1 The Rider Cometh
1
The Rider Cometh
Oskar knelt in the muddy road, weeping, as the sounds of hoof clops approached from behind him. His hands wrung the mud of the road convulsively, as his shoulders bobbed in time with his sobs. Each tear he shed was swallowed by the rain that pelted his strained face from the night sky above. Even this was being taken from him.
What had they done to deserve such things? Had it been the war that had caused that thing to come from the sea? If it had, then why did it attack his farmstead? His people had no part in the rebellion. They had simply been trying to live.
A reddish glow slowly came over him, and a moment later, the sounds of the hooves stopped. There came the snort of a steed, and Oskar winced. What would it do to him when it dragged him away into the darkness? Would it kill him quickly, or would the damned thing take its time with him? Oskar swallowed hard. It had taken everything from him, and now it seemed as though it had come back to deal with him.
Oskar turned on his fumbling hands and knees and dared a glance at the figure that had approached him. His breath caught in his throat as the red glow seared his eyes for a moment. Blinking against the nagging pain, Oskar could still make out the giant form that loomed out of the shadows. It dwarfed him, making him feel insectile before its enormity.
"Come on then," Oskar spoke, his voice wavering through the torrential rain. His heart raced as the heat of the thing seeped through the chilled air between them, and another, seemingly impatient snort came from it. The source of the glow began to rise. Oskar spread his arms and closed his eyes, "Get it over with already."
"Out of the road, old man," a voice with a strange accent came through the raucous of the storm, "Lowe has done enough trampling in the past several days, and I would like to give him a rest."
Oskar's eyes shot open, and he took in the appearance of the speaker. This was not the thing that had destroyed the village at his back, but a man. Giant in stature, sitting astride an actual tawny colored destrier. In the man's hand was an oil lantern that now cast its glow onto a rugged, yellow-bearded face. Scars etched a few places about the countenance, which held an air of confident grimness. The man did not wear the native tartan of the Olckan Isles, but instead wore slashed fabric of red and black, the latter color being the exterior shade. A breastplate of iron encased the man's broad chest, which, like his face, showed a few marks of battle.
The thick-necked destrier beneath the man tossed its black maned head up and down as its big hoof pawed at the mud. Its eye glinted in the red glow of the lantern, and Oskar could see that the animal was regarding him with a bored nonchalance.
"Who are you?" Oskar asked shakily, "Why are you here?"
"Hans Emerich," He answered the man who knelt before him in the road, "And I am looking for someone."
The man pushed himself up to his feet, his tartan drenched in water and mud, "You'll only find me here, sir. Everyone else is dead," he proclaimed with a shaky voice that sounded as if he were close to tears.
Hans set his jaw at the honorific and drew in a deep breath through his teeth. He couldn't blame the man for his approach to tears, but he also didn't have the time to show the man the proper respect for his loss. If everyone in the village had died recently, it might mean that he was closing in on his quarry. "I am no knight," He proclaimed solidly, "Was your village collateral from the rebellion?"
The older man took a few steps toward Hans and his steed, causing Lowe to tense underneath him. Its powerful flanks rippled beneath Hans' legs, and his powerful withers bulged, causing the saddle to creak in protest. Hans held up his hand to the man who approached, not wanting to see the steed plant one of its hooves in his chest. Lowe had been on edge since they had started this hunt, far more so than usual. The horse was acting the way it did just before battle. When the elder halted, Hans patted the side of his muscular neck firmly to calm the animal.
Shaking his head, the man spoke, his voice sounding like glass about to shatter, "Nay si-" he corrected himself, "Hans. This was done by something far more foul than the king's army and his filthy mercenaries."
As if to emphasize his point, lightning flashed before thunder pealed over the village. In the sudden illumination, Hans's keen eyes saw the destruction that had been wrought.
Bodies lay in the mud of the streets in a chaotic cluster. Vague shades of crimson surrounded them in the puddles, dappling upward from the rain. Stone huts comprised the main cluster of buildings, though several had suffered collapsed roofs and walls. Livestock lie alongside the houses, their entrails glaring grey and vermillion in the flash.
"By the three," Hans muttered as he processed what was before him in the dark, his eyes desperately trying to penetrate the inky black before him, "When did this happen?"
"Just before nightfall," came the shaky response, "I was out in the field tending to our wheat when I heard the cries. I trie-d to make it back, but, I-I don't move as fast as I used to."
Hans looked back down at the man, "Be thankful that you don't. If you had rushed to their aid, then you may have been among the fallen."
Casting his eyes downward, the older man grumbled, "I'da prefered that."
Hans narrowed his blue eyes at the fellow and thought to confront the man on his attitude, but he had a job to do, and consoling a man was not a part of it. "Did a woman pass through before this? Hair of corn silk, slender, possibly a bit worse for wear," Hans asked instead.
The elder glanced back, his tear-streaked face showing his inward confusion at Hans knowing more then he was putting on, "Aye. There was. How did you kno-"
"And was she here when the rider arrived?" Hans interrupted, his gut tense from the elder's answer. It was now a definite. He was on the right path, but if the woman was among the corpses, then the job he was paid to do would alter drastically. He would take her body back to her father. After he repaid the other seeker of the girl with steel and fury, that is. Already, just the thought of her being one of the shattered frames sparked a heat in his chest that threatened to ignite into an uncontrollable blaze.
"No," the elder answered, his confusion not only still apparent but deepening at the mention of the rider, "She left a few hours before the rider appeared. She did look disheveled. We thought her a refugee fleeing the war to the south. We tried to get her to stay. In her state, we feared what would happen to her on the road."
Hans nodded as the heat in his chest remained, but the tenseness in his gut was replaced with a seed of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was still time. Absently, Hans nearly spurred Lowe past the man to continue on his hunt, but the elder asked
"Is it the girl you seek?"
"Aye. That she is." Hans answered as Lowe shifted in the mud, sensing his rider's anxiousness, "I was paid to bring her back to her father, and that's what I aim to do. The rider who sacked your village was looking for her as well. I have been tracking them for nearly two days now."
"Who is she?" The elder asked.
Hans sniffed as he thought about telling the man that it was better that he not know, but inwardly shrugged as he squeezed his legs in front of Lowe's hind quarters, causing him to stride forward, "Caitlyn Black. The King's daughter."
"What!?" the elder asked aghast as he slopped through the mud beside Hans and his steed, "How did she come to be fugitive. Weren't the rebels crushed?"
The rain did little to staunch the smell that wafted up from the corpses that they now walked through, and Hans made sure to guide Lowe around the bodies that littered the ground.
"Aye, they were," Hans said, but that wasn't exactly true. They may have been farmers, but many of them had been fine warriors who had put up quite the fight. Hans would look fondly on the nicks in his blade caused by the wild painted men and their claymores. He was simply growing restless and impatient with the elder, and he had to struggle not to fly from the man to give chase to Caitlyn. "She was upset about how the rebels were being treated after the battle, and so she left with a contingent of her most trusted. I found them dead, attacked by a single man on horseback, and she was nowhere to be found."
Tripping over a tool that lay next to a man whose head lay several feet away, the elder inquired further, "How do you know that's why she left?"
Hans halted Lowe, and the destrier snorted irritably. He looked down at the man again and spoke plainly, "Because I am one of the king's filthy Mercenaries and she told me at length about her feelings before leaving."
The elder stumbled back away from the man, realization dawning on his features. His heels struck the severed head, and he fell on his backside with a splash of red-tinged mud. He stared for a long breath before stating, "You fought for the king?"
Hans glanced around the area impatiently before turning his gaze back to the elder, "Aye. He paid well, and I did my duty gladly. But know this, Old Man. The men of this countryside fought bravely, and there was nothing personal in the lives I took; it's just my business. But if I catch up to the bastard that did this to your countrymen, do trust, I will pay him back in full, and that WILL be personal."
The elder stared at him, not saying anything.
Hans reigned Lowe about and issued him onward again. He cared not about what the elder thought of him, or anyone else, really. He loved his profession and felt no shame for being excellent at it.
As he reached the outskirts of the tiny village, the old man shouted at him, "That bastard you speak of is no normal horseman!" his voice was shrill and accusatory now that he knew Hans was a mercenary, "It's a devil from the sea! It will slay you with ease! No man could ever stand against it!"
Hans hollered back, his voice confident and strong as he rode into the night, "We will see about that."
