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Twenty-four
For nigh unto a full day, Dristan pushed not only his men but their horses to their very limit in order to reach one of the farthest hamlets upon his land. He had at last called a halt to their flight the night afore and camped under the stars, knowing they could travel no further that eve. With the rising of the morning sun, they resumed their course.
As the day waned, Dristan held up his hand, and the men reined in their horses. Momentarily stopping upon a small rise, Dristan looked down upon the devastation with his dark brows drawn together as he scanned the area. The livestock had been slaughtered and left to rot around the once green fields. The huts had been burnt to the ground with only a few showing what remained of the timber that had once made up their frames. His lip twitched in rage. He pinched his eyes closed, trying to erase the horrible sight he viewed.
Dristan sighed and motioned his men to continue on. They proceeded slowly down the hill then dismounted once they reached the remains of the first dwelling.
“Rolf, Morgan, split up and scout the area.” They nodded and ran off, cautious of what they might find. Whilst he had the notion that none of the villagers would yet be alive, Dristan still held some small sense of hope that his first impression of the situation would not be so.
He motioned for his men to keep an eye out as they continued towards the center of the tiny village. A grim and grisly scene awaited them in the center square, making even the seasoned warrior’s cringe; the memory would be forever etched in their minds. The villagers had been bound and burnt, their bodies scattered around the square. The pungent odor of burning flesh lingered in the air around them and several men covered their noses with their hands.
Dristan observed Devon’s eyes grow wide as he crossed himself afore turning aside, retching. He was not to blame for his weak stomach, for even a stronger man would barely tolerate such a sight and smell.
“Thar’s a guid lad,” Nevin said, as he helped the poor guard to his feet, patting his back. Although Devin stood upright, he did so on wobbly legs and with a pale face.
“Who could have done such a thing?” Riorden asked quietly.
Dristan gave no answer. Instead, he scanned the square in thought, knowing the violence on these innocent people was a personal attack against him. All these souls, he bemoaned. ’Twas a sad sight to behold even for a man who had been in countless battles. Watching a man die beside him, after he fell defending what he believed in, he could take, but not this . . . never this.
He was pulled from his thoughts at the sound of his name being called.
“My lord,” Morgan shouted, running into the square.
“What news?” Dristan asked, their eyes meeting.
“I found a hut on the edge of the forest. ’Tis a gruesome site. A dozen or so bodies are hanging from the rafters. Women and children, my lord,” he finished reluctantly.
Dristan ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “For God’s sake, Morgan, cut those poor souls down. Bertram, Drake, go with him,” he snapped.
They followed Morgan, and Dristan looked over at Nevin as Rolf approached.
“My lord, there are riders spotted on the edge of the forest. They have been watching us.”
“How many?” Dristan demanded quickly.
“Mayhap eight. They entered the woods as I ran to get you.”
“May the bastards who did this pay for their transgressions,” he vowed and with a battle cry well known to his men, they turned as one from the square.
Mounting their horses, they kicked their steeds into a full gallop. As they passed the last hut, the men whose job ’twas to retrieve the innocent bodies ran out of the dwelling, hastened to retrieve their horses, and joined the group.
Dristan led the way, his face contorted in rage. He saw the three riders, who lingered on the edge of the forest on horseback. They quickly fled into the shadows of the trees as Dristan and his men fast approached. As they took to the forest, the light grew dim except for small rays of sunshine cutting through the treetops to reach the forest floor. And yet they rode on after these men with a determination to right the wrong done to his vassals.
The density of the wooded terrain opened up to a small clearing. Dristan brought his horse to a halt, keeping alert to a possible ambush. If he were to plan one himself, this would be just such a place he would lay in wait for his enemy. His men quickly filled the once empty space with impatience. Looking about, they saw no one around them in the darkness.
Dristan kept Thor firmly in place as his hooves pranced to be about some actively. Well trained, the stallion did as he was bid, although he shook and quivered to be about the oncoming battle.
“Where are you?” he yelled. “Show yourselves, you cowards!” There was no answer to his demands. “Show yourselves,” he attempted yet again with the same results.
Dristan looked at his men and with the briefest of nods, they pulled their swords from their sheaths. He watched in alarm when Devon foolishly dismounted his horse and made his way to his side.
“They wouldna just disappear, milord, would they?” Devon inquired hesitantly.
“Fool! Get to your horse,” he bellowed. Afore Dristan could further voice his concern with Amiria’s youngest guardsman, who had unknowingly put himself in danger, a warrior rushed from the darkness of the trees and thrust his sword completely through Devon’s stomach. Devon fell to his knees, tears spilling from his eyes whilst his cry of agony rang out in the once still forest.
Everything began to happen at once as Nevin leapt from his steed, letting out a yell to defend his comrade. Men rushed from the woods in a wave of humanity as now Dristan’s men also jumped from their horses to join the fray. Nevin engaged the man who had harmed his friend whilst Devon crumbled to the ground in pain. Perchance, ’twas the recent training with his new liege lord, but Nevin quickly defeated his enemy and the man lay dead on the ground at his feet. He spat on him with a sneer, wiped his lip with his sleeve, and then looked about him on whom to take on next.
Scanning the area around them, Dristan could see a dozen or so men engaging his guards as sword rang against sword, allowing the sound to echo throughout the woods. Dristan’s brow twitched, anticipating the attack of one lone man, who charged him. He was about his own height and as the man gazed at him with a dirty toothed smile, Dristan raised his sword to defend against the attack.
Time and time again his sword sang out and he viewed the enemy begin to fall in defeat. During the skirmish, he swore he heard the distinct sound of laughter coming from the shadows. His sword slicing through the air, he felled his opponent only to have another take his place. This man took a swing at Dristan, who blocked it with ease. ’Twas a battle of strength and the man broke from the hold and stumbled back.
With a swoop of his sword, the unknown man crumbled to the ground dead. He looked around as his men conquered their enemy but he could see one standing off at a safe distance. He leaned against a tree, his arms folded across his chest, watching the fight. Dristan could see his demeanor was merciless, for he smiled in amusement whilst he watched the destruction of his own men. Some of the cowards began to flee and Turquine let out a roar of victory. Dristan saw his target take a step forward into the small light falling to the ground. Their eyes met across the field of fallen bodies and Dristan knew this was only the beginning of more bloodshed to come.
Distracted by the revelry of his guards, Dristan lost sight of the man, who took to the shadows once more. He pushed forward to follow but to no avail. The man was gone. Riorden had followed and laid a hand on his shoulder, as Dristan stood, staring off into the forest.
“What is it?” Riorden queried, his brows drew together as he looked at his friend.
“There was a man here. He stood, leaning against the tree, watching us fight his men. He smiled with their defeat,” replied Dristan, startled that one could be so callous towards those he rode with.
“Should we follow?”
“Nay. We still have much to do what with the burying of the villagers.” He turned and began making his way back to the center of the circle. He gave a sharp whistle and listened as Thor whinnied in the distance.
“And what of the men just killed?” Riorden asked, as he followed, looking for his own horse.
“Leave them as a warning to those who dare to raise arms against me,” he returned sharply. Dristan leapt into the saddle and twisted the reins to head Thor through the forest.
The men began to look to one another ’til finally Finlay spoke up. “But what o’ Devon, milord?” he asked sadly. “He yet lives.”
Dristan pulled the reins but kept his unseeing eyes in front of him. “Bring him,” he said quietly in sorrow. “Perchance by some miracle Kenna can as yet save him.” He knew he would not be able to bare the look upon Amiria’s face if Devon passed on.
He scanned his men and for the most part they had come through the battle unscathed with the exception of a few minor cuts. The most noticeable injury to his men was to Geoffrey, who was being helped to his horse with an arrow protruding from his left thigh. Kenna would have more than enough work to occupy herself and Lynet once they returned to the keep.
“Geoffrey?” Dristan called with a silent question to his guardsman.
“A clean shot through my lord. Besides the pain and a stiff limb I should heal well enough I suppose to meet you upon the lists again another day,” Geoffrey said with a crooked grin despite his wound.
“We shall see . . . ” Dristan grumbled, kicking his horse and moving forward. His men began to mount up and all were solemn. There was no cause to be jubilant with their victory, not knowing the plight of Amiria’s youngest guardsman. Her guard was the last to follow. Ian took the responsibility for Devon as Cameron and Thomas helped place his body on Ian’s horse. Ian put his foot in the stirrup and sat behind Devon as he groaned in pain. They began to ride very slowly as Dougal brought up the rear, leading Devon’s own steed.
’Twas not a long way back to the village and as Dristan broke into the light he shielded his eyes from the heat of the sun. The afternoon began to wane and he left a small detail of men to deal with the chore of burying the bodies of the dead villagers in a nearby field. ’Twas a somber group that began to make their way back towards the castle, knowing their progress would be slow for they could not hasten their journey due to Devon’s injury.
Dristan nodded his head to the dead, giving his last respects when he rode by the villager’s burial place. He began to pray he would make it back in time to Berwyck Castle. He did not relish the thought of digging another grave.
