Vengeance Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Title

  Map

  Hassani Lineage

  The Bloody Brook

  The Keep

  The Hounds of War

  Vengeance

  Old Enemies, New Friends

  Victims and Rescuers

  The Fury of Desperation

  The Pursuit

  Failure and Friends

  A Carpentini King

  The Coming of the Storm

  Enemy in the Dark

  Ambush

  Unexpected Visitor

  The Storm

  Rage and Revelations

  Decision

  About the Author

  Archer of the

  Heathland

  Book Three

  Vengeance

  J.W. Elliot

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and events are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, historical events, or locations are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 J.W. Elliot

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system except as may be expressly permitted in writing by the publisher.

  Bent Bow Publishing

  P.O. Box 1426

  Middleboro, MA 02346

  Cover Design by Brandi Doane McCann

  If you enjoy this book, please consider leaving an honest review on Amazon and sharing on your social media sites.

  Please sign up for my newsletter where you can get a free short story and more free content at: www.jwelliot.com

  To My Children

  Book Three

  Vengeance

  Chapter 1

  The Bloody Brook

  The brook ran red. York bent to collect a few more stones for his sling, but now his gaze focused on the red, swirling water. He glanced up at the stone walls of the little, round keep that peered out over the vale from the summit of the rocky hill. Purple and pink heather stood out in bunches amid the short, green grass of the heathland. The brook curled around the base of the hill and slipped into a stand of aspens, whose leaves quivered in the cool, morning breeze.

  The guard on the walls stood erect, facing the snowcapped peaks of the Aveen Mountains to the east. A thin line of gray smoke had attracted the guard's attention. But the brook ran with blood. Surely, this was more important than a little smoke. York rose and strode up the creek, wondering what might have caused the water to turn red. His Carpentini boots pressed deep into the mud. The morning's mist had moistened the earth and dusted the leaves of the mahogany and bayberry with little teardrops. The heather glistened in the slanting light.

  York passed under the stand of aspen. The lingering mist clung to his black hair. His linen trousers and shirt soon sagged about his lithe frame, heavy with moisture. The air tasted sweet and clean. York stepped through a land that had long been widowed of its inhabitants, as the ruined buildings and stone walls bore silent witness. The rotted beams of houses and barns stabbed out of sunken holes in the ground like bones reaching from the grave for the life that had betrayed them. York had come with his mother and sister to breathe vitality back into these mountain valleys, to seek a new homeland where his suffering people could find the strength to survive.

  A wail floated to him on the morning mist. York stopped beside a crumbling stone wall and scanned the aspen grove, listening. The wail came again, ghostly and mournful as it pierced the haze. It had a strange, unearthly quality and was filled with pain and terror. York's heart beat faster, and he almost fled back to the keep. But maybe it was one of his own people. They might need his help.

  York quickened his pace until he came to the great boulder that sprawled across the narrow valley. The brook spilled over one side of the boulder in a glittering waterfall. Something bobbed at the crest in a gentle, rhythmic cadence, like the slow, regular breath of life. The water that splashed over the mossy surface came with bold, red streaks. York scrambled up the boulder beside the little waterfall until he stood peering out over the pond where he and his baby sister had fished for brook trout the day before.

  Horror gripped York's stomach. A dam of linen-clothed bodies clogged the channel as if they had been pushed up by the beavers in an attempt to stop the running water. Men, women, and children, all silent and staring in death, bobbed in the current, bumping against one another. Their blood spread like a stain to color the water as it spilled over the boulder.

  The wail rose up again behind him. York tore his gaze from the gruesome scene in search of the pitiful creature that made that awful, haunting noise. A dark head shifted among the bushes where a little boy no more than three years old curled up in a tiny ball of ragged clothing. The boy had a ghastly wound on the side of his head that still dribbled blood.

  Terror clutched at York's throat. Whoever had done this couldn't be far away. He scrambled along the top of the boulder and ducked into the underbrush to where the boy lay.

  "Hush," York said as he reached out to touch the child. He needed to silence him. The boy jumped and cried out. York clamped a hand over his mouth and looked around.

  "Hush," he said again. "I won't hurt you." He spoke in the Carpentini dialect because the boy wore the linen clothes and whip-stitched boots peculiar to the Carpentini.

  The boy stared at him with big, brown eyes. York lifted the boy into his arms, when something splashed behind him. He pulled the child close and spun. A man with a dark streak of dried blood on his face stood with one foot on a log and the other in the water. He wore a long, green tunic with loose sleeves favored by the Bracari. His black hair that had been cropped short in front was matted with globs of mud. The Bracari had frozen in place to stare at York as if he expected York to miss him if he didn't move. York glanced at the bodies. This man had been injured in the fight. Where were the rest of the Bracari? York looked around as the hollow fear filled his chest. He was alone in the wood with an injured child and a Bracari who would not want to be discovered.

  York hugged the boy close to his chest, slid down the boulder into the aspen grove, and sprinted for the keep. He had to warn the rest of the Carpentini that the Bracari had found them again--before it was too late. The boy whimpered as York's feet pounded the earth. Branches lashed York's face. He ducked and wove. A splash and heavy crashing sounded behind him. A rock flew past his head and slammed into a tree. He ducked, clutching the boy close to his chest. He broke from the cover of the aspens onto the dirt trail that skirted the stream. The top of the keep peaked over the valley, but no one was looking his way. The keep disappeared from view as York cut through the undergrowth, broke from the trees, and scrambled up the hill. The walls of keep now loomed in front of him.

  "Bracari!" he cried out. But the word was lost as he gasped for air. "Bracari," he tried again.

  A horseman appeared in front of him and then another. But they weren't Carpentini or Bracari. The bigger one held a huge longbow with an arrow on the string. The other was smaller, maybe as old as York, only fifteen or sixteen. He carried a short recurve bow and had long, blonde hair that he pulled back. York shied away from them. They blocked his approach to the keep--the only safe place he had. York leapt over a low, stone wall.

  "Stop," someone shouted. But the accent was not Carpentini. York chanced a glance back to see the man with the longbow rein his horse around toward the trees. He dropped the reins and drew the bow. The Bracari dove back into the cover of aspens.

  "I said stop!" the man commanded again.

  York slipped on the damp grass and fell to his kn
ees. A stone slapped the earth beside his hand. York struggled to his feet and scrambled up the hill, clutching the boy with one arm and tearing at the moist earth with the other as he strained to claw his way up the slope to the keep. His lungs burned. His arms ached from carrying the child. His legs had become so heavy. Shouts now came from the keep above him. But they would be too late. York would never make it with two horsemen and a Bracari on his tail.

  Hooves beat the earth, and York tensed in preparation for the pain of the arrow. The string slapped. He cringed and stumbled, but the pain never came. York righted himself and craned his neck around. The Bracari that had been chasing him fell on his face on the green hillside with an arrow quivering in his leg. York blinked in confusion. The large horseman leapt from his saddle, jammed a knee into the Bracari's back, grabbed his hair, and yanked his head back. He pressed a blade to his throat.

  "When I say stop, I mean it," he growled.

  His accent was strange. York paused, then stopped. His chest heaved, and his legs trembled as the shorter rider rode up to him and slipped from the saddle. It was a woman--a beautiful woman--not too many years older than himself.

  The concern on her face confused him.

  "Are you hurt?" she said. Her accent was strange, too. He shied away, trying to shield the boy as she reached for him.

  She paused and cocked her head. "May I?"

  York pressed the boy close to his chest, uncertain. Who were these strangers? Why would they shoot the Bracari?

  "I'm not going to hurt him," she said. "But he needs care."

  York hesitated, glanced at the still-bleeding wound on the boy's head, and handed the child to the woman. She pulled the child close and whispered in his ear. She caressed his cheek and kissed his brow.

  Then she knelt, swung her water skin to her front, yanked the plug with her teeth, and poured water into the boy's mouth. The boy sputtered and then began to drink.

  "Are they all right?" the man called.

  York glanced over to see the Bracari tied up like a pig for roasting. He bent over with his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath, trying to understand what had happened. Sweat dripped on the grass to join the glittering drops of the morning rain. He was alive, and that was something.

  The jangle of weapons brought York's head up. Two dozen men rushed down from the keep and formed a semi-circle around them. Reed stood at their head. He was a big man with a fiery beard and a temper to match. York had never seen the man who could stand up to Reed. Reed waved, and half a dozen men raced down the hill into the woods. They would be searching for more Bracari.

  "Lay down your weapons," Reed ordered.

  The young woman ignored him. She poured water over the gash on the child's head and cooed to him.

  The man with the longbow raised his hands. "We're not Bracari," he said. "I'm Brion of Wexford. I'm not your enemy."

  "Enemies are all we seem to have these days," Reed said. "I want to see that bow on the ground."

  For a moment, York thought Brion might refuse. But he sighed and laid the bow on the ground. The Bracari squirmed, and Brion set his boot on his back and pressed down. York saw the smile twitch on Reed's lips.

  "I've never heard of Wexford," Reed said.

  Brion shrugged. "It's not much to talk about. More a collection of shacks, really. Most people in Wexford don't even know where they are."

  Reed didn't seem amused with the answer. He waited, fingering the edge of the long knife he held in his hands.

  "It's in Coll," Brion said, "on the edge of the Oban Plain."

  "An Alamani this far north?" Reed said. "Either you're crazy or you have a death wish."

  "Neither. I'm looking for someone."

  "And your new king sent you?"

  Brion shook his head. "King Emyr knows that I am here, but he didn't send me. I came on my own."

  Reed scowled as a murmur swept through the men. They shuffled their feet, and a few advanced toward Brion.

  "Didn't he live with the Salassani?" someone said.

  York had heard of this King Emyr. He had been raised a Salassani and had led a coup to seize the crown of Coll. Rumor said he was planning an invasion of the heathland.

  Reed pursed his lips. "Spy? Scout?"

  Brion smiled and shook his head. "I told you. It's a personal matter." The Bracari captive wiggled again, and Brion shoved him back to the ground.

  "Look," the young woman said as she stood. "This child needs care. I want hot water and clean bandages, now."

  Reed studied her for the first time, then glanced back to Brion with raised eyebrows.

  "My wife, Finola," Brion said.

  "You brought a woman into a land spilling over with blood?" Reed scowled. "You don't look like a fool, but--"

  "She's not that easy to leave behind," Brion interrupted.

  "I'm going to the keep," Finola said and strode off up the hill with the child in her arms.

  "Hold!" Reed bellowed, and York thought he might attack the woman. But Reed seemed more confused than anything.

  Finola paused and glanced back at him with a defiant smirk that dared him to challenge her. York looked at Brion, who was smiling.

  Reed sheathed his knife and waved toward the Bracari. "Bring him," he said and stalked up the hill past Finola without looking at her. Two men grabbed the Bracari and dragged him toward the keep. The rest of the men followed, leaving York and Brion alone.

  Brion pursed his lips at York and cocked his head to one side. "Do you think that means I can pick up my bow now?"

  York smiled despite himself. "Probably," he said.

  Brion snatched the bow from the grass, gathered the reins of the two horses, and led them towards the keep. York noted that the horse Brion rode was a black mare with a silver-speckled rump and Finola's was a buckskin. They were beautiful horses, and York secretly longed for one of his own. They had lost their only horse months ago to the Bracari.

  "Is he always that friendly?" Brion asked in a conversational tone.

  "No," York said. "He's usually a lot meaner."

  Chapter 2

  The Keep

  Gwyneth haunted the shadows of the doorway as the men dragged the Bracari inside the walls that surrounded the keep. She had seen York's desperate flight and the rescue by the two strangers, and she wanted a closer look. None of the Carpentini men spared Gwyneth a glance, which was fine with her. When people ignored her, it meant they weren't going to spit insults at her or hurl stones at her head. Gwyneth waited for the beautiful young woman with the blonde hair who still carried the child in her arms. She couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty--three or four years older than Gwyneth--and she was dressed like a man. She wore a loose tunic with a leather belt tied around her waist and trousers that she tucked into the high, brown leather boots. A quiver full of arrows was strapped to her back, and a long knife dangled from her belt. Gwyneth caught the bulge of another knife sticking out of the top of her boot.

  The woman paused and nodded to Gwyneth, who glanced down at her own dirty blue dress covered with patches and grease stains and knew she looked like a beggar. Well, she was a beggar. She always had been. The handsome young man stopped behind the young woman to peer over her shoulder. He carried a longbow in his hands, which was something Gwyneth had never seen before. He was dressed like the young woman, and he had a strong, kind face--the type of face that made Gwyneth wary. The ones that looked nice were the most dangerous. They were the easiest to underestimate. They could get a woman to drop her defenses.

  When the young man saw Gwyneth, he nodded and touched his brow in the Carpentini fashion. Gwyneth frowned. No one had ever given her this most basic sign of respect in all her life, except for her long-dead uncle. Carpentini saluted one another as a form of greeting, but only when they wished to express respect or intimacy. Gwyneth narrowed her eyes.

  "Hello," the young man said. "I'm Brion."

  Gwyneth ducked through the doorway and scampered across the courtyard between the
walls and the keep. She wouldn't let him deceive her that easily. She had seen enough of men to know they were all the same.

  Cow and horse dung made the going treacherous in her bare feet. The day was beginning to warm, and the reek of man and beast was starting to become oppressive. So many people and their animals had to be packed inside the walls at night that there was hardly a place to lie down. No one wanted to be found outside the walls after sundown for fear of Bracari raids.

  Gwyneth darted into the keep and slipped into the shadows away from the fire. She wanted to see what was happening--not be seen. The strangers entered the smoky shadows of the keep and waited. Reed, the big, red-headed leader of this little village, glared at them.

  "I'll deal with you in a minute," Reed said to the strangers.

  He turned to York. "What happened?"

  York passed a hand over his head that caused his sweaty, short-cropped hair to stand up all over the place. Gwyneth thought he looked comical that way. But otherwise, she liked the look of him. He was small for his age and slender, but he had a strong jaw, and she had seen him work just as hard and long as any man. He also had eyes the color of a chestnut. If he hadn't been a boy and she hadn't been half-Bracari, they might have been friends.

  "There was blood in the brook this morning," York said. "So I followed it to the little falls. They were all dead, clogging the stream." York gestured to the boy who clung to the young woman. "He was the only one alive."

  "You should have called for help," someone said.

  "And who would have heard me?" York demanded. He glared at them.

  Reed chose to ignore the exchange. "And him?" He jabbed a thumb at the Bracari who lay on his side watching with wide eyes. Blood soaked his pant leg to stain the wraps he had wound around his lower legs just above the short-topped boots the Bracari liked to wear. Gwyneth wondered if the man knew he was going to die. The Carpentini had long ago stopped showing mercy to Bracari captives because the Bracari had shown none to them.