The Burden of Ash and Blood - 5. Chapter 5

The northwest road out of Brasbone proved to be a popular route, more so than at any other stage of their journey. Of all the riders they passed, most were traders, judging by their waggons. As a result, the wayinns were busier, which kept Graeme in his usual state—hidden from view. Sam longed to be alone with the knight again, to urge him to feel at ease with his helm off, his hood back. Unfortunately, he deemed that would be impossible until they found proper accommodations in Langscott.

Sleep continued to elude him. He drank the miserable ale, but the mild intoxication it provided did little to quiet his mind or quell the harrowing dreams. Even though Graeme’s hood kept his face in shadow, Sam felt his eyes, watching as he drank tankard after tankard. The gaze held no judgement, yet the knight still managed to exude concern without words or action. But what could Sam do? With each passing night, a growing desperation welled up in his chest, threatening to drown him. The weak alcohol was the least of his problems. While he considered acknowledging Graeme’s concern, he worried that starting a conversation would embolden the knight to take action—to stop Sam from drinking.

Warm weather prevailed as the days passed, although gusts of wind pulled at the most steadfast leaves still clinging to their branches. Sam sincerely hoped once they were settled at Langscott, these nightmares would at last fade away and leave him in peace. But despite the weather, he shivered at the memory of the knight’s assertion. No matter how far you flee, you cannot escape yourself.

On the third day, while trotting through a densely wooded tract of land, a stationary carriage stood ahead on the winding road. Six men surrounded it, with one attempting to force the carriage door open. The driver, riding up top, held his hands up high.

“Keep on steady,” Graeme said in a calm voice to Sam, then untied his heater shield from Tusk’s side.

“Are we going to attack?” Sam whispered.

“Check your blade,” he replied.

Sam pulled on the hilt of his shortsword to ensure the blade wouldn’t stick within the sheath should he need it in haste.

“But what are we going to do?”

“We will parley first. Remain on Winx unless I dismount.”

Visions of the bandits at the Lÿmian ruins, and their bloody end, forced Sam’s belly to clench. Graeme had initiated that dispute by talking to them as well.

They drew on their horses’ reins as they approached, the jangling of their tack catching the attention of the highwaymen. A few of the men looked over in surprise, then gave each other tense sidelong glances. It was clear they hadn’t expected to cross paths with an armoured knight. One man, bearing the confidence of a leader, strode out in front of the group. He gripped his sword, raising it not to strike, but to deter.

“Alright, we don’t want trouble, and I’m sure you two don’t, either.” He thumbed over his shoulder, gesturing to continue down the road. “Off you get.”

Sam barely registered his demand, instead observing the other men. Two wielded shortswords, two others carried cudgels, and the last in the rear held a loaded crossbow.

“You are correct. We do not want trouble,” Graeme replied, “however, it will find you should your party remain here.”

The leader scoffed. “What kind of accent is that? You’re a long way from home, outlander. Maybe turn around and go back wherever you came from.”

“This is your final warning.”

The lethality of Graeme’s tone left the leader speechless for a moment. He glanced hesitantly toward his men in search of a whiff of assurance. Perhaps he found it, because he levelled his gaze back to the knight with a grim shake of the head.

“I said fuck off!”

Graeme gracefully dismounted his horse and tightened the grip on his shield. Sam followed suit—trying his best to mimic the smooth action—but felt clumsy rather than fearsome. Pushing his insecurity aside, he stood adjacent to Graeme with his left hand resting on the pommel of his weapon. It took a concerted effort, but he managed to mask his nervousness, steadied by the acknowledgement of Graeme’s ready acceptance by his side rather than being pushed back.

All six men were drawn by the display. With their attention lost, the frightened carriage driver found his courage and lashed the horses’ reins. They bolted, rousing the carriage to jolt forward and roll out of reach to safety. The crossbowman loosed a bolt at the driver, but it flew wide, bringing a curse to his lips.

The leader glared at Graeme and Sam before turning his attention toward his men. “You two, go stop them. The rest stay with me.”

The two scrambled into the thicket, reemerging moments later on their own horses to speed off toward their quarry. Meanwhile, the three others flanked their leader—two with their cudgels and the man with his crossbow, now loaded with another bolt aimed toward Graeme and Sam. For all their threatening posture, there was an undercurrent of uncertainty written on their face. Nothing here compared to the Lÿmian ruins encounter, but Sam knew the danger of underestimating his foe.

Graeme’s stance remained still and composed, which brought its own manner of intimidation. Once again attempting to emulate the knight, Sam fell into the same stance, his face held deliberately blank. A visored helm would have spared him the effort.

“Four against two, eh?” the leader said, then used his chin to point at Sam. “And this pup don’t look like much of a fighter.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Sam replied in a flat tone, surprised he managed to sound convincing.

“Our blades have no thirst this day,” Graeme said, “but they will drink if they must. Stand down.”

The leader gritted his teeth at the proposition.

“C’mon, boss,” one of the cudgelmen said. “We can take ’em.”

Those words spurred Sam on, and he thoughtlessly pulled his shortsword free. In response, a whistling bolt flew, but Graeme’s reflexes outpaced it, swinging his shield in front of Sam. The sharp tip embedded itself into the wood with a heavy clunk. Breath caught in Sam’s throat as he envisioned the bolt hitting him instead.

“You idiot!” the leader cried at the crossbowman.

Graeme briefly inspected the damage done to his shield—yet another scar tallied to its collection—then wrenched the bolt loose and tossed it aside bitterly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the crossbowman pleaded, any pretence of menace stripped away.

Graeme pulled his longsword free, and the three men scattered, leaving only the leader, who stood his ground. Inexplicably, the weight of fear and uncertainty Sam felt in the moment abruptly melted away. Hidden beneath, a sudden boiling anger surged to the forefront, empowering him with alarming intensity. Uttering a wild cry, he charged at the leader heedlessly. Terror seized the man’s face, and his frantic parry against Sam’s wild swing tore the weapon from his hand. With no way to defend himself, he backpedalled to dodge another swipe of Sam’s blade, then retreated into the brush, joining his fleeing comrades as they rode deeper into the forest. Sam drove forward in pursuit, but Graeme called his name—clear and commanding—hindering his momentum and knocking him off balance.

“What?” Sam cried. “We gotta deal with them.”

Graeme sheathed his sword while staring at him intently. “Are you truly proposing that we take their lives?”

“They’re bad,” Sam replied, stumbling over his words, distraught by Graeme’s stern tone.

“Those craven fools are thieves at worst.”

“But—”

“We are not judges and executioners. Mount up. We need to stop those two chasing the carriage.”

Sam swallowed at the disappointment in Graeme’s voice and followed his instruction. Within moments, they were galloping down the road, trees whipping past on both sides. It didn’t take them long to find the carriage run off the road into a ditch. The driver and the carriage’s two occupants—a man and a woman wearing fine clothing—were on their knees in the dirt, cowed beneath the point of a lanky highwayman’s blade. Judging by the rocking carriage, the other man was inside rummaging for loot. Taut surprise strained the bandit’s face upon catching a glimpse of Graeme and Sam.

“Breck,” he called out.

The man inside, still rummaging, didn’t respond. Despite Graeme’s pointed words of disapproval spoken minutes earlier, Sam couldn’t fight the tremor of wild energy still coursing through his veins. He leapt from his horse, pulled his blade free, and stormed toward the lanky bandit. In response, the man thrust his blade closer to his prisoners, compelling them to recoil from its cold edge. That was enough to give Sam pause, and he withdrew a few steps, but the fire burning within still threatened to overtake him.

“Breck!”

The second bandit—a counterpoint in stature, squat and barrel-chested—emerged from the open carriage door. “Gods! What’s wrong, Nate? Can’t you handle them?”

The lanky man, Nate, gestured frantically toward Sam and Graeme. Upon realising their predicament, Breck’s mouth flattened to a thin line.

“You might as well give up now,” Sam said harshly. “Your friends are gone.”

Nate shook his head in disbelief. “There’s no way . . .”

Graeme unsheathed his weapon and closed the distance to Breck, his stride promising violence. “Drop your weapon.”

The stout man’s fingers sprang open, abandoning the sword as though it scorched his grip, then raised his hands feebly. Incited by Graeme’s domination over the man, Sam advanced upon Nate, forcing the bandit to divert his blade from the hostages to parry the strike. A swift follow-up kick to the gut sent Nate sprawling, and the sword tumbled from his grasp. Sam grabbed it before Nate could react, then handed it to the driver.

“I don’t know how to use this,” the driver cried.

“Just keep it away,” Sam said, holding the edge of his own blade to Nate’s neck.

Watching from his position, Graeme leant his shield against the carriage and grabbed Breck by the collar.

“We weren’t gonna hurt ’em,” Breck exclaimed, his feet nearly off the ground as Graeme dragged him toward Tusk.

Retrieving a length of rope from his saddlebag, Graeme tied the man’s hands behind his back. Sam watched from the corner of his eye. Despite sitting on the ground, Nate appeared coiled, as though he might lunge to escape at any moment.

“Get on your belly,” Sam barked, twitching with the rush of the moment.

Nate raised his hands higher. “It’s not needed. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I said”—Sam kicked him over—“get down!”

The trembling bandit cried out and obeyed the command. Sam placed a heavy foot over the man’s shoulder blades to keep him down, then looked back toward Graeme. The knight approached with Breck stumbling beside him. Sam caught the rope Graeme tossed his way and deftly tied Nate’s hands behind his back. All the while, Breck cast a forlorn look toward his comrade.

“What should we do with them?” Sam asked Graeme.

Instead of answering, the knight turned toward the driver and two passengers. A sting of guilt cut through Sam. Lost in the haze of triumph, he had utterly forgotten about the hostages.

“Are you injured?” Graeme asked them.

The man took a step forward and offered a polite bow of the head. “Not at all. My name is Duncan, and my wife, Lyllia. Who, may we ask, are our liberators?”

“Let us reserve our pleasantries until we stand upon safer ground,” Graeme replied, glancing back the way they’d come. “The other men could yet find their courage.”

“I knew it,” Nate mumbled. “You didn’t kill ’em.”

Graeme ignored him and asked Duncan, “Could you inform us where the nearest reeve resides, or where we might find a stronghold with a gaol?”

Duncan beamed a wide grin—strange given the circumstances. “You’re in luck. We were headed to Blakenhall Keep. It’s a mere few hours away.”

The name Blakenhall unearthed a vague recollection within Sam. If he recalled correctly, it was a small town on the way to Langscott. A smile crossed his lips. It was bound to offer choice accommodations—certainly better than the wayinns.

While Graeme secured the two highwaymen to their horses, Sam aided the driver in guiding the carriage back onto the road. Not a moment passed without a wary eye upon the road behind them, but it remained deserted. Sam extended his hand to Lyllia as she boarded.

“I’ll make sure that you and your knight will be paid handsomely for your service,” she said with a demure smile.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” Sam stuttered, unsure why he felt so shy in her presence. But there was something about her demeanour that demanded respect. Her dress, richly appointed in its design, spoke of nobility. Duncan’s own attire had a somewhat regal appearance, but with no retinue of guards to escort them, Sam could only presume they were simply wealthy folk.

With the carriage leading the way, Graeme followed—the highwaymen tethered behind—and Sam held his position at the rear, watching for trouble. The excitement burning within gently ebbed away, leaving room to reflect upon what had transpired. This had been his second occasion to confront such danger, and today’s outcome planted a seed of pride in his chest. A sour note, however, lingered on his tongue—Graeme’s disapproval of Sam’s supposed bloodlust. Killing was the last thing Sam wanted, at least ordinarily, but at that moment something within him demanded barbaric justice. A vision of the bandit flickered through his mind, a knowing smile fixed upon his dead lips. Was that man responsible for creating this terrible urge within Sam, or had it been lurking inside him all along?