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Oats had been along on many an errand for his lords, had even carried the message himself on more than one occasion. He figured this would be no different. Oh, the others called him worrywart, nag, grouser, especially the young Sir Hans himself, but he was above all practical. This was a far simpler mission, even in its importance, than most of what he'd done.
Get to Trosky, eat the food, drag Tankard from the booze, go back to Rattay. Maybe make sure Nick stayed out of trouble — the lad was the youngest of all of them, barely grown into his voice. It still went squeaky and shook when he was teased too much.
Konrad would tell him to let the boy be. Konrad was a lech himself, and though Oats got along fine with him, he still kept his eyes open.
Speaking of—
The riders came hard and fast round a blind corner, and were nearly on top of the six of them before Oats, out front, could rein his horse. Fuck. And he had just been boasting about his eyesight. At a glance, though, there was nothing he could have done anyhow. There were too many of them, and they flew red — red like blood, von Bergow's colors.
Sir Hans said as much, calming Henry enough to remove his hand from his sword. Oats relaxed, too. What would come would come. His horse settled beneath him, attuned to her rider. Hans' toed the dirt, betraying his lord's nerves.
Oats stayed silent through the exchange, even as Hans grew more tongue-tied. An easy mission indeed, if his betters could keep their cool. Henry was the one to intervene, and Oats privately admired his audacity, even if it was to call himself a scribe when he'd barely learned to write mere months before. The captain bought it though, and Henry's cool head prevailed.
He did not like the spot they were pointed to. Open, indefensible, with a cliff above perfect for sniping. A campsite and wooden paddock — or ring — spoke to previous occupants, and the road, while currently deserted, could not have been such all the time. He hated it, hated the dread that pooled low in his gut at the thought of the bandits the captain had been hunting falling upon them in the night. That Sir Hans laughed it off made it worse, though he did not say so, and he did not voice his worries to Henry when asked about it. That Henry was thinking it too was enough — no old cook with a nickname so potent no one knew his real one would change the good head on that boy's shoulders.
And he was a good lad, offering to win back his ring even though Oats had already relented and given him the sausage for Mutt. I'll be right there, he called to his impatient lord, and trounced Tankard at dice. Beginner's luck, grumbled Tankard, and Henry smiled, taking the ring shoved at him with a nod.
A good lad, far smarter than anyone gave him credit for. He walked Sir Hans through a warm-up, then a duel, and to hear the lads talk about it, though the lord was flashier, more fun to watch, Henry was the better swordsman. Every move was controlled, precise, necessary.
Oats didn't see any of it. He'd watched enough duels between them, and Henry with others, to know already.
He kept his back to the smack of training swords and watched the cliffs above, pinching his lip between teeth that longed to draw blood.
Nothing moved.
It was wrong.
He only knew it was over when Sir Hans suddenly yielded. When he came over he was rubbing his face where the flat of Henry's wooden sword had tapped his nose. It was red, but hardly broken, and with an experimental wiggle he was fine.
He handed out the grub, listening to the lads bicker and banter like they'd known each other all their lives. Like he and his wife did, still, sometimes. He quashed that thought with a snort and another glance at the road beyond their campsite. It was still so quiet, past Hans' protests and Henry's persistence and the other's laughter. Too quiet for a pond on a well-trod path.
Their little party had been on the road long enough to fall into old routines. Nick did the dishes, Tankard buggered off, for an after-dinner nap under some tree most likely, and it was left to Konrad to undress His Lordship for an evening swim, and Oats to bring the wine.
He caught Henry eying the pond nervously. All this time, and deep water was one of the few things he knew the lad was afraid of. Maybe, after this, he'd teach him to swim. A smart, strong young man like that should know how to swim.
He focused on that, rather than the unease, or the feeling like a sore rubbing on his heel at being dismissed by the young lord, again. What would come would come. These lads were the future, after all, and the future wouldn't wait for old men like him.
Watching them from a ways back, near the edge of the road, Oats rolled his neck and sighed. Worrywart, nag, grouser. Was that all he would ever be?
A long look left, right and behind him, at the cliffs. Still no movement. When he turned back again, Hans and Henry were gone. Probably off into the reeds, and probably at the lord's insistence. Another sigh and he returned to the camp, sorting through what remained of his stores. Nick tried to engage him as he worked, but he gave only grunts as response, the dread sitting in his gut like a lump of charcoal leeching all his energy. He kept his sword close.
Not ten minutes later, his horse screamed from the paddock.
He leapt up to see Umbra rearing, legs kicking futile, then she fell, an arrow in her neck. Time slowed as his beloved horse, a gift from his wife, collapsed to the unforgiving earth. Then the bandits were upon them, and his time was up. Distantly he was aware of the other men fighting with all they had, but it wasn't enough. Nick, then Tankard, then even Konrad, the best swordsman left, fell to the onslaught. When Oats alone still stood, only two bandits stayed to finish him off. The rest began to ransack the camp. He might have been offended, were two bandits not more than enough to defeat him.
Oats held out as long as he could, but he never would have gotten away anyway. A blow to his kidney made him fall to his knees, and he had barely gotten one leg under him when they pounced. He fended off a slash from one bandit, but he couldn't get his sword up in time for the other, and he skewered him in the belly. He choked on blood, having bitten his tongue one last time.
His shield fell from his nerveless hand, face-up in the dirt, no doubt to be scooped up as loot. How Sir Hanush would be disappointed. How his wife would grieve. The world tilted sideways as he slumped. They left him there, blood burbling from his mouth and the hole in his gut. His vision narrowed, blurred, faded. Distant shouts reached him past his heartbeat, slow but loud, so loud in his ears.
Why? They were all dead. No. He prayed his lord and Henry had gotten away.
It would all be worth it, if they had gotten away.