Red Creek

Revel not in atrocities but find those who do; dispatch them with haste and celebrate their demise—the Book of Chaos, The Sacral Compendium.

After the death of the tourniquet man, Maro spent the rest of the day cutting a path in a Northwest route. If lucky, he’d run across a surprised, gold-ladened wagon tonight. That was the intent at least, and if he learned anything as a soldier, nothing ever went to plan.

The landscape still rolled like hill country, but the troughs ran deeper the further north he traversed, doublely so for the peaks. The dirt changed from a light brown that kicked up with the faintest breeze to the heaver, richer umber tones of fine soil for harvesting. Didn’t matter though, not with all the evident rock everywhere.

Maro pondered over the death of the maimed gang member as they plodded along, and he couldn’t find a shred of remorse for letting him die. Torturing him was … different. Had the Autarch made him this way, or was it the environment and people he subjected himself to? Surrounded by such individuals for five years in the army played a major factor, right? With four in reconnaissance, killing unsuspecting enemies did more harm to him than he cared to admit. If he survived rescuing Maribel, what kind of existence awaited him? How would someone, with bloodied hands and death marring his soul, slip into the bustle of life?

Moments like those stretched for an eternity as he rode in silence, the sun drifting ever closer to the horizon. He hadn’t said a word since departing the creek, and most people would assume—had there been any witnesses—that his deed gnawed at his gut. And it did. No, killing him didn’t warrant much thought, but Maro’s actions and choices did.

He swore once this task completed, he’d mend his ways, find remorse to repent, and he’d been earnest, but what would keep him from going back afterward? If the situation grew dire, the stakes high, would he backslide and employ the same tactics again?

In the eyes of the citizenry, killing was as bad of a deed as they came, but in his gut, Maro recognized torture to be worse, especially if you let them live. What kind of life was that, one where you walked around afterward—if you could—knowing what you’d lost? Maro would eat a bullet rather than be an invalid.

In between mulling over his philosophical quandaries, his mind turned to the duty before him. An entire gang needed killing, and preferably without firing a single shot. A successful outcome all depended on how his next few encounters went. The odds stacked against him, but he now had an advantage.

Thinking back to his time in the army, being informed turned the tide of most battles. Yes, surprise worked in their favor, but the information he and his unit supplied to the main force gave them a critical edge. He didn’t have any recon units, which meant he’d either go in blind, or he’d have to do his own. So, waiting for the cover of darkness was the smart move, long after they ate, and when the majority slept. Ten members remained, plus Avardi at the end. The portly fellow would be a freebie. No indolent banker would get the drop on him. But it boiled down to the word of a dying man, one tortured for details. He would’ve spouted anything to make the pain stop, which was why Maro had to be sure.

And that meant cutting on someone else.

His squeamishness didn’t come from doing the deed, but rather knowing what kind of person it made him.

If you don’t pretend to be decent, you won’t be disappointed.

Only the Autarch knew how many men he’d watched suffer the same fate over the years. At this point, it was like saddling a horse, done numerous times it came without a shred of critical thought, and it quickened his pulse about as much as trying to pass his constipation in the wee hours of the night.

Not a good feeling—how unbothered I am—not the inability to shit.

The swarthy sky brought him out of his reverie, and he pulled on Bastard’s reins. Twisting in the saddle, he surveyed the surrounding terrain. Up ahead, a small strip of trees stretched across ground, and by what the dead gang member told him, that was known as Herod’s gate. Maro’s gaze drifted to the right, further north, and the Shrouded Mountains loomed ever closer, as did the Blighted Forest, the latter a day’s ride away. His ass puckered. He’d already faced a warg, and pretty far from its normal stomping grounds, too. What did he know about wargs, gnomes, blights, or any other creature roaming the land? He was like every other peasant in the world; he knew of their existence and nothing else.

And that made him next to useless in battle. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. There were enough problems without adding monsters into the mix.

Ten problems, to be exact.

He wouldn’t count the banker.

Then, you’ve got to get the girl home.

The trip would take a week, at best.

Maro groaned at the path before him. And that’s without being stabbed, shot, or murdered. Guiding Bastard with the reins, he aimed them toward Herod’s Gate and gave a soft nudge in the horse’s flanks. Bastard started forward at a trot. Judging by the low sun he rode into, it’d be full dark by the time Maro arrived. Rolling hills with little to hide behind stood between him and his destination, and he’d have no cover or concealment.

That’s the quickest way to an early grave.

Horse and rider went down the first slope, but instead of rising up the other side, Maro turned his beast to follow the rut between the hills. It’d be a serpentine path, take longer, but he wouldn’t be seen.

Thirty minutes later, both pulled up short; the sound of a wagon rustled behind them.

Shit.

When he stopped earlier, the one place he didn’t check was to the rear. Had they seen him? Where he stood now, the road at his back, the passing convoy would spot him, and all elements of surprise would be ruined. Maro urged Bastard to pick up speed, to make the bend in the crevice between hills, but the going turned slow without level footing, and Bastard wasn’t a goat.

Twisting through the curve and putting the road out of sight, Maro hurried to dismount.

To the horse, he spoke in a low but rushed tone. “Alright, Bastard, just like we used to. Break.”

Bastard’s eyes found him, and he shook his head, tossing the mane.

“We don’t got time for this shit. Break.”

Bastard snorted.

Maro pulled on the reins, making eye contact. “Look, boy, I know it ain’t ideal, but I need you to do this. Break.”

Bastard’s nostrils flared as if indignant.

Maro sighed. “If you do this, and we take the camp tonight, and they got some sweets among their stuff, I’ll give it to you, alright? Lay down on the fucking hill, got it?”

Bastard bobbed his head.

“That’s a good boy. Now, break.”

On command, the mount rolled over onto his side, leaning into the bank of dirt toward the sloping hill. Normally, he would’ve laid on the flat ground as if asleep, but it was either lay at an angle against the dirt, or clatter to the rocks below.

Maro followed his steed, laying prone beside him on the incline and patting his neck, leaning close to whisper in his ear. “Damn fine boy. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Now, stay.”

Bastard lifted his head once as if in acknowledgement, and perhaps it was. What the hell did Maro know? When it came to horses, it was too hard to tell if they indulged him like a parent placating a squalling child, or if they were as understanding as a mutt wagging its tail.

Cats … I should’ve gotten a cat. Those bastards don’t give a shit about anybody, self-reliant, and for the most part, they want to be left alone.

But he couldn’t saddle one and ride him into battle.

Wouldn’t that be something?

Maybe if he tamed a wild mountain cat. They were huge and sleek. And to think of the sheer ferocity, teeth and claws flashing with each skirmish; if anyone saw them coming, they’d shit themselves in terror.

If Bastard misbehaves again, I’ll threaten to replace him.

Maro let the thought slide from his mind as he leaned against the slope and kept on his belly, crawling to the crest of the hill. Loose dirt gave way underneath his chest and limbs, making the brief ten foot climb difficult. He stopped well short of the edge as the noise grew ever louder. He’d wait until they passed and hope they wouldn’t have someone on horseback trailing their precious cargo. The rumble reached a crescendo, and Maro noted voices, but not what they were saying, drowned out by the rhythm of the creaking carriage.

Maro tried to decipher how many he heard, or if he detected Maribel’s, but he only found disappointment. The rush of noise pushed past him, clamoring to the left and on towards Herod’s Gate. Maro counted to thirty, straining his ears, listening for any distinct clattering of a solo rider.

When he didn’t hear any, he let out a breath and eased up to the crest of the rise. His eyes broke over the plain, and the wagon fell into view.

That’s when he heard it. He froze. The calamourous galloping rushed toward him. With slow care, he twisted his head, catching sight of the rider. The wagon, now thirty paces further along the path, rolled to a stop. A solid fifty meters, maybe a touch more, separated Maro from the group. The lone rider, however, didn’t break stride, passing at full speed as he rattled over the wood bridge spanning the creek bed.

On the other side, and in a plume of dust, the rider pulled up on the reins.

“Well?” the driver asked. He wore a red shirt and stood gazing down at the trailing lookout.

“Nothing. But I swear I saw someone earlier.”

“Probably a trick of the light. We’re driving into the sun.”

“Ain’t no trick of light. I saw someone.”

The driver chuckled. “Well, if we stumble across him, I’m sure the four of us can take care of him.”

“Five,” the lone rider said, “unless you think I don’t count for nothing.”

“What took so long?” another asked.

“It’s this damn mare. She ain’t cooperating.”

Another spoke. “She’s in heat. What do ya think, boss?”

The driver didn’t speak and resumed his seat. “Come on, boys. Another thirty minutes to Herod’s Gate, and then we can have a nice hot meal.” He slapped the reins against the team of horses, and the wagon lurched forward.

Maro dipped back down, sliding down the edge of the slope. A little cloud of dust kicked up, and rocks tumbled down. Bastard gave an irritated snort as it rained down on him.

“Sorry, old boy,” Maro said as he settled beside him. Maro debated on what he wanted to do. He could wait and follow. Once he arrived in the trees, he could scout ahead, but they’d given him as much information as he could’ve hoped for. Five against one. Maribel remained an unknown factor. He was certain they were all armed. Muskets were a bitch to load in the heat of battle, so he wouldn’t discount their knives.

But rest had to be a priority. After closing the distance and curling up to sleep for a few hours, he’d attack as they slumbered. Waking up wouldn’t be a problem. Chugging water before retiring ensured you had to pee in the middle of the night, the body’s natural clock, much like the rooster in the morning.

Maro waited until the rumble turned into a whispered suggestion in the distance before he considered resuming.

“Alright, Bastard, attention.”

The horse didn’t move.

“What? You getting lazy in your old age or obstinate?”

The horse’s head moved toward the sound of his voice.

“Oh, sleeping are you? Break’s over. Attention.”

Bastard gave a snort.

“Guess no one wants sweets, do they?”

At the word sweets, Bastard gained his feet, shook the dust from his mane, and dipped his head.

“Yeah,” Maro grunted. “That’s what I thought.”