One Horseman's Hope

The fourth Anecdote of The Samyuzot.

The Samyuzot is a loosely-connected set of stories following the life of a cursed warrior, cast off by his people and sent to wander in exile.

This is the fourth anecdote in the collection.

Every story in the series is stand-alone. There’s no need to catch up and new readers won’t be lost.

However, if you prefer… 

← you can click here to start at the beginning…

← or click here to see all of The Samyuzot…

… or you can just keep reading down below. 

Farild’s men were not well-liked in the camp of the count of Buric. They were mercenaries, which alone sufficed to create distrust between them and the regular soldiery. The honorable among the Buricmen looked down upon Farild’s men because they were often drunk and disdained hard work. The unscrupulous soldiers treated the mercenaries with hostility too, for the groups would fight each other whenever a more official enemy could not be found.

Just as the army had outsiders in the form of the mercenaries, so too did the mercenaries have an outsider of their own in the person of their scout.

He was foreign, for starters. Even after years together, his accent was thick and his grasp of their language tenuous. He fought strangely and obsessed over his horse. Even his appearance marked him as an outsider: he always shaved his head, he never wore hoods or hats or helmets, and he kept his beard unfashionably long. He claimed to have some vow which he could not break.

The scout tolerated them because he was well-paid, and there was no better employment for an exiled plainsman than among fighters like these. And ultimately they tolerated him too, because he possessed that one virtue which no soldier can ever scorn: competence.

No better scout could be found. He often rode out alone ahead of the company, finding threats and secret byways which escaped the eyes of lesser men.

So when Captain Farild received the order to break away from the main army and investigate the pillars of smoke that had appeared in the foothills, he first went to find his scout.

While the two men spoke, a trio of Buricmen walked by. All three were cloaked against the cold, with mail beneath; they saw the thuggish captain and the bald outsider. One of them called out:

“We know you already drag in the chaff of society, Farild, but now plainsmen too? You must be truly desperate to hire heathens like this one!”

“Keep on like that,” Farild shot back, “and you’ll lose some of your little teeth.”

The heckler spread his arms wide to reveal the mailcoat beneath his cloak. The red-and-white arms of Buric County were bright on his tabard. “If you want to test my mettle, then you’ll have to test that of all my friends too, hireling. What then? Can you handle all of Buric?”

“Quiet, friend,” one of the other soldiers spoke up. “Walk on, while I have business with the captain.”

“Phah!” the first man tossed his hands. “Plainsmen and mercenaries: not a shred of honor among them!”

At this, the scout advanced on the heckler. Farild reached out and grabbed his arm. The soldier kept up his taunt: “What are you going to do, Wagoner? You plainsmen fight like cowards, always running away!”

“I said go, footman!” the other soldier snapped. He was very young, but he must have been high-born because the heckler checked himself and made to leave. He took two steps and then spat a wad of phlegm at the scout’s feet. When the bald man again advanced, Farild pulled him back more forcefully.

“That’s enough, Simeot!” said the captain. “Enough.”

Finally, the scene settled. The four remaining men exchanged glances.

“Who are you, then?” Farild asked the apparent leader of the two.

“Martin Wilmarsh, son of Count Mauger Wilmarsh of Pembruk. At your service, sir.” He put a hand over his heart, and the two mercenaries noticed his tabard of checkered green-and-white. Not a Buric-man then, but one of the other noble retainers, joining the Count on his campaign here at the edge of the kingdom. He was young, eighteen at the oldest, probably younger. His remaining companion was equally young. “The count has tasked me and my men with accompanying you eastward. Shall we discuss our course and marching order?”

“Who commands, you or I?”

“The count would not say.”

“Fine, then,” Farild jerked his head and walked away.

Young Martin followed him. Martin’s companion, however, did not. He stood rooted on his spot, and stared openly at the bald man before him. His own hair was long and dark. His eyes were the color of the sky. His gaze was intense.

“What about you, then?” spat Simeot the scout.

“You are a plainsman?” The voice was deep for that of a smooth-cheeked teenager.

“I was.”

“Ah,” the youth smiled. “An exile, then. I understand now.”

“You know nothing of me, boy.”

“I know your name must not be Simeot. That is just their poor approximation is it not? You are samyuzot.”

In a heartbeat Simeot had covered the distance between them and grabbed the young man’s cloak by the shoulders and tugged him close enough to breathe into his eyes. The stale scent of ale poured out between Simeot’s teeth “What do you know of it?”

“Peace, friend” the young man pushed away firmly but not roughly. There was more strength in his arm than Simeot would have guessed. The whole time he wore that same smile. “I am not here to fight you. I’ve seen you fight and have no desire to make an enemy here. It is not as that other man said. You do have honor. And I like how you fight, plainsman.”

“You mock me.”

“There is no mockery here,” the smile remained. The blue gaze was steady.

“Go away.”

“As you will.” The teenager gave a slight nod of the head, and left. Simeot returned to his horse.

✹ ✹ ✹

Two days later, Simeot was stalking through the woods, bow in hand and an arrow nocked. It was still winter, but spring was fighting to appear early. Where sunbeams landed the frost melted and fell from leaf to leaf, a hushing susurration. This false rain froze again when it reached shadow or the ground. The scout found it hard to move without the crunch of ice or squelch of mud under his boots.

He smelled smoke, as expected. He reached the perimeter of the wood. Gently, gingerly, he peered out through the brush.

The reports did not lie: the village truly was no more. Some of the buildings—or what was left of them—still smoldered, but the fires had died. Twenty-four black squares of rubble. He tried not to picture what he would find within. The imaginings dispersed but memories took their place. He had walked through scenes like this before. He had caused scenes like this before, he and his comrades. The life of a mercenary.

Shame flooded his heart. He forced himself to feel it, forced his eyes to go slowly over the horror spread out under the watchful, unrelenting skies.

He did his job. He always did his job.

He watched a full ten minutes for signs of life. Saw none. Left his cover. Made his way into the lanes of destruction.

The alleyways were churned up with icy mud. Animals lay butchered in the streets. There were goat and lamb carcasses in some of the homes, too, where they had no doubt been found. Some of the roadways had huge patches of blood, though the redness had faded in the melting slush. Only in the shade, against a backdrop of snow, could the horrible tapestries give witness to the violence that had happened here.

Simeot went methodically and searched the whole village. He found most of what he expected to see. One thing was missing: the dead. The scout knew precisely what that could mean, but he had to finish his task to be sure.

Only one ruin remained: a rectangle of mortared stones twice as high as a man and nearly as thick. Even from afar, Simeot could see that the roof had been burned away. What manner of building had it been? Simeot did not understand these highland cultures. An inn? A mansion? A barn? There were no windows, and a single doorway. It looked… defensible. Had the townsfolk retreated here? What threats had come against these walls? What cruelties passed within them?

Simeot braced himself for what he would see inside. He raised his bow as he passed over the threshold and found…

… nothing.

There was destruction, yes: the charred remains of fallen timber and thatch, furniture twisted into ash, and the door looked like it had been hacked and knocked in off its hinges. But no bodies.

That settled the question.

A sound from outside drew the scout’s attention.

He checked his arrow and moved toward the doorway. He went quietly and willed his ears to listen: it was a scratching, scuttling sound, like a mouse in the dark only heavier. When he reached the doorway he peered out.

In a moment, Simeot’s suspicions were confirmed. A scaedling was scurrying among the rubble not far down the lane from the scout’s vantage. Scaedlings, like other shadow-born creatures, were ever-rumored to seek out human flesh for their sport and cookery. If not for the goblin’s hasty movements and the backdrop of white frost, Simeot may not have been able to see the dingy creature at all. It blended with its surroundings. It was a small, man-like shape of grays and whites and mottled brown; its fur overlapped with rotting leather clothing; its ears poked through greasy hair.

But was it alone?

It didn’t matter—now it had noticed him! The scaedling’s eyes went wide. It bared its yellow teeth. The slits over its mouth—something like a nose—flared out.

It sprang towards the man, a hatchet in its claw. Simeot was faster. He lifted his bow, drew, loosed.

The arrow hit the goblin in the shoulder. Its rage turned to fear. It sprang away.

The thing moved fast. In a few loping bounds it was halfway down the roadway and nearly out of the village. Simeot pulled another arrow from his quiver. The scaedling was nearly away. The man drew, held the tension on his fingers for a single heartbeat, let go.

The goblin dropped into the frost, dead.

Stillness returned to the ruined hamlet.

Simeot prepared to fight another scaedling, but none came. He spent time among the ruins to find if there was another threat. He found none. The little monster, he reasoned, had not called for help. Had there been other shadow-born about, it would have.

Satisfied, Simeot trotted back to the woods.

✹ ✹ ✹

The company of mercenaries arrived at the village just as the sun was setting on the far side of the valley.

“Should we wait for Wilmarsh and his horsemen?” one man had asked his captain.

“That lot doesn’t care a mite for us,” he had slurred back. “And that teenage lordling wanted to wait at camp, and go too slowly after that. Rest the horses, easy pace, this and that. I’d rather do our job and get paid.”

Twenty-five men ambled into the charred remains of the hamlet. Most were on foot, though a few had mounts. Woods surrounded the ruined village on three sides, and on those same three sides the ground sloped up towards the mountains. Only the one road gave easy access in and out. The mercenaries were not idiots; they knew this ground would be ripe for ambush. But their trusted scout had declared the way to be safe, what had they to fear?

Farild decided to camp in the stone ruin. Tomorrow they would look for more goblin-sign and search the woods for any blood trails. If they could locate their enemy before Wilmarsh arrived the day after, all the better.

The score-and-five men cramped into the four walls of stone with their animals. There was room enough for one fire. As the men settled for the night, Farild sought out his plainsman and asked him a worrying question.

“Where was it that you killed that shadowling?”

Simeot had been availing himself of the wine-skins since he had returned from his mission and rejoined the group. Even now he had a drink in hand. His head was fuzzy.

“I killed it down the lane,” he said. “Where w’came in.”

“There was no corpse.”

“Sure there was. We would’ve passed it down by—.”

Farild turned around: “Did any man here see the body of a scaedling down in the village?” The question quieted the group. No one spoke up. “Irner. Go around and check. Take Fero and Gundie.”

When they returned, the report was as feared. “No body, sir. Can’t find any scaedling.”

“You’re certain you killed one, Simeot?” asked Farild. “You swear it?”

“Have I ever lied to you?” Simeot replied. “I took my arrow back out of its head.”

“Then it wasn’t alone.”

✹ ✹ ✹

Less than an hour after the sun had set, they heard the first drums. Soon there were great echoing booms coming from all around the village. The scaedlings left no doubt of their presence. There was, however, doubt over their number. Clouds had overcast the night and there was no light with which to spy the enemy. It was difficult to peer over the walls in any case, for they were too high.

The drums subsided, but scuttling sounds were heard outside all four walls of the makeshift fort.

The first goblin that tried to make it over the walls was shot dead with arrow and bolt. Three more came over eventually, and while one was hit, all three managed to descend the walls and report whatever they had seen within to the rest of their pack. The shadow-born did not try to breach the barricaded door.

The night proceeded like a siege.

A few goblin arrows came over the top, but they were haphazard, inaccurate, and slow. They did little damage. One man was half-asleep when an arrow hit the peak of his helmet and rang out like a bell. The startled man suffered nothing worse than a burgeoning headache. His fellows reacted the only way nervous soldiers could: they laughed. Even so, each man huddled in his own spot at the base of the wall, trying to get as much cover as he could.

Simeot prayed under his breath and in his own tongue and to his own gods that at least his horse, who was inside with him, would not fall to a stray dart.

When dawn was near, the stone-faced Farild crouched down in front of Simeot.

“This is your fault, you know,” said the commander.

Simeot made to reply, but found a burp rising from his stomach. He clenched his jaw and the acidy bile of the evening’s wine inflamed his chest. He forced out: “I know.”

“You led us here, and I will not let you destroy my company. You are going to fix this. When dawn comes you will ride out that door, you will find Wilmarsh’s men, and as the Words as my witness you will bring him here with all haste.”

“I go alone?”

“You brought us into this trap alone. You’ll get us out alone too.”

“But if more men come with me—.”

“The scaedlings must not feel there are enough of them to attack us here,” Farild trampled over the objection. “If they pour through that door, we’ll kill them one by one. But we face the same problem, but from within. And the little rats haven’t left, which means there must be more coming. We have time, but nothing else.”

“Yet you expect me to go out that door, just as you say.”

“I expected you not to lead us into a trap. And I expect you to follow my orders. You know the price of disobedience.”

Simeot shut his jaw. He had once seen Farild knife a longtime veteran for refusing to fight. He hadn’t even hesitated. The man had died slowly.

The scout nodded. When Farild had left, Simeot re-opened his wineskin.

✹✹✹

The sun was rising. Simeot checked the mail mantle that covered his shoulders and chest, his only armor. He eschewed the heavier hauberks of his comrades in favor of lightness and agility. Speed would matter greatly here.

He leaned forward in his saddle to the point where he was nearly flat against his stallion’s neck. Such was the only posture that would allow them both to fit under the doorway. A few paces in front of him, his comrades were pulling away the door from its threshold.

In his own plains-tongue, he whispered to his mount: “I am sorry we are here, Shoykul. You have always been a faithful friend. Be faithful still and trust me now. The gods have abandoned me, but you have always been loyal to your master. I pray they will not abandon you. If we die today, I will be gone, but I pray the Skies will take you and you can roam in pastures wild and free.”

“Enough of your heathen mumbling!” Farild chastised from beside him. “We’re ready. Go!” The captain slapped the stallion’s rump.

The horse whinnied—the men near the open doorway leapt aside—and the horse did not move. He rolled his head at the man who had hit him. Simeot gave Farild a disdainful look. He bent down over Shoykul’s neck again. He dropped the reins, grabbed a tuft of mane in each fist, clicked his tongue.

The horse bolted.

The lintel scraped Simeot’s back as horse and rider flew through the doorway and out into the village. The ruined alleyways leapt forward to meet them. It was a straight line from the door, down the village’s road, and out to the countryside.

The cries of the scaedlings rose up at once.

Simeot saw the black blur of an arrow pass several feet in front of him. The horse kept on. Drums began to boom through the village yet again. Horse and rider were nearing the edge of the burned-out houses.

A pack of scaedlings emerged from behind the ruin nearest the end of the lane, a seething mass of brown fur and stoneish skin. They blocked the path.

Simeot still did not have the reins. He clutched his friend’s mane and trusted his life to his mount. Most animals stopped when faced with a snarling, yellow-eyed beast jumping out in front of them, and the scaedlings knew this. But Shoykul was not like most animals. His master had brought him here and bade him run. Run he would. The horse lept.

It was not a large leap, for the stallion was large and no longer young, but it did not need to be a great flight. The cannon of its leg came up into the first creature’s face. Horse and goblin were airborne, then the horse landed with the scaedling under its hind legs. The splattering crunch was familiar to horse and rider both.

Then they were past and gone.

There was a long rise ahead of them, open ground either side of the road, then only the sky where the ground crested. A quarter-mile or more ahead. Woodlines to the far left and right.

Another black streak flew just past Simeot’s left eye. He turned over his shoulder and saw the scaedlings with bows ready. The rise was long. They would have easy shooting.

Simeot guided his horse with his knees, to make it swerve here and there, and even at a gallop he pulled his own bow from its case, an arrow from its quiver.

He twisted backward in the saddle to see his mark, loosed, turned away before seeing if it landed. He readied another.

“Left,” he commanded, and the horse obeyed. With an easier angle, Simeot lifted his bow in left hand and drew with his right, loosed, and saw the arrow hit its mark. Even as one scaedling slumped over, another two let loose their darts. Simeot flinched as one thudded against his shoulder. Instead of looking at the wound, he drew back another arrow—he did so with pain, but nothing severe, which meant the enemy dart had hit his mail and had not ruined him.

Shoykul turned further still. They were galloping straight at the scaedlings now. Four of them left. Simeot let fly his arrow—a goblin’s head flew back and the creature crumpled.

Two arrowheads pointed back—“Left!” the rider screamed and nearly flew from his saddle with the force of the change. There was a whip of wind at his ear and a thunk and then a squeal from the horse.

After a jostling moment, Simeot had reset himself atop Shoykul and they flew straight away from their enemies again. The rider looked down and saw a black-feathered arrow protruding from the leather saddle-skirt; Shoykul was bolting now like a maddened fiend. Simeot let his friend carry him away up-slope.

The plainsman nocked another arrow, twisted backward a final time. He raised his weapon out over his horse’s rump, looked for his mark—

—and felt the shock and piercing fire of a dart in his side. The arrow entered him below his left arm, down below his ribcage, straight into his gut. His finger loosed the arrow on their own accord. It spiraled uselessly into the air.

Shoykul carried on, but was starting to slow. Simeot could see now there was blood coming from under the saddle. His own pain was nearly blinding. Every stomp of the hooves sent lighting through his gut. Though he knew the danger, he reined Shoykul back; he simply needed the pounding to stop.

The horse trotted itself to the edge of the wood. Despite all the work, they were only halfway up to the rise. Shoykul turned around on the spot and Simeot saw more scaedlings now pouring out of the village. Where they had been four now there were a dozen. They were fast creatures despite their shambling gait. Blood was coming more heavily and painting his steed’s front leg. Simeot dared not look at his own wound.

He looked up at the sky and thought of his gods.

Then he forced himself out of the saddle. He groaned and nearly collapsed when his feet hit the ground. Shoykul turned his eye to his master. Simeot ignored the pain in his own side and snapped the arrow shaft that protruded through the saddle. A moment later, he had cut the girthstrap, the crupper, the breast strap. The saddle and all its weight slid from the horse. Trying to calm the beast, he gingerly pulled out the arrowhead. The wound was not deep. The horse would live. If it fled.

An arrow whizzed overhead.

“You must go, friend.”

The horse nudged Simeot with his nose.

“No. I go to my end.” Now it was Simeot who slapped the horse’s rump. The beast jumped away.

Simeot fell to his knees. He felt as if his stomach was about to tear open. He went on all fours towards the saddle that was on the ground before him. Every moment sent waves of pain. He lifted his bow from the ground. Pulled an arrow from the saddle-quiver. He sat back on his heels, lifted bow and arrow and pulled the bowstring.

The pain was too great. He let them fall with a groan.

The scaedlings were advancing with full delight now. Twenty of them, at least. They had put away their bows. Their prey was wounded now and caught; knives and clubs made for better sport.

Simeot looked down at the village. The stone-walled building had a ring of scaedlings around it, the door had been rebarricaded. No help would come from there.

The goblins were in a huge cluster now, spread out and coming to surround him. Another group came from the village still. Their shrieks rose up. Their clacking speech was like laughter made of broken glass.

The plainsman pulled out his knife again. He looked at the cold sky above him. He was ready.

The ground rumbled below him—hooves. His heart quavered. Beloved friend, loyal, brave, foolish Shoykul. “Let me die.”

But when Simeot turned he did not see his red stallion. Instead, there was a pair of horsemen on the rise, mail and helmets and spearheads gleaming in the morning sun. The pair was joined by another from beyond the rise, then the quartet became a dozen, then two dozen. The central rider held a sword aloft. He pointed it towards the village, and went into a trot.

The line of horsemen bent forward in his wake and soon the whole host was moving down the hill. Together they rode, as one body of one mind. The leader broke into a full canter and to Simeot’s amazement not all the horsemen did the same, only some. As every-other rider sprang out ahead, they had become not one but two lines of riders.

The scaedlings were out in the open. They scattered every which way, but there was nowhere to run. The first line crashed over them in a tangling mass of butchery. Those horsemen carried through the goblins and flew into the village. Not all the shadow-born had died. Some still stood, many were cowering, many were making death-cries from their mangled bodies.

Over this bloody scene came the second line like a wave crashing over fragile sand. No enemies were spared.

Simeot watched the awesome display. Never, in his two and a half decades upon the plains, had he seen this kind of horsemanship. Never, in the decade since he had left, had he seen such discipline among these highlanders. It occurred to him that he might understand far less about these people than he had previously thought.

He collapsed. The sky filled his vision and pain covered his mind.

The sound of hooves grew louder, then very loud, then stopped. Thuds. Footsteps.

Two men appeared over him. Both mailed. One with a green tabard and the other in plain mail. This second one was speaking words which Simeot did not understand. The words came out in a flood. The man ripped off his helmet and his black hair fell about his face.

The one in green tugged Simeot into a sitting position and the plainsman screamed for his side. He pushed against the man but there was no strength in him. He wanted to curse but found no breath.

“Tell me when,” said the green warrior. The other one—still spouting the unintelligible words—held out an empty hand to his partner. The green warrior ripped the arrow shaft out of Simeot’s stomach with a tug.

The scream was intense. Gore covered the barbed dart; chunks of flesh—and something tubular—were upon it. “What are you doing!” wailed the patient. “You’re killing me!” His head rolled back, but green-man’s arm held him up.

The warrior gave the arrow to the babbling one. The speaker held the thing in his open palm. With his other hand he picked the chunks of flesh off the arrow and then—Simeot almost fainted at the sight—placed them back inside the wound. Quickly. Forcefully. Without a care for the pain. The sound that came through Simeot’s gritted teeth was barely human.

Then, it all stopped.

The words that had filled Simeot’s ears ceased. Simeot opened his eyes and looked through the mist to see the arrow in the man’s hand was glowing white-hot. The object became like an arrow made of pure white light. Then it fell apart, the wind taking it piece by piece away from itself, like snow drifting in a gentle breeze. All of Simeot’s pain vanished with it.

“Lay him down,” said the speaker.

Green-man did. Simeot fought through the weakness to keep his head up. His hands scurried over to his side. They found ripped clothing. Beneath that, blood. Beneath that… intact skin. His fingers searched and searched, but could find no wound. No pain. No discomfort. Just cold fingers moving through the warmth of once-spilled blood.

He looked then at the face of the babbling man. A very young man. He saw the black hair and his piercing blue eyes, the exact shade of the Sacred Skies on a placid spring morning.

“Who are you?” Simeot asked.

The knight stood up and turned to his compatriot. “We are horsemen of Count Wilmarsh, and this is his son, Martin,” the young man indicated his green-clad friend. “He and I lay there on the crest, watching. When we saw you venture forth, Martin ordered his men to war. You drew out much of the enemy force, and made our work easy. Thank you.”

“Who are you?” Simeot repeated.

“I healed you. What else do you need to know?”

“How? Why?” Simeot demanded.

“I told you, plainsman,” the young man smiled. “I like the way you fight.”

“I do not deserve it.”

“You do not need to.”

The other horseman, Martin, broke in. “You hit that scaedling in the face at a full gallop. Not many men can do that.”

“I aimed for its chest,” Simeot said automatically.

“I do care for the skill,” said the nameless warrior, “but that was not my meaning. You fight with honor.”

“You know me not. I am samyuzot.”

“Three months we’ve been on this campaign. I have watched you, and I have seen you today. You could have fled. You turned to fight. You could have abandoned your friends, but you did not. You did not even ask your horse to die for you.”

Simeot’s head was swimming. He found himself on his feet. When had these men pulled him up? “I tell you again, man, you know me not. My past is longer than these three months.”

“You have more honor than you think.”

Simeot did not know how to respond. He felt he was being ungrateful and so bit his tongue. Neither warrior was inclined to say more.

So ended their exchange. Some other horsemen soon came up and Martin returned to the duties of his young command. His friend disappeared into the group, leaving Simeot alone. The bewildered man saw then that his own horse had come back. Tears came into his eyes.

In time he went back to Farild and recounted what had happened. The other mercenaries did not believe him.

“Impossible,” scoffed Farild. “A healing without reading from a Codex? I’ve only heard of that in the old, evil tales. You’re still drunk, plainsman. And,” the captain placed a firm grip on Simeot’s shoulder, “if you fail me again, you’ll wish you had actually taken an arrow to the gut.”

When Simeot lay himself down to sleep that night, he could not stop his fingers from tracing over where the wound had been. The skin was soft and smooth, as if newly grown from under a scab. He decided to say no more about this to anyone.

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