The King's Thief

Chapter 15


Kinroc Faergaldan sighed in exasperation. They had watched as the strange toothless man, apparently a regular contact of the Sylva in this ‘neutral’ village, seemed to straighten up and gain confidence. He had wasted no time at all in getting straight down to business.
“You’d be here about them damned horse-bastards, I reckon?”
The Kinroc merely raised an eyebrow in response.
“Every night, they come here; we don’t dare go outside now, for fear of them. They gallop in, looting… raping some too. Burnt down a house on ‘t other side of the village just last night.”
The little man, whose name turned out to be Lorn, had then pointed at the group and said “And you’d be the unit we asked for from Sylvanasher, come to help us out, right?”
“We’re not the ones you’re looking for, Lorn; we’re on a recovery mission from Theria. We don’t have time to stop for your concerns.”
Lorn cackled. “Ah, but you’re here, so you must be the ones! Or else, why would you be here?”

“We don’t have time, old man.”
Kaliss and the rest of the group watched this exchange going back and forth. The smaller, older man, despite looking like a senile reprobate, seemed to have a wily cunning and a gleam in his eye.
“You should make time, Sylvan; this town is friendly to your sort, but that could change. My word carries much weight here in such matters.”
Faergaldan’s eyes widened slightly. “You would threaten us?” he growled softly.
“Never a threat,” the ancient replied, “a promise.”
The Kinroc sighed again. Irritated, he crossed his arms, and finally said “Fine. Tell us your troubles, old wretch.”
The man motioned to the Kinroc to take a seat in the communal area of the house. Indicating one of the two seats for the Kinroc, Lorn sat down in the other one, leaving Kaliss and the others to find floor space for themselves. Kaliss took a moment to take in his surroundings. The interior seemed to be divided into two main rooms; a kitchen area opened on to the main area for receiving guests, and beyond that a door lead away into what could only be a bedroom. A thick rug covered part of the otherwise wooden floor, and a worn sword and shield on the wall hinted at a martial heritage for Lorn. A fire crackled merrily in the grate, lending a smoky smell to the air, which was growing almost oppressively warm with so many bodies in the room.
“The centaari,” Lorn began, “they come to the town as the moon rides high in the air, take what they wish and depart. They bear weapons which are at once strange and familiar; we’ve seen they leave crossbow bolts in the walls and… bodies, but they fire so quickly that they cannot be reloading.”
“The centaari have long been a thorn in our side,” commented Faergaldan. “Their scattered tribes are generally only aggressive when provoked, however.”
“Wait,” Kaliss broke in, “What are centaari?”
All eyes turned towards the thief. Ryn answered him.
“The centaari are few in number; half horse, half human. Some say that a tribe of horseriders gained such an affinity with the beasts that they rode, they found a way to seal themselves on to the horses for good. They band together into small tribes, no more than two dozen, and tend to keep away from civilisation.”
Lorn took up the tale again. “They started to attack a month ago; not every night, or the village would soon be razed, but regularly enough. Some of our women have been taken at times; I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate on what they do with them.”
Faergaldan broke the uneasy silence that followed. “What do you intend to have us do?”
Lorn grinned, the same all-but toothless grin. “Why, destroy them!” he said.
“And if we don’t? If we refuse?”
Suddenly deadly serious, Lorn said “Then I spread the word, and the next Sylva that comes here will find a very unhealthy reception awaiting them.” The grin reappeared. “But, now, I don’t need to do that, do I?”


* * *


Night was falling as the Kinroc briefed his unit. They had taken up temporary residence in Lorn’s house, while he in turn had gone out to the inn.
“Much as I regret having to take sides in this dispute, I have no choice. After my conversation with Lorn, I contacted Sylvanasher; the Council have decided that, small though this village is, we need it.”
He gestured towards the door, saying “We will post watchers throughout the town, but to try to defend the town is suicide with the size of our force. Instead we will follow them to their camp, then attack by daylight while they sleep.”
At this, a ripple of unrest spread through the group. Julis, the tallest of the women in the group, spoke up. “We’re leaving the village to get attacked? What about if there are casualties, we could be-”
Faergaldan cut her off with a sweep of his hand. “If we try to defend the town, it’s our own deaths we’d be seeking. If we want to stop the centaari in this area, we need to follow them. Lull them into a false sense of security.”
Not waiting for any other argument, the Kinroc began to split the group up. Lorn had left him with a plan of the village and, rudimentary though it was, Faergaldan could use it to illustrate his plans.
“These four buildings provide the best coverage for watching the approaches to the village; for now, one person in each building, with the rest of us here. Once the centaari approach, the watchers that spot them must get back to us to let us know. They may approach from the different direction than they leave by, to give us a false trail, so any knowledge is useful. Once they are done here, they will leave; a small strike force will follow them.” He looked around the group. “I will not allow the information we are carrying to be put in jeopardy; I will lead the strike force, which will consist of Julis, Ryndaele, Corrin and Kaliss.”
Kaliss did a double-take on hearing his name. “But…” he said.
Winraer was quicker, and louder, however. “Why are you taking him and not me? You know I can be of use to you!”
The Kinroc seemed to stiffen at being spoken to in such a manner, but shook his head. “You’re too valuable,” he said, “and there’s a chance they’ll need you here in the town. I can’t take the risk.”
Fuming, Winraer turned away from the map and stalked off.
“So why are you taking me, Kinroc Faergaldan?” Kaliss said.
Looking straight at the human, the Sylva answered “I’ll be honest, Kaliss; I don’t like you, and I don’t like the fact that I have to babysit you to Sylvanasher. Two of my best died protecting you from that… thing in the forest. However, you were quick to defend Winraer, and I suspect that once the centaari have been through here I will be unable to hold you back from the attack.”
Kaliss nodded once, then walked to the window. Outside, the sun had nearly completed its descent towards the horizon; farmers were returning home from the fields, and doors and windows were beginning to be shut and bolted. Soon only the inn was open, a few defiant villagers drinking their fears away.
Quietly, the door opened, then closed, and Kaliss saw four Sylvan warriors disperse into the gathering twilight; they would carry word of the approach of these mysterious centaari.


* * *


Lorn’s house provided a decent view of the main square of the village; the moon rode high in the sky, nearly full, providing enough light to see quite clearly. The hours had seemed to stretch into infinity, but Kaliss had developed a lot of patience while working as a thief. He had never known when it might be necessary to remain in one place for hours at a time, whether to avoid detection or to wait for an opportune moment.
His mind began to wander slightly; where was Winraer? She had left the house after the briefing, but Faergaldan seemed not to have noticed. His mind flitted across various subjects; the attack on the centaari, whatever they were; how would it go? Ryn; he felt a definite friendship towards the Sylvan man, despite their different backgrounds and loyalties.
A bellow split the silence of the night, from the South end of the village; all heads whipped round in that direction. The guards had not reported any sight of the marauders; could this be something else? Almost as soon as Kaliss had formed the thought, he knew that it was wrong. Striding into the village square was a massive form, at least twelve feet tall; from the neck down it was obviously a horse, although of massive aspect. Sweat glistened over its body, picking out details. The feet seemed to be shod in armoured sheathes, lined with upswept spikes, while the main barrel of the body was strung around with two crossing belts, each containing scores of crossbow quarrels. Kaliss’ eyes travelled up past the heaving shoulders of the horse to what seemed to be some sort of covering, adding a further three or four feet to the top of the horse. As the figure came closer, its hair seeming black in the darkness, Kaliss realised that it wasn’t a head covering; it was the torso of a man! A rippling stomach seemed to blend seamlessly with the horse body, developing into a pair of human shoulders with powerful arms, and surmounting all a human head, long hair flowing out behind it.
Three more of the centaari trotted out from the shadows, then another six; ten of the beasts stood in the centre of the village. They seemed to be communicating with each other, though no sound reached the watchers. Instead, Kaliss became aware that he was tense, every muscle suddenly screaming for relaxation as he waited for what would come next. His breath seemed loud in the space, and he realised that he couldn’t hear the Sylva around him breathing at all.
The biggest centaari, the one at the front, brought his right arm up and pointed towards the inn, where lights still burned. In his left hand, Kaliss could see a crossbow, though one that seemed heavily modified. The leader fired a shot from the crossbow which hit the door of the inn with a thud, and as if this was a signal, the rest of the centaari reared up, bellowing, before charging towards the inn
Within seconds, the scene was carnage. Powerful kicks smashed the doors inwards while crossbow bolts peppered the walls and broke windows. From somewhere a fire had sprung up, and as one of the larger centaari came to the fore, Kaliss could see that the crossbow this one wielded was stranger yet, larger and wider; the bolts it shot seemed to explode on impact, adding to the sudden noise and confusion.
Kaliss’ fists clenched. “There are people in there!” he hissed. Turning to face the Kinroc, he found the Sylva’s face impassive. “Don’t you understand? People!” he shouted, making a grab for the Kinroc’s arm; suddenly he found himself on the ground, a sword at his throat.
“Do not expect to lay hands on me again, and live,” growled Faergaldan. “I do not want this, but it is necessary. If you wish to die, go out there and face them.”
Shrugging off the hand that pressed him into the ground, Kaliss rolled over and staggered up to the window again. His face a tragic mask, he could only watch as people ran out of the inn, their clothes on fire; a mother trying to flee with a babe in her arms cut down in a hail of quarrels, while a farmer wielding a pitchfork simple disappeared when one of the exploding bolts hit him.
Suddenly, it was over; two of the centaari grabbed fleeing women, one of them a young maid, the other a village elder. At some unspoken signal, the leader turned and began to gallop off, and the rest wheeled around to follow him, the two abductors carrying their prey under their arms.
Kaliss allowed his gaze to roam around the scene; the burning fire crackled ferociously, the occasional dull explosion from inside heralding the end of a bottle of spirits. A child sat shaking a body, evidently the child’s parent, but did not understand why they would not get up. A shaky bucket chain had begun to form in the aftermath of the attack, but water would come too late to save the inn.
Silent tears rolled down Kaliss’ face, but he had not the presence of mind to wipe them away. This is ludicrous, a small part of his mind told him, you have no kinship to this village. Why do you care? 
Because I can do something about it, the rest of him replied.
Leaping to his feet, Kaliss ran to the door and out into the night. Hardly seeing what he was running past, he focussed on following the trail left by the horse-men, out into the darkness. Aware that he was not alone, he looked to the side to see four Sylva keeping pace; Faergaldan, Ryn, Julis and a thin, agile Sylva by the name of Corrin. Each wore the same determined face that mirrored what he felt; the centaari would pay for their excesses.
Their path crossed from field into woodland; the light failed as the moon was obscured by leaves, and whipping branches stung at the thief’s face, but still he ran on. Inside, his rage at being unable to intervene back in Kentin roiled inside him like some vile tide, pushing him beyond the bounds of his strength.
The trail continued off between the trees as Kaliss finally tired of the chase. Slowing, he noticed that the Sylva seemed hardly to be breathing deeply, while he was puffing like a bellows. Forced at last to walk, he did not notice when Faergaldan sent Corrin and Julis ahead to scout, so focussed was he on following the trail.
Just as Kaliss brought his breathing under control, the scouts returned.
“What news?” said Faergaldan quietly.
Julis motioned for silence. “The encampment lies not a hundred paces from here,” she said. “There is a natural clearing which the centaari have turned into a permanent camping spot. Many bones lie around, some of them human.”
At this, Kaliss’ head jerked towards them. “We must save them!”
Ryn’s hand came up, cutting Kaliss off. “We cannot. We should find a place to observe and wait until morning.”
Kaliss looked over at Ryn, confusion evident on his face. “But…” he began, but the Sylva was not moved. As Faergaldan started to direct Julis to find places for them to hid, Ryn took Kaliss by the arm and lead him a short distance away.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Ryn said “I’m sorry, Kaliss, there’s nothing we can do for them.”
“They’re people, aren’t they?” said Kaliss, his voice rising.
Ryn motioned towards the clearing, his body suddenly tense. “Keep your voice down, Kaliss,” he hissed angrily. “I know that your race has a softness for females that leads to the irrational more often than not. Our race has similar traits, but in all things the greater good must be our main consideration! If we let those two women die, we might save the rest of the villagers.” He let his arm drop and relaxed slightly. “I’m sorry,” he finished.
Kaliss turned away, feeling the frustration boiling inside of him. Suddenly, he turned, balling his fist, and launched a punch at the Sylva. Ryn stood impassively as Kaliss pulled the punch short and instead pounded the woodland floor, falling to all fours as he did so. The thief hung his head.
Finally, he stood. Much calmer, he looked into Ryn’s eyes before nodding and turning away. The stinging in his fist reminded him that he was alive, and as he clenched it, a single drop of blood fell to mingle with the dead leaves.
Faergaldan was standing impassively by, having watched the whole scene. He cocked at eyebrow at the thief, but his voice was level as he said “You will find Corrin standing at the base of a tree ahead. Move quietly, and we will put these bastards in their graves tomorrow.”
Their eyes met, and Kaliss nodded, before heading off in the direction the Kinroc had pointed.
Ryn came up to join his commanding officer. The two of them watched the human’s retreating back.
“How did you know he wouldn’t hit you, Ryndaele?” asked Faergaldan.
“I didn’t,” replied Ryn, scratching his chin. Faergaldan rested his hand on Ryn’s shoulder for a moment, before turning towards his own watching point. Moving stealthily, Ryn followed his leader.