Prey
The Drovers, Book 1
Prologue
BORROS FIGURED THE MEN would try to kill him and Lagash today. If he were in their shoes, he would have waited until they reached Kog’s Pass. But this lot was eager and impatient and thought they saw an opportunity.
He sat on his short-legged stool by the morning campfire with his breakfast of dried dates, hard bread, and watered vinegar. He was stroking Peer and Digger, his two dogs that the men most assuredly had poisoned.
Peer was the older of the two. Gray with ears and a snout that ran to black. He was smart. But obviously not smart enough to avoid whatever he’d been given. Digger was younger, a brown and white that Borros had gotten from a mountain shepherd. He was normally full of energy, but he could barely lift his head now. The two dogs just lay there, weakly keening with each breath.
They were excellent herding dogs. Excellent guards. Excellent companions.
He stroked Peer again. The dog whimpered.
Anger boiled in Borros, but he refused to show it, for if the men suspected he knew, they would immediately attack.
Sunrise wasn’t far off. The clouds were starting to turn pink in the east. Around him in the vale, the two hundred and forty-eight head of cattle he was driving to Broniss were dipping their heads into the dew-wet grass and getting their morning fill. And with him, at the campsite, were the four murderous men.
The skinny one was still sleeping a few paces away from the fire. The bald one was lying in his bedroll, hands behind his head, looking up at the dwindling stars in the sky. The third, the big hairy one, was sitting on a large rock picking breakfast out of his teeth with a horn toothpick. The fourth, Drogan, their leader, the one who liked to outline his eyes in kohl, was sitting on another short-legged stool across the fire from Borros, watching the flames.
He should never have hired them. But a week into this drive, his original crew had all become deathly ill, and he’d told himself he couldn’t wait the week it might take for them to heal. Which was true. War with Osson was imminent, and the mage queen needed beef to feed her troops. Borros had contracted with one of the queen’s agents and promised a delivery date, and you did not miss a delivery date to the mage queen. Furthermore, a portion of these cattle was put into his trust by an old widow and a few other of his neighbors. He’d convinced them it would be safe, and he wasn’t going to short shrift them.
So he’d left his original crew to recover and hired Skinny and Baldy. A day farther along the trail, Skinny had said he knew of two others who could help. That’s when Drogan and the big hairy one had joined them. It’s also when Borros had begun to have misgivings.
Borros looked at Drogan and Hairy. They were definitely not going to wait. They were going to strike today. He could feel it. It was the dogs, of course, but it was more than that. He could sense it in the way they carried themselves. And the fact that they were avoiding each other’s eyes. Not completely, but enough for him to know something was afoot. Furthermore, the tip of a scabbard was poking out of the hairy one’s bedroll. A scabbard the man did not have the day before.
Drogan said, “I’m sure they’ll get better. They’re good dogs.”
“Yes,” said Borros. “Excellent hounds.”
“We’ll certainly miss their help, but the bright side is that it appears the rain has let up.” He motioned at the sky. “Looks to me like it’ll be a day full of sunshine. A pleasant walk to our next stop at the village of Buckle Hill.”
Borros pushed down his rage and grinned. “It’s going to be a corker,” he agreed with great enthusiasm.
Drogan’s eyebrows lifted with surprise at the energy in Borros’s voice. “There’s a happy man despite his setbacks.”
“Indeed,” said Borros, and his plan for dispatching these worthless turds began to take shape.
Drogan smiled his crooked-toothed, kohl-eyed smile, then shared the briefest of smug and knowing glances with Hairy.
“What was that?” Asked Borros.
“Just haven’t seen you this chipper before,” said Drogan.
“Right,” said the hairy one.
Borros glanced at the dark trees where Lagash, his companion on this trip, had gone to do his business, but the man was still nowhere to be seen. Great birds, how long could it take for a man to relieve himself?
He wanted Lagash with him, but it didn’t matter. Borros was done waiting. He, not these four louts, was going to choose the time and place for this fight. And right here and now seemed like very good ground for a fight. Besides, he wasn’t going to be fighting all four of them anyway.
Like most such gangs of men, there was one who was their best fighter. And there was one who was probably not too far behind him. The fighter might be the leader. Or he might be the right-hand man. Either way, if you started at the bottom with the weakest, you would have to fight all of them. But Borros wasn’t going to start at the bottom. He was going to start with Drogan. And when he fell, the rest would hesitate. That’s when he’d take down Hairy. And then, with their deadliest men down, all thought of fighting would depart the other two.
Borros drained the last of the watered vinegar out of his wooden cup, made a loud sound of satisfaction, and set the cup aside. It began now.
He pointed at the tip of the leather scabbard poking out of Hairy’s bedroll. “That’s new,” he said happily.
Drogan looked at the scabbard tip, then up at Hairy, and narrowed his eyes in the smallest bit of condemnation and worry.
“New?” Hairy asked, trying to feign ignorance.
“That sword,” Borros said and pointed again.
Hairy looked down. “Oh, that,” he said. “No, I’ve had that for almost a year.”
“You didn’t mention it when I asked what weapons you had for the job.”
“Well, I,” he stammered.
“I’m sure he did,” Drogan said.
“I’m happy you have it,” Borros said. “Surprised is all. I suppose that means you’ve done a bit of sword work then?”
“A bit,” Hairy said.
“You mind if I have a look?”
Hairy glanced at Drogan for direction.
“Let the man see it,” Drogan said, relieved. “It’s a beauty.”
“Right,” Hairy said. Then he reached down, picked up the scabbarded sword and held it out to Borros.
Borros took it. The scabbard was covered over with leather the color of doeskin. White linen tassels hung at intervals along its length. And along the side, contrasting nicely with the light doeskin, was a dark woodland scene featuring two hunting dogs chasing some deer.
“Very nice,” Borros said, not believing at all that this was Hairy’s sword.
Drogan said, “He won it in Kava last year.”
Borros grabbed the hilt, partially withdrew the sword, and immediately recognized the ornate design on the flat of the blade. It was a Norrson design of loops and curls. Until last night, this had been hanging above the mantle of the old farmer’s house in the village six miles back. Back there a yellow ribbon had been tied around it, marking it as a memorial to a warrior slain in battle. The ribbon was gone. Probably now somewhere in Hairy’s possession.
“That must have been some wager,” said Borros.
“A drunken gentleman,” Hairy said.
“Which teaches you not to drink,” Borros said. “Or not to keep strange company when you do.”
Borros held the blade up to the morning light and made a big show of examining it. “Look at this,” he said and pointed at the figure of a running wolf incised into the blade. “A Himesbor blade to boot. Unless it’s one of those fakes from Gorland or Trimu.”
“I hear they’re just as good,” Hairy said.
“They’re not,” said Borros. “The only fakes worth their steel come from Cassamon.”
“Well,” said Drogan, “only a master would know.”
Borros ran his thumb across the blade. It was sharp. He held the sword out, felt the balance, the comfortable grip. Noticed the brightness of the blade, which had been excellently maintained. As anything kept above the mantle and lovingly cared for would be.
Some distance away, Lagash of the Everlasting Toilet, emerged from the dark trees, and Borros took that as his cue. He stood with the sword, stepped back a bit, then walked through the form of the ox slowly, cutting down, following it around, then turning, acting as if he were trying the blade out. And he was. He wanted to have a good feel for it. It wasn’t a Himesbor. He’d wielded those before, and such blades almost came alive in the hand. This blade was good, but it wasn’t a Himesbor, which meant the mark of the running wolf was a fake.
He lunged, felt the old pain in his knee flare up, and finished the form.
“Looking like a champion, Master Drover,” Drogan said.
Hairy wasn’t as happy as his leader. He stood there eyeing Borros with suspicion.
Borros cut the air again in a smooth arc. “With such a blade,” he said, “you can smite off hands.” He shuffled a step closer to Drogan. “You can smite off legs,” he said and brought a cut down close to Drogan’s thigh.
“Whoa,” Drogan said and leaned back.
Borros shuffled forward again, and then he put his full strength and speed into it. He whirled, grabbed the hilt and the blade in a two-handed grip for stabbing, and thrust the point directly at Drogan’s face, stopping a hair’s breadth from the man’s nose.
“Shanks!” Drogan cursed and crabbed back.
“With such a blade,” Borros said, “you can skewer a skull. I’ve seen it.”
“What are you doing?” Drogan demanded.
“I wanted to like you,” Borros said, keeping the blade pointed at Drogan. “I wanted to pay you. A good business transaction has such a satisfying feel to it.”
“What are you talking about?” Drogan said.
“Give us back the sword,” Hairy said in warning. Behind him, their bald companion kicked the skinny one to wake him up.
Borros said, “But then I had to fall in league with four thieves.”
Drogan said nothing.
Borros continued, “Hairy there didn’t get this last year in Kava.”
“I did,” Hairy said.
“You stole it. You went back last night. Instead of watching the cattle, you went back to the village and stole it from the wall above the mantle in the alewife’s house.”
“We did no such thing,” Hairy said.
“You greasy dolt,” Borros said. “How many times have I traveled this road? You think I never stopped at that alewife’s house myself and took a mug through her window and saw the sword inside?”
Drogan’s eyes shifted. He knew he’d been caught. It was plain on his face. But it appeared he was going to play it out until he could see a way to get the upper hand.
“Did you kill him?” Borros asked.
They didn’t answer.
“This sword was given to his son who fought in the Dark War. A son who died fighting three Og.”
He waited to see if any of them had the slightest bit of remorse.
“Three Og,” said Hairy dismissively. “Nobody but an anointed would take on three Og. He probably deserted his post and pilfered this on his way out.”
“Did you kill him?” Borros asked. “The old man?”
“We were there and out again in a blink,” Drogan said. Then he took on a conciliatory tone. “What’s the old geezer going to do with it anyway?”
“He didn’t have to do anything with it.”
“He’ll get over it,” Drogan said. “Meanwhile, we’ll put it to good use. It’s going to fetch a fine price in Broniss.” He opened his arms generously. “Now that you know, we’ll split the money with you. Each of us an equal portion.”
“I can’t abide thieves,” Borros said, sword in hand. “I can abide liars even less.”
“Okay,” Drogan said and held his hands wide in submission. “You’re right. I told the boys it wasn’t a good idea. If it offends you so much, we can take it back.”
“Yes, it’s going back,” Borros said. He knew the owner. A good man. A hard-working stable hand who’d barely managed to scratch out his existence after his lord had brought younger men in to do his job. A man whose only solace in the death of his son was the honor he had won. The honor memorialized by this sword.
“It’s going back in style,” Borros said, “and you’re going back with it.” And then something that had been puzzling him about these men fell into place. There had been something about some of their offhand comments that had struck him as odd. Jobs they’d been on. Places they’d been. But it all now came clear.
“You’re part of that rotted band of louts, aren’t you,” Borros said. “Led by that big man. The one who likes to call himself The Bull. What’s his name? Offa?”
Hairy and Skinny glanced at each other, and Borros knew he’d guessed right. He should have known. He shouldn’t have trusted their references. He said, “If I’m not mistaken, there’s a reward on your heads.”
Drogan’s kohl-eyed expression went from submission to calculation and disdain, for he obviously thought Borros was an easy and stupid target. Drogan shook his head in amusement. “He wants us to go back boys. He wants a little reward coin.”
Behind Drogan, Skinny stood and grabbed his spear. The bald one pulled a long knife.
“What do you think?” Drogan asked. “Shall we go back?”
Hairy picked up his axe. “Yeah, we should go back, for the old man’s daughter. She’d fetch a decent price at the market. And could give us a bit of entertainment along the way.”
Drogan said, “Now that’s something to think about. But not just yet.” He stepped back from Borros, giving the others more room to fight.
“We were going to break it to you a little later today,” Drogan said, “but since you’ve pressed the issue, we’ll do it now. The four of us, we’re going to take these cattle. That’s going to happen whether you like it or not. But we don’t have to kill you and your dark-skinned Sorosian friend. Put down the sword, and we’ll spare you. Keep it, and the crows will be pecking your eyes out before noon.”
“How generous,” Borros said.
“We’re not brutal Osson rot,” Drogan said. “Just men looking for an opportunity. And you happen to have been it. Now put down the sword.”
Borros could kill them. But then he’d have to bury them. And bury them deep, or they’d be dug up by some animal, and the crows and vultures would hover, or someone’s dog would come to investigate and bring home a hand or femur, and then the lord of these lands would start a hunt for the murderers, and there would be a search, and the lord’s court and lawyers. Days of time, maybe weeks. Weeks that Borros didn’t have. He had cattle to get to the queen. He needed to move down the road and get to the village of Buckle Hill today.
Lagash finally arrived. “What kind of fun have we got going on here?” he asked.
“Took you long enough,” Borros said.
Lagash picked up the wooden spade leaning against the wagon. The men behind Drogan fanned out to attack.
Borros wanted to run these four pustules through, for Digger and Peer. They deserved nothing less.
But he wouldn’t. Better to let someone else deal with them, Borros thought. The villagers would be awake by now. And if the old man or woman hadn’t noticed the missing sword already, they soon would. And the drovers that had just come through would be on the top of the list of suspects.
A band of villagers was probably on the road right now, coming after them. They could be here within the hour. If they were on horses, they’d be here much sooner. So he and Lagash would need to subdue these men without killing them. Although that didn’t mean he couldn’t bloody them a bit.
“Come,” Drogan said. “There are four of us. You’ll lose some cattle, but at least you’ll walk away with your life.”
“Such a lie,” Borros said. “It wasn’t even a good one. You could have at least promised me a dancing pony.”
Drogan shrugged.
Borros smiled. “They used to call me The Mangler.”
“Very nice,” said Drogan.
With his free hand, Borros reached down to the pile of firewood and picked up a fat stick.
“They used to call me The Body Cleaver.”
“Watch out,” Hairy said in mock alarm, “he’s got himself a stick.”
Skinny chuckled and readied his spear.
“They used to call me Death.”
“Right,” said Drogan, and then he motioned at his men. “Please be good fellows and take care of Death, will you?”
Borros didn’t wait for the good fellows to come at him. He’d always thought attack was better than defense, and so he hurled the fat stick at Drogan’s face.
Drogan flinched, trying to duck the missile and, in doing so, presented a splendid target.
Borros figured a nice stab in the leg would do the trick and lunged.
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