to homicide?
Perhaps. But somehow Karitas preferred the wondrous anarchy of Nature.
That night Jon Shannow dreamed of war: strange riders wearing horned helms bore down on a village of tents. They carried swords and pistols and, as they stormed into the village in their hundreds, the noise of gunfire was deafening. The people of the tents fought back with bow and lance, but they were overpowered; the men brutally slain. Young women were dragged out on to the plain and repeatedly raped, and their throats were cut by saw-toothed daggers. Then they were hoisted into the air by their feet and their blood ran into jugs which were passed around amongst the riders, who drank and laughed, their faces stained red.
Shannow awoke in a cold sweat, his left hand twitching as if to curl around the butt of his pistol.
The dream had sickened him and he cursed his mind for summoning such a vision. He prayed then, giving thanks for life and for love, and asking that the Lord of Hosts watch over Donna Taybard until Shannow could reach her.
The night was dark and snow swirled around the village. Shannow rose and wrapped himself in a blanket. Moving to the hearth he raked the coals until a tiny flame appeared, then added timber and fresh wood and blew the fire to life.
The dream had been so real, so brutally real.
Shannow's head ached and he wandered to the window where, in a pottery jug, were the coca leaves given him by Curopet. As ever, they dealt with the pain. He pushed open the window and leaned out, watching the snow. He could still see the riders - their curious helms adorned with curved horns of polished black, and their breastplates embossed with a goat's head. He shivered and shut the window.
'Where are you tonight, Donna, my love?' he whispered.
Con Griffin had been many things in his life, but no one had ever taken him for a fool. Yet the riders with the horned helms and the casually arrogant manner obviously thought him as green as the grass of the valley.
The convoy, having survived three Carn attacks and a heartstopping moment when an avalanche narrowly missed a wagon on the high trail, had come at last to a green valley flanked by great mountains whose snow-covered peaks reached up into the clouds.
At a full meeting the wagoners had voted to put their roots into the soil of the valley, and Con Griffin had ridden with Madden and Burke to stake out plots for all the families. With the land allocated and the first timber felled, the wagoners had woken on a chill Autumn day to find three strange riders approaching the settlement. Each wore a curious helm embossed in black and sporting goats' horns, and by their sides hung pistols the like of which Griffin had never seen.
Griffin strode to meet them while Madden sat on a nearby wagon, his long rifle cradled across his arm. Jimmy Burke knelt beside a felled log idly polishing a double-barrelled flintlock.
'Good morning to you,' said Griffin. The leader of the trio, a young man with dark eyes, forced a smile that was at best wintry.
'You are settling here?'
'Why not? It is virgin land.'
The man nodded. 'We are seeking a rider named Shannow.'
'He is dead,’ said Griffin.
'He is alive,' stated the man, with a certainty Griffin could not ignore.
'If he is, then I am surprised. He was attacked by a cannibal tribe to the south and never rejoined his wagon.'
'How many of you are there?' asked the rider.
'Enough,' said Griffin.
'Yes,' agreed the man. 'We will be on our way - we are just passing through these lands.'
The riders turned their horses and galloped towards the east.
Madden joined Griffin.
'I didn't like the look of them,' volunteered Madden. 'You think we are in for trouble?'
'Could be,' admitted Griffin.
'They set my flesh crawling,' said Burke, coming up to join them. 'They reminded me of the cannibals, 'cepting they had proper teeth.'
'What do you advise, Griff?' asked Madden.
'If they are Brigands, they'll be back.'
'What did they talk about?'
Perhaps. But somehow Karitas preferred the wondrous anarchy of Nature.
That night Jon Shannow dreamed of war: strange riders wearing horned helms bore down on a village of tents. They carried swords and pistols and, as they stormed into the village in their hundreds, the noise of gunfire was deafening. The people of the tents fought back with bow and lance, but they were overpowered; the men brutally slain. Young women were dragged out on to the plain and repeatedly raped, and their throats were cut by saw-toothed daggers. Then they were hoisted into the air by their feet and their blood ran into jugs which were passed around amongst the riders, who drank and laughed, their faces stained red.
Shannow awoke in a cold sweat, his left hand twitching as if to curl around the butt of his pistol.
The dream had sickened him and he cursed his mind for summoning such a vision. He prayed then, giving thanks for life and for love, and asking that the Lord of Hosts watch over Donna Taybard until Shannow could reach her.
The night was dark and snow swirled around the village. Shannow rose and wrapped himself in a blanket. Moving to the hearth he raked the coals until a tiny flame appeared, then added timber and fresh wood and blew the fire to life.
The dream had been so real, so brutally real.
Shannow's head ached and he wandered to the window where, in a pottery jug, were the coca leaves given him by Curopet. As ever, they dealt with the pain. He pushed open the window and leaned out, watching the snow. He could still see the riders - their curious helms adorned with curved horns of polished black, and their breastplates embossed with a goat's head. He shivered and shut the window.
'Where are you tonight, Donna, my love?' he whispered.
Con Griffin had been many things in his life, but no one had ever taken him for a fool. Yet the riders with the horned helms and the casually arrogant manner obviously thought him as green as the grass of the valley.
The convoy, having survived three Carn attacks and a heartstopping moment when an avalanche narrowly missed a wagon on the high trail, had come at last to a green valley flanked by great mountains whose snow-covered peaks reached up into the clouds.
At a full meeting the wagoners had voted to put their roots into the soil of the valley, and Con Griffin had ridden with Madden and Burke to stake out plots for all the families. With the land allocated and the first timber felled, the wagoners had woken on a chill Autumn day to find three strange riders approaching the settlement. Each wore a curious helm embossed in black and sporting goats' horns, and by their sides hung pistols the like of which Griffin had never seen.
Griffin strode to meet them while Madden sat on a nearby wagon, his long rifle cradled across his arm. Jimmy Burke knelt beside a felled log idly polishing a double-barrelled flintlock.
'Good morning to you,' said Griffin. The leader of the trio, a young man with dark eyes, forced a smile that was at best wintry.
'You are settling here?'
'Why not? It is virgin land.'
The man nodded. 'We are seeking a rider named Shannow.'
'He is dead,’ said Griffin.
'He is alive,' stated the man, with a certainty Griffin could not ignore.
'If he is, then I am surprised. He was attacked by a cannibal tribe to the south and never rejoined his wagon.'
'How many of you are there?' asked the rider.
'Enough,' said Griffin.
'Yes,' agreed the man. 'We will be on our way - we are just passing through these lands.'
The riders turned their horses and galloped towards the east.
Madden joined Griffin.
'I didn't like the look of them,' volunteered Madden. 'You think we are in for trouble?'
'Could be,' admitted Griffin.
'They set my flesh crawling,' said Burke, coming up to join them. 'They reminded me of the cannibals, 'cepting they had proper teeth.'
'What do you advise, Griff?' asked Madden.
'If they are Brigands, they'll be back.'
'What did they talk about?'
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