Tears of Azna

Capter one again as I deleted by accident. Still haven't figured this system out!

1.

Commander Vik glanced at the overturned wagon. The silk and spices were spilt and trampled into the ground; there were bodies everywhere as the first spark of smoke rose from the canvas. It looked real enough. He nodded to the young clansman, who raced up the path and disappeared from view. Vik ran his hands through his spiky dark hair then pulled his sword from its sheath. He swung it through the air, his lean body adjusting for its weight, muscles moving smoothly as he warmed up, waiting for the Protectors to arrive.

A moan from one of the bodies caught his attention. He put the sword away and withdrew his small blade. In an economy of movement, he stepped over the prone guards and found a clansman bleeding from several wounds, but not one of them was a killing stroke. Vik frowned. Sloppy work. He’ll have to take the lad in hand if he was to achieve anything. They couldn’t afford to have witnesses, on that point Gideon was clear.

Vik swiped the man’s throat with his blade, feeling the flesh resist for a second then cutting deep, a clean stroke which stopped the moaning. He looked at the other fallen guards and double checked them. Vik soon found himself in front of the slaves, checking them too. Vik had not killed them; a fact not lost on the young clansman, as they usually killed the slaves’ first if under attack by the enemy.

But then this was not a usual attack and this was a different sort of enemy. Vik fumbled around in his pouch by his side and found some more Dukka, a mind altering drug commonly used to subdue slaves, just in case. From behind him he heard the footsteps approaching fast.

“Commander, they’re coming. There’s five of them, two protectors and three Citadel guards.” The boy’s face was red from running and a trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek. “They should be here in a matter of moments.” The boy glanced around and studiously avoided looking at anything in particular. This whole trip was unusual enough, without having to look at fallen comrades. The caravan was on fire now, and smoke was billowing upwards, crackling away. Over the noise of the fire, he could hear the drumming of hooves getting closer. His hand fidgeted near his sword.

“Ramer, keep calm. I need you to focus.” Vik put his hand on Ramer’s shoulder, “I hope I didn’t make a mistake in choosing you?”

Ramer flushed at the veiled threat. “No, Commander, you didn’t.” He straightened and looked Vik in the eye. “Orders?”

Vik smiled and nodded. “As soon as the Protectors round the bend, we race to the horses. If we are separated, make your way back to the main camp as best you can. Ready?” Rammer nodded. “Then let’s go.”

Late afternoon brought with it the chill shadows of an early winter. Riyan, Apprentice Mage Protector, wrapped his cloak around him tightly. It hadn’t snowed yet, but it he knew it wasn’t far off. Riyan shifted in his saddle hoping they would reach Sigersville soon. Prendle, Third Mage Protector was a pretentious idiot and Riyan found himself wishing he hadn’t been chosen for this honour of escorting the third highest ranking mage back to Paradise. Riyan as an apprentice was bound to travel and learn with all the Protectors he could but so far all he had learnt was how to antagonise the guards and half of the small villages they stayed at along the way.

Riyan stole a glance at Prendle, stiff backed on his horse, his black leather tunic spotless, bouncing in his saddle. Even the look on Prendle’s face was pompous. Admittedly the hooked nose and arched eyebrows didn’t help, but still. Riyan had a sneaking suspicion that everyone back at the Citadel knew what Prendle was like and were probably rolling around the floor with laughter.

Riyan urged his mount forward and trotted past Prendle who kept staring straight ahead and brought his horse level with Fredricks, the captain of the guard. They nodded at each other.

“How much further?” Riyan asked.

“An hour maybe, depends on the weather.”

Riyan sighed as Fredricks grinned at him. “One more day, young sir, only one more day,” Fredericks whispered conspiratorially. “Hang in there.” Riyan grinned and gave a chuckle. Fredericks and the guards had been on the wrong end of Prendle’s arrogance more than once. Riyan began to reply when a horse came thundering towards them.

“Captain, the road ahead!”

The breathless guard pulled his horse up and saluted sloppily, struggling to control his mount. Riyan looked up and in the fading light could make out smoke on the path ahead. Either side of the path was shrouded with trees and boulders. They slowed down.

“What is it?” Prendle’s thin voice sounded from behind. “Why are we stopping?”

“My Lord, there is something we need to check out,” the Captain nodded his head and Prendle squinted in the gloom. The captain looked at Prendle expectantly.

“Be careful, Captain, this could well be an ambush.”

“An ambush?” Riyan said.

“Yes, apprentice, an ambush. Stage a robbery or some such, you rush up to help them and then from various parts of the forest men attack you. Ambush.”

“Yes, I know what an ambush is, sir,” Riyan gritted his teeth, “What I meant was that perhaps it’s not an ambush for us, that it has already taken place?” Riyan looked at the darkening sky, judging the time for ambush had long gone. Prendle rolled his eyes, dismissing Riyan and turned back to the Captain, waving him forward. “Take one or two guards and scout it out, then return.”

“But, sir-.”

“But what, Riyan? Are you willing to risk our lives just because someone may or may not be in trouble?”

“No sir, I didn’t mean that. I just think-“

 “Look I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you. The Sarat Clans are cunning devils. They’ve tried it before, they’ll try it again.”

“Sarat Clans? What makes you think it’s Sarat Clans?”

“This close to the Mountains? Who else could it be?”

Riyan took a deep breath. “Sir, what if they’re not clan, just ordinary brigands?”

Prendle drew himself up in the saddle. “Young man, you may be as pretty as the statues in Palt, but that doesn’t mean your brains should be made of marble too! I know what I’m doing!”

Riyan clamped his mouth shut, swallowing the words that leapt to his mouth. Surely Prendle had used his Sense to scout ahead? Why waste the guard’s lives if he was so concerned with them? Riyan’s distaste for the man grew.

Prendle took a long look at Riyan. “Captain, scout ahead. And take this fool with you.”

Grateful to get away from Prendle, Riyan kicked his horse into action and sped down the forested path, Fredericks following close behind. The crackling of the burning cart became louder as they rounded the bend and in the dusk saw the melee in front of them. One large cart was upended, silks and spices strewn about, odd shaped boxes flatten or trampled by feet and hooves flying about. Another cart was on fire and a third was being picked through by two men. Lying on the ground were some bodies. Riyan reigned in and slid off his horse, pulling out his sword, shouting.

The two men rifling through the cart turned towards the sound, hesitated for a second and then took off, crashing through the forest. Riyan and Fredricks raced off after them. Night had fallen now and even though they had false light from the carts that were on fire, it was getting harder to see the slight movements that indicated which way the men would turn. The forest became thicker and darker so Riyan asked for light and a small ball appeared above him and hovered a few feet in front of them.

“There!” Fredericks called and sped off, Riyan a moment or two behind him. He ran, jumping over tangled root branches and ducking under fallen logs, only to find his feet sliding out from under him, causing him to tumble forwards into a prickle bush.

“Mother of a w***e brat,” he said as he scrambled to his feet again, sucking on a bleeding hand. Up ahead, Riyan could hear the shouts of other men and suddenly remembered Fredericks. He launched himself through the tangle and found himself in a clearing. The men were nowhere to be seen, but Fredericks was lying on the ground groaning.

Riyan looked down at him and saw that he had a huge lump on his head but otherwise was all right. Riyan scanned the ground for footprints and saw they lead into the forest. He glanced at the forest and realised that it was dense and there was no identifiable path. He also noted that the small ball of light had dissipated as soon as he’d fallen into the prickle bush. Typical, he thought wryly; leave me at the first sign of trouble. He could call it back or send his Sense forward, but he was tired and Fredericks needed help.

From behind him he heard the guards calling out for him and decided that he’d have to leave the puzzle of the clansman for another day. The guards reached him and helped him carry Fredericks back to the ambushed caravan.  There he found Prendle, hands clasped behind his back speaking in Sarat to a group of people huddled on the ground. The guards had already seen to the dead and piled them up, ready to burn. These people however were not injured.

Riyan went over for a better look and saw three men, two women and a boy. They were dressed as clansmen, but very ragged, exposing their flesh to the cold air. They had gaunt faces and all of them had some form of bruises all over their bodies. Riyan stepped forward as Prendle finished his questioning.

“Well? I’ll ask one more time. Who attacked this caravan?” there was no answer. “I am warning you, we will deal harshly with you.”

One of the men frowned and moved his head slightly, as if puzzled. A glint sparkled off his neck and Riyan saw they were wearing slave collars. They’d get no sense from them then. They either knew nothing, had had their tongues cut out or were drugged. Riyan tugged at Prendle’s arm and pointed at the necklets.

“So?”

“Slaves, Third. I’m sure we’ll get nothing from them. Not here at any rate. Maybe some food, a warm bed...”

“Show some intelligence, boy, just because they’re slaves doesn’t mean they can’t be a threat.”

Riyan looked at the pathetic mass of bruises and rags. “A threat? To who? A maize farmer?”

“Tcah.” Prendle turned from them and walked over to a very groggy Fredericks. “Apprentice, we will ride for Sigersville this instant. Leave the slaves, they are not important.”

“Not important?” Riyan was incensed, “They need our help, third. They won’t survive this night without our aid. They have no blankets, water or food and they’re still chained up-“

“Watch your tone boy,” Prendle’s voice was chilly and he stepped up to Riyan and grabbed his tunic, “I know they’re still chained up, apprentice. D’you think I’m that stupid? What you see before you may or may not be slaves. They could well be spies. I’m not going to risk our lives over whether or not to unchain them.” Prendle let go of Riyan’s tunic, forcing him backwards. “Let’s go.”

 “Spies?”

“They have tried this before. Last time they had some poor slave infected with the plague. Killed off half the garrison before we realised. It’ll just be the same thing again. Fredericks, mount up. ”

Riyan stood in stony silence, his sense of righteousness, no matter the cost, permeated the air. Prendle glared at Riyan, with narrowed eyes, his lip curling into snarl. “Fine,” he spat, “Riyan, you are in charge of them and you’ll have to explain to everyone why it is they are here and why people suddenly start dropping dead everywhere.”