The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1) (41 page)

He’d helped with General Blaine’s scourge of Loxton Forest after the Baron’s trial and enjoyed it. This recent resurgence of trouble was a personal affront and he knew Denny felt the same. If the Major had come across evidence of the ruffians who had waylaid Sir Regus’s coach, well and good. But Denny had made a bet with him before they rode out that he would be the one to bring them to justice, and although Ardoch wasn’t a hardened gambler like Owyn Denny, he couldn’t resist such a challenge. Hence his bad temper when they had failed to turn up any signs.

He did his best to rally his group, realizing he’d probably been too hard on them. The mistake with the woodcutters was a bad one, but he had to shoulder some of the blame. He should have checked the scout’s findings before ordering a charge. He was in command, after all. He promised them some of his winnings if they managed to beat Denny to the prize, and urged them to a faster pace as they continued their southeastern sweep.

+ + + + +

D
enny and his men entered the final mile before the track emerged from the snow-shrouded trees. The brigands’ prints were still clear before them, and occasional horse droppings told the tale of their recent passage. Denny was feeling confident. Ahead of them was a sharp bend in the track and he fully expected to see their quarry in the distance as they rounded this final obstacle. Calling to his men, he urged them on.

Denny approached the bend, in the lead as usual. The trees were densely packed, as they had been for the last half-mile, surrounded by thick stands of shrubbery. The underlying land here was marshy. If not for the night’s freezing temperatures, the going would have been treacherous. This was the one spot on the forest trail where heavily-laden coaches or merchants’ carts often got bogged and stuck in spring and autumn, but with the marshy ground frozen, Denny didn’t have to slacken his pace.

He led his men around the bend at a gallop.

Crossbows thumped and men screamed. Horses crashed and floundered, kicking up great gouts of snow. Bodies were flung to the ground, landing with sickening thuds as they pitched up against trees in a tangle of lifeless limbs. The bows thumped again and the swordsmen who had escaped the first barrage wrenched desperately at their horses’ mouths, wheeling the panicked beasts, trying to see and avoid the deadly bolts. Yells, screams, and curses filled the air along with the frantic cries of the injured and dying, man and beast alike.

The crossbows having done their work and the terms of their agreement fulfilled, the band of ruffians surged from hiding, ignoring the carnage behind them and the piteous cries of their victims.

A
rdoch reined in his weary horse beside the scout to see what he’d found on the trail. The Torlander regarded the stripped wreckage of the coach, half-buried in snow, and also the profusion of tracks surrounding it. He grinned.

“Progress at last! Can you make out any of these prints, laddie?”

The scout shook his head. The snow was too badly trampled. But they could all see there had been many horses here—too many, surely, to belong to one band of brigands.

Ardoch called to the band. “Come on, lads, they may not be that far ahead!”

The whole patrol urged their tired mounts to the canter, following the old swordmaster’s lead as he headed down the main trail in the tracks of those who had gone before.

They hadn’t traveled more than a couple of miles when Ardoch raised his head. “What was that?”

He held up a hand as a faint sound pricked his ears. His company slowed around him, listening intently. “Did anyone hear a cry?”

They shook their heads. The horses were blowing, the thick snow made the going heavy, and they were weary after their long hours of searching. The noise of their breath made listening difficult.

“There it is again.” Ardoch definitely heard it this time, and whatever had caused it was not so far away. They were only about a mile from the forest edge. “Sounds like Denny has found our prey. Come on, lads, it may not be too late to grab ourselves some glory!”

The company set heels to flanks and urged their tired mounts once more to the canter. Swords were drawn in readiness and eyes were kept keenly peeled for fleeing ruffians. With Ardoch in the lead they surged down the southern track, still following the prints of both quarry and pursuers.

Ardoch eased up on his reins, slowing his mount. He could see the sharp bend in the track up ahead and his heightened senses had already alerted him to the cessation of sound. “Careful, now. Let’s not go plowing into the back of them.”

Glancing over at his comrades, he pulled up even more. Obediently, they slowed with him, proceeding at the trot. A movement off to their right caught their attention. They turned as one to face their adversary, but what emerged from the blanketing shrubs was not an armed and dangerous ruffian.

“Ye gods, laddie! What happened to you?”

Ardoch’s eyes went wide at the lone swordsman slumped over the neck of his lame and bleeding horse. He hissed as he registered the evil-looking crossbow bolt protruding from the man’s back. The wounded horse staggered up to its brethren before sinking to its knees, completely spent. Its rider pitched over its neck and collapsed into the snow, bright red blood staining the churned ground.

Ardoch leaped from his horse to kneel beside the man. He cradled the limp body in his arms. There was nothing else he could do. The man’s lung had gone; he was drowning in his own blood.

“What happened, laddie? Where are the others? Where’s Denny?”

The glazing eyes stared upward, the final spark of life fading. A weak hand made a feeble movement toward the bend in the track before falling back to the snow.

Spitting a curse, Ardoch laid the man down. There was no sound from farther up the track—no sound at all save their own breath and the horses’ stamping. The beasts were nervous and Ardoch knew why. Trained warhorses always reacted to the smell of blood, recognizing the scents of battle. He stood, brushing the stained snow from his combat leathers, and remounted his horse. Glaring at his men, he motioned them warily forward.

Their caution was wasted. Rounding the bend in the track, the gory, red-stained snow and the tangle of broken bodies told its own grisly tale. Ardoch’s eyes prickled as he beheld the confusion of dead men and dying horses. Walking his mount slowly forward, the Torlander surveyed the carnage, his face set and expressionless. “Two of you get on up the track, see if there’s any sign. It’s my guess they’ve made off, but make sure. Then get back here.”

He dismounted, walking among the dead, his eyes hot. His men did the same, some of them granting a final mercy to those few brave beasts that had survived the attack but were too badly wounded to save. There were few; the ruffians had laid their trap well and sprung it with brutal efficiency. How that lone swordsman had managed to scramble away from the scene was a mystery. None of the others had escaped.

Ardoch stood for some time looking down on the crumpled body of Owyn Denny. The young Major had died in a volley of bolts. No fewer than four pierced his body and any of them would have been fatal. But the one through his heart ensured he hadn’t suffered by seeing his company massacred. He had died before he’d hit the ground.

Ardoch couldn’t get his breath. All of these men were comrades, but Denny was a special friend. Likeable, reliable, quick-witted, and amusing, he’d been a widely respected officer even before his well-deserved elevation to major. Since his promotion, he had grown into the role, impressing his subordinates and seniors alike with his sense of loyalty, fairness, and duty. And, Ardoch reflected sadly, there would be more than a few noble ladies who would mourn his passing. Not least, he thought with a sudden pang, a certain colonel in Elias’s forces. He didn’t envy Taran the task of telling Sullyan of her friend’s demise.

The scouts returned with no sightings of the ruffians. Ardoch was aware his men were watching him, having checked all the bodies and dealt with the wounded horses. Their demeanor showed their deep unhappiness at the fate of so many comrades, and Ardoch knew there would be a few sore heads in the morning after they tried to drown the knowledge of their own mortality in spirits. It was up to him to give them back some purpose, for if he allowed them to dwell on what had happened he may well lose some to despair.

He drew a deep breath, steadying his own surge of anger at the wanton slaughter, and faced his men. “Now then, lads, we must hold up and do honor to these brave men. They died in the service of their King and in the pursuit of their duty. They didn’t fail and there’s no shame to their deaths. We must bear them back to the city with the respect they deserve, and then we’ll give them the best gift we can—we’ll go after those murdering bastards and run every one of them through!”

A muted mutter of agreement spread through the dispirited swordsmen. Ardoch gazed around them, seeing sorrow and misery in many an eye. He knew how they felt and he sympathized, but he still had to get them, plus twenty slain men, safely back to the city before nightfall. And then he had the unpleasant task of reporting to Colonel Vassa and explaining why only half the detail that had left at first light had returned. With the current feeling of suspicion pervading the castle and the jumpy mood of the people following Neremiah’s murder, this news was going to please no one.

Sighing deeply, Ardoch stooped to the gory snow and pulled the crossbow bolts from Denny’s lifeless corpse. He flung them away in disgust, his vision blurring. He was damned if he’d return the Major to the city with the instruments of his death still embedded in his flesh. Then he wrapped Denny’s bloodstained cloak around his body, hiding his face, and lifted him to his horse’s neck. Ardoch himself would bear his friend. The other members of his command dealt with the rest of the dead.

It was a sad and vengeful band that made its way slowly through the forest back toward the city.

+ + + + +

R
obin was shown into Lerric’s warm, luxurious dining hall by a servant. He had led Robin through the same shabby hallways Wil had trod, and the Major’s opinions on the condition of Lerric’s palace were much the same as his corporal’s. The sumptuous surroundings of Lerric’s dining hall only served to cement Robin’s conclusions, and the blatant difference between the king’s part of the palace and that frequented by his servants lowered Robin’s estimation of the man even further.

Despite Lerric’s little speech to Elias bewailing the harshness of the season and the lack of fine things, the banquet laid out upon gold and silver platters wouldn’t have disgraced the finest state occasion. Robin’s eyes widened as he took in the variety of foods on offer.

There was a whole roast sucking pig, goose, and jugged game. There were fresh winter vegetables, herbs, and steaming sauces. Fresh-baked bread dripping with warm butter sent its comforting smells into the air. There was even fruit, dried but still wholesome and unwrinkled. The flagon of good red wine had already done the rounds judging by the full goblets, and the delicious smells spoke of well-planned festive celebrations rather than a hastily-arranged and scraped together meal.

Lerric himself, far from appearing put-upon by this insulting, unheralded visit by his powerful overlord who had cast off his client king’s daughter for base treason, was acting the genial host and appeared relaxed and at ease. He even stood to welcome Robin as the young Major entered the room.

Lerric approached him, smiling easily, holding out a finely-chased goblet containing the same ruby vintage he had offered both General Blaine and Elias.

“Major Tamsen,” he said in greeting, “I’ve heard tales of your reputation among the High King’s forces. My men follow your exploits with great interest. I don’t suppose you’d consider transferring to the southern climes of our fair realm? Bordenn is a pleasant province with much to recommend it, despite this damned spell of heavy snow. Come, man, what do you say?”

Lerric threw his arm across Robin’s shoulders and the Major wasn’t too sure how to take such familiarity. He was also reluctant to take the wine. He wasn’t here to enjoy himself and he wanted to keep his wits about him.

“I’m flattered by your interest, your Majesty, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your gracious offer. I’m content where I am, and I already have everything I could wish for.”

Lerric chuckled and removed his arm. “Well said, well said! A pity, though. I could do with a few of your caliber here in Daret.”

Robin thought he detected a genuine note of regret underlying Lerric’s jocular tone. The client-king turned to his other guests. “Elias, your General here seems to turn out courteous as well as talented swordsmen. That man you sent as your messenger was most polite as well. Are all your men at the Manor so polished?”

Elias held his eye. “My Lord Blaine and I both believe that men trained to use sword or bow don’t necessarily have to be peasants, Lerric. All are treated as equals in my forces. Their skill in battle determines their rank, not birth or class. We find that good pay, comfortable conditions, and firm discipline result in men proud of their achievements. Self-respect is an important aspect of life in the King’s Guard. All my men are trusted and encouraged to speak their minds. And Lord Blaine has his own views on how they should conduct themselves, views I fully endorse.”

Lerric narrowed his eyes at the General. “Ah yes, I had forgotten you were a Lord in your own right, General.”

Mathias Blaine inclined his head just enough to be polite. Robin knew he had no love for Lerric, having faced the man during the civil war when he was spineless enough to support his more powerful neighbors against King Kandaran. The General’s opinion of Lerric was only one grade higher than his opinion of the traitor Reen. He made no attempt to disguise his prejudice when he replied.

“As is my second-in-command, Lord Vassa, although he lost his lands, his home, and his family to the senseless ravages of the civil war. And my other colonel is of royal blood, of the House of Pharikian, the ruling House of Andaryon. So you see, your Majesty, the men of the King’s Guard have no lack of fine examples to follow.”