"Did you see where they went?" Skharr asked.
"No. You…you means to go after them?"
"Of course. Can't travel without my possessions, now can I? Tell the innkeep not to keep my room."
"But they's…they's armed, sir. And there's five of them."
"I know," he answered, patted the boy on the head, and stood quickly. "They don't stand much of a chance, do they?"
Chapter Four
The air was cooler outside the confines of the village. Or maybe it simply felt a little cooler because the wind moved across the landscape almost completely unhindered.
It was uncomfortable, but Skharr’s blood boiled and it kept him warm as he strode purposefully down the road. It had been fairly easy to pick up the scent of the pilfering pilgrims. Five horses had headed out of town and moved eastward, which left enough tracks for a blind man to follow.
"Maggot-eating ass-fuckers can't have gone far," he whispered. The men had been drunk and with the lower temperatures, they would look for a place to spend the night away from the village that had all but cast them out. Most of the land around the settlement had been claimed by farmers, and the troublemakers would not be welcome there either. They would have to find unoccupied ground and preferably somewhere hidden.
Very few smaller groups were brave enough to camp out in the open, not in this area of the world.
Sure enough, as he approached the edge of where the farmlands had been tilled and were ready to be planted, he noticed a small thicket of trees crowded around what he assumed was a pond that resulted from a spring of clean water rising from the earth.
He moved off of the road and through the increasingly tall grass, careful not to make so much as a sound as he worked closer to the copse. The soft earth made it easier to travel without a sound, of course, and the tall grass mostly shielded his movements. The moon was a quarter of the way to full and cast enough light over the landscape for him to navigate easily.
It reminded him that he'd never been the best at sneaking up on his DeathEater brothers when he had to creep across the crunching snow or over hard, unforgiving rocks. Things were so easy in the lowlands, which made him wonder if he would ever return to the hard warrior he had been when first sent away from The Clan's protection to make his fortune.
As sure as ice and sleet in the winter, he could see a campfire flickering, hidden in the trees.
A small smile touched his lips. At any other time, he would have considered his options and perhaps waited until they were asleep before he struck. There were five of them, after all, and despite his blustering, he was not foolish enough to fling himself into battle against that number without some type of plan or tactic in place.
But the men had struck a child. Stealing from him wasn't necessarily an insult—even though he would have pursued them for trying to take his belongings—but the fact that they had assaulted a boy meant something special was in store for them.
There was enough light for him to move through the tall grass at a good speed, but he slowed once he reached the thicket. If they were asleep—which seemed unlikely—and woke because he stepped on a branch or something, he would have to inflict considerably more damage in the initial fight than he wanted to. As much as he enjoyed the burn of a pitched battle, these men had not earned that for themselves. They were pests who needed to be properly dealt with.
Then again, it was easier to sneak up on the group through a forest than it was on hard rock or crunchy snow. Still, he hadn't been much good at either, which meant the larger man needed to be slow and methodical.
As he approached, he could hear the five men singing. They hadn't stopped drinking on their journey out, and Skharr doubted that their banishment from the inn had done much to dampen their spirits.
Or maybe they merely needed to restore their drunken good humor. He had a feeling they would have taken their frustrations out on the next establishment they arrived at, which meant it was probably a good idea that they hadn't moved on to the brothel.
What had the man said? A place where the petals were less bruised? Something to that effect. His scowl deepened and it had nothing to do with the off-note and off-rhythm singing that helped to cover his approach.
He would have to hold back from going into a blood rage and killing the men with his fists alone. It was probably for the best that they had his weapons. By the time he recovered them, his anger would have cooled somewhat. Enough for suitable revenge to be exacted rather than outright violence for its own sake.
Their singing was still loud. All five joined in and no one bothered to set a watch around their camp, possibly because they didn’t expect an attack on pilgrims.
"The sparrow on high,
Shits on the beggar below!
They travel the mountains,
All covered in snow!
Bring me the whores,
And I'll travel too!
Set my feet churning,
To Veracandu!"
He'd heard the tune before. It was a common soldiers’ marching song, which meant they were no common pilgrims. If he had to guess, they traveled on the pilgrimage to cover desertion or maybe to join another army. Soldiers wouldn't dare to attack pilgrims, not on these roads.
One of the men stopped singing. His eyes widened as he tried to push to his feet and spilled the skin of wine he had been drinking from.
It took the others a few seconds to realize they were missing a voice in their chorus. They turned to see what their comrade was staring at.
"You lads are terrible singers," Skharr told them as he stepped fully into the light of the campfire.
None of the men stopped him as he strolled to where they had stacked the wood for their fire. Calmly, he selected one of the branches that appeared to be the most solid, turned his attention to the five, and narrowed his eyes.
"What…what are you doing here?" one of them asked. He remembered the man he'd forced an apology from.
"First, you witless spawn of Janus’ smelly whore beat a child. You also took my possessions." His voice was low and calmer than it had been while they were in the inn. "I'll have them back now and something for the trouble of tracking you to recover them."
The one who had taken a backhand in the inn was the first to attack. He was the closest and likely didn’t think very clearly as he drew a dagger and stumbled forward, trying to find an opening to stab his target.
He didn't manage more than two steps. The stick cracked onto the top of his head hard enough to break the dried limb in half. Skharr recalled the effects of being struck on the head a few too many times. Folk lost their minds, unable to remember things that happened the day before and even people they had lived with their whole lives.
It would fall short of what the man thoroughly deserved but it would be a start.
The other four had now found their feet but moved slowly. They had been drinking all evening, and no matter how skilled they were at combat when sober, all they had on their side was that the drink would dull the pain.
Which meant he needed to deal with them much more thoroughly to make up the difference.
He hurled the broken stick at the farthest one to stop him from attacking with the rest. The warrior tried not to laugh as his target lost his footing when he was struck and stumbled into the fire.
The man rolled out immediately and quickly patted out those flames that caught him, but he would be out of the fight for the moment.