Days of Blood and Fire - Katharine Kerr [31]
“It be useless,” Jahdo said at last. “Just ahead does lie that little stream where we camped last night, and there’s grass for the horses here, and so why don’t we just stop?”
And there the Slavers caught them. It was still afternoon, and Jahdo was scrounging dead wood for an evening’s fire, when Gidro and Baki became restless, throwing up their heads, sniffing and snorting into the rising wind, finally whickering out a greeting. Distantly a horse answered, then another, Jahdo leapt to his feet and grabbed his grandfather’s knife, but Meer sat unmoving, hunkered down by their gear, his head on his knees. Hoofbeats sounded, riding fast, riding hard, and straight for them out of the east. Jahdo could see a plume of dust skittering along like a live thing.
“Meer, Meer! We’ve got to run.”
Slowly the bard raised his head and turned toward the sound.
“You run, Jahdo. Head west and hope you find those horsemen who aided your people once before. I might as well die a slave, so long as I die soon. A man is nothing without a clan, and my future holds no kin to serve the gods in my old age.”
“Stop that! It’s needful you come, too.”
The hoofbeats came louder, tack jingled and rang, men yelled, a wordless high shriek of triumph. The dust resolved itself to a mounted squad. Meer rose to his feet, grabbing his staff, but he only leaned upon it as he waited, turned toward the noise.
“Run, Jahdo! Grab that bag of food and run to the forest.”
Jahdo hesitated, and in that moment it was too late. With a whoop and a yell, like men driving cattle, the horsemen swept round the camp and surrounded them, about twelve of them, mailed and armed, and wearing loose long trousers tucked into high boots. When they edged their horses into the firelight, Jahdo stared in fascinated terror at their gear, but he could discern not one severed head—all the comfort he was going to get. He sobbed once, then drew himself up to full height with the knife clutched in his fist as two of the men dismounted, tossing their reins to others in the squad. Both of them were over six feet tall, hard-muscled under their mail, but one was blond and young, with a heavy mustache drooping over his mouth, and the other had dark hair, streaked with gray, and his road-filthy stubble of beard sported gray saltings as well. Each of them carried at their belts a peculiar dagger, narrow and sheathed, with three silver knobs on the pommel, and a heavy long sword.
“A blind man and a lad?” the blond said. “This is our ever so important prize?”
Jahdo goggled. He could understand their speech, a thing he’d never expected. Although they rolled every R and RH they spoke, and pronounced half their words deep in their throats, too, or so it sounded, by paying strict attention he could at least make out the main sense.
“Any Gel da’Thae’sa rare enough thing.” The dark-haired man was smiling. “I’d trust that Jill knows what she’s doing.”
Jill? That was a Rhiddaer name! Automatically he turned toward Meer, hoping for answers to these puzzlements, but the bard stepped forward at that instant and knelt at the dark-haired man’s feet.
“If I’m the prize,” he rumbled, “then let the lad go. Let him take what food we’ve got left and try to make his way home.”
The dark-haired fellow hesitated, visibly touched, but the blond strode forward, gesturing at the squad.
“All right, saddle up those pack animals! Let’s get on our way back to the main camp.” He turned to the dark-haired fellow. “Rhodry, the child can ride behind someone’s saddle, and we can load this hairy dog onto a packhorse, I suppose.”
“Maybe so.” Rhodry strode over to Jahdo. “Hand me that knife, lad.