Thunder Maker

Polished the entire chapter. There was a fair amount of change, though it was all cosmetic — 2h04m22s — 2023/11/25

To Empress Seviticah:

Your most Adoredness,

I have astonishing news: the traitor berDuvante rides for Wibbeley with no more than a dozen men! He pursues a thief and believes he is unknown to us—though I am told that our cousin Drefford plans to give him a most proper welcome! Might this be the end of the Gaurring problem? Then we shall set ourselves to reclaiming the Breck!

Our work continues apace. Praise Rauthmaug!

- Gred duReb, King of the Saot

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 1.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Duke Creigal berDuvante was a very important man. He usually had an entourage of a couple hundred people hovering around, as they attended the minutiae of their roles, so for the duke to take only a dozen guards and go riding off into the night after a thief was highly irregular.

For the duke to choose Baet to be part of such a limited guard was equally unexpected—except that Baetolamew knew exactly why the duke would bring himself along. After all, Baet knew the thief! Indeed, he let the thief onto the duke’s property, to poke about the gardens and collect a few seeds—or so said the thief. Baet had not expected Humbert to slip away from the gardens. He had not expected the clerk to sneak into the manse and steal whatever it was that he stole—the little bandit! He especially didn’t expect such a big to-do over what was supposed to be seeds—but that’s what one gets when he believes a liar!

Or perhaps Baet was wrong about the duke’s reason for bringing him along? After all, he was a very good guard—or he was usually a very good guard. He sure hoped he was wrong. He hoped his selection was blind chance, or simply bad luck, as it were.

He told himself he was wrong. The duke would never trust a compromised man to stand guard. Not while there was a war going! He convinced himself that Creigal knew nothing of his treachery. No. He was just a good man to have along, a man of talents, a decorated sneak.

On the northwest road out of Gaetilly, and almost two weeks into their quest, Baet suffered a nightmare. He tossed and thrashed in his sleep. Concerned by his friend’s difficulties, Haddelton woke Baet—only to find himself staring down the barrel of Baet’s fancy pistol, Thunder Maker. For too long, Baet stared over the weapon with a question in his eyes.

Haddelton realized his fate hung in the balance as Baet tried to make sense of who looked back at him. “Friend?” Haddelton croaked.

His query broke the spell. Baet blinked and lowered the musket. “You fool! What are you on about!?” he snapped in a harsh whisper as he tucked Thunder Maker back under his pillow.

“It was your nightmare that woke me,” Haddelton snipped, offended to be so threatened.

Baet laid back in his bed with all his weight, “I don’t think I am shook of it,” he complained. “What did I say?”

For a long second, Haddelton considered telling his friend that he suffered guilty dreams, but he was upset by the episode. He did not appreciate having to face his own mortality in such a rude manner, and he found himself flustered. “Nothing,” he finally said with a frown. “You made no sense,” he claimed, then turned his back on his friend, and with a huff, went back to bed.

The episode disturbed Haddelton and made him suspicious. The next day, as they rode, Haddelton surreptitiously glared at his good friend, Baet. Then, as Haddelton made faces behind Baet’s back, he noticed a strange thing: several of the other guards also glared when Baet turned his back. Worse, the duke himself glared at Baet! Haddelton only saw it for a split second, and that from the corner of his eye, but he was convinced he saw the duke glare at one of his own guard! What did Baetolamew do to deserve the ire of the duke?!

As Haddelton considered the possibilities a worse thought jumped into his mind. Was it possible the duke also suspected Haddelton of some treachery? After all, Baet and Haddie were the best of friends. Might the duke scowl as Haddelton turned his own back?

For a time, Haddelton thought that damned fool almost shot me! He deserves what he gets! But then he remembered that Baet was his friend, and so he decided to confront him. He pushed his horse so the two were riding side by side, then grabbed Baet by the elbow and scowled at him. “What’s going on?!” Haddelton glared. “And don’t tell me everything’s fine—because I know you did something stupid! Feed me some line of crap and I’ll bloody you good!”

Baet backpedaled, a look of shock on his face. He was found out! His hands shook. His shoulders fell. For several seconds, he simply stared at his good friend, then simply admitted the truth. “I let Humbert into the gardens,” he said as he looked away. “I did not think he would get into the manse.”

“You?! You let the thief onto the grounds?” Haddelton glared. “But why?!”

Baet shrugged, “He had a debt over me.”

“How much?” Haddelton asked.

Baet hanged his head. “Two sovereign.”

“TWO SOV— !?” Haddelton started, his rage getting the better of him.

Dread filled Baet’s eyes as he covered his friend’s mouth and begged him to be quiet.

Haddelton pulled away and continued—though he lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Sweet Abra, you’re an idiot! You shit all over your oath for a measly two sovereign?!”

Baet shrugged, as he stared into the dirt, “I had a really good hand.”

“Cards?!” Haddelton snorted. “Why am I not surprised this all started with cards!?”

“...and dice,” Baet admitted, “and a bit of bones.”

Haddelton shook his head. He turned, took a step away, and said, “you are an idiot.”

“The dream gave me away,” Baet complained. “What did I say?”

“The dream,” Haddelton agreed. “And the duke’s ire.”

Baet blanched. “The duke knows?!”

Haddelton shrugged. “Perhaps he only suspects… but he certainly glares at you like he knows.”

Baet turned away, “What am I going to do?!” He asked, as his hands began to shake again.

“What are we going to do?” Haddelton corrected him. He shook his head. “For now, don’t be rash. We won’t reach Wibbeley proper until tomorrow. Keep your head down, and try to keep your nose clean. We’ll think of something,” he said, halfhearted.

“He’s gonna skin me,” Baet blanched.

Haddelton shrugged. “ We could always tell the truth. You’re still a good soldier. Perhaps he might simply send you back to the river lands, to help train the grunts.”

“Might?” Baet snorted. “And he also might flog me in the square for all the other guards to see!”

“Yes, well,” Haddelton put a hand on Baet’s shoulder, and stared off into the distance. “Try not to think of that.”

What more was there to say?

The troop continued toward Wibbeley. As they rode, Haddelton studied the others. He studied Creigal and his captain, in hopes of discovering what they certainly knew and what they only suspected. Then he began to study the others. What did they know? What was being said?

As he studied, Haddelton began to sense rifts among the others that he’d never noticed before, and it bothered him to no end. Half the men couldn’t stand Vearing—though none would say it to the giant man’s face. Garfindel was nearly just as bad—and why was Bence along at all? He seemed to be a waste of a saddle—though Banifourd seemed to rely on him rather heavily.

But why should it matter?! The duke would not bring men he did not trust! Or so Haddelton thought—but then it appeared he did not trust Baetolamew—and yet the duke had still brought him along…

It was all too confusing, and all of the intrigue was making Haddelton’s head hurt. He was never much of a politician. He preferred issues that could be resolved cleanly, with the edge of his sword. Put things out in the open and let them be decided with the skill of arms. That’s why he got along with Carringten so well. They shared the same ideal.

The sun dropped beyond the horizon. A few miles outside of Wibbeley, the duke and his men stopped at an inn and rented several small cabins for the night. Tomorrow, they’d go into Wibbeley, capture Humbert, and reclaim the duke’s stolen treasure—or so they hoped. At least it will all be over tomorrow, Haddelton thought as he rode his great steed to the stables of the inn. For a hot minute, he thought to approach Carringten—or maybe approach the duke directly—though he eventually decided against it. He knew Baet would prefer if he stayed out of it. Still, he wondered if he was he doing his friend a favor, or was he doing a disservice?

That night it was Haddelton’s turn to suffer as he tried to sleep. Something important poked about the back of his head, some terrible thought, some connection among the other guards that promised to be significant—and yet, he could not wrap his mind around it. Whatever bothered him, well, it still needed time to bake and set.

Or did it? Was all the concern simply fear run amok? It’d been a long day in the saddle and Haddelton had done a fair deal of thinking—though he felt he was not terribly suited for it. Likely, he’d done a good bit of overthinking. He wondered, how much of his problems were mere phantoms of his own imagining? How much of it could he simply ignore?

Exhausted, the guard only wanted sleep. He laid in bed, puzzled over his day, as he begged for dreams of his woman. He closed his eyes, relaxed his mind, and slipped the horizon of this waking world—only to be poked by an urgency and stirred awake once more. The shadowy foreboding continued to rattle about his brain and linger in the air. It cast a pall over everything as it promised to come true in some terrible fashion. He felt exposed, in harm’s way, and the feeling would not let him go.

Yet, he refused to get out of bed and do anything about it. Instead, he thrashed and fidgeted—as seconds turned into minutes—as minutes rolled into hours.

In this manner, time slowly ran out for Haddelton. Caught in the great tumult of his thoughts, he did not hear the slight creak of the door, or feel the intrusion of padded feet. He did not sense the presence of menace and malice.

At this time, a peculiar thing occurred. A meteor, a small piece of the old broken moon—now shattered into a million pieces—fell through the air, split yet again; then clicked, clacked, and banged against the roof of the cabin. It was only the third time Haddelton ever witnessed a stone-fall. Upon hearing the unusual sound, he opened his eyes. A face materialized out of the shadow, upside down and grinning. He recognized the face. It was the face of the royal attendant, Banifourd, one of the duke’s innumerable cousins. With a frown, Haddelton sat up. “What are you…?” he began.

Banifourd looped a wire around Haddelton’s neck and yanked him back against the headboard of the bed. Haddelton could not reach his sword, and he could not call to Baetolamew, as the air crushed from his throat. He kicked and thrashed as he attempted to wedge his fingernails under the wire—but he could find no purchase.

As he struggled, Haddelton puzzled everything together. He realized there were serious traitors among the duke’s men. They were misled to this city for the sake of an ambush! None of the other loyal guards had noticed because they were blinded by Baetolamew’s indiscretion. Baet’s guilt drew attention and served as a distraction from the plotting esquire—and how many of the other guards were with the traitor?!

Still, the revelation came too late for poor Haddelton. Terror gripped his heart as he flopped about. Blood seeped, spilled, and ran as the garrote bit deep. His lungs burned. His strength waned. Banifourd proved too strong and his advantage too great. The searing pain of the wire turned to a dull ache, and Haddelton lost his ability to struggle altogether. Images of his wife and babe played before his fluttering eyes. His final thoughts were apologies to Emia. She’d be so upset that he let himself get murdered.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 1.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Unable to solve his observations, Haddelton was doomed to the great beyond—but fate intervened for his good friend, Baetolamew. The meteor dropped out of the sky, broke into three pieces; then clicked, clacked, and banged against the roof of the cabin. This shocked both guard’s awake—only Baet’s attackers were not yet at hand.

Baet opened his eyes. He was surprised to see several shadows slinking about the room. He was surprised—but not unprepared. He grabbed at the musket under his pillow, but missed the handle and gripped it by the barrel instead.

The first attacker was upon him. Baet was forced to swing the weapon as a cudgel. He lashed out, and smashed the handle of Thunder Maker into the man’s leg. The attacker lurched as the polished stone handle of the musket made a rude popping sound against his knee.

A searing pain erupted in the attacker’s leg. The attacker gave an “ooof!” as he buckled, and took a clumsy stab at Baet.

Baet dodged the thrust, then slipped sideways and kicked the man in the face. The attacker crumbled to the floor.

A second assassin tried to get around his floundering friend. Baet sat up, flipped Thunder Maker about, and caught it by the handle. He leveled the musket at the second attacker and fired.

Light, sound, and smoke erupted into the room. For a split second, everything was illuminated. The most immediate thug was dead on his feet, as the musket ball smashed a hole in his chest and let out far too much of his vital blood. His injured mate rolled into a fetal position as he cowered from the deafening boom. A third attacker, a sentry at the door with a bow in hand, was blinded as he stared across the room. These three men did not concern Baet so much. It was the fourth attacker that worried the guard and sent shivers down his spine. Not only did this man look an awful lot like Banifourd, but he was strangling the life out of Baet’s best friend, Haddelton!

Banifourd, that weasel!

Darkness, deafness, and a fit of coughing set in. The light of the musket was gone as quick as it came, though the smoke still lingered. Baet leaned over the edge of his bed and grabbed for his boots—as an arrow whistled overhead. He felt the arrow would have skewered him if he hadn’t bent over to retrieve his footwear and the goodies he’d stuffed inside. The archer may be shooting blind, but he was shooting well!

Needing to get away, Baet snagged his boots, stood, and smashed through the window above his bed. He rolled to his feet with a wince and a curse, as shards of glass bit into the sole of his bare right foot. Dogs barked and whined as Baet half hobbled and half ran from the cabin.

In his boots, Baet had his shot, powder, wad, hunting knife, coin, several dice, a pair of day old socks—and his other musket. After half a dozen quick steps, he dropped to his knees, and pulled Cloud Breaker from his boot. Coin and dice spilled in the dirt as Baet aimed his spare musket at the window he just dove through.

Banifourd peered out. He saw the pistol and dodged back into the cabin before Baet could get a good bead on him.

“Banifourd, you bastard!” Baet yelled as he picked several coins out of the dirt and stuffed them back into his boot. He did not like leaving any of his money, but knew it was best to run. With a huff, he abandoned the remaining coin—and one of his prettier die—as he turned and hobbled into the night with a stream of muttered curses to mark his trail.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 1.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Baet crouched behind a carriage near the stables and reloaded Thunder Maker, as he glanced nervously about the corners. He had serious questions, beginning with, why did Banifourd kill Haddelton? For a moment, Baet thought it might have to do with his indiscretion, but then, Banifourd was also wearing a uniform of blue and white... And who were the strangers with him?

Baet pulled the obvious shards of glass from his foot. He put on his socks and boots, then stared at the stables and wondered which of the duke’s men was set to watch the horses and supplies. Why were they not investigating?! He’d fired his musket! With such a racket, half the inn must be awake!

And yet, his surroundings were dead quiet.

Baet slipped inside the stables. He called for the other guards, but found that he was the only one in the building. He also noticed a curious thing about the horses: not only were they unguarded, they were saddled, loaded, and ready to ride. On top of that, there were maybe twenty extra mounts gathered about the barn—which meant there were another twenty men about the inn! Baet cursed as he realized this wasn’t about him or Haddelton at all—Banifourd was after the duke!

For a split second, Baet thought he should put on some proper clothing, but he already had his boots tied, and time was wasting! Then he thought there was no way he could kill twenty some men with only two muskets—so he took a spear from among the company’s long weapons and ran from the stables as well as he could, with several bits of glass still stuck in his right foot.

Outside, a thin arc of white dots stretched across the night sky and cast a faint glow about the complex of small cabins and outbuildings that formed the inn. Baet remembered the bang of stone that stirred him from his sleep and offered his gratitude to the shattered remains of Old Mother Luna. What a wonderful gift from the gods! he thought.

And yet, the stones had not saved his good friend, Haddelton, with a child and a bride at home, a friend as guiltless and guileless as they come! Baet wondered what crazy justice must guide this world that a perfect friend should die while a sneak and a failed gambler should live. He half hobbled, half stalked among the various cabins of the inn as remorse burned in his soul. He did his best to stay low in the shadows as he approached the duke’s cabin.

Baet rounded the corner. He could see the door to the cabin was shut and there was no light in the window. There were no sounds about the night either, except a couple excited dogs that continued to bay in the distance. Thunder Maker must have woke everyone about the inn, and yet no one stirred. He strained to see about the cabins and the trees between them. The killers must yet lurk in the shadows.

The window of the duke’s cabin pushed open. “I can seee yoouuu!” Carringten called into the darkness. Baet smiled to hear his voice. Carringten was captain of the escort and Duke Creigal’s most immediate guard. He was a formidable man, not one to trifle or hesitate, and he was loyal to the hilt.

A shadow shifted to Baet’s left and an arrow streaked through the open window. Several bodies shifted in the darkness and Baet counted those he could see. There were three—no—four men that lurked in the shadows nearby.

A fight erupted somewhere in the distance. Shouts, screams, and the clang of metal on metal ensued. Another musket roared to life. Emboldened by the distant fracas, the shadows about the duke’s cabin broke from their positions and rushed the door.

Something shifted to Baetolamew’s right. He realized there was a fifth attacker just to his side. The man was so close—indeed he was too close! Baet abandoned his spear and grabbed for his knife. He shifted to his bad foot and tackled the man, despite the sudden burst of pain in his right sole. The two men went down in a tumble. Baet stuck his short blade into the man’s side; once, twice, thrice. His enemy went limp as his blood splashed everywhere. Baet wiped his face—though it seemed to only smear the blood about.

Meanwhile, the other attackers kicked in the door of the duke’s cabin and rushed inside. “Have at you!” Creigal roared at the intruders. The flash and boom of his musket followed. Metal rang against metal as screams flowed from the small building.

“Balls,” Baet swore. He sheathed his knife, and took up the spear once more. Despite the pain in his foot, he charged for the duke’s cabin and hoped he wasn’t too late to make a difference.

All of the attackers were in the cabin except for one. The last of them stood in the doorway with a bow in hand. He raised his bow with a smug look of satisfaction.

As Baet approached, he recognized the archer in the doorway. It was Willem, another ball-sucking traitor! “Yargh!” he yelled as he made a wild lunge at the man. The scream ruined the surprise—but it broke Willem’s aim—as he turned his attention to Baet.

Surprised, but well-trained, Willem turned and released the arrow. Baet twisted as he dived forward, so the arrow only glanced his side—but the roll allowed Willem to sidestep Baet’s hasty attack. On top of that, the move overextended the guard.

Willem grabbed the spear below the tip. He gave it a solid yank, then stuck out his foot, and tripped Baet as he reeled past.

Baet sprawled hands and face into a patch of flowers. With dirt in his mouth, he realized he would die for his effort.

Willem dropped the spear, nocked another arrow, and turned toward the downed guard—but before Willem could put an arrow in Baet’s back, Carringten jumped out of the cabin and buried a hatchet in the traitor’s neck.

Willem loosed the arrow—but he didn’t have the aim. The arrow struck dirt a few inches from Baet’s head. Baet stared at the arrow as the harsh gurgle of blood carried from Willem’s throat. He shuddered to hear it. The sound was too similar to the rude noises made by Haddelton.

Surprised that he was still alive, Baet rolled over and stared up at Carringten. With a squint and a smile, the dark captain helped Baet off the ground. “Well met,” the captain said with an approving nod. If he was surprised at all, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stared at the mess of blood and dirt that covered Baet’s face. “Any of that yours?” he asked.

Baet looked down and noted the dark stains all over his skin and underwear. “Just a bit,” he admitted as he showed the captain the nick on his side.

Creigal berDuvante, Duke of Gaurring, stepped from the cabin, as imposing and regal as the name implied. “Tell me what you know,” he ordered with a stern frown.

“Haddelton and I were attacked in our room,” Baet said as he stood at full attention. “I killed two: one in my cabin, and one over there. I don’t know either of ‘em, but Banifourd is also a ball-sucking traitor,” he said as he kicked at the dead form of Willem. “They all wear this blue and white.”

“These are Wibbeley’s colors,” Carringten frowned. “These others are either Count Drefford’s men, or they pretend to be,” he said as he turned to the duke. “What do you think of his lordship?”

“I would not be surprised if these are indeed the his men,” Creigal frowned. “Drefford has always been quite fond of our king,” he surmised, then turned to Baet. “Where is Haddelton?”

Baet shook his head and lowered his eyes. “I barely saved myself.”

Creigal bowed his head and gently patted Baet’s shoulder. “Let’s see to the others,” he said, and turned toward the sounds of conflict, now greatly diminished.

As they moved, Baet considered what he knew. Banifourd tried to kill the duke and Willem was in on it, which meant Bence and Garf were likely traitors too. Baet sucked his teeth. He didn’t care a wit about Bence, who was a coward and far too fond of his liquor; but Garfindel was dangerous. Baet would rather face Bence wielding any and every weapon than have to face Garf with nothing but his dick to swing.

The three men approached the diminishing sound of conflict. They could make out the voice of Vearing. “My brothers!” he roared, “I will avenge you, my brothers!” His words were punctuated by the clang of sword against sword.

Vearing was a monstrous man, even as he squared off against three others—all in blue and white. He used the great reach of his claymore to keep his enemies at bay, and swung the weapon with a speed and dexterity that verged on the impossible. The attackers backed from the man and searched for an opening to exploit.

They could find nothing.

Indeed, it was Vearing that found the next opportunity. With a neat shift of his weight and a sudden change in direction, Vearing caught one of the attackers with his guard too high. He twisted his blade, dropped his strike, and cut across the man’s belly.

Blood and organs erupted from the man as he screamed something horrific, then toppled into the dirt, unable to do anything but squirm.

The other two opponents countered but were turned aside as Vearing danced away on surprisingly light feet. At a safe distance, Vearing turned back on his remaining enemies. A wicked grin split his lips. “Come at me dogs, I thirst for blood,” he bragged.

To their credit, neither of the men broke and ran. Instead, they circled the large man with the claymore.

“My brothers, I will avenge you!” Vearing bellowed as he closed on his enemies once more. With a violence, he pushed his opponents back as they were forced to take up defensive postures.

Creigal, Carringten, and Baet turned a corner. They could now see their friend at a distance. They ran forward as they surveyed the scene.

A trail of dead bodies showed the route of the fighting—but they were not all men in blue and white. Baet noted the limp form of Marik among them—in a pool of far too much blood. He wondered if any of the duke’s other loyal guards might yet survive.

Suddenly, Vearing stopped in his press and stared down, surprised to see an arrow protruding from his chest, dangerously close to his heart. “Huurr...” Vearing croaked as he attempted to press forward. He wobbled as blood poured into his lungs, then bubbled up to his lips.

Another arrow sang out of the night to strike the giant man, inches from the first. Vearing dropped to his knees. The two men that stood against Vearing leaped forward, knocked aside his massive claymore, and struck him again and again. Without another sound, Vearing slumped to the ground and gave up the ghost.

Astounded to see Vearing die, Baet, Carringten, and Creigal stopped in their tracks. Ahead of them, Garf stepped out of the night, with a bow in hand, and followed by four other men. There was blood on their weapons.

From another direction, Banifourd stepped into the light with his two men, one that hobbled as he walked and bore a bloody face—the one that Baet had crippled with the handle of his musket.

Baet muttered a curse and raised his twin pistols. He didn’t know who he wanted to kill more, Garf or Banifourd. Still, he was a good shot, and they were not so far away. There were even odds he might get ‘em both…

Carringten stepped next to Baet. The captain put a light hand on Thunder Maker and shook his head. There were eight men gathered about Vearing’s corpse. Even if two should drop immediately, a pitched battle was a poor option in the captain’s view. At best they’d have their revenge. At worst, Creigal would be captured. Or killed. It was the possibility of losing their duke, weighed against the life of an esquire and his gang of hired thugs. Revenge was not on the menu.

Baet knew the score. The captain was right. With a sigh, he sheathed his pistols, then followed Creigal and Carringten deeper into the shadows.

“My men,” Creigal whispered, his voice filled with sorrow.

“There are still some missing,” Baet noted, all too happy to take a positive view.

“There is much blood on those swords,” Carringten shook his head. “I have little hope.”

Baet realized there was nothing more to do except escape. “We can leave!” He began in an excited whisper. “The horses are ready!”

Creigal and Carringten both turned to the guard.

“When I was first attacked, I retreated to the stables,” Baet continued. “The horses were saddled and loaded, and there was no one about. One of the traitors must have had the middle guard!”

“Bence had the middle guard,” Carringten stated.

Baet shrugged, “he’s not there.”

“Lead the way, and if Bence is there now, the devil take him,” Creigal snarled.

The three arrived at the stables and found everything as Baet remembered. The horses milled about; saddled, loaded, and a bit jittery, thanks to the repeated thunder of muskets. There was still no guard. Whatever his allegiance, Bence was not to be found. Baet figured he was safely out of the way, and likely drunk out of his gourd.

Carringten surveyed the horses with a satisfied air. He turned to Baet, “Cut the cinches and stampede the extra horses. I go to clear the gate.” With that, Carringten slipped from the stables.

Creigal tied several supply horses to their mounts as Baet used his short blade to cut the cinches on the extra saddles. “I christen thee Gore Tongue, as thou hast drunk a man’s life,” Baet said to the blade. With a smile, he repeated the names of his weapons: Thunder Maker, Cloud Breaker, and now Gore Tongue. With the edge of Gore Tongue, he severed another cinch.

“You ready?” Creigal asked with his hand on the main door of the stables.

“Last one,” Baet called as he slipped his blade between beast and leather.

“Time to go!” Creigal called and pushed open the stable doors. He climbed into his saddle and heeled his horse with Carringten’s mount in tow. Several riderless mounts and supply horses followed after him.

Baet got on his own horse and pressed the stallion forward. The supply horses followed with the rest of the animals close behind. He pressed his horse through the courtyard. Six or so horses fanned out in front of him, and a dozen more behind.

The yard was not empty. Several men stood to one side. They all wore the blue and white as they rushed forward. Most had nothing but swords and were too late to cut off Creigal or Baet—but two had bows—and they aimed at the duke.

Creigal rode low in his saddle, a small target indeed. Still, Baet knew a dozen men that would thrill at the shot—and half of them might make it. With a curse, Baet ripped his muskets from their holsters and stood high in his saddle. He took a hasty shot at the closer man. He missed, but the boom of the musket was enough to spook the archer. One arrow sailed high over the duke and the other was well behind, as it struck high on the saddle of the additional mount.

Frustrated by missing their first target, the two archers turned on Baet and nocked arrows. Baet recognized the second man, Garf. He glared as he took aim. The archers fired a hasty shot and scrambled to either side. The arrows missed, but not by much. Baet returned fire, but he also missed, as Garf dove into the dirt.

Baet swore at the traitor as he charged past in his blood-soaked underwear. Garf scrambled to his feet and nocked another arrow. Baet pulled his horse hard to the left, and hugged close to his mount as an arrow sang past him on the right.

Garf’s next shot was even worse as Baet quickly put distance between them.

Creigal slowed as he passed through the wide open front gate of the inn. He could see nothing but the lifeless bodies of three men in blue and white—then a shadow shifted and broke from the wall—Carringten.

The dark captain rushed to the spare horse. Baet stormed past him and Creigal as he continued down the road with their supply horses in tow. Creigal and Carringten charged after him.

Garf and his companion continued to fire arrows, though they fell harmless to the road. The distance was too great and the range quickly increased. Other men in blue and white wrangled horses in hopes of mounting a pursuit—but the saddles slid off the animals and took the riders with them.

Garf swore a blue streak as he watched Duke Creigal berDuvante ride off with only two of his loyal guards still alive. He spit on the ground and kicked at a ruined saddle as the others tried to corral the remaining horses.

Banifourd stepped next to his friend. “He’s still a long way from home,” he noted as he wiped blood from his sword.

If you enjoyed this, consider donating, because donating is love.