Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Read online

  A cry rose from the trees where the brothers had disappeared.

  “Women and children, this way,” Tavor bellowed, running in a crouch for the trees. He scooped up a child and hustled a pregnant woman through the dense undergrowth. “Guardians follow!”

  Whitt sprinted for cover as a bolt skidded off a rock. “Fighters, hold the river.” He dove into the brush and received a face full of thorns. Stuck without a bow or staff, he scrambled for the tree’s edge and got his feet under him when he reached the shadows.

  Farlander men and women stood among the eldergreen, armed with knives and no options until the guards crossed. Somewhere he had clansmen with longbows, but he didn’t know where. He took a breath, forcibly calming his galloping heart. Tavor and his charges hurried deeper into the forest, far from silent. How many defenders stayed behind, he couldn’t guess.

  A sudden hail of bolts flew from the shadows across the water. They thumped into the trees and soil, and somewhere one struck true, a cry rising to Whitt’s right. Close to sixty guards leapt from the forest and stampeded into the river. Men with crossbows advanced behind them. More shafts flew, this time from both sides. Nine men tumbled into the water, the guards behind them tripping over the bodies or hauling them up and dragging them to shore.

  Despite their accuracy, the crossbows proved slow to reload, leaving the guards exposed. Clan longbows loosed another barrage and more guards fell. Whitt grabbed a dead branch, broke off the tapered end, and waited behind a tree, itching for the right moment to attack.

  Falcyn archers pressed forward into the river. They cocked their crossbows, set their black bolts, and shot. Farlanders grunted, roared, and fell. An arrow slammed into an advancing bowman’s chest, one of three guards to fall in quick order. The first of Falcyn’s men reached the near shore. He ran toward the trees, yelling threats until he gasped at the shaft in his chest.

  A wave of men splashed to shore, bowmen following in their wakes, shooting into the trees. When the first man reached the forest’s shadows, Whitt shouted, “Now!” He leapt from cover, and in four steps, smashed the first guard with the thick end of his stick.

  Whitt swung the makeshift staff, the balance and length wrong, one end too heavy and the arc slow. His grip suffered on the sharp ends of broken twigs. He struck a blow, flipped and reversed, caught a guard hard on his ear and snapped up into an unsuspecting chin, breaking the jaw. Other fights drew blood, crimson wounds and spattered clothes caught in the corner of his eye.

  A bolt cracked into a tree. He sidestepped, and a rapper hit him across the back, throwing him forward. Dropping to a knee, he used the momentum to roll, got halfway over, and hit a rock. His staff rose and blocked, instinct saving him from a hammering blow that would have dented his skull.

  Another block. He pushed aside a knife thrust that stabbed into the ground, grabbed the guard’s sleeve, and pulled. The man staggered forward, and still on his back, Whitt lashed out with a kick to the knee. His attacker fell partly on top of him and rolled off, howling. Whitt scrambled up and backed away, the guard incapable of causing any more damage.

  A jolt of pressure hit him in the back. A man cursed and struck him again, this time the pressure sliding along his side. The offending blade appeared under his arm. He grabbed the exposed wrist, yanked, and slammed the arm against his rising knee. The bone fractured with a sickening snap, and the man behind him screamed. Whitt’s elbow jerked back, striking something soft that shut the wailing up. He let go of the wrist and pressed on the burning ache in his side, his hands coming away bloodied.

  The fight broke apart, moving into the woods. Bodies peppered the shore and floated half in the water. Some drifted downstream and hung up on the branches of a fallen tree. He picked up his branch-staff and joined the fight, rapping heads and tripping up feet. His side hurt, the blood tickling his ribs and dribbling down his thigh.

  He moved deeper into the forest, loping from one skirmish to the next, bettering the odds. After the latest entanglement, he bent over and dragged in a breath, his endurance suffering. An older Farlander, his face chiseled by the years, leaned on a tree after cutting the tendons on the heels of two guards, a compromise leaving them alive. They sat on the ground scowling but quiet, fully convinced the Farlander’s threat of death would prove trustworthy.

  “You’re wounded,” the clansman said to Whitt. “You must protect it.”

  Whitt nodded. “I don’t know how bad it is.”

  The man stepped closer, pulled up the edge of Whitt’s jerkin, and ripped open the hole in the shirt. “Lie in the water before nightfall, and the kari will tend to it.”

  Nightfall seemed a long time away. The sounds of battle retreated, except for a distant ring of laughter. Whitt exchanged a glance with the Farlander. The man waved a warning at the two guards, and without a word, he and Whitt crept toward the sound.

  As they neared, the laughter merged with taunting and a child’s keening cries. Through the trees, Whitt caught sight of a horse, his horse. He stole forward until he had a clear view of three Ellegeans beating a young clansman. Two guards held the towheaded man between them while the third punched his face. Multiple knife wounds to his legs and arms bled until his limbs were painted red. A Farlander child, Rose's age, tried to reach the bloodied man, and the Ellegean kicked her to the ground.

  Howling a war cry, Whitt burst into a sprint, the old clansman a step behind. His staff smashed into the head of the man with bloody fists. Whitt spun, and the narrow end found a second face. The Farlander made swift work of the third guard and didn’t pause until he ensured none of them would rise again.

  The pummeled man sank to his knees, and the child staggered to embrace him. He could barely raise an arm to comfort her. Whitt let the old man tend to his people. He walked the short distance to his horse. Beneath it, one of the redheads hung from a stirrup, a bolt through his neck.

  Whitt whispered softly, attempting to pacify the spooked animal. He grabbed the reins and patted the thick neck. As he worked the boot loose of the stirrup, he noticed the other brother, slumped at the base of a tree, stabbed to death. No one had ridden to Jagur with their plea for help.

  ***

  Whitt slowed to a canter as he neared the Guardian camp. It occupied the spot where he’d fled with the Farlanders after the fire, the place many of them had died as he scouted Tor’s perimeter. He reined his shaggy ride to a walk, the horse pushed to its limits and in need of rest as much as he. His wound had scabbed, a recovery he attributed to a short dip in a freezing brook.

  He licked his lips out of sheer anxiety, his eyes hunting the camp for signs of hostility. He’d heard a rumor that Jagur wouldn’t have him detained, but rumors were only so reassuring. At the camp’s edge, he dismounted and walked the horse in, heading for the center and Jagur’s headquarters.

  Most of the men and women recognized him by face if not by name. They stopped whatever occupied them to watch him pass. A few nodded or shouted a word of greeting. He might have stopped for a conversation, an assessment of Guardian’s role or Jagur’s mood, but he lacked the time.

  “Halt!”

  Whitt stopped, Major Parso’s voice and the rustle of his reports a familiar sound. He turned, uncertain whether he should salute and then decided that as long as the guild’s dagger adorned his skin, he remained a brother of Guardian. He gripped his forearm. “Major Parso. I’m here to speak with the commander. We have Farlanders coming from Falcyn who require our protection.”

  The stiff officer scratched a corner of his nose, his thin eyebrows meeting beneath the halo of silver hair. “We’re short on resources, Whitt. We just sent a large party east with Lodan for stragglers coming in from Outlyer. We have three hundred in Tor keeping the peace.”

  “I’d like to give my report to the commander, Sir.” Getting mired in details with Parso would require patience he didn’t have. “Tavor and Tor’s guardians are leading them. I need to see the commander.”

  “He’s not here,” Parso st
udied the lists in his hands and continued toward the command tent.

  Whitt’s heart sank. “Is Nordin here?”

  “They’re both in the woods.” The major jerked his chin toward the sloped hillside and cleared his throat. “Found bodies in the trees. A rite we’re familiar with, yet one I find disturbing.”

  With no time to explain or argue, Whitt walked the horse out the camp’s other side, mounted and rode across what remained of the flat valley to the forest. Though a distance from the timber roads, woodsmen had harvested the trees here as well and left a field of brush and stumps. Whitt spotted a picket of six horses in the eldergreen’s shadows. He gave a crisp snap to the reins and coaxed the snorting horse upward.

  When he reached the mounts, he called, warning the men of his approach. “Commander Jagur! It’s Whitt.”

  Several guardians stepped into the light beyond the graceful branches, Jagur and Nordin among them. All wore handkerchiefs or sleeves over their noses, all except Jagur who puffed on his pipe and clouded his head in fragrant smoke. Even at a distance, the air reeked of death, and Whitt didn’t dare look, the putrid smell enough to empty the meager contents of his stomach.

  “We’ll come to you,” Nordin shouted, and the six men started down.

  Whitt dismounted and waited. When they neared, he saluted, and all but Jagur responded. The censure stung, and Whitt tamped down the emotion welling in his chest. “Commander, I know we have matters to discuss, including my… dismissal and…” He straightened, more important matters at hand than stumbling over his hurt feelings. “Sir, three days ago, more than two hundred Farlanders fled Falcyn with a hundred city guards on their trail. We headed for Tor with Tavor’s escort. More than half of the group is comprised of women and children, young and elderly. Two days ago, we led the Farlanders across a tributary east of the city, but that’s as far as we got. They won’t make it here safely. Without your help, they’re all dead, including our men.”

  The commander propped his hands on his hips. His eyes narrowed, noting the dried blood and grime on Whitt’s clothes, the wounds and bruises tarnishing his face and hands.

  Whitt rubbed his eyes of grit. “Tavor sent two brothers to warn you. Both were slain, one beaten for pleasure.” Nordin’s eyebrows plowed together, and Whitt spoke on, “I haven’t any other counts or information. When I rode, Tavor was leading the surviving Farlanders into the hills. They’ll try hold off the guards until we arrive. I’m here to ask for three hundred men.”

  “Lousy timing, Whitt.” Nordin winced as the breeze served them a whiff of rotting flesh. “We just dispatched two hundred guardians to Outlyer, and we’re patrolling Tor. That leaves us with less than four hundred in the camp, and they aren’t all fighters.” He gestured toward the trees. “You know what’s up there?”

  “The high ward’s guardsmen killed them as we fled the fire.” Whitt gazed toward the trees. “Usually the Farlanders burn the bodies and hang the bones, but there wasn’t time. There’s a similar graveyard halfway to Outlyer. They’ll be another one near Falcyn if we don’t send men for Tavor.”

  The commander scratched his beard and frowned at Nordin and the other guardians. “Thoughts?”

  “We don’t have to worry about the high ward.” Nordin pointed out. “We can send two hundred to Tavor and call back a hundred from peacekeeping in Tor.”

  “There’s that massive Farlander camp to the south,” a young guardian reminded them.

  “I’ll handle them,” Whitt said. “Tavor needs your help now.”

  “Do it.” Jagur tapped his pipe on a stump and headed for his horse. “Nordin, two hundred to Tavor under your command, and send orders to Tor for a hundred men to high hoof it back to camp.” He swung a leg over his saddle and studied Whitt.

  “Sir?” Whitt asked. “My orders?”

  Jagur nodded, one scant dip of his chin. “Prepare a map that will get Nordin to Tavor, then find yourself some food, Lieutenant, and head south to keep the Farlanders from doing something foolhardy or dangerous.”

  Whitt smiled, the mention of his rank a gift he hadn’t expected. He hoped his next trick wouldn’t earn him a trip to the gallows.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Gannon sipped greenleaf in the command tent while Jagur reviewed reports with Parso. The rickety camp chairs put him on edge more than the continued violence. At any moment, the folding apparatus would collapse, and he was too sore from endless riding to be falling on his backside on a pile of splintered wood. The chair wobbled, and tea sloshed on his hand. “We’re running out of time.”

  Jagur looked up from whatever Parso handed him, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. “The campaign is proceeding well considering it should have happened a decade ago. If there’s one truth I’ve observed in fifty summers, it’s that injustice never vanishes of its own accord.” He patted his empty pockets for his pipe and frowned. “Diddling in Elan-Sia and expecting the powerful to miraculously develop compassion and insight at their own expense is a fool’s dream.”

  “You insult the queen,” Gannon warned before a wry smile tugged at his lips.

  “Pah.” Jagur drummed his fingers on the table. “She’s learned hard lessons that will serve her in the future. Bringing vision to life requires honest negotiation, integrity, hard work, and the occasional application of a heavy hand.”

  Parso cleared his throat and tapped a report lying beneath his nose. “Prices for supplies border on extortion.”

  “They lost a quarter of their crops,” Jagur reminded him. “Prepare a ledger for the queen. She’ll feel the weight of her delay in gold.”

  “Assuming she agrees to pay for it.” Parso cleared his throat.

  “She will.” Jagur searched his pockets again. “The Cull Tarr will be next. Mark my words.”

  Gannon flicked an ant from the table and grimaced, the validation of his persistent distrust of the Cull Tarr unnerving. Jagur wasn’t wrong; Lelaine’s reluctance to wrestle with their increasing pressure and undisguised agenda entrenched the problem. One day she’d pay for her hesitation.

  The commander settled back, and his chair wobbled. “Blasted chair. Parso, give me yours.”

  “Mine’s no better.” Parso frowned and rearranged his papers.

  “You can have mine if it doesn’t collapse first.” Gannon rose and began to pace. The Cull Tarr vexed him but less so than the current mess. Tor had calmed, but Ellegeans still murdered clansmen in an attempt to drive them from the territory. Whitt, Tavor, and Lodan had soothed lingering suspicions about the Guardian force, but if Gannon were to ascribe a word for the relationship, he’d call it dubious at best.

  Necessity split Jagur’s warriors into quarters, and though Gannon saw no way to avoid it, they were all increasingly vulnerable. He needed Whitt to come through. Whitt ultimately had to broker the peace. He remained the strongest link between Guardian and the clans, and that Farlander camp to the south boasted a force that swelled with each rise and set of the sun. Ellegean aggression had amassed a Farlander horde.

  Parso cleared his throat and restacked his papers. “The final matter is the renegotiation of the treaty. Who will negotiate, and how will it be enforced?”

  Jagur patted his pockets for the third time. “Founders’ Hell, where’s my pipe?”

  A horn sounded. The tent flap opened and two officers strode in. “Commander, we have a problem.”

  Jagur rose to his feet, his chair clattering to the dirt. “Brief me.” Parso stuffed his papers into a leather bag, and Gannon swallowed down the sick gorge bubbling up from his stomach.

  A short, gray-topped lieutenant placed a map on the table. “The Farlanders are moving on Tor, an army of over fifteen hundred from our first reports. From their southern camp.”

  “Whitt.” Jagur shot a glance at Gannon.

  “No, something’s wrong.” Gannon met his eyes. “Whitt wouldn’t attack the city.”

  Jagur focused on the map. “Where are they?”

  “Last report, her
e.” The lieutenant pointed to a spot a half day's march from Tor. “But they’re moving slowly.”

  “Form up,” Jagur ordered.

  “All of us?” the guardian asked.

  “Every last one. We march as soon as we’re in armor.” The officers left, and the noise outside the tent intensified as commands flew and guardians ran to prepare for war. Jagur turned to Gannon. “Did you know about this? What’s Whitt doing?”

  Gannon shook his head. “I haven’t seen Whitt since Guardian arrived. I don’t know what he’s doing or if he has any control over what’s happening. I wasn’t sure he was still alive.” A swell of heat flushed his face, anger sharpening his tongue. “I trust him. He wants peace, not war. If he hadn’t been snubbed by Guardian, by you, Commander, we might—”

  “Enough.” Jagur patted his pocket. “We don’t have time to argue. The truth will stare us in the face before the sun sets.”

  “I’m riding with you.”

  “Damned right you are.”

  ***

  Jagur rubbed his jaw and blew out a pent-up breath. A headache from the morning pounded his temples and picked up speed as the day plunged downhill. Ahead to his left, his guardians and Tor’s city guards joined to form battle lines, five hundred men at first glance. He had another one hundred fifty with him once the lieutenants weeded out the wounded and camp hands from the fighting force.

  Ahead to his right, a horde of twelve hundred or more Farlanders advanced, men and women, young and old. They hadn’t spread out across the dirt and grass but formed a giant wedge of ivory-haired, long-limbed fighters. All but one man, riding at the head with the native horsemen. Whitt stuck out like a crow in a sea of gulls. Jagur eyed Gannon. “It appears he isn’t dead.”