Arrow Bright

She sat off to the side of the road, laughing so hard I wanted to share the joke. Her laugh made me join in, even without knowing why. I reined in old Grammar who was glad enough for any excuse to quit pulling on the cart, especially as loaded as it was this time. I climbed down and walked around the beast and stopped. So had her laugh.

She stood nearer the trees than she'd sat, and had nocked and half-drawn an arrow as long as my arm on a bow longer than she was tall. I had been a soldier; she was. I held my hands out and open, and she lowered where the arrow pointed to a spot somewhere between us instead of my belly.

"Well met, sister," I called out, she stood that far away. "You enjoyed your laugh so much I wanted to share it."

The eyes that watched me then might never ever have laughed. They flicked from me to the cart, then to the trees that the road pierced. When I'd first seen her arrow and bow, I'd immediately concluded that she and her laugh had been bait for a trap. My talk had sprung from a hope that it would wiggle me out of the trap without too bad a bite. Watching her eyes move, I guessed she thought the same about me and my cart.

"Tell me again, carter," she said in a carrying, not a loud voice. Maybe she'd commanded. She released the tension on the arrow but did not put it away. Her eyes didn't leave me then, but stayed as alert as you'd wish a sentry's would.

"You laughed, sister," I said wearily, hands still open and away from my body. I had not taken a step either. "It seems irrelevant now, but when I first saw you I wanted to laugh with you."

"I forget the joke," she relaxed her shoulders and placed the arrow back in her quiver, which held maybe forty more. "Something a bird did. Ahh!" She pointed slowly with her bow. "See the sulker in the third oak from you?"

I had to look a while. I never had an archer's eye for distances anyway, a swordsman need only see about twice as far as his fingertips. But this bird should have leapt even to my eye. Almost as red as a cock, it had black around its eyes; a small fan of bright orange, purple, and vivid blue stood at the back of its head. That head jerked back and forth as if it followed our conversation. The turn of its beak or maybe the markings near it did make it seem to sulk.

"I see it."

"You must've been a swordsman," she smiled at me. "Before your cart creaked near, some birds fed on corn I'd tossed them. To me they were company while I lunched. I concluded they were female when that jester landed just beyond the corn and strutted like a lord. Most ignored him for the corn, but a few batted eyes and cooed. He flared his tail, brighter and more intricate than his fan, and strutted so much he barely kept his balance. The cooers trilled. And then the creaking scared them all away. That great lover huffed himself into the air, circled the road and marked it, and fluttered toward a branch, beak proudly toward the sun. He missed the branch, with a great flurry of wings and tail feathers floating to the ground. As you can see, he regained his perch, and has glared at me since.

"It loses much in my telling," she shrugged with a wide smile for her story, and wary eyes for me.

"Perhaps your arrow turned the edge of my humor," I had let my hands down to my side. "Did you finish your lunch then, archer?"

"Offer me no food or drink, carter. I've lost too many sisters to drugged food and drink, some to as little as warm words."

I nodded and turned back to remount my cart. At least our interchange had broken up the day with a pleasant voice, and given me that incident with the bird to refit into some tale.

"Stay a moment, carter," her voice invited without threat. When I turned, there by my beast, she still stood near the trees. "Does this road reach Hale Ford, and do the Harsters still hold it?"

"I go there now, archer, and do they not, I waste my trip, at least."

"I will guard your trip for the ride," she offered.

"Welcome, then." I turned back and climbed into the seat, expecting her to clamber up the other side. No, she had found a place for herself near the tail of the cart. While I watched, she explored the load for a place to sit or stand where she could use her bow. She found no place, and raised her brows.

"Strange load, carter. I had thought vegetables or hides."

"Most trips you'd be right. This trip I carry clay pots, nearly waist tall and too heavy for a man to load. A mage spelled the cart that it not break and the beast for strength. He says the Harsters will pay well for this delivery."

"Let us delay no more then." She jumped down, came around the cart, looked at my hand as if it might hide thorns, then caught my wrist and jumped up onto the seat. In mail, she jumped onto the seat, with no more help than my arm for a handle.

The reins and my chatter stirred the beast into motion. It plodded up the dry road just faster than a good soldier can march. Grammar can plod longer than most soldiers as well, but only on a good road like we had that day. Grammar pays little attention to me except at stops, so I mostly don't talk. The archer made no change to that, she watched the trees on both sides of the road, and sometimes watched behind us. Several times she tested the air as if she might scent bandits; what do I know of her people?

A long afternoon of creaking and clopping brought us many miles to a clearing where I'd camped on previous trips. No other carts had stopped there, so we took the best site: near the stream, but still on hardpack. While I made a small fire and prepared a stew, the archer wandered the clearing and into the trees near it, making the ground her own.

I had the clearing to myself for an hour more as she prowled the trees. Plenty of time to loose Grammar and hobble her so she could graze or sleep but not wander far. A soldier's timing brought the archer back just as the stew satisfied me for taste and texture. She drew a bowl from her small pack, and waited until I'd served myself and begun to eat before she lifted a spoon to her mouth. She drank from her own canteen too.

Over the bowl, she observed "Quiet clearing. No bird or animal noises as far back as I walked."

I looked around, as if I'd see something she hadn't. Eerie shadows bobbed against the trees from the rocks and ourselves around the little fire. Grammar grazed at the next campsite. Other than that nothing, not even stars. Well, what of it? There was nothing for me to do but sleep anyway, so I did.

After much too short a time, four arrows struck. Two buried their heads in the cart, but the others struck the chest and belly of my manikin by the fire. I flinched for him. Soon stealthy figures crept from the trees. One ran quietly to Grammar; it was the last time he'd surprise anything. She half-turned and smashed his chest with a rear hoof. The others ran to the cart and one threw back the tarpaulin. Several groaned. What had they hoped for, gold coin with legs?

When they realized Grammar still grazed, two of the bandits went to get her. They had some beast-sense, and approached her from both sides, talking soothingly. The faithless jade let them lead her to the cart and back her into place. She even stood still for them harnessing her. One of them climbed onto my seat and shook the reins at her. He yelled and hollered, and Grammar chewed on whatever was in her mouth. Finally one of the bandits caught a cheekstrap and led Grammar into the soft soil toward the creek and the trees.

Now Grammar can walk through anything a fool will lead her through. She's drawn a plow when we found no cartage. But that wagon began to sink as soon as it left the hardpack, and only moved a scant manlength into the soil before even mage-strength gave up. Grammar shook her head free and resumed grazing.

The bandits heaved at the cart from behind, they heaved at it from before, and the cart just sat there. Two bandits climbed into the cart and rolled off one of the clay pots. It crushed the man who had meant to set it down, and did not break. However, its lid fell off. By the time a vile smell reached us, the man under the pot had passed from moaning to screams to silence.

Another man who had tried to replace the lid and right the pot had taken up the screaming and only stopped when another bandit chopped off his head. It fell toward the pot, and seemed to hiss. Then even the bandits made no noise. They backed away from the cart, and slunk toward the trees one at a time.

Into the silence came a strange rhythmic jingling. Soldiers rode into the clearing with padding tied around their beasts' hooves. Ten of them rode off and took stations near the edge of the clearing. The leader glanced at the arrow-punched manikin and rode to the cart. We could hear muttering but nothing else until a soldier tried to drag away the body of the beheaded bandit. He began to fuss, then to yammer, and then to scream like the bandit had. A sergeant shut him up the same way the bandits had silenced their companion.

The leader made a few gestures and probably gave commands we couldn't hear. Soldiers dismounted and harnessed their beasts to points on the cart. Counting Grammar, seven beasts turned that cart around and pulled it back onto hardpack. One of their beasts collapsed when they unharnessed it. They stripped the poor beast and tossed everything onto the cart. One of the soldiers, the rider of the dead beast, I assume, climbed up into my cart. One of the mounted soldiers helped get Grammar moving, and off the troop went with Grammar and my cart. They took the same direction on the road as we had.

After sight and sound of the soldiers and my cart had faded, we relaxed but did not creep out into the false dawn. We waited until chirruping began and a hare darted across a distant campsite. After we crept out and brushed ourselves off, the archer said "Those were no Harsters, but they knew to come for your cart."

"Archers think swordsmen can only take orders," I countered. I walked over to the bodies to see what the screaming had been about. A jelly-like mess still oozed from the jar. The bodies melted into it fast enough that I could see them dissolve. I could barely recognize the first skull, and half of the second had gone too. Now and again a bubble popped under it.

I had thought to arm myself from the bodies, but decided not to risk it. Three of its victims hadn't been able to wipe the stuff from themselves. That was test enough for me.

I walked back and told the archer what I'd seen. She paled, but made me describe it until she knew it without having looked. "I have to warn the Harsters if I can," she said to me.

We robbed all the dried meat from my manikin and she left with it. She moved silently into the trees, faster than a walk but slower than a run. We'd been told archers could keep that pace all day on dry ground.

I ate some of the vegetables and drank some water, then walked through the trees trying to keep the road just in sight. It had been a long time since I walked. I'd gotten soft as well as old. Every hour or so I had to stop and rest for what seemed like ten minutes. By noon my legs and my feet would hardly get up and move again. Marching must differ a lot from loading and unloading a cart. Midafternoon found me sitting with my feet in a stream, wondering if I'd ever walk again or want to.

Yes. The chirruping noises around me stilled, and in the silence jingling and creaking reached me and grew. Groaning, I grabbed my boots and ran for cover, looking for another bramble where neither scouts nor beastmen would look for me. The only one I saw stood in easy eyesight of the road - easy eyesight for me. I fled there on rocks as much as I could and wriggled under and into it with few spearings. Before my breathing calmed, a scout crept into sight looking carefully around. I held onto my nose and mouth until I nearly passed out. The scout walked right over my tracks without seeing them. When I thought he was out of earshot I let myself breathe again until two beastmen rode by between my bramble and the road. They didn't see or hear me, and neither did the next pair of flankers.

Finally the main body of soldiers hove into sight. Maybe a hundred marched by before the three carts appeared. The last was mine, still loaded, and still drawn by Grammar. The first two were far more massive than any cart I'd seen before, and carried complicated structures that seemed to tie down what looked like a giant's arm from the elbow down, one on each cart. Each cart was surrounded by a dozen or so archers. Then another hundred some odd soldiers marched behind my cart. Meanwhile, beastmounted flankers rode by me, just out of sight of each other, I suppose. It seemed I hadn't taken a real breath in hours when the last scout trailing the troop slipped by me and into the woods.

The sun had crept down the sky as the troop passed. It set while I considered whether to creep out. I wondered how I might ever retrieve my cart and Grammar from this mess. Well, if I wanted any chance of that I must slide out of that bramble before dark. So I did and crept after the troop.

Maybe the rest had helped, or maybe terror chased away the cramps in my feet and legs. I didn't think about them that long night as I slipped along at the edge of the noise the marchers made, and the silence that surrounded them otherwise. Dawn brought hunger and a surprise.

Somehow I'd clung to a sack of vegetables all that day and night. I munched on them, relieved to hear the bird and animal noises around me. A brook nearby supplied water, and almost spelled me with its gurgling and bright sparkles.

A sudden quiet struck, and I slipped behind a tree. I stayed as still as I could for a long time, but the silence persisted. Finally I guessed that it involved the troop, and slipped from tree to tree in that direction. Sure enough, I could hear fighting. I crept nearer, and began to find bodies of scouts and flankers. A sword that felt right in my hand might serve me better than the corpse that had held it. At least it made me feel safer as I crept toward the noise.

It did not protect me, however. Something clobbered me, and hauled my head back, the better to slit my throat, I suppose. I saw the blade and made one last effort. I slammed my elbow into the ribs of the person behind me. He grunted, but not as loud as I did hitting his mail.

"Halt!" shouted someone near me, and the archer pushed away the knife at my throat. She spoke rapidly, and whoever held me released me.

"Well met, archer," I gasped from my knees. She grinned, offered her hand, and pulled me easily to my feet when I clutched it. "Stand beside me," she ordered. Willy-nilly I became her guard as she commanded the archers around us. I only had to kill one skulker, who must have expected easy prey in a greyling without armor. He hardly defended himself, so intent on the commanding archer was he. He parried scornfully then stared foolishly at his gashed chest. It was his last sight.

Meanwhile, she and her archers killed anyone who approached my cart, and Harsters fought desperately, killing the soldiers and archers around all three carts. When the slaughter had finished, my cart and Grammar still stood unharmed.

A Harster who had grown up in those woods showed us an unused quarry with a hardpacked road still leading to it. We coaxed Grammar back there and backed the cart to its edge. Harsters carefully rolled the pots off my cart and into the quarry. Then they used my cart for a whole day to carry corpses from the other troop back to the quarry, and rolled them into the bubbling mess below. Finally, they backed the enormous carts with their peculiar structures over the edge. The mess in the quarry continued to bubble and hiss. When I left, Harster commanders discussed hiring quarrymen to dump in rock until they covered the mess.

When I left, I also had a passenger again. The archer travelled with me back to the town where Grammar and I lived between hauls. Or almost back to it. She slipped off just before the town came into sight, and meant to follow me into the town so no one would remark our arriving together. Plans are like that.

A hooded stranger riding slowly toward me looked familiar, but I didn't recognize him until his hood fell back and revealed his stare. His surprise must have reached the beast he rode, as it shambled about and he must shout and swat to control it. I was no help.

"Mage!" I shouted, as if delighted and not terrified. "Mage!"

He managed to still his beast, and glower at me. More quietly and deferentially I told him that those to whom my cart had been delivered had indeed paid for it dearly, and now I had brought him a commission on their largess. He stared at me in confusion, and two arrows plunged into his chest and his belly. He looked at them as startled as the skulker had looked as his wound, and they burst into flame. It was his last magic. His beast fled, and the mage rolled off onto the road.

The archer and I buried him away from the hardpack, then she rode with me into town. She let me buy her an ale from the sack of coin the Harsters had sent with her for me if we succeeded. She even promised to come back and tell me if she ever made that bird story funny.

Wyatt Underwood © 2024

Connections:

• stories
• 1st sight - another story