Chapter 28 #2
Grass rustled as wind blew through the fields. “Trouble,” Reike said. “An enemy of the olden times. Even before Ergoth and his Five.”
Trisha’s eyes widened. “Was she right?”
“I hope not. Can’t say I envy you,” she added suddenly as their horses climbed the knoll, “for getting the Warlord’s attention.”
“You don’t?”
“A hard man. A harder man to get close to. You’d do well to remember that, Trisha.”
Before she could ask, Reike’s head perked up. “You hear that?”
Trisha listened. The wind carried faint sounds. Voices. Too bright, too high for an adult.
“By the ancestors’ rotten teeth. It can’t be,” Reike muttered, tugging at her reins. “Let’s go check.”
They crested a low hill. As they did, the voices grew louder. On the other side, in a shallow dip, stood a mule before a wooden cart, along with three shapes in light linen tunics. A volley of arrows lay on the ground, some of them sank into the bark of a stunted tree across from the boys.
“…you fetch them yourself,” Trisha heard one of the boys say. He stood in the path of the approaching Reike and Trisha. His red-brown hair gleamed in the sunlight. Two other boys waved their arms, scowling. They had yet to notice them.
“I’m the one shooting,” declared the sturdiest of the three.
The red-haired boy crossed his arms. The gesture was clumsy, a sling on his arm constraining the movement. Trisha’s brows furrowed as the boy continued, “I don’t care. Fetch your arrows.”
“Don’t be a dullard, Dietric,” said the third, a lanky boy with a mop of brown hair and a fox-like face. “You can’t shoot with that arm.”
Dietric? What was Fjorten’s son doing here?
Reike’s voice sliced through the air. “What is going on here?”
The boys spun around. Shock, guilt, and defiance warred across their narrow-boned features. Dietric blanched when his eyes landed on Trisha.
“You two,” Reike continued in a harsh voice, sliding off the saddle.
Her boots dug into the moist ground as she strode toward the two other boys.
They backed away from her looming frame.
“Jaun and Egard… I’d expect no less from you.
But you…” She turned toward the auburn-haired boy.
“Did your pa and ma allow you to leave the castle walls, young master Tifbrunn?”
Dietric’s eyes locked on Trisha, his face flushing bright red before he looked down. “N-No, Shield Stammek.”
Reike snorted. “Didn’t think so.” She observed the surroundings: the cart, the bow, and the arrows on the ground. “And what is this about?”
The boy with a fox-like face and dark, eager eyes stepped forward. “We’re practicing! The raiders’ test is three weeks away.”
A groan escaped Reike. She ran a hand through her curly, short hair. “Raiders? And how old are you, again, Jaun?”
The tallest and brawniest of the boys puffed his chest and brandished the bow. “There’s no limit. We can shoot. Wield a sword. We can take the test!”
“Oh, sure, you can take the test. And get laughed at by everyone else, you silly swamp rats,” Reike swore. “The youngest raider accepted has been sixteen summers.”
“Not true,” Dietric raised his voice. “The Warlord…” He faltered. As if to fortify himself against the older woman’s glare, he squared his shoulders. A mirage of Byne stood there, his mouth pursed tight and a serious expression on that narrow face. “The Warlord rode with them even younger.”
The shield snorted. “He’d be the first one to ban you from joining. You know that.”
The young faces fell.
Reike grunted. “Well, nothing has happened. You all hop into your cart and head home. I may, just may, forget to mention this to Shield Fritlingen.” She gave Dietric a pointed look. “Or your parents.”
The boys raised their voices in complaint. Trisha chuckled as they tried to sway the shield.
Dapple shifted. Her hand tightened as she glanced around.
The world looked the same to Trisha: sweet-smelling heather, green bushes that the wind swayed, and blue sky.
It comforted her. Dapple tossed his head toward the northern trail.
Then, she, too, saw what had made him react—dark shapes on horseback, approaching.
“Reike,” she called, cutting through the argument. “Do you know who’s coming from over there?”
“Boys,” Reike’s voice cracked like a whip. “Behind me. Now!”
The riders drew nearer, their horses’ hooves thunderous, growing louder with each beat against the ground. A group of warriors with spears and shields, the light mirroring on the metal of their helmets and fortified armor plates.
Dapple’s cowering thoughts reached her. He wanted to run, but Trisha reined him in. When the foremost rider came into view, Trisha’s belly clenched. That gray-shaded beard, face carved of stone, brawny shape despite the frosted years he carried on his hair: Annath Wolfbach.
Annath’s men followed behind him, stern and tight-lipped—and heading straight toward them.
Annath’s gaze flew first to Trisha, then to Reike on the ground.
A tall, muscular man with an ugly gash on his face rode beside him.
Ernaut. His eyes were glued to Reike, a scary intensity in his expression. A wave of fear crawled over Trisha.
At their leader’s gesture, the Wolfbach soldiers fanned out, their pace slowing. Once the men reached Trisha, Reike, and the boys, they formed a half-circle, hemming them in. Only his adjutant remained by Annath’s side—a silent, ominous figure with burning eyes that never left Reike.
Annath’s horse snorted, flanks lathered, fighting the bit. The beast danced a few steps closer. The man’s gaze narrowed, face twisting into a sneer. “The Warlord has found his trophy, seems.”
His soldier chuckled, and annoyance flushed Trisha’s cheeks. She lifted her chin. “I’m here of my own choosing, Chief Wolfbach.”
He chuckled, unamused. “Yer a fool to trust the Warlord. But then again, it’s only fittin’. Dewingar men are nothin’ but fools themselves.” His attention moved to Reike, a darker expression flying across his face. “Reike Stammek, fancy seein’ ye ‘ere.”
Ernaut leaned forward in his saddle, hands resting on the pommel. Trisha swallowed, perspiration starting. Annath’s tone promised violence.