Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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A Minor Skirmish

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Chapter 6 - A Minor Skirmish

"Open the door, open the door, I must see Tar-Lintoron!" The shouting was accented by heavy pounding on the door.

Urzahil looked through the small slot cut in the door at eye level, and then pulled open the door, which could be locked but never was. A young man stood on the front steps. He was clean-shaven with short red hair, and he wore the homespun shirt and wooden shoes of a laborer. There was purple bruise across his cheek and he was highly agitated, to the point that he could hardly stand still.

"My name is Naro, and I'm one of Tar-Lintoron's tenant farmers. My farm is inland, near the desert. I was attacked last night and I need protection."

Urzahil asked him to wait on the steps, then shut the door and went to look for his father. He found his father in the study, bent over his account books.

"There's a man here to see you, one of your tenants. He needs your help," said Urzahil.

"Show him into the Front Hall," said his father, putting down his pen. The Front Hall was the public part of the house, where tradesmen and tenants were received. Urzahil showed the man in and announced his father, then stayed to listen.

"I woke in the night to frantic barking, which stopped suddenly. There were hoof beats outside, and light from their torches shown through the window. Men with tattooed faces and long curved swords broke down the door. They dragged me from my bed and beat me, then ransacked the cottage. They took two pigs, a sack of grain, and a purse of coins, then threw a torch on the thatch of my cottage and rode off. A big swath of the roof is blackened.

"In the morning I learned they'd killed my dog, ran him clean through with a spear. What'd they have to kill my dog? I've had him since he was a pup." The man looked away, blinking hard.

"I'm a good tenant, I've always paid my rent on time. Now I invoke your protection from these dry land pirates. It's not just for me. I'm not a married man yet, my intended still lives with her parents. She won't come to the farm while there's danger, and I don't even want to think about what those desert raiders would do to a young woman," the farmer said.

"Urzahil, go down the street and get Tar-Castamir, then find Tar-Adûmir, Tar-Miruvor, and Tar-Númendur," said Tar-Lintoron. The men were his father's friends, all noblemen trained in swordsmanship from earliest youth. It was close to time for the evening meal, and Urzahil found all of them at home. They followed him back to the house, and Naro told his story again. Tar-Lintoron asked Naro to wait outside while he and the other men conferred in private.

"We owe him protection. In large part, that's what the nobility is for," said Tar-Lintoron.

"And this raiding has to be stopped before they start attacking isolated farms all up and down the coast," said Tar-Castamir.

They decided to ride out at first light, to find the raider's camp and kill their leader. Urzahil was looking forward to hearing about it at the dinner table tomorrow night.

"Urzahil, you'll come with us," said his father.

"But I'm not a swordsman." Urzahil's stomach twisted. His younger brothers would be more use on this expedition than he would.

"You won't be fighting, but I think you should witness it anyway. Consider it part of your education."

"I'd go with you, but I have a History test tomorrow," said Urzahil.

"You need to participate in the obligations of the nobility, as well as its privileges," said his father.

-o-o-o-o-o-

They set out before sunrise the next morning, suited up in leather armor and steel helms, with daggers in their belts. They all wore swords, even Urzahil. The scabbards bumped against the flanks of their horses whenever they kicked them to a trot.

After passing through the city gates, the road turned north. A green strip of land hugged the coast, dotted with small farms. These were Lintoron lands. Tar-Lintoron pointed to a grassy path rutted by wagon wheels. "That road goes to the village where your mother's people live." Urzahil stood up in the stirrups to look, but he didn't see anything.

Presently green farmland gave way to thorn and scrub. Further inland was the endless desert, where only stunted plants and thorn bushes grew in sand and bare rock. The wind, a sea breeze most of the time, blew from across the desert today, fragrant and dry.

"It hasn't rained much this year. We don't notice it much because of the coastal fogs, but inland, the drought has shriveled most of the grass for their herds. That's what's driving them onto your lands," said Tar-Adûmir.

"Whatever their reasons, they need to stop it," said Tar-Lintoron.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Tar-Lintoron knew the way, but even before he pointed it out, Urzahil spotted the small hut with part of its thatch burned black. In the distance, a tall column of smoke rose in the still air.

"That looks like another homestead burning," said Tar-Miruvor.

"No, it's too far inland, they couldn't grow anything but thorns and scrub brush. I expect the smoke is coming from the raiders' camp. Let's pay them a visit," said Tar-Castamir.

They rode as close to the raiders' camp as they dared, then drew rein and dismounted. In their brown linen and leather clothing, hidden in the shadow of a boulder, they didn't draw the eye. The desert folk, dressed in bright reds and oranges, every button and dagger hilt polished to catch the sun, stood out like beacons.

"Let me talk to them. If their people are starving, perhaps we can buy them off with food," said Tar-Adûmir.

"They're little more than animals. No one can negotiate with them, not even a diplomat like you. All we can do is give them a reason to leave." Tar-Númendur half-unsheathed his weapon. The blade hissed against the leather, and the edge looked razor-sharp.

"How many of them are there?" asked Tar-Miruvor.

"Urzahil, climb that rock and see if you can get a better look," his father said.

The rock was a jutting formation about twice his height. As Urzahil approached it, he could feel every pebble underfoot. The sole of one boot was as thin as glove leather. Unlike his brothers, he wouldn't get a new pair until the sole had a hole in it. Sometimes he hated being a poor relation.

The rock formation had plenty of handholds. He had no trouble climbing it and peering over the top.

"I see five or six men sitting on saddles around the campfire. They look like they're finishing a meal. There are half a dozen sturdy desert ponies hobbled nearby, a large herd of sheep, and a few dogs. Those men are just herders, unless … oh wait! That must be their swag: a pile of clothing, furniture, copper cooking pots, and farming tools all heaped together."

"We've found our raiders. Let's watch the camp to learn which one's their leader," said Tar-Castamir.

They saw the biggest one, a swarthy man with tattooed cheeks and blue-black hair that fell to his waist, bark orders at the others, who were quick to obey. The man was bare-chested under an embroidered vest, and he wore bronze wrist guards studded with spikes. Urzahil wondered how he avoided hurting himself on them.

"That's their chief. I'm going after him, cover my back," said Tar-Castamir.

Urzahil stayed behind and held the horses while the men crept to the edge of the camp. Curved scimitars and horn bows, the weapons of the east, lay on the ground near the raiders. None of them wore armor, just the padded gambeson normally worn beneath chain mail. One of the raiders was an older man, and two were youths. Only the leader and one other man, almost as tall and bulky as he was, were in their prime, and even they were short statured compared to the men from Umbar.

Tar-Castamir raised his hand, and they all struck at once. The noblemen were professional swordsman, skilled with weapons and better at teamwork than the desert raiders. Tar-Castamir drew his sword and advanced on the leader, who closed the distance between them, making the sword useless. The tattooed raider drew he dagger, Tar-Castamir drew his own dagger, and for a moment, they appeared to be equally matched.

Then Tar-Lintoron came up from behind, wrapped his arm around the raider's throat, and squeezed. The man struggled in his grip, and his dagger flailed dangerously close to Tar-Lintoron. Urzahil gasped, but Tar-Castamir knocked the dagger out of the man's hand and sent it spinning in the dust. The raider chief tried to break Tar-Lintoron's grip, but Tar-Lintoron grabbed him by the hair, pulled it to lift his chin, and cut his throat.

The Easterling tried to stanch the flow of blood with his hands, but it poured between his fingers. His mouth opened to scream, but it came out as a gurgle. Tar-Castamir shoved him back towards his own people. They tried to save him, but couldn't.

The raiders fled, abandoning their livestock, the stolen goods, and the body of their leader. Urzahil watched them disappear into the desert. His father and the other men rejoined him and collected their horses.

There was blood on his father's sleeve, a diagonal line across the upper arm. The brown fabric of the tunic was torn, so was the linen shirt beneath it.

"He cut you with his dagger, I saw it happen!" Here, take off your shirt and let me bandage it for you," said Urzahil.

"It's nothing, a scratch from his spiny armband." His father lifted his shirt over his head. Urzahil tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his own shirt and wrapped it around his father's arm.

"It's a deep scratch, it will leave a scar. Wash it out with soap, and put honey[1] on it as soon as we get home. Promise?" said Urzahil.

"I promise," said his father.

-o-o-o-o-o-

On the ride home, Tar-Lintoron talked about what had happened.

"I killed a man today," Tar-Lintoron looked straight ahead. He looked tired. Urzahil knew his father had killed men in battle before, but Tar-Lintoron didn't talk about it. "I tried to make it quick, I didn't want him to suffer."

The wind picked up. Clouds over the ocean looked huge, ominous. Their edges were rimmed gold from the setting sun behind them, but their underbellies were bluish green. As they watched, lightning within the clouds lit them up inside. The sea beneath them looked dark, and spotted with whitecaps.

"That weather will reach us soon. We're going to ride home in the rain," said Tar-Castamir.

The temperature dropped, the wind picked up, and a wall of rain swept across the landscape. In minutes, Urzahil was soaked to the skin.

When they got back to the house, an older man waited for them in the front hall. He looked like a boson from the fishing fleet, dressed as if he'd come straight from the ship. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, twisting a cap in his hands.

"Whatever it is, can't it wait? I'm dead on my feet," said his father.

"Tar-Lintoron, I need to speak with you right away. In the squall, one of your ships was severely damaged. She lost her mast, and in all the confusion, what with rigging everywhere and the surf foaming over the deck, a man was swept overboard," said the boson.

"Does he have a family?" Tar-Lintoron asked.

"He has a wife and baby. I should have gone to their cottage and told her straightaway, but I hadn't the heart," said the boson.

Tar-Lintoron sighed. "Take me to her house, and I'll tell her what happened. And I'll bring her enough money to live on until I can arrange a pension, although I'll not blame her if she throws it in my face."

They set out in the rain together, Tar-Lintoron and the boson. His father came back hours later, in the dark and rain. He was grey-faced and looking ten years older.

"Eädur, put on dry clothes, you're dripping on the floor," Lady Lintoron scolded, but she watched with concern as he went upstairs.

The family had already finished dinner by the time Tar-Lintoron came downstairs again, but they stayed at the table to keep him company. A plate was set in front of him, but he said he wasn't hungry. He excused himself and went to bed early.

The next day was clear, almost cloudless, after the storm. Tar-Lintoron left the house early and went down to the docks to see the damage inflicted by the storm on his fleet. Normally he would have stayed all day, since one of the boats had lost its mast and others were severely damaged, but he came home at noon and went upstairs to bed.

"He's tired after that skirmish up north, but it's more than that. He killed a man, that's bad enough. Then the minute he came home, he had to go back out again and tell that poor woman her husband died on one of his boats. If he'd been on the docks yesterday morning and seen the line of squalls out at sea, he never would have let the fleet leave the harbor, and the accident never would have happened. So leave him be, just let him sleep," said Lady Lintoron.

Tar-Lintoron didn't come down for dinner that evening. Lady Lintoron went upstairs to check on him, and returned with her mouth pressed in a thin line.

"Urzahil, fetch the healer. You're father has a fever."

Urzahil came back with the healer, an old man with long corkscrews of grey hair. A servant showed him upstairs. Urzahil followed, and watched from the doorway of his father's bedchamber.

The room was brightly lit, oil lamps burned in every niche. The bed hangings were tied back, and in the massive carved bed, his father lay propped against the fine linen of the pillows. The laces of his shirt were undone, and his hands rested on the sheet on the dark red counterpane.

The healer pushed the sleeve up Tar-Lintoron's arm, revealing a neat white band was wrapped around his bicep. It looked fresh, unmarred by blood or weeping from the injury. The healer unwound the bandage, which was neatly hemmed on one side and torn on the other. It was the strip of linen Urzahil had torn from his own shirt.

"Father! You never took the bandage off! You said you were going to clean the cut and put honey on it." Urzahil said.

"Did you apply honey? Did you even wash it?" asked the healer. Tar-Lintoron shook his head no.

"But you promised! You said you would take care of it." Urzahil was furious.

"I'm sorry, Urzahil, I meant to," said Tar-Lintoron.

The last winding of linen was unwrapped and lifted away. The scratch, and a wide swath of the skin around it, was dark red and swollen.

"The wound is infected. I'll prepare a poultice to draw out the poison. I'm afraid it will sting, but that can't be helped. If it does its job, by morning the bandage, and possibly your bedclothes, will be soaked yellow-green from the discharge. Don't worry about it, it means the wound is healing."

-o-o-o-o-o-

His father stayed in bed all the next day. The bandage soaked through just at the healer had said, but he didn't seem to be getting better, the fever continued to climb. That evening, Urzahil went out after dark and came back with the healer.

There was something wrong with the bedchamber, it reminded him of the time a mouse died in the wall. The healer pushed up the sleeve of Tar-Lintoron's nightshirt. Urzahil gasped. Purple blue lines, jagged and forked, radiated from underneath the bandage. The healer unwound the bandage released a stench like putrid meat. Urzahil gagged. Where the scratch had been, there was a black canyon. The flesh was just gone.

The healer sat back, and his hand fell useless into his lap. "It's septic. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do."

Lady Lintoron pulled herself up to her full height. "You can amputate his arm at the shoulder," she said.

"At this stage, it wouldn't help," said the healer. He packed up his instruments and tinctures, and a servant showed him out.

Ding Ding. Ding.

The bell rang three bells in the Predawn watch. It was answered by another bell, fainter and further away, from another tower further along the curtain wall. Bells in the towers rang to mark the time, calling out the fractions of hours within each watch, the same way time was kept at sea.

Aranelaith came out and held the door for him. He was looking at the ground, and didn't meet his eye. Urzahil slipped in and sat next to his father's bed, breathing through his nose. Lady Lintoron was asleep beside her husband, on top of the counterpane, in her clothes.

Tar-Lintoron stirred. "Vanimeldë?"

"Eädur, I'm here. I'm right here." She raised herself on her elbows and put her face close to his. He stared through her, unseeing.

She looked up. "Urzahil, leave us please? I need to be alone with him."

Urzahil got up and joined the others waiting in the hall. "It's not fair, it's still my turn."

Ding Ding. Ding Ding.

Four bells. It was his brother Aldamir's turn now, although Aldamir made no move to go in. Lady Lintoron cost us both our turns. Urzahil ground his teeth.

Sometime later, Urzahil heard Lady Lintoron sobbing. He yanked open the door, and they rushed into the bedchamber. Lady Lintoron was draped over his father's chest, her shoulders heaving.

Tar-Lintoron's face was still. His lips were blue, so were his fingernails. Urzahil shrank back, unwilling to touch a corpse. Aldamir went to the side of the bed and touched his father's hand. "Goodbye, Father."

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Chapter End Notes

1] Honey was widely used as a medieval antibiotic.