The Mists of Sorrow_ Book Seven of the Morcyth Saga - Brian S. Pratt [68]
“This way,” he says. As they move to follow the direction indicated by the cloth, Shorty appears and reports no one is in the vicinity. About that time Scar and Potbelly come running around the corner of the inn to report the same.
“Stay close,” he says as he moves away from the inn, the others fall in behind.
Walking briskly, they pass by the rest of the buildings surrounding the inn and are soon out in the desert. The half moon above gives them sufficient light with which to see their immediate surroundings.
It isn’t long before they can hear the crying of a small child ahead of them. “That’s her,” says Scar.
“Jiron, go take a look,” suggests James.
Nodding in the dark, he moves toward the sound of the child’s crying. While James and the others wait for him, they hear a man yelling in anger and then the sound of someone being slapped hard. It must have been the child that was slapped for her cries increase tenfold.
“I can’t wait for Jiron,” says Shorty and moves to follow. James, Scar and Potbelly trail along behind.
From out of the distance ahead of them, a structure rises from the desert. From one window the light of a single candle shines dimly out. The sound of crying is coming from that direction. Suddenly, a form passes in front of the window and they see Jiron moving to look in.
Off to one side of the structure, which as it turns out is a farmhouse, a dozen horses stand in the dark. Beside them sits a covered wagon. From the back of the farmhouse, the sound of a goat can be heard as it calls out.
The sound of them moving to join Jiron causes him to turn from the window. “They have the child in the other room,” he whispers to them. “I saw two boys tied up in there with her.”
“Okay,” James says. He then squats on the ground under the window and signals for the others to do the same. “Jiron and I will go in and deal with their captors,” he says. Turning to Scar and Potbelly he adds, “You two get into the room with the children and protect them with your lives.”
“No problem,” Scar says. Potbelly nods.
“Shorty, you stay out here and keep anyone from leaving,” he replies. He then looks from one to the others and adds, “I don’t care if any of these child stealers survives or not.”
“That’ll make things simpler,” Shorty says as he draws one of his throwing knives.
To Scar and Potbelly he says, “We’ll give you a minute to maneuver around to the window of the room in which the children are being held. Don’t take too long getting in.”
“We won’t,” assures Scar.
As they leave to move around into position outside the children’s room, James and Jiron move to the front door. When he thinks Scar and Potbelly has had ample time to get set, a shield flashes into being around him and he glances to Jiron. Receiving an affirmative nod, he moves to the door and tries the handle. Surprised to find it unlocked, he readies a slug, opens the door and walks in.
Ten heads turn to see him enter through the door. Immediate pandemonium erupts as the men leap to their feet and draw swords. His slug flies to the nearest man and blasts its way through his chest.
Jiron flies around him, knives in hand as he moves to engage. A quick strike takes one through the side, dropping the man to the floor. His other knife flashes lightning quick and leaves a thin line spurting blood from where it severed the jugular of another.
From the back of the house, a crash can be heard as Scar and Potbelly gain the room with the children. Slugs fly and knives strike as the men in the front room fall quickly. When all but three men have been taken out, Scar appears in the doorway leading to the room with the children, bloody sword in hand. He gives James a nod saying all is well with the children. Seeing Jiron still facing off with three men, he exits the room and draws his second sword.
The three remaining men, after having seen their companions taken out so fast, lose heart for the battle. Throwing down their swords, they surrender. Jiron looks to James who nods that he should take their surrender. Wiping the blood off his knives on the shirt of