A story in 6 parts.
If you would like to read it all in one (7500 words) click here.
Read On Tarryoh (Part 3) - A Foot in Two Camps here.
Read On Tarryoh (Part 4) - Out of the Frying Pan here.
Read On Tarryoh (Part 5) - The Die is Cast here.
Your feedback would be greatly appreciated to improve this story. Thanks!
On Tarryoh
Part 6
Clouded Future
The bolt struck home. Locke’s horse
whinnied in pain and reared, throwing Locke from the saddle. The horse crashed
into the nomad leader’s mount and careered across the road, blood welling from
around the bolt lodged in its rump. Locke’s head hit the road, his foot caught
in the stirrup. The horse dragged him towards the far trees before his foot twisted
loose. A second later a shout rang out along the road and he was deafened by a
volley of shots. The leading ranks of the nomads fell and their mounts bolted.
The guns reloaded and began picking off survivors as they retreated. The
archers behind him stood up and sent volley after volley of arrows into the
side of the column.
Darby dropped to the
ground, lifted himself into a crouch and strained to see his brother amongst
the chaos of horses and bodies. The leader and his guards retreated, their numbers
thinning by the second. He spotted Locke’s hat lying on the ground. He dropped
his crossbow and darted forward. He dodged riderless horses and crouched beside
him. Locke lay beside the road, his leg trapped under a fallen horse. Darby
tried to push the beast off the leg. It snorted and shook its head but did not get
to its feet. Around them horse hooves pounded, shots rang out and screams rent
the air. Amongst the tumult Darby recognised a voice.
“Darby, behind you!” He
turned and saw a nomad bearing down on him, a long knife gleaming in his hand.
He froze, his eyes fixed on the blade as the man drew close. He felt for his
knife but found only the empty sheath. An arrow hummed past him. The man
stopped in mid-stride, then fell.
Ashleen dashed to his
side. She slapped her hand on the horse’s rump. “Push!” Darby snapped out of
his trance. They pushed against the horse again. It rolled itself upright and
struggled to its feet, limping.
“Are you ok?” asked Darby.
“I don’t think it’s broken.”
“Get him up.” said Ashleen.
She and Darby lifted Locke to his feet. He put an arm round each of their
shoulders and they half-carried him to the edge to the forest.
A cry broke out as the
militia spearmen charged into the melee. Bernee ran past them puffing, manic
glee on his face.
Ashleen watched him go.
“I hope the big lump comes back in one piece, for Saleesha’s sake.” Darby
walked unsteadily to the forest to retrieve his crossbow and forced his shaking
hands to load a bolt. He stood guard while Ashleen went to find a doc.
She came back a few
minutes later. The sounds of battle receded down the road. Darby put down his crossbow
and looked at her. The shaking in his hands had stopped, but not the ache in
his chest. He carefully untied the bracelet and extended his hand toward her.
“This saved my life several times, but I don’t deserve it.”
She shook her head. “I
saved your life, idiot, not the bracelet.” She attempted a smile but her face
was grim. “Saleesha is not very good at keeping secrets.” Darby looked down. He
blinked his eyes shut as he felt them moisten. Ashleen sighed. “It’s not the
first time…” She took his hand in hers.
He steeled himself not
to recoil from the touch. “Ash…” he began, looking at her hand.
She shook her head.
“You’re the only one …” she took the breath, “the only one who liked me enough
to stay.”
Darby looked at her and his
face tightened as he fought back tears. “Ashleen, I…”
She closed his fingers over
the bracelet, and raised her mouth to kiss him.
Locke watched them for a
few moments. “Good. Now that you have got that settled, go and find my horse
and get your bolt out of its rear end. I will need it again soon.” He eyed them
seriously. “We must be on our guard these next few years. People from across
the seas are moving into Laska and they will not stop there. You saw the nomads’
guns, yes?”
Darby nodded.
“They got them from traders
over the ocean. They are called Klishkovs. You are lucky you did not have to
face them today. The curved attachments hold many bullets and they can fire dozens
in the time it takes you to reload your crossbow.”
He grimaced as he moved
his injured leg with both hands.
“They have a factree
making them using old time technology. They must have been very determined to
have kept such capabilities alive all this time. It is a very old gun but very
effective, as Arden found out.” He shifted his gaze back and forth between
them.
“Be warned. They are
coming.”
****
Read a new story: Journey to the North (Part 1), here next week.
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