Avarice Secret Unquiet CH 41

Something happened to me last week that caused me to think about how fragile life is. If the worst had of happened I would never have finished my book. So for all those that love to pull apart and criticize stories that people write for joy... I say to you just don't. Think before you are unkind. Life is short and precarious indeed. Slowly more of my saga comes to me. Fear not, yes I have a story arc and a suitable end, and slowly it's all weaving together to a close. However, there is a lot more to tell before I reach that ending, enjoy, my few faithful Avarice readers.

Blood on the Grass

Aran dozed fitfully in those few hours just before daybreak, back against the wall. Newly forged long-sword never far from his reach. He dreamed fitfully in bright colors and flashes of chaotic action. Readying himself for war. Enacting the day that was to come. He wasn't afraid; he had fought on so many occasions that he only felt a certain numbness on a field of carnage, but he did experience an impending sense of doom and sorrow. Knowing in his heart that despite their best efforts, they would be no more than a temporary distraction for their foe. They would do what they could and then scatter. That was the plan. From that moment, it would be every man for himself.

To see this settlement lost, though, something so beautiful and rare, such a hard-gained paradise; it was tragic. Aran hoped that it would not be so, and they could somehow turn the tide. Even a man such as Aran, hardened to violence, who lived hand to mouth, could admire all that had gone into Stephan's dream of a better future for all. Aran hoped he could have lived here free and comfortably, but it seemed that war and violence would intrude no matter where he traveled. So be it, he would do his part, and then go south with his prisoner and claim what was his. Only then, with Blacksteel in his grasp, would he focus on what the future held.

There was a glimmer of brightness to all this gloom, though. He was at least happy that his brother had stepped up to lead the attack and had found renewed purpose so soon after Eirik's tragic passing. Aran was grateful for this one bright spot in the darkness. He had expected Sven to fall into a dark despair as he once had on returning from the Wolf Lord's dungeon. It was a mercy that he had not, as Sven was the only true ally he had.

The golden warrior felt a distinct growing restlessness as dawn approached. There were no working watches or clocks to keep time anymore, but many knew by the positioning of the stars that the time to fight was near.

He opened his eyes to see, by the dim torchlight, a tall, lean figure who was standing alone on the battlements, Renard. Aran had acutely sensed the man's unease toward him and Sven, and he instinctively knew that Renard didn't trust them completely to do what was best. Yet he and his brother had no bad designs on these people or their home. They had just as much skin in the game as any here assembled. It was Aran's hope, just as it was Sven's, that perhaps today they would at last make their enemy pay.

*****

With the faintest emergence of first daylight, mounted on horseback, they all stood at the ready. The Wolf Lord's men were on the move as the dawn broke. The organized host was a formidable sight as the first of the large horses entered the waterway. The cavalry traveled in a tight V formation to present as little targetable area as possible. The horses were heavily armored in hand-beaten metal plates and chain mail protecting their vulnerable areas. The men who rode them were likewise armored, each bearing a crimson tower shield embossed with the black wolf standard. A sharp eye would have also noticed the military issue rifles holstered on their saddles.

Sven gave the signal to engage with a drop of his hand, and at once the grassy plain that sloped gently down toward the river erupted into life. His men did not hold a tight formation, but rather sped toward the tight V of cavalry at great speed from every direction on half-wild horses. Guns drawn and arrows knocked. Sven could already make out the artillery that was behind the cavalry advance. It was imperative, if possible, that the cannon never made it to the other side.

All the men knew this too, and seconds later, the first shots rang out. The defenders hit the convoy as fast and as substantially as they dared. The heavily armored V flinched momentarily with that opening volley. One of the well-trained horses had been struck, and it screamed in pain and reared, its hooves raking the air, momentarily breaking the shield wall. Lothar's force had now halted midstream, shields were dropped, and rifles cocked as the mounted men returned fire. A sharp staccato of automatic weapons pierced the new dawn as bullets were sprayed indiscriminately across the field.

Before this storm of projectiles, men and horses tumbled in the bloodied grass. Many turned and ran, the bravest souls among them trying for a parting shot. However, the mostly.22 caliber ammunition, iron-tipped arrows, or shotgun fire did very little to halt the column of well-drilled men. Lothar's force had almost reached the other bank, and once they did, they would make a swift path toward the fortified township.

Both Aran and Sven had set the example for the risky attack, and they passed daringly close to the armored riders, hoping for a clear shot at the much reviled Lothar. Neither warrior spied him on the field; instead, they had to content themselves with lesser targets. They drew so close to the attackers that they could make out the dead eyes of the men through their helmets, and their relentless determination to win. Aran trained his rifle on those eyes and took his shot. The man tumbled from horseback and sank beneath the water, which reached the tall horse's knees. Sven also fired his weapon, but the brothers had no further time to register if the remainder of their bullets had found a target.

Aran's world was suddenly plunged into confusion as his horse abruptly fell at a full gallop beneath him. Before he knew it, he was in the water with gunfire raining all about him and Lothar's men steadily advancing on his position. He came up for air, gasping, wondering if he had been hit. He didn't feel anything, but he knew that adrenaline could and had powered him through many an injury gained on the battlefield. There was blood fouling the water, and his dying horse was thrashing about midstream.

Sven had watched his brother fall in ugly, slow motion, the volley of gunfire tearing open the horse's chest, and it crumpled in a nosedive, runnels of red hitting the water. In one quick action, not mindful of his own safety, he wheeled the large bay stallion about and drove the fearful animal right back into the path of oncoming danger. Bullets sprayed the water beside him, ricocheting off the rocks.

The fall had disoriented Aran temporarily, and the enemy was closing in on him. He shook his head and tried to focus, aware he must move quickly. He turned suddenly, and there was a familiar hand on him pulling him up. Aran wasted no time; he leapt onto the rump of Sven's horse, projectiles raining about them.

They raced across the field, and explosions rang out as grenades were flung. Sven urged his gasping horse to higher ground out of the range of the enemy fire. He was shouting to the men to return to the trenches. Disappointingly few of Lothar's men had fallen in that first rush, considering the risks they had taken to impede them. Now, all that Sven could hope for was some better marksmanship from atop the wall.

*****

Renard and two other men had attacked surreptitiously from the sidelines. His 308 rifle felled at least two soldiers and the horse harnessed to the mobile artillery. He had wanted to stay and try for a fourth shot, but gunfire was now bearing down heavily on his treed position. As the leaves and branches began to splinter around him, he signaled to the other men who were with him to fall back to the safety of the trenches. It appeared today that the enemy was not going to conserve their ammunition. That spoke volumes about their desperation to win this coveted stretch of land.

Renard watched his compatriots retreating, observing the thrashing horses and the injured lying in the field, helpless to flee the oncoming force. Suddenly, he was knocked back further into the brush by the force of an explosion. Fragments of debris flew everywhere, and for some moments, he could hardly hear anything above the thrumming of his own panicked heartbeat. He felt a sharp stab in his upper arm and gazed down to see his clothing rent and covered in blood. He shook his head to clear the miasma of his clouded mind and forced his way back further into the protection of the trees before he turned to run after his cohorts.

Sven's speech of a few nights prior now played through his mind, and Renard realized that the soldier had been right after all. There would quite possibly be no victory this day.

*****

Bryn had taken a few of his own men and skirted wide the main body of the skirmish. Hoping to approach the enemy camp from behind and sow discord. They had left before the onset of the charge, forded the river upstream, and made their way along the river bank, horse's hooves mostly silenced by the wet sand.

As they made their approach, Anna and Chi had dismounted, and unseen, they made their way behind the campsite. Hoping to sow chaos.

Bryn and his remaining men carefully rode along the riverbank. They could see the Commander in his black brimmed death's head cap and polished black riding boots. A cart horse lay downed in its traces, and men were fighting to free the dead beast so they could harness another. Bryn's men knew it was imperative that the mortar gun not reach the walls if they were to have any chance of delaying Lothar. The black bearded leader looked across at Tobias, who gave him a semblance of a grim smile, at once raising his longbow and taking careful aim from horseback...

Victor had been ordering the men to remove the dead beast, but the animal was heavy and lay twisted in its harness, most difficult to budge. Victor had brought his own warhorse up to replace it, as there were no other horses strong enough left in the camp to haul that load across the stream. The gun must be moved into position swiftly.

Victor wasn't happy to volunteer his fine animal for this mundane duty. However, he knew that victory hinged on his actions, and Lothar was watching. They had argued this dawn, albeit viciously, Victor as Lothar's Doctor insistent that his charge did not directly ride into the battle, but instead wait in his tent with his house guard. The two men had not exchanged a single word since. Victor had sent Major Hawkins to lead the advance, while Captain Greyson had remained behind to help ferry the artillery.

This should have been a straightforward mission. One that had now become difficult due to the actions of those barbarians. Men that Victor knew all too well. Initially, sighting Sven and Aran's fierce visages, he had forgotten all his commanding disciplines. The faces of the two men that he had never thought to see again struck a largely unfamiliar terror into him. Ruthless and wild men that he knew would relish in taking his life. They should have been dead, that eunuch, and the pit fighter, how did they return? Surely they had seen him, and if they had, would they attempt to kill him, or was it Lothar they were after? Victor felt a cold wave of dread pass over him as he struggled to regain his usually clinical composure.

It was at that moment that Bryn's daring attack had caught them all by surprise. They were so preoccupied with trying to move the dead horse that they failed to notice the handful of invaders that were now within striking distance, until the first shots peppered the sand about them. Men fell, some were wounded, one slain, and Victor dropped to the ground, losing his black cap as the bullets and arrows whizzed overhead. The remaining men shielded themselves behind the cart, and the bulk of the large war horse immediately returned fire with their sidearms.

Victor's horse, trained for battle, did not bolt and took the brunt of the attack. The great beast reared and screamed as an arrow passed through its neck, lodging there like a spear from a porcupine. Its iron tip, jutting out the other side, was painted a ghastly, shining red. The arrow did not fell the animal; however, its control was now gone, and it bucked and reared, running about the campsite like a dervish.

Victor, much angered, yelled at his remaining men to return fire, as they hunkered down behind the stricken cart.

Bryn and his riders moved swiftly, acutely aware of the need to strike decisively and be gone. The mission was complete. They had nullified the immediate deployment of the artillery and injured the last horse that was capable of pulling the load. They turned swiftly, racing back along the beach, zigzagging and running through the copse of trees to avoid the enemy fire. Taking no casualties.

*****

Chi and Anna crept towards the dark canvas tents in their ordered rows. Today, the two women had more than just the delay of the artillery on their minds. They knew what their leader had told them. Get in and get out, no stupid risks. The two women knew that most of Lothar's remaining men were by now embroiled in the combat taking place on the shoreline, but as they had not spied the crippled leader on the field, they must assume he was in the largest of the tents set back from the regular soldier's dwellings.

Bryn had begged Chi and Anna on so many occasions not to attempt the Wolf Lord's execution; however, the two women would not be swayed. So resignedly, Bryn had wished them every success and hoped they would return. He, like many others in his clan, understood that sometimes vengeance was a tonic for the past and must be claimed at all costs. Lest one become a walking husk of the person they once were.

Lothar had captured Chi's younger sister Ehuang in a raid on her village, long before she had ever thrown her hand in with Bryn and his men, and Anna, well, she had lost her mother and brother to one of his murderous campaigns.

The two women ran on silent feet across the red sand. Anna was armed with her revolver, and Chi was pulling her dangerously sharpened knife. They lay down flat on their bellies, ready to shimmy under the canvas as Chi carefully slit open an entry portal. The first cut successfully made, they both peered within. There their target sat with his back to them, tantalizingly alone... Sounds of the battle carried to their ears, men bellowing orders on the shore in the wake of Bryn's attack. Lothar's house guard seemed well and truly occupied. Chi, who rarely smiled, beamed and winked in triumph at Anna as they began to crawl inside.

*****

Lothar had heard the commotion down by the riverbank and commanded his guards to go assist. Meanwhile, he fussed and cursed at his immobility. Scolding his body that would not move as he wished, using every foul profanity he could muster. His only audience was a pageboy and a lone monster of a house guard who stood at attention like a statue. The crippled man's wheelchair was snagging and bogging down wherever he attempted to move it. Lothar dearly wanted to be out there; it was his battle after all. Even if he knew that he would be a sitting duck, and that there was no place for any infirmity or weakness on the battlefield.

After much maneuvering and cussing, Lothar finally managed to reach the tent opening, and he peered out to see his troops fighting on the far bank of the river. His shining, armored forces, that proudly bore his banner aloft, were advancing swiftly on the walls that had taunted him for weeks. The sight rallied his spirit; it appeared as though Stephan's meager forces had made a hasty retreat after what appeared to be a rather ineffectual and disorganized attack.

He briefly wondered why there were so few defenders; he had factored that there would be many more. Already, his men were beginning to storm the stout walls, strong they may be, but he knew that a few well-placed mortars or grenades would see the village soon fall. He would be by the afternoon within, counting his treasures and his slaves.

But on the beach, he witnessed the skirmish taking place. At once, sighting the few daring riders approaching, firing their volley of arrows and bullets. He watched the wounded black war horse rear and run through the camp. He observed the artillery cart and the dead horse in its traces, and his own men returning fire. It would not matter, with or without his cannon, the walls would be breached by the afternoon. Of that he was confident.

Lothar was so engrossed in watching the drama unfold on the shore that he shied in fright as his page boy shrilly screamed from the rear of the tent, 'Invaders!"

His lone guard at once sprang to life, coming to his defense. Mercilessly ramming his heavy, sharp-tipped spear into the hand that was working its way into the newly cut opening in the rear of the tent.

*****

Chi gasped as she felt a cold but searing pain pass through her hand as she parted the canvas and was preparing to enter. She could plainly see the Wolf Lord, his back to her, seated in his wheelchair, looking out of the door flap. In her excitement for the kill, she had wrongly assumed the tent to be empty. Not accounting for the pageboy's alertness and the behemoth of a guard who had not moved or spoken the entire time.

Chi uttered a surprised and strangled cry, trying to pull away, but her hand was pinned to the rug by the mercilessly sharp spear. Anna knew something was askew, so she took a blind shot through the opening, hoping to either hit Lothar or the guard who was now pulling her friend inside.

"Run, run!" Chi screamed as she was jerked, fighting headlong into the tent. Anna paused, longing to assist her friend. The sound of men's footsteps was approaching rapidly toward her position, and she only had seconds to make her decision before more guards appeared. She fired blindly this time, emptying her clip, and ran back into the cover of the scrawny trees and scratching brush.

Anna was out of breath as she reached her horse that was grazing on the sparse vegetation not far from where she had left it. She clambered onto its back and turned the animal upstream, kicking it roughly on its sides. Urging maximum speed.

*****

The bedraggled force reconvened at the trenches. Horses stood covered in foaming sweat with their sides heaving, and the men were bloodied from flying shrapnel and combat.

Sven dismounted and breathlessly barked his orders. "We can't hold them here, they are too strong... fall back behind the walls and we will hold them off there for as long as we can."

They observed Lothar's force advance, like a dark stain on the bright green of the valley before them. Methodically and without mercy, snuffing out the lives of the fallen who could not flee from their path. The seasoned fighters watched on with a stoic sense of resignation, and the younger men swallowed and gazed in distress at the fate of their fallen comrades.

"Come on, move... now!" Sven called harshly to those who could not avert their eyes from the ghastly spectacle before them. Motivating them to action.

"But my brother's down there!" One of the young recruits cried out in horror as he sought to break from the hold one of his fellows had on him.

Renard had already reached the wall and was being patched up by Dale. It was a minor wound, fortunately, catching a small piece of shrapnel in his upper arm.

"It looks like we won't be able to hold them long," Renard told the others who were perched on top of the wall. They hadn't really needed his assessment to know the truth of those words. A few of Lothar's men had fallen, but not enough to make a difference to today's eventual outcome.

"How many did we lose?" Dale asked, as Sven breezed by him on the battlements, shouting orders.

"At least fifteen."

Dale winced on hearing the number, which was far too many. He had no idea where Bryn and his party were either. Yet there was no time for stillness of thought, as the young man who had been shouting at them to save his brother broke free from his mates and ran onto the field. He was met by a hail of machine-gun fire. His hands clawed at the sky for a moment, clutching vainly, as his body, still in mid-flight, tore straight through. Then he slumped grotesquely to the ground, as motionless as the rest.

The gates were shut, with many hands lifting into place the stout wooden beams that barred them. Any survivors who remained outside would now have to find their own way to safety. The frightened horses milled around in the empty streets, skittish with the prevailing gunfire. Those who were not injured ran to the walls, gathering up any projectiles or long-distance weaponry. They began firing feverishly at the approaching army.

Yet the armed riders came on, returning fire. No longer holding their shields aloft or worrying about protection, they rode in a tight wall of steel, returning a hail of bullets that splintered the walls. Lothar's men could all but smell the weakness in their quarry. Every man who fell was kindling for their resolve.

'We can't hold this much longer.' Renard said desperately to Dale over the screams of injured and dying defenders, and the deafening volley of gunfire.

Dale nodded, his mouth drawn into a grim line as he reloaded and poked the barrel of his rifle through the crack in the wall, hoping to return fire.

Sven, moving low on hands and knees, approached Renard as the wood tore and splintered about them. Sounds of explosions began to rock the compound as the enemy was now close enough to fling grenades over the wall.

Sven had somehow remained uninjured, aside from a few superficial cuts from the flying debris. He placed his large scarred hand on Renard's shoulder. "That gate isn't going to hold much longer. We need to flee. If we don't do it now, we will lose our chance."

"How long do we have?" Renard asked, debating something that had long been in his mind.

"Twenty minutes, maybe." Sven's assessment was grim.

Renard was silent for a moment, and then, with resignation, he said, "Do it, call the retreat."

It was over; Lothar had won. However, Renard was not going to let the man have a complete victory. "Dale, tell the runner to let the men know we are retreating. It's every man for himself. Grab a horse and get out, now I have one more thing I must do." With that, Renard leapt athletically down the ladder and ran off through the houses.

The men stared after Renard for long moments as the order to flee was given. "I'm going after him," Dale announced, as the few bravest among them still found the will and an opening to fire down at the enemy.

*****

Bryn and his men didn't spare their mounts and rode hard to the south. He kept looking behind him, hoping to see Chi and Anna emerge in their wake on the horizon. Each time he gazed over his shoulder, snatching a swift view from charging horseback, his eyes only registered emptiness. He swallowed back his emotions and pressed on after his men.

*****

Aran had agreed to meet his brother in a small rocky valley nearby. The warrior had very little doubt in his mind that the old soldier would not make the rendezvous. So with a comforted heart even in the heat of the battle, he gutted his last enemy who was attempting to scale the wall and retreated toward the township.

Aran loped towards the jailhouse, grabbing two sound horses as he went. He tied them to a nearby tree and hoped that with all the commotion, they would be there waiting when he returned.

*****

Jormugar had heard the gunfire, followed by numerous rocking explosions. He pulled himself up and craned to see what was happening on the deserted streets. He could spy the tell-tale gun smoke and settling dust, but little more than that. The occasional riderless horse in panic careened wildly by, along with some fleeing dogs. He envied them their freedom to escape as he paced back and forward in his cell, the nervous tension mounting with every rapid burst of gunfire. He was fast losing his ability to successfully calm his nerves; he hated this feeling of helplessness and captivity like a rabid wolf enclosed and awaiting its fate.

The door burst open, and in Aran strode, covered in blood, but his demeanor was calm.

Jormugar watched on with golden flinty eyes as the tall warrior took down some shackles and the accompanying keys from the pegs near the warden's desk and turned towards him.

Jormugar did not look at his nemesis' face, only regarding the iron shackles that would soon be on him, thwarting his escape.

He thought briefly about trying to run, but the bounty hunter already sensed, like a wild animal would, that he did not wish to engage this man in outright combat. He already knew, other than with a stroke of luck, who would be the victor, and he would be worse off for it. If he were to escape, it would be by cunning. Perhaps if he let Aran think he had given up, some opportunity would present itself. Master Jacques' compound was at least two weeks away after all.

"Put these on," Aran said tonelessly as he tossed the shackles through the iron bars.

Jormugar did as instructed. Then he willingly let himself be hoisted onto the back of the awaiting horse. Aran said nothing else to his prisoner, as another loud bang came from somewhere to the east and the terrible rending sound of timbers being split asunder as the gate began to fall.

Jormugar lamented he had lost his horse as he looked down at the shoulders of the thin bay mare beneath him. She was still a filly, almost unbroken to a rider. She flinched and shimmied sideways, bumping into Aran's own mount as the big man clambered into the saddle and set off at a fast canter toward the western gate. Even in his dire predicament, Jormugar still had empathy for his fellow creatures.

*****

Renard ran through the mostly abandoned streets to the center of the village. The defenders, once given the order to flee, had taken most of the available horses, or the animals had fled into the desert in panic through the now wide-open western gate. He should have been thinking about his own exodus; however, Renard had only one goal set in his mind: reaching the granary.

He stopped by the stables, ducking quickly inside. There was, as he had expected, no one in attendance. The building was a little out of his way, but he knew that here he could procure a full oil lamp. He took pity on the one remaining cart horse in its stall and released the animal. It immediately bolted, black mane and tail flying like a war banner out into the hot sunlight.

The jog wasn't too far on the packed dirt and sections of cobbled road to the granary. His upper arm had begun to throb, and he was grateful for the sturdy bandage that Dale had applied. To reach his destination took him back in the direction of the invasion. The deafening blasts of many explosions rang in his ears, and he turned for a moment to hear the sound of splintering wood as the gate finally gave way. He could see smoke also, as some of the nearest homes to the eastern entrance were already burning.

He increased his pace despite the midday heat and the growing searing pain in his upper arm. Renard carried very mixed feelings about what he was about to do. His actions would mean a catastrophic loss for everyone. No canola seed for his enemy, rendering the easy life that Lothar had once enjoyed unattainable. Yet it meant that he would, in effect, destroy his father's legacy. It was a difficult ask for a son to bear such a burden. Renard knew, though, what he must do even if it meant they could never return. There would be no prize for the victor; he was determined.

The granary loomed large. A plain-sided windowless tower, constructed of mostly wood and tin, reared its dark silhouette to overlook the small hamlet. As he drew closer, he realized with all the noise and fighting, the numerous cats that were used to keep their seed stores free of vermin had mostly fled. A few of the more intrepid and frightened ones had remained, though. Again, Renard felt pity for the animals with what he was about to do. There was, though, no room for pity in war.

He ran inside, at once finding it much cooler than the bright dusty street. The densely stacked bags of grain kept the intense heat from penetrating the innards of the building. He took one look about him at all their hard work and a wracking sorrow descended as he found some combustible materials with which to start the blaze.

Gunshots rang out. The enemy was getting closer, and he must have a good fire burning. One, they stood little chance of extinguishing if he were to have his final revenge. With fumbling hands, he set the first blaze. With that small flame kindled, Renard knew that he had sealed all their fates. It was not a feeling he entirely relished. This was home, and he had ensured now that they could never return.

By the time the enemy was aware of the fires taking hold in the granary, Renard had managed to set the entirety of the storage on fire. The orange flames licked at the dry wooden walls and gave off intense heat. His chance to flee was diminishing by the minute.  

Lothar had ordered before the battle had begun that the first thing they must secure was the grain stores. To that end, he had sent a large detachment of his men once the defenses had been breached through the city to protect his coveted prize. Victor was at its head. He and his men sighted the first wisps of smoke coming from the location, and they increased their pace to a fast jog. Victor knew how important it was that the granary be seized intact.

Renard had exited the burning building to the vision of the group of guards with Victor at their apex, his Luger already drawn.' I should have known it would be you...." Victor cursed vehemently as he squeezed the trigger.

Renard knew that Victor Krosse would show him no pity. They were bitter rivals after all. He made an attempt to dodge Victor's solitary shot, but as Renard ran, he suddenly fell prone in the dirt. The surface of the alleyway was hot beneath his outstretched hands. His usually decisive and cool mind panicked as he could not get his feet under him to flee. He felt a wetness on his knee, and his hand came away smeared in blood. He realized then he had been shot, but Victor was more concerned with the burning granary than immediate revenge. He was screaming maniacally at his soldiers to get water.

Billowing smoke was now coming from the granary tower. The fire had taken root; there would be no stopping it. Renard was still attempting to rise on his remaining good leg. Realizing that his opening for escape was now gone, he resigned himself to the worst. He thought of his parents and how much he loved them and his fiancée, Lissa. Sorry, he would not see them again. He watched Victor turn toward him once more. The man's face was impassive beneath his dark visor as he raised his pistol and aimed.

Down the alleyway behind Renard came the sound of rapid hoof beats, accompanied by machine gun fire. Renard was momentarily confused as the bullets whizzed over his prone body. Victor and his men scattered, seeking what cover they could as the horse and its rider dove forward to Renard's position on the dusty street. "C'mon, get on," Came a familiar, friendly urging. Renard grabbed the top of the saddle, pulling himself upright, his knee screamed in protest. Hands sought him and pulled him into the saddle. It was Dale, a man he loved as much as a brother he never had. Dale turned the horse abruptly about and fired again over his shoulder at the enemy. Then he urged the animal into a full gallop toward the northern gate and out into the desert.

*****

Sven seized a panicked horse that was running wildly through the streets. He caught the beast's reins, which were dragging in the dirt, threatening to topple the animal. Being such a big, heavy man, he managed to arrest its headlong flight, but not without a struggle. The animal tossed its head wildly as he pulled it about. Its nostrils flared, and it danced about in tight circles, making it difficult to restrain.

Sven had learned reluctantly to ride. But he was far from a consummate horseman. He believed more in overpowering the animal than trying to work alongside it. There were times when that didn't work out too well for him, but today it did. The stirrups were way too short for his own long legs, and he looked rather comical seated on the badly adjusted saddle on a horse that, beneath him, looked like a pony.

He kicked at the scrawny but willing mare, and once he released her head, she was happily galloping away from the direction of the violence. Sven may have led the attack, but once the retreat had been announced, he had easily rescinded his grip on command, returning to his earlier mercenary status. He had planned to meet his brother in a very distinctive valley and set off south alone.

As hunters and protectors, Aran and Sven would have made a great contribution to the journey south, but they had decided not to rejoin the refugee caravan. Sven, with his son freshly in his grave, and his wife's open contempt of him, felt that a long separation was in order. He had little patience for Raissa's childish temper tantrums. Living in this wild age had caused him in many ways to be unbridled with his emotions. Sometimes he reacted far too violently and strongly to her outbursts, and he didn't trust himself right now not to hurt her.

Perhaps time would heal them both, but with the absence of Eirik in his life, he didn't feel the bond that he once had with the woman who had borne his only child.

Perhaps he would allow Raissa, a woman many years his junior, to go free to find another. Rescind his hold. He was guilty of confusing possession and status with love. Life was so different now, the expectations and rules, and some ideas like marriage were borne of another time and another way of living. When he thought back to his parents and their very visible love for one another, his actions sat in his mind rather awkwardly. When these feelings invaded, he simply told himself that this is what it now took to survive. The world was not as it once was.

Rather than face her and set her free, he would delay. Instead, deciding to help Aran on his quest and leave his marital troubles for later.