dark, we’ll go and look.’
14
GOSOMON
D uvakh stepped over the body of the Marroc farmer who’d been stupid enough not to run away and looked the other man up and down. Shivering, starving, dull-eyed and with nothing to his name except a shirt. He couldn’t have been in the hills for more than a few days, yet he was half-dead. Still, he was definitely Vathan. Duvakh even knew him. ‘Gosomon? From Krenda’s ride? Why, Gosomon of Krenda’s Ride, are you hiding in a Marroc barn?’
Gosomon told him. By the time he was done they were inside the farmhouse, eating some of the dead Marroc’s food and drinking his beer. Duvakh’s head was buzzing. The rest of his ride sat around, scratching themselves and patting their bellies. Good food was to be cherished. There were only five of them – six if you threw in the ghost he’d found in the barn – and the Marroc here had a good larder.
‘I reckon we’ll stay here another day or two.’ He pointed to Gosomon. ‘You might want to stay here a bit longer. Get your strength up.’
Gosomon shook his head. ‘Krenda Bashar and the ardshan are waiting on my news. I need one of your horses.’
The other riders laughed but Duvakh didn’t. The sun was setting. The flames from the burned-out barn had largely died away. The glowing embers would keep his riders and his horses pleasantly warm through the night. He looked at the gash on the back of his hand and then sucked at it. The wound was still weeping. ‘Krenda and the ardshan? I’d go right back to your swamp if I were you.’ He shook his head. ‘Hai Frika!’
The laughter died. Duvakh scowled. Gosomon’s expression made him uneasy. He helped himself to some more of the dead farmer’s ale and made a face. An unpleasant drink, but it did the job. ‘We smashed those Marroc at Lostring Hill to pieces, eh?’ he said. ‘Broke their line and slaughtered them.’ He’d killed three men by his own count, charging down from the crest of the hill, cutting them down before the Marroc managed to reach the woods. ‘No one thought the forkbeards would be at Fedderhun, but they were and they broke like the rest. So you were one of the ones who went chasing off after the runners, eh?’
Gosomon looked up. His face was hollow and haunted. Even in front of the fire with a couple of blankets wrapped around him he was shivering. A sheen of sweat covered his brow.
‘Scatter them far and wide,’ Duvakh said. ‘We learned that when we took gold from the forkbeards. The Marroc are good at running but not as good as our riders are at chasing, eh?’ He poured himself another cup. ‘
While
you were off chasing, you might like to know that the ardshan and the Weeping Giant had a falling-out. Next thing we knew we were on the move again.’ He puffed his cheeks, remembering the disappointment of Fedderhun, small and worthless, and how eager the bashars and their riders had been sink their teeth into something worth plundering. ‘Someone put it in the ardshan’s head that the forkbeards at Andhun weren’t ready for us. We thought we’d get in quick and have the place to ourselves for a few days before the Weeping Giant and his foot-sloggers could catch up with us. Load of toss that was. Not ready? Forkbeards looked plenty ready to me.’
‘Wasn’t so bad, though,’ chipped in another rider. ‘At least we didn’t have the Weeping Giant looming over us all the time telling us what we couldn’t do . . .’
Gosomon’s head jerked sideways, staring at the wall as though if he looked hard enough, he might see right through it. A hand, sharply raised, drew silence. For a few long seconds they sat there frozen. Then Gosomon relaxed. ‘Thought I heard a noise.’
Duvakh got up. ‘I’ll go and look. Need a piss anyway. Dansukh, tell him what happened at Andhun, eh? Let him know why he’s just a little bit too late with that word he’s carrying to Krenda and the ardshan.’
‘You took it?
14
GOSOMON
D uvakh stepped over the body of the Marroc farmer who’d been stupid enough not to run away and looked the other man up and down. Shivering, starving, dull-eyed and with nothing to his name except a shirt. He couldn’t have been in the hills for more than a few days, yet he was half-dead. Still, he was definitely Vathan. Duvakh even knew him. ‘Gosomon? From Krenda’s ride? Why, Gosomon of Krenda’s Ride, are you hiding in a Marroc barn?’
Gosomon told him. By the time he was done they were inside the farmhouse, eating some of the dead Marroc’s food and drinking his beer. Duvakh’s head was buzzing. The rest of his ride sat around, scratching themselves and patting their bellies. Good food was to be cherished. There were only five of them – six if you threw in the ghost he’d found in the barn – and the Marroc here had a good larder.
‘I reckon we’ll stay here another day or two.’ He pointed to Gosomon. ‘You might want to stay here a bit longer. Get your strength up.’
Gosomon shook his head. ‘Krenda Bashar and the ardshan are waiting on my news. I need one of your horses.’
The other riders laughed but Duvakh didn’t. The sun was setting. The flames from the burned-out barn had largely died away. The glowing embers would keep his riders and his horses pleasantly warm through the night. He looked at the gash on the back of his hand and then sucked at it. The wound was still weeping. ‘Krenda and the ardshan? I’d go right back to your swamp if I were you.’ He shook his head. ‘Hai Frika!’
The laughter died. Duvakh scowled. Gosomon’s expression made him uneasy. He helped himself to some more of the dead farmer’s ale and made a face. An unpleasant drink, but it did the job. ‘We smashed those Marroc at Lostring Hill to pieces, eh?’ he said. ‘Broke their line and slaughtered them.’ He’d killed three men by his own count, charging down from the crest of the hill, cutting them down before the Marroc managed to reach the woods. ‘No one thought the forkbeards would be at Fedderhun, but they were and they broke like the rest. So you were one of the ones who went chasing off after the runners, eh?’
Gosomon looked up. His face was hollow and haunted. Even in front of the fire with a couple of blankets wrapped around him he was shivering. A sheen of sweat covered his brow.
‘Scatter them far and wide,’ Duvakh said. ‘We learned that when we took gold from the forkbeards. The Marroc are good at running but not as good as our riders are at chasing, eh?’ He poured himself another cup. ‘
While
you were off chasing, you might like to know that the ardshan and the Weeping Giant had a falling-out. Next thing we knew we were on the move again.’ He puffed his cheeks, remembering the disappointment of Fedderhun, small and worthless, and how eager the bashars and their riders had been sink their teeth into something worth plundering. ‘Someone put it in the ardshan’s head that the forkbeards at Andhun weren’t ready for us. We thought we’d get in quick and have the place to ourselves for a few days before the Weeping Giant and his foot-sloggers could catch up with us. Load of toss that was. Not ready? Forkbeards looked plenty ready to me.’
‘Wasn’t so bad, though,’ chipped in another rider. ‘At least we didn’t have the Weeping Giant looming over us all the time telling us what we couldn’t do . . .’
Gosomon’s head jerked sideways, staring at the wall as though if he looked hard enough, he might see right through it. A hand, sharply raised, drew silence. For a few long seconds they sat there frozen. Then Gosomon relaxed. ‘Thought I heard a noise.’
Duvakh got up. ‘I’ll go and look. Need a piss anyway. Dansukh, tell him what happened at Andhun, eh? Let him know why he’s just a little bit too late with that word he’s carrying to Krenda and the ardshan.’
‘You took it?
Similar Books
