing, just a farm.”

Bracca crawled the last few paces, to lay beside his friend, grateful for the chance to get off his sore feet for a few moments. The two companions had walked close to forty miles in the last day and a half. Lying shoulder to shoulder, they studied the farmstead less than a quarter mile away. “Big enough place,” Bracca said. “No dogs?”

No dogs, no smoke from cooking fires, no movement in the corrals. Nothing, except the silence.

Eskkar’s first thought was that the farmers had abandoned their home. Then his eyes picked out the sheep in the pen. All of them were resting on the ground. The second corral held hogs, but they, too, weren’t moving. The sun had a long way yet to travel before it started to descend, so the heat of the day hadn’t yet arrived. At sunrise and in the early afternoon, herd animals usually wandered about, searching for food.

“They’re all dead,” Bracca said, coming to the same conclusion.

“Smallpox?” Eskkar had seen the disease wipe out entire families and even whole villages.

“Wouldn’t kill the animals, unless they died of thirst.”

That would take several days, Eskkar knew. Moreover, farmers would care for their crops and herd animals as long as they had the strength to move. Most dirt eaters, the name the steppes warriors used to describe anyone who tilled the land, would rather see one of their children die than lose a few lambs. “We’ll have to go down and look. This is probably the best place to cross the river anyway.”

Eskkar stood. No need for secrecy any longer. No need to rush either, with the river close by. He set an easy pace for Bracca. Once they descended the hill, they moved with care, each taking his usual role. Eskkar scanned the ground for any signs of tracks and watched for a possible ambush in their approach. Bracca, a few paces behind, kept his eyes on their rear and sides.

The two fighters had joined forces more than a year ago, and in that time they’d learned how to compliment each other’s skills. Eskkar, tall, powerful, and carrying the long sword that marked him as a barbarian from the steppes, was the one strangers first noticed. But Bracca, short and quick in his movements, had put his sword into many a man’s body before the victim could react. Together they made for a dangerous team, as more than a few opponents had learned to their sorrow.

They crossed the first wheat field, following a meandering path that the farmers had worn into the ground. Eskkar saw several wooden troughs scattered about. The dirt eaters used those to divert water from the narrow channels that stretched from the river to the fields.

He heard the buzzing of the flies even before his nose twitched at the smell of decomposing flesh, not all of it from animals. But Eskkar didn’t see any corpses. They passed the corrals, and approached the houses. Without a word, both men slowed their steps, and Eskkar reached up and made sure that his sword slid easily in the sheath.

The first house they reached happened to be the one farthest from the river. The familiar stench of death, a mix of blood, urine, and excrement, caught in Eskkar’s throat. He moved closer to the entry, blocked by a dirty and ragged blanket hanging from the lintel. Slipping his knife from his belt, Eskkar pushed the blanket aside with the blade’s tip and glanced within.

A moment passed before his eyes, used to the bright sunlight, took in the chamber. The dead bodies were covered with flies, and rats and mice feasted on the flesh.

“Ishtar’s Eyes!” The curse came without thought, the same one villagers used for anything that wasn’t supposed to be seen.

“How many?” Bracca didn’t bother to look. Instead he kept his gaze shifting, always alert for any danger.