Post by Itanecrio on Mar 19, 2010 18:51:30 GMT -5
Andri felt a sense of vertigo looking up at the cottage door, which hung defeatedly from a single broken hinge. A glance to the side showed the fence of the paddock hewn through, and the horses gone. Inside the cottage he found the lantern by the scent of the spilled oil, lighting it with the butt of his cigarette, and shadowed in his eyes was the grim foreknowledge that even this would come to pass.
The ploughman's son dropped the lantern into the spilled oil and walked away from the ruin of his raped home. The light leapt about the shattered remains of the holding like cruel laughter, and hesitating only long enough to test his resolve within him, Andri looked back at the inferno, following the hoofmarks to where he very well knew they'd lead.
Stealing over the hedge of the Count's estate, earning himself a mean and ragged cut across the cheek, Andri dropped down into the shadow, the air exploding out of his chest as he rolled unevenly, and into the tangle of the rose-garden. A breathless moment that might have aged Andri more than ten years passed, as a liveried guard cast a cursory glance in the direction, and to Andri's luck, decided not to investigate further.
A hundred times over the Ploughman's son cursed his heavy boots, which seemed to crack the least of twigs like thunder, and growl in the shingled paths. But he stole to the shadow beneath the eaves, and looking to the packed clay of the yard marked the notches in the horseshoes. Carefully now, he moved within, his every nerve on fire, straining for any sign of a stable-hand.
The Count's magnificent stables stretched into darkness until the relative light outside was a small square in the far distance. As loudly as he dared Andri now breathed, a low huff the teamsters had been trained to reply to in kind. Even as his heart leapt within him at the reply, Andri turned white. A dozen lamps were unshuttered.
"Yes, Andri, a trap." Lord Dolic, son of the Count, drawled.
Andri felt something within him snap; he stood, looking at the crossbowmen surrounding him, and looked beseechingly at the radiant Dolic, saying more clearly than any length of words has it truly come to this?
Dolic looked disappointed that Andri had not attempted to run, leaping down from where he had glamorously stood, one knee above the door of the stolen horses stall. The lordling now seemed frustrated by the presence of his own body-guard, now that his chance of an easy murder had been swept away by Andri's refusal to run. "Listen Andri." The noble grated. "Last of your ragged line; why do you refuse me? My family owns the value of your farm ten times over- and you nor your father are the man your grandfather was. Long have we indulged your kin out of honour. But look at you! A Ploughman, son of a ploughman!"
Andri stood, speaking out of the hollow calm that now filled him. "If there's fighting, I'll stand by your father's armsmen, I said the same oath you did." He looked piercingly at the noble. "We said them side by side that day-"
The lordlings crook lashed out, cutting a matching gash in Andri's other cheek. "You will address me Lord! Churl!"
Andri raised his head, his blood spilling into his smile. "Pray forgive my insolence, my Lord. I forgot myself, the theft of my horses has shaken me."
Dolic shuddered with barely suppressed rage, taking a crossbow from one of his men. "Run Andri. I will count to ten, and then I will come hunting for you."
"Give me one of my horses."
"No"
"I will not run. Let me walk to the gate."
"To the stable door."
~
Andri sank to his knees, his chin lifted up as if the back of his head weighed more than a sack of grain. His breath steamed above him, swirling in the grey light of the moon. Glowering behind his head, the paroxysm of pain where the crossbow bolt had slammed into his shoulder blade. It seemed to have cut him, but by some strange turn of luck not to have pierced him.
Staggering to his feet, he heard the breath of horses. Delirious, Andri made toward them- perhaps in some perverse place in his mind he meant to steal one. But he would never recall what his thoughts were, staggering in full sight of the Caravanners, towards their horses. The beast he walked toward baulked a little, but allowed him to wrap his arms about it's vast neck, tangling his hands in it's mane.
This is how Doric and his men were greeted by nearly five score Cavanners, each armed with a bow or crossbow.
"Give us that churl!" Doric demanded.
A Vanner with a copious beard covering much of his chest stood. "Who? You mean our horse-hand? What is your business with him?"
"He is a thief, he is wanted for hanging."
"What do you claim he has stolen?"
"He has stolen from the Count!"
"When?"
"This night!" Doric' voice dripped with menace.
"You are mistaken. This boy has been in our camp all this night. I, Casto, thus claim. By the bow in my hand, and those of my sixty comrades. You are mistaken."
Doric's eyes bulged. "What?"
"See?" Casto directed their attention to where Andri hung from the stallion's neck, blood spilling from his shoulder. "The horses know him well. See how he embraces them. He never leaves their side, not even for a moment. See, they know him, he is their helper."
"Liar!"
Casto took a step forward, training his bow toward Doric's chest. "Say that again, little Lord, and you die. Casto does not care if he dies, you... you have the look of a boy that hates to lose a marble-game, let alone your life. Get you gone!"
Andri was aware of the huge Caravanner stepping towards him. Through the fog that filled his mind he managed the burning question. "Why did you help me?"
"And let the little Lord have his sport? You may very well be a thief, boy, but I hate thieves less than petty lords from mean little countries."
"I stole nothing."
"Save your words tonight. In the morning, if you are alive, you will wash your blood from Roadsweepers mane. Then I will ask for your words, and I will test them."
~
Doric could not hide his surprise, receiving the man with a magnanimous wave of his hand toward a chair. Garbed in worn but impeccably maintained lathers the hunter walked behind the chair, but remained standing, his hands resting on the back. Doric smiled privately, weighing the hefty purse in his hands, proceeds from the sale of Andri's prize teamsters. "You are Butrol, I presume?" Doric asked, affecting as much disdain as he was capable. The hunter nodded, his lips pursing into an attentive smile, but his eyes making no attempt to mask the contempt he felt. "Well, master Butrol, I must say I am..." Doric allowed his eyes to pass over the hunter again. "Shall we say you do not appear as I expected?"
"You will say as you please, Lord. As is your born prerogative." The hunter spoke in a smooth baritone, his enunciation as polished but well worn as his attire. "Your servant awaits your desire. But name it lord, and the finance to see your will done, and Butrol will do your bidding."
"I want you to kill a man." All affectation dropped from Doric's suddenly hostile expression.
"Of course Lord, or you would not have summoned Butrol to your hand. Name him Lord."
"Andri son of Andros."
Butrol's eyes caught upon those of Doric as he rose from the overly deep bow. "Son of Arodol?" Butrol asked, though it was clear he knew the name.
Doric nodded once. "The very same."
Butrol's eyes hardened, as if steeling himself. "Are you so estranged from your kin Lord?" He left the rest of the point unspoken.
"It would seem so." Doric's voice was dripping acid.
The hunter dropped into another sweeping bow, and held out his hand. Doric dropped the purse, relishing the thrill that Andri's death had been bought by selling his own horses.
~
The sun peered above the chill mists of a blood red dawn, stained by the smoke from Andri's burning home. The first of his senses to rouse, Andri stuffed his dew-lank hair behind an ear. Far away sounds seemed near at hand, the switch of horse-tails, the rumour of sleeping men in the Living-wagons, the active noses of the terriers and lurchers as they continued to eyeball the intruder. Andri groaned, having slept on his feet, his hands still enmeshed in the mane of the stallion. His feet felt like ice. Staggering free of the stallion's warm neck, marvelling that the beast had tolerated him the night long, Andri looked up at the heavily moustachioed muzzle. The stallion stood only a shade taller than himself, but its heavy bone and the density and structure of the neck showed this diminutive stallion still had the strength of any gargantuan plough-horse. Andri breathed at the stallion, encouraging him toward the side of the stream, to which the stallion followed obligingly.
Casto stretched his shoulders and shook himself within his jacket. He had taken all three watches during the night, to wait out what might come to pass with the fugitive. It was with a small sense, no more than the mustard seed, of regard that he watched the youth, scarcely more than a boy, drag himself into action doing as he was required to wash his blood from Roadsweeper's mane. This done he nodded at the boy, summoning him with a toss of the head. Like a poorly wielded puppet, it seemed to Casto, the boy managed each step toward him as if each footfall were his last. But behind the white face, and the haunted eyes, there was a fire and steel enough within to cross the distance. Casto sat him down and stripped the torn and bloodied shirt away. The laceration was messy, and had bled the lad to the brink, Casto mused, making a few jokes at the lads expense -at his squirming at the necessary ministrations- but there was no further danger than that.
"A few days of drinking the water we've boiled with the bones and you'll be back to work boy." Casto murmured, drawing the needle through the lad's flesh. "Don't tighten up, you'll break the stitching." He clouted the lad across the ears.
The heavily hung head lifted. "You're taking me in?"
"You can stay behind if you like." Casto barked a laugh, earning a shared snigger amongst those witnessing the leech-work.
"No." The lad looked about, his eyes falling on Roadsweeper. "I thank you. Perhaps, as you say, I'll fetch and do for the horses."
Casto laughed. "Not that one you won't. We've been kind, terrible kind to loan you Roadsweeper's neck for the night. But that's the last you'll get from him in a long while. You'll tend the trade-horses, till I've a mind to chore you otherwise."
The lad seemed to deflate, only to sit up straighter than before. "Yes, of course. I thank you."
Casto chuckled. "You say that now lad. You say that now." The Caravanners all laughed. "What name do you give for yourself?"
"Andri."
"That so? Well, that name belongs to me now boy. Until I give it you back. From now on you're Lurcher, do you hear me? A dog's name for a skinny-dog lad. You'll sleep behind the wagons with the trade horses, and you'll bring me a piece of game every day, or I'll turn you out. Trade you away, you understand? Answer me Lurcher!"
The set of the hung head showed it was repressed temper, not defeat that the lad was wrestling with. "Just one piece of game?"
Wide and dangerous as a wolf Casto grinned at the defiant glint in Lurcher's eyes. "That's the least I require, but I'd favour you if you caught me more meat for my plate, that I would." Lurcher stood, rolling his shoulders to test the strain of the stitches. With a wordless nod he headed toward the unruly horde of the trade horses. "Lurcher." Casto stopped him. "Take a bowl of the bone-soup with you."
~
Butrol leaned in the saddle and quickly snatched the new mare's mane in his hand with a curse. Unused to him as the mare was, she still flinched and jumped at things she would eventually become accustomed to. The bounty-hunter could not restrain himself from a self-conscious glance about him, lips pressed flat with the sense of embarrassment. He mused, staring down at the remains of the caravanner's camp fire, that every rider came out of the saddle from time to time. In fact, the more time spent in the saddle the more horror stories one had of the occasions this came to pass. He spat, earning another flinch from the mare. "It's going to be okay young lady." Butrol purred to the mare, leaning forward to stroke her neck. As fine a mare as he'd ever seen, let alone have the coin to purchase. He cooed and purred, allowing her to choose her own pace along the trail, admiring the length of her stride -when she wasn't hauling suddenly to a complete standstill facing some unknown terror or other. Although she was tightly wound, clearly unaccustomed to being in the wild without another horse in sight or smell, she was willing -Butrol deemed- and brave. The poor creature nearly gave herself a heart-attack at the fording of her first stream, pawing at the water's edge, looking in utter horror at her new master. She didn't like being laughed at, but Butrol couldn't help himself, especially not at her offence, jaw tight and nostrils drawn back. But she gave him the benefit of the doubt, following him across that frothing strip of terror incarnate, and for that Butrol was deeply grateful. "We're going to be just fine little miss." He said into her constantly switching ear. "Yes I wish it weren't so windy too!" He chuckled, lurching in the saddle again as she flinched at a sound he'd never even heard. He didn't mention to her the potential difficulty of killing a man in the company of some fifty or sixty armed Caravanners.
~
Lurcher settled into the routine of his days, awakening with the sun cresting the utmost east and unable to set himself down until it had long since sank beneath the west, and every moment in between he spent at a constant jog; and this soon showed in his physique. That small remainder of his puppy-fat, especially that of his face, was replaced with the rangy leanness, and the copper hue of one who lives beneath the elements.
Nonetheless he was content in this, allowing the new name of Lurcher to settle into him, to begin the metamorphosis of Andri into the fetching-man of the Caravanners. Taking a leaf from the horses he lived so intimately amongst: even though he was more than certainly the lowliest in the pecking order of the herd of the Caravanners, by the same token he was provided for in his every need. He needed concern himself neither with food nor water, for in every requirement, Casto -as leader of the herd- had his hand, and he did not falter nor fail in his charge.
If Lurcher knew a sole sadness, it was that he had no sooner quietened a newly acquired trade-horse, seen to it's ailments and fears, than it was on-sold to the first interested buyer. These often dispirited beasts would more than likely end up on the dinner plates of taverns and inns, and Lurcher knew he ought not to let himself grow friendly with them; but he had a kinship with the Trade horses, all of whom might have been magnificent mares and stallions if fate had treated them different. Even so, the young man who had been Andri, was now Lurcher.
True to Casto's word, Lurcher seldom saw the caravanner's true cobs, and certainly never laid a hand on the splendid Roadsweeper again. But sometimes, when he woke before the other men, he might see them gleaming in the early light, and the marvel of them had not worn thin.
It was on a chance like this Lurcher was caught peeking, and he blushed fiercely at being caught. "Hoy now and hey now!" said the voice, not deep but rich, and with more than a little laughter in it.
Lurcher turned his fiercely blushing face down to the task of skinning the rabbit he'd shot with his sling, as if ignoring the situation would make it go away.
"What's that Venta?" Asked another of the Caravanners to the owner of the first voice.
"This here, our Lurcher, he had the look when he was looking at our Roadsweeper not a moment ago!"
"The look you say?" the second caravanner sounded impressed, and more than a little sceptical.
"I said it, sure enough!" Spoke the first voice, as if the statement should not have been questioned.
Casto appeared, now, grimy to the elbows with the tallow for the axles. "What's this?" He squared the first speaker with a serious expression.
"The look, and don't tell me you didn't hear me, nor ask me to repeat myself, or I'll blood your lip!"
Casto held up his hands to placate the fierce-sounding voice. "There'll be no need of that Venta, my darling."
Lurcher stared up, incredulous that he'd not realised the first voice, that of Venta, belonged to a woman. But there it was, though she was garbed as any of the men, perhaps even a little rougher, he could see it, and hear it -now- in her voice. Venta stood with one leg on the ledge of the wagon, smoking lustily from a cigarette, still eyeballing Casto with a mind to swing at him. The other caravanners were now gathering, laughing at Casto's overly perplexed expression. "Now, let's have it out of you Lurcher! What's this about you looking at Roadsweeper with the look?" Casto demanded.
"The look?"
"Aye the look, like you've got the measure of him at a glance." Casto still seemed amused, but a little concerned, and perhaps only a poorly chosen word away from offence.
"Well, his neck is surely set on nice, there is that, and tied in nice to that barrel of a chest of his..." Lurcher spoke on as much as he dared, not wanting to sound for a moment as if he was flattering the horse, only meaning to explain what it was he found admirable in the stallion, or as if to explain why and how he deemed Roadsweeper tirelessly drew the lead caravan. At length he floundered, and fell into silence. Surrounded by a ring of frowns.
"Lurcher, you've done me an injury, and no mistake." Casto growled.
"Master!" Lurcher exclaimed in horror.
"No, no, and no. It's not right! You've shamed me, and shamed me dark! Why was it you never said you knew horses? And me, setting you to traps and slings, and picking up after the trade-beasts!"
Now at a true loss for words, the perplexed Lurcher looked up, still haunched on his knees. "It's like you said Master Casto. I'll look after the Trades until you chore me otherwise. That's how you put it, and here I am in the caravan's wake, and you in the lead..." He shrugged helplessly. "Seems now is the first we've spoken since."
Casto stalked away shaking his head darklingly, "I'll square up with you later laddo! And you! Venta! Get in behind!"
Dropping all her earlier gusto, Venta scrambled to fall into Casto's wake, looking back to give Lurcher a truly impish wink.
~
The deep-rutted Caravan tracks, Butrol guessed more than two dozen, went weaving to the west. A long-reaching arm of the alps in the form of a long low mountain had stretched down onto the plains, forcing the caravans to take a more circumspect route -Butrol guessed to the tobacco-fields in the Leaf-County.
Shivering and nodding at the thought of their own dark secrets the forested pines blanketing the mountain were intermingled with ragged clouds and mists. Realm of wolf and wild-cat, of suddenly appearing gulleys and flash-flooding rivers. The bounty-hunter, walking beside his weary mount, had made a gallop too late. Having utterly overlooked the gathering of the Caravanners at this place every season, Butrol now had the near-impossible task of trying to guess which tracks belonged to the convoy of Casto. He also had no way of knowing if Andri had remained with Casto, or gone with one of the other convoys.
The mare grazed noisily at the damp grass, pawing at the ground characteristically with a hoof and leaning against her bridle. The bounty hunter cursed himself with a fine string of deftly wielded descriptions, and rolled a cigarette in a hand quivering with repressed anger. By the final draught of the cigarette he had made his resolve, guessing Casto would head for the Leaf-county, and would be forced a long slow fortnight out of his way by the mountain -where as Butrol could cut directly for the pass, and be there waiting for them.
The mare fared well enough passing up the first undulating valley, but Butrol was aware that all the long downhill stretches were costing her much of her riding strength, especially since every taxing downhill resulted in a longer, more costly uphill climb. The bounty-hunter soon burned his way through the first tobacco-pouch -being unable to truly console himself that no mater how slowly they went over the mountain, they would arrive long before the Caravans. His veins burned with urgency, and the mare carried herself miserably, somehow aware that she was the cause of her master's frustration. "It's all right sweet-heart." Butrol twisted his finger in her forelocks and kissed her noble muzzle. "You're just a young thing as yet, and I knew that when I brought you away from your home. You just concentrate on what you're doing." He said as they negotiated a particularly difficult downhill stretch.
The ploughman's son dropped the lantern into the spilled oil and walked away from the ruin of his raped home. The light leapt about the shattered remains of the holding like cruel laughter, and hesitating only long enough to test his resolve within him, Andri looked back at the inferno, following the hoofmarks to where he very well knew they'd lead.
Stealing over the hedge of the Count's estate, earning himself a mean and ragged cut across the cheek, Andri dropped down into the shadow, the air exploding out of his chest as he rolled unevenly, and into the tangle of the rose-garden. A breathless moment that might have aged Andri more than ten years passed, as a liveried guard cast a cursory glance in the direction, and to Andri's luck, decided not to investigate further.
A hundred times over the Ploughman's son cursed his heavy boots, which seemed to crack the least of twigs like thunder, and growl in the shingled paths. But he stole to the shadow beneath the eaves, and looking to the packed clay of the yard marked the notches in the horseshoes. Carefully now, he moved within, his every nerve on fire, straining for any sign of a stable-hand.
The Count's magnificent stables stretched into darkness until the relative light outside was a small square in the far distance. As loudly as he dared Andri now breathed, a low huff the teamsters had been trained to reply to in kind. Even as his heart leapt within him at the reply, Andri turned white. A dozen lamps were unshuttered.
"Yes, Andri, a trap." Lord Dolic, son of the Count, drawled.
Andri felt something within him snap; he stood, looking at the crossbowmen surrounding him, and looked beseechingly at the radiant Dolic, saying more clearly than any length of words has it truly come to this?
Dolic looked disappointed that Andri had not attempted to run, leaping down from where he had glamorously stood, one knee above the door of the stolen horses stall. The lordling now seemed frustrated by the presence of his own body-guard, now that his chance of an easy murder had been swept away by Andri's refusal to run. "Listen Andri." The noble grated. "Last of your ragged line; why do you refuse me? My family owns the value of your farm ten times over- and you nor your father are the man your grandfather was. Long have we indulged your kin out of honour. But look at you! A Ploughman, son of a ploughman!"
Andri stood, speaking out of the hollow calm that now filled him. "If there's fighting, I'll stand by your father's armsmen, I said the same oath you did." He looked piercingly at the noble. "We said them side by side that day-"
The lordlings crook lashed out, cutting a matching gash in Andri's other cheek. "You will address me Lord! Churl!"
Andri raised his head, his blood spilling into his smile. "Pray forgive my insolence, my Lord. I forgot myself, the theft of my horses has shaken me."
Dolic shuddered with barely suppressed rage, taking a crossbow from one of his men. "Run Andri. I will count to ten, and then I will come hunting for you."
"Give me one of my horses."
"No"
"I will not run. Let me walk to the gate."
"To the stable door."
~
Andri sank to his knees, his chin lifted up as if the back of his head weighed more than a sack of grain. His breath steamed above him, swirling in the grey light of the moon. Glowering behind his head, the paroxysm of pain where the crossbow bolt had slammed into his shoulder blade. It seemed to have cut him, but by some strange turn of luck not to have pierced him.
Staggering to his feet, he heard the breath of horses. Delirious, Andri made toward them- perhaps in some perverse place in his mind he meant to steal one. But he would never recall what his thoughts were, staggering in full sight of the Caravanners, towards their horses. The beast he walked toward baulked a little, but allowed him to wrap his arms about it's vast neck, tangling his hands in it's mane.
This is how Doric and his men were greeted by nearly five score Cavanners, each armed with a bow or crossbow.
"Give us that churl!" Doric demanded.
A Vanner with a copious beard covering much of his chest stood. "Who? You mean our horse-hand? What is your business with him?"
"He is a thief, he is wanted for hanging."
"What do you claim he has stolen?"
"He has stolen from the Count!"
"When?"
"This night!" Doric' voice dripped with menace.
"You are mistaken. This boy has been in our camp all this night. I, Casto, thus claim. By the bow in my hand, and those of my sixty comrades. You are mistaken."
Doric's eyes bulged. "What?"
"See?" Casto directed their attention to where Andri hung from the stallion's neck, blood spilling from his shoulder. "The horses know him well. See how he embraces them. He never leaves their side, not even for a moment. See, they know him, he is their helper."
"Liar!"
Casto took a step forward, training his bow toward Doric's chest. "Say that again, little Lord, and you die. Casto does not care if he dies, you... you have the look of a boy that hates to lose a marble-game, let alone your life. Get you gone!"
Andri was aware of the huge Caravanner stepping towards him. Through the fog that filled his mind he managed the burning question. "Why did you help me?"
"And let the little Lord have his sport? You may very well be a thief, boy, but I hate thieves less than petty lords from mean little countries."
"I stole nothing."
"Save your words tonight. In the morning, if you are alive, you will wash your blood from Roadsweepers mane. Then I will ask for your words, and I will test them."
~
Doric could not hide his surprise, receiving the man with a magnanimous wave of his hand toward a chair. Garbed in worn but impeccably maintained lathers the hunter walked behind the chair, but remained standing, his hands resting on the back. Doric smiled privately, weighing the hefty purse in his hands, proceeds from the sale of Andri's prize teamsters. "You are Butrol, I presume?" Doric asked, affecting as much disdain as he was capable. The hunter nodded, his lips pursing into an attentive smile, but his eyes making no attempt to mask the contempt he felt. "Well, master Butrol, I must say I am..." Doric allowed his eyes to pass over the hunter again. "Shall we say you do not appear as I expected?"
"You will say as you please, Lord. As is your born prerogative." The hunter spoke in a smooth baritone, his enunciation as polished but well worn as his attire. "Your servant awaits your desire. But name it lord, and the finance to see your will done, and Butrol will do your bidding."
"I want you to kill a man." All affectation dropped from Doric's suddenly hostile expression.
"Of course Lord, or you would not have summoned Butrol to your hand. Name him Lord."
"Andri son of Andros."
Butrol's eyes caught upon those of Doric as he rose from the overly deep bow. "Son of Arodol?" Butrol asked, though it was clear he knew the name.
Doric nodded once. "The very same."
Butrol's eyes hardened, as if steeling himself. "Are you so estranged from your kin Lord?" He left the rest of the point unspoken.
"It would seem so." Doric's voice was dripping acid.
The hunter dropped into another sweeping bow, and held out his hand. Doric dropped the purse, relishing the thrill that Andri's death had been bought by selling his own horses.
~
The sun peered above the chill mists of a blood red dawn, stained by the smoke from Andri's burning home. The first of his senses to rouse, Andri stuffed his dew-lank hair behind an ear. Far away sounds seemed near at hand, the switch of horse-tails, the rumour of sleeping men in the Living-wagons, the active noses of the terriers and lurchers as they continued to eyeball the intruder. Andri groaned, having slept on his feet, his hands still enmeshed in the mane of the stallion. His feet felt like ice. Staggering free of the stallion's warm neck, marvelling that the beast had tolerated him the night long, Andri looked up at the heavily moustachioed muzzle. The stallion stood only a shade taller than himself, but its heavy bone and the density and structure of the neck showed this diminutive stallion still had the strength of any gargantuan plough-horse. Andri breathed at the stallion, encouraging him toward the side of the stream, to which the stallion followed obligingly.
Casto stretched his shoulders and shook himself within his jacket. He had taken all three watches during the night, to wait out what might come to pass with the fugitive. It was with a small sense, no more than the mustard seed, of regard that he watched the youth, scarcely more than a boy, drag himself into action doing as he was required to wash his blood from Roadsweeper's mane. This done he nodded at the boy, summoning him with a toss of the head. Like a poorly wielded puppet, it seemed to Casto, the boy managed each step toward him as if each footfall were his last. But behind the white face, and the haunted eyes, there was a fire and steel enough within to cross the distance. Casto sat him down and stripped the torn and bloodied shirt away. The laceration was messy, and had bled the lad to the brink, Casto mused, making a few jokes at the lads expense -at his squirming at the necessary ministrations- but there was no further danger than that.
"A few days of drinking the water we've boiled with the bones and you'll be back to work boy." Casto murmured, drawing the needle through the lad's flesh. "Don't tighten up, you'll break the stitching." He clouted the lad across the ears.
The heavily hung head lifted. "You're taking me in?"
"You can stay behind if you like." Casto barked a laugh, earning a shared snigger amongst those witnessing the leech-work.
"No." The lad looked about, his eyes falling on Roadsweeper. "I thank you. Perhaps, as you say, I'll fetch and do for the horses."
Casto laughed. "Not that one you won't. We've been kind, terrible kind to loan you Roadsweeper's neck for the night. But that's the last you'll get from him in a long while. You'll tend the trade-horses, till I've a mind to chore you otherwise."
The lad seemed to deflate, only to sit up straighter than before. "Yes, of course. I thank you."
Casto chuckled. "You say that now lad. You say that now." The Caravanners all laughed. "What name do you give for yourself?"
"Andri."
"That so? Well, that name belongs to me now boy. Until I give it you back. From now on you're Lurcher, do you hear me? A dog's name for a skinny-dog lad. You'll sleep behind the wagons with the trade horses, and you'll bring me a piece of game every day, or I'll turn you out. Trade you away, you understand? Answer me Lurcher!"
The set of the hung head showed it was repressed temper, not defeat that the lad was wrestling with. "Just one piece of game?"
Wide and dangerous as a wolf Casto grinned at the defiant glint in Lurcher's eyes. "That's the least I require, but I'd favour you if you caught me more meat for my plate, that I would." Lurcher stood, rolling his shoulders to test the strain of the stitches. With a wordless nod he headed toward the unruly horde of the trade horses. "Lurcher." Casto stopped him. "Take a bowl of the bone-soup with you."
~
Butrol leaned in the saddle and quickly snatched the new mare's mane in his hand with a curse. Unused to him as the mare was, she still flinched and jumped at things she would eventually become accustomed to. The bounty-hunter could not restrain himself from a self-conscious glance about him, lips pressed flat with the sense of embarrassment. He mused, staring down at the remains of the caravanner's camp fire, that every rider came out of the saddle from time to time. In fact, the more time spent in the saddle the more horror stories one had of the occasions this came to pass. He spat, earning another flinch from the mare. "It's going to be okay young lady." Butrol purred to the mare, leaning forward to stroke her neck. As fine a mare as he'd ever seen, let alone have the coin to purchase. He cooed and purred, allowing her to choose her own pace along the trail, admiring the length of her stride -when she wasn't hauling suddenly to a complete standstill facing some unknown terror or other. Although she was tightly wound, clearly unaccustomed to being in the wild without another horse in sight or smell, she was willing -Butrol deemed- and brave. The poor creature nearly gave herself a heart-attack at the fording of her first stream, pawing at the water's edge, looking in utter horror at her new master. She didn't like being laughed at, but Butrol couldn't help himself, especially not at her offence, jaw tight and nostrils drawn back. But she gave him the benefit of the doubt, following him across that frothing strip of terror incarnate, and for that Butrol was deeply grateful. "We're going to be just fine little miss." He said into her constantly switching ear. "Yes I wish it weren't so windy too!" He chuckled, lurching in the saddle again as she flinched at a sound he'd never even heard. He didn't mention to her the potential difficulty of killing a man in the company of some fifty or sixty armed Caravanners.
~
Lurcher settled into the routine of his days, awakening with the sun cresting the utmost east and unable to set himself down until it had long since sank beneath the west, and every moment in between he spent at a constant jog; and this soon showed in his physique. That small remainder of his puppy-fat, especially that of his face, was replaced with the rangy leanness, and the copper hue of one who lives beneath the elements.
Nonetheless he was content in this, allowing the new name of Lurcher to settle into him, to begin the metamorphosis of Andri into the fetching-man of the Caravanners. Taking a leaf from the horses he lived so intimately amongst: even though he was more than certainly the lowliest in the pecking order of the herd of the Caravanners, by the same token he was provided for in his every need. He needed concern himself neither with food nor water, for in every requirement, Casto -as leader of the herd- had his hand, and he did not falter nor fail in his charge.
If Lurcher knew a sole sadness, it was that he had no sooner quietened a newly acquired trade-horse, seen to it's ailments and fears, than it was on-sold to the first interested buyer. These often dispirited beasts would more than likely end up on the dinner plates of taverns and inns, and Lurcher knew he ought not to let himself grow friendly with them; but he had a kinship with the Trade horses, all of whom might have been magnificent mares and stallions if fate had treated them different. Even so, the young man who had been Andri, was now Lurcher.
True to Casto's word, Lurcher seldom saw the caravanner's true cobs, and certainly never laid a hand on the splendid Roadsweeper again. But sometimes, when he woke before the other men, he might see them gleaming in the early light, and the marvel of them had not worn thin.
It was on a chance like this Lurcher was caught peeking, and he blushed fiercely at being caught. "Hoy now and hey now!" said the voice, not deep but rich, and with more than a little laughter in it.
Lurcher turned his fiercely blushing face down to the task of skinning the rabbit he'd shot with his sling, as if ignoring the situation would make it go away.
"What's that Venta?" Asked another of the Caravanners to the owner of the first voice.
"This here, our Lurcher, he had the look when he was looking at our Roadsweeper not a moment ago!"
"The look you say?" the second caravanner sounded impressed, and more than a little sceptical.
"I said it, sure enough!" Spoke the first voice, as if the statement should not have been questioned.
Casto appeared, now, grimy to the elbows with the tallow for the axles. "What's this?" He squared the first speaker with a serious expression.
"The look, and don't tell me you didn't hear me, nor ask me to repeat myself, or I'll blood your lip!"
Casto held up his hands to placate the fierce-sounding voice. "There'll be no need of that Venta, my darling."
Lurcher stared up, incredulous that he'd not realised the first voice, that of Venta, belonged to a woman. But there it was, though she was garbed as any of the men, perhaps even a little rougher, he could see it, and hear it -now- in her voice. Venta stood with one leg on the ledge of the wagon, smoking lustily from a cigarette, still eyeballing Casto with a mind to swing at him. The other caravanners were now gathering, laughing at Casto's overly perplexed expression. "Now, let's have it out of you Lurcher! What's this about you looking at Roadsweeper with the look?" Casto demanded.
"The look?"
"Aye the look, like you've got the measure of him at a glance." Casto still seemed amused, but a little concerned, and perhaps only a poorly chosen word away from offence.
"Well, his neck is surely set on nice, there is that, and tied in nice to that barrel of a chest of his..." Lurcher spoke on as much as he dared, not wanting to sound for a moment as if he was flattering the horse, only meaning to explain what it was he found admirable in the stallion, or as if to explain why and how he deemed Roadsweeper tirelessly drew the lead caravan. At length he floundered, and fell into silence. Surrounded by a ring of frowns.
"Lurcher, you've done me an injury, and no mistake." Casto growled.
"Master!" Lurcher exclaimed in horror.
"No, no, and no. It's not right! You've shamed me, and shamed me dark! Why was it you never said you knew horses? And me, setting you to traps and slings, and picking up after the trade-beasts!"
Now at a true loss for words, the perplexed Lurcher looked up, still haunched on his knees. "It's like you said Master Casto. I'll look after the Trades until you chore me otherwise. That's how you put it, and here I am in the caravan's wake, and you in the lead..." He shrugged helplessly. "Seems now is the first we've spoken since."
Casto stalked away shaking his head darklingly, "I'll square up with you later laddo! And you! Venta! Get in behind!"
Dropping all her earlier gusto, Venta scrambled to fall into Casto's wake, looking back to give Lurcher a truly impish wink.
~
The deep-rutted Caravan tracks, Butrol guessed more than two dozen, went weaving to the west. A long-reaching arm of the alps in the form of a long low mountain had stretched down onto the plains, forcing the caravans to take a more circumspect route -Butrol guessed to the tobacco-fields in the Leaf-County.
Shivering and nodding at the thought of their own dark secrets the forested pines blanketing the mountain were intermingled with ragged clouds and mists. Realm of wolf and wild-cat, of suddenly appearing gulleys and flash-flooding rivers. The bounty-hunter, walking beside his weary mount, had made a gallop too late. Having utterly overlooked the gathering of the Caravanners at this place every season, Butrol now had the near-impossible task of trying to guess which tracks belonged to the convoy of Casto. He also had no way of knowing if Andri had remained with Casto, or gone with one of the other convoys.
The mare grazed noisily at the damp grass, pawing at the ground characteristically with a hoof and leaning against her bridle. The bounty hunter cursed himself with a fine string of deftly wielded descriptions, and rolled a cigarette in a hand quivering with repressed anger. By the final draught of the cigarette he had made his resolve, guessing Casto would head for the Leaf-county, and would be forced a long slow fortnight out of his way by the mountain -where as Butrol could cut directly for the pass, and be there waiting for them.
The mare fared well enough passing up the first undulating valley, but Butrol was aware that all the long downhill stretches were costing her much of her riding strength, especially since every taxing downhill resulted in a longer, more costly uphill climb. The bounty-hunter soon burned his way through the first tobacco-pouch -being unable to truly console himself that no mater how slowly they went over the mountain, they would arrive long before the Caravans. His veins burned with urgency, and the mare carried herself miserably, somehow aware that she was the cause of her master's frustration. "It's all right sweet-heart." Butrol twisted his finger in her forelocks and kissed her noble muzzle. "You're just a young thing as yet, and I knew that when I brought you away from your home. You just concentrate on what you're doing." He said as they negotiated a particularly difficult downhill stretch.