The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“Who calls?” Arcod started around to stare back toward the village, raising his staff.

Too late.

An arrow buried its point in the neck of one of the clerics waiting on the road. He fell backward in a graceful curve that bent, and bent, time drawn out so that one breath seemed to hold for an hour or a year, and then his body collapsed all at once to hit the ground limp and dead. The other men shouted and grabbed for staves and short swords, but the bandits had the advantage of surprise and cover.

The whistle of arrows made a horrifying accompaniment to one who stood so far away as a helpless witness to the massacre. It happened so fast. A second man went down as he turned to see what the shouting was about. A third tried to mount but had five arrows in his back before he settled into the saddle. Two clerics ducked behind horses and tugged on the reins, running toward the river, but a swarm of men, a score at least, tumbled out of the mill and the church to pursue them. Others took aim from the tower and the upper story of the mill.

A pair of bandits standing on the road gestured toward the three men stranded out by the incriminating trench.

“Where are the rest of our brothers?” gasped Ildoin. “We heard no cry of alarm.”

“They’re dead or captured.” Alain ripped the staff out of Arcod’s hands, who stood like a fish out of water, mouth agape, stunned. “Take Brother Ildoin and run for the trees. Get back to the manor. Alert the lord, let him send out men at arms—”

Arcod did not move. Six men brandishing weapons headed at a trot toward Alain and his companions.

“Go! Someone must live to tell the tale! Go!”

“What of you, Brother Alain?”

“I’ll try to give you time to escape.”

Still, Arcod hesitated.

Alain shoved him toward the trees. “Go!”

One staggering step led to another, and a third. Arcod caught Ildoin’s sleeve and yanked him up.

“Run, Brother!” he wept. “Run!”

They tripped and stumbled over the trench and sprinted across the fields toward the woods. Alain hadn’t the luxury to watch them go, to make sure they reached the woodland and weren’t killed by some other lurking bandits. He had to face the enemy.

One of the clerics made it out onto the dock before being cut down. Miraculously, only one of the horses was injured. Now, having won the valuable mounts and pack animals, the company of bandits seemed to lose their sense of purpose. One man, swathed in a cloak, kept bending down over the fresh corpses with a flask in his hand. The others milled about stripping the bodies and emptying the saddlebags—except for the six men who loped across the fields toward Alain.

He steadied the staff in both hands and whistled the hounds up next to him. Against archery, the hounds would perish. But he knew they would never abandon him, and after all this time he doubted they would outlive him. It was strange to feel so calm.

He had to give the others enough of a head start.

“Down.” Whining, Rage and Sorrow lay down on either side of him. “I pray you, Lord of Mercy, Lady of Justice, let my comrades escape.”

He lifted the staff and held it horizontally above his head, gripping the haft with both hands, to show he meant no threat to them. The bandits slowed, and two put arrows to the strings of their bows, but he could see that besides these two bows the men carried the crudest of weapons—staffs sharpened to a point at one end, spears tipped with stone blades.

“Well met, brothers!” he cried. “Thank the Lord and Lady that you have rescued me from these prating clerics!”

He took two steps forward before giving the hounds a second command. “Stay.”

He kept walking.

The six men stopped, four of them bunched and the other two—with the bows—hanging to either side as flankers.

“I pray you will let me join your brotherhood,” Alain continued as he approached them, staff still held above his head, his pace measured and his voice clear. “I have longed to escape my life of servitude to the church.”

“Come no closer!”

He could not tell which spoke, although at this distance their ragged garb and pinched faces were easily visible. One—no more than a lad by the look of his skinny legs and narrow hips—ran back to the village while the others kept weapons raised.

“Come no closer,” repeated the leader among them, a dark-haired man wearing a torn tunic, filthy leggings, and bearing the scars of shackles on his wrists. He had warts on his nose. “Wait there, or we’ll shoot you.”

“Truly, you’re right to trust no man. It’s a hard world, as I’ve seen myself. It seems that those who have, hoard to themselves, and the rest of us are left to fight over the bones.”