Story #178 - The Coward

The Coward

The horse lords were coming.

Pak Dattor could hear them, in the distance, their thundering hooves ringing off the low cloud above, a constant rumble in the east. The young ones tried to tell him it was the thunder, it was the rain, but the Summer of Storms had passed, the rains had moved on. The water would not come for another year; the lighting would not strike again until the seasons had turned.

No, the horse lords were coming.

He had given up trying to warn the so-called “elders” of the city, as they did nothing but stroke their downy bears and pontificate about their own greatness. The city had seen a purge, one he and a few other of the old ones were lucky to escape. When he spoke now, it was under the assumption that if his words displeased the wrong person, he might find himself lying in the gutter, his throat cut to make room for more of the young ones.

There were a few who believed him, a few of the youngest that had been listening to his stories for years, but they were little more than children out of swaddling clothes, and no one in the city would hear their words.

It was time to leave.

Throwing his cloak in the trunk with the few other items he needed, he considered his best route out of the city. The whims of the horse lords were unpredictable, but he suspected they would take the low road and make for Calliee after Arban was taken, so the mountains made the most sense. They journey would be difficult, but if he was fortunate he could avoid capture or death at the hands of the Riding Wind.

He had seen them three times in his life, and fought them twice. Poor choices had led him to solider in two very different armies, the outcome had been the same both times. Those around him died, and he hid, preserving his own life for another day.

He was a coward, through and through, but one that had survived more than three times as long as men of his own birth year, and one that had seen far more than he had right to. Perhaps his time was coming – perhaps the horse lords rode for him in particular. If so, he would make sure they had a long journey ahead of them.

“Leaving so soon?” The voice of Jorry Dahl carried through the room.

“Yes.” There was no point in lying to the young merchant – Pak was well aware that Jorry had spies in every corner of the city. The tall, curly-haired young man knew enough about his past that life could be made very inconvenient if the right people were told, and Jorry could prevent him leaving the city if he really wanted to. Better to give the man what he wanted and hope he would slink away into the darkness.

“Why?” Jorry moved to stand beside him, and Pak did his best not to recoil at the smell of the oil the man had used to slick down his dark locks. “Afraid that the horse lords have finally come to claim the coward who escaped their justice so many times before?”

“Justice?” He said quietly. “You would call such butchery and mayhem justice? I fought in noble armies, at the side of bannermen that would spit upon your Lineage to hear it. They had no right to my body, then or now, and I see no reason to submit.”

“Pak, Pak,” Jorry chided, moving to a plush lounger in the corner of the room, “I see you are still as much a frightened Sprock as ever. They have claim to you simply because of your fear – not that I believe they are coming, mind you.”

“Of course not,” he said, stuffing several more shirts into the trunk. It was almost full, and he had to be on the road before nightfall. The horse lords moved quickly. “But be a good lad, Jorry, and give them my regards when they arrive – I am sure they will thank you for it.”

Pak felt the light kiss of steel at his back, though he hadn’t heard Jorry move.

“One of my associates, Pak,” Jorry said from his seat in the chair, “and one trained to move quietly. I will be fine should your horsemen arrive, but tell me – why should I let you leave?”

“Why bother to keep me?” He didn’t try to move away from the dagger at his back – he had no need for another scar. “I’m just an old man, one worth nothing to you dead or alive. Let me run in fear, and you can sit here smugly, knowing that I was fool coward and you were a clever man.”

Jorry laughed; Pak had known him since he was a small child, and the laugh had always seemed older than his years, more calculating and cruel than it had any right to be.

“No, I don’t think so, Pak.” Jorry’s voice moved closer, and he could feel the steel in his back press deeper in. He grimaced. “Despite appearances, I listened to every word you ever spoke, memorized every story you ever told. Most of your words were nonsense – the ramblings of an old man with nothing better to do than frighten children, but some few things were true.”

There was a pause, and then Pak heard something in Jorry’s tone that he had heard from few others in the city. Fear.

“These rumblings are not thunder. I know the sounds of the land, and these do not match it. Whatever is coming, I do not wish to be here to see it. You and I will leave together, Pak, and make for Calliee.”

“Jorry, I don’t think –“

“I don’t care!” The young man thundered. “You’re coming with me, or dying here – choose, old man.”

“Fine,” he said softly, “let us go to Calliee.” He might be a coward, but Jorry and his man had to sleep sometime, and being a coward meant he had no qualms killing men in ways others would despise.

He would reach the mountains yet.


- D