Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
The result is a boulder rolling down the side of a mountain, the rider’s tumble sluggish and ungainly, the landing a thump that reminds me of a bag of grain hitting the ground. As mud splashes, the horse bolts in the direction they approached from, and the other two members of the little herd take its advice.
Except they are less successful at shifting their loads.
The mayor grabs on to the mane and hunkers down as he tries to keep astride, his combed hair frothing out of its plaster of oils and spiking up like he’s been hit by lightning. The other son, who’s bearded, is the better rider and manages to keep his seat, but he can’t get his mount to go forward.
Both are so consumed with avoiding the mud bath of their blooded relation that they don’t notice us.
“Keep my pack,” Merc says softly.
As I fumble with the load, he jumps out into the road. This spooks the mayor’s horse all over again, and as that fleshy fisted grip is lost, my mercenary snags the reins and takes over. Even as the chestnut bay leaps into the air with all four hooves, he somehow retains control of the steed as the father follows the first son and lands in the mud.
The fact that the sound is the same, and so is the splash, makes me marvel at the way traits are passed down through generations.
The bearded son, who’s stayed in the saddle, takes one look at Merc—and then lets his steed have its head. Off he goes, from whence they all came—
“Roy!” the mayor yells after him. “Roy…!”
So much for the loyalty of progeny. And the father doesn’t waste time bemoaning what he’s raised: “I carry no coins.”
“I’m not here to rob you.” Merc keeps a hold on the reins of the panting, panicked horse as he offers the man a hand up and then does the same to the muddy son. “I’m taking—well, borrowing, one of your mounts. You see? Over there?”
The elder and his son look in the direction that he points.
And then it happens so fast, none of us can track the actions.
Between one blink and the next, the two shorter, pudgier men are tied up together with the smooth chain I inspected earlier. I don’t know how Merc did it so fast, but the father and son are now back-to-back, their sets of hands wrapped like the hooves of a steer, the chain around their waists.
When Merc’s evidently satisfied with his work, he shoves them off-balance, and when they start to topple, he eases them down to the mud once again.
“Do you know who I am?” the mayor asks weakly. As if he’s addressing himself in search of courage.
“You said you weren’t here to rob us,” the son protests.
“I lied.” Merc leans down and in a pleasant tone remarks, “Just one of your horses I’ll be taking, and I thank you for the good tack—”
“You can’t do this!” The son’s ruddy complexion goes bright red. “You heathen! I know what you are—”
Instantly, everything about Merc changes, even as his body position doesn’t shift—except for the hand that rises up over his shoulder. To the hilt of his broadsword.
“If I were you, I’d be more silent than spoken. And I’ll help you with that right now, if you want.”
In the midst of my camouflage of leaves, I take a step forward to stop what’s about to happen. I’m not going to let these men get slaughtered—
Merc’s face whips in my direction just before he unsheathes his weapon. As I shake my head furiously, his fingers flare at the grip. After a tense pause, he drops his arm, the broadsword staying where it is.
Meanwhile, the mayor’s son keeps his mouth shut, as if he knows exactly what he was just spared from.
“Someone will come along soon enough.” Merc snatches the red sash off the mayor’s ballooned torso. “Maybe even before the demons roam after nightfall.”
The chestnut horse has settled some, so Merc is able to tuck the ends of the reins into his hip pocket as he bends over the men and wraps their heads together so they’re unable to see. I notice he makes a rather nice bow, like they’re a present to be unwrapped. And though they would sooner deliver me to flames in the village square, I don’t want demons to be what finds them.
Merc motions for me to come forward, and puts his forefinger up to his lips for quiet.
I’m not feeling talkative.
As I slip out from my hiding place with his pack, the chestnut gets mincy again. His flaring nostrils pull at the air—and I can tell when he catches my scent. He eases some, sensing I’m no threat in spite of my odd costume. Or perhaps he’s smelled me before from the village and remembers me.