Pleading, screaming, intractable wind, that was all he heard when he had one of his sell-swords thrown off the Godscliff so that he might have a horse to ride on as they made their way back to Castle Redforest. He did not relish sending a man to his death--well, he didn’t normally go out of his way to kill men, unlike his father--but sometimes the relative comforts were worth it. Besides, he now had one less man he had to pay upon his safe return. He’d use the excess to buy him a new litter and whore.

Traveling through the Highlands was a harrowing experience as of late; it always felt like a thousand eyes peered out from hiding places behind rocks, scrub brush, and gnarled, misshapen trees. And not just human eyes, hungry and staring, mind you. There were beasts around here, somewhere. Rumored to be quite nasty.

How the Highlands fell into disregard by the realm was beyond him. It was King Norman’s responsibility, though the Lords were supposed to contribute. He supposed that if the King didn’t care, the Lords couldn’t be blamed for not giving two shits about the Highlands, either. Besides, what did they ever get out of the area but gristle in their horse’s hooves?

He scratched behind his ear.

Horse fleas. Little shits.

Yet, to his mind, you could not deny the threat of the tribesmen. Raiders, pillagers, murderers, whatever you wanted to call them--his favorite, from the brothels, was goat-fuckers, though he highly doubted even they would fuck what they’d later eat--they were dangerous, the lot of them. And what was dangerous could not be ignored, not for long.

He leaned forward and gave his horse a pat. It was a Hoverland beast, well bread, out of his father’s stable. Had he given permission for these men to ride these horses? He didn’t think so. Miro, he thought, trying to fuck me. I’ll have to have a talk with that slave upon my return. His father hadn’t noticed on his ride-through, luckily. He would have been furious to know such men had his horses under their balls.

They’d traveled for a day and a half now.

He wanted desperately to be home. To sit atop his chamber pot, to--

A horn off to the left, three short blasts. His eyes darted off into the scrub brush. He couldn’t see anything moving back there. “To me! To--”

Arrows zipped out at them. The man in front of him took one to the neck. He cried out in surprise, grasping at the arrows shaft, trying to pull it out. Then he slumped, fell off his horse. Jorbert watched as his head smattered against cool blue stone. “De-horse!”

His men were doing so already, unsheathing their swords. “No, you fools, not swords! Get to cover!”

An arrow flew passed his ear.

He de-horsed and ran to the man who’d fallen from his horse. He was covered in sticky, hot blood. Jorbert didn’t care. He rolled the man over and laid down next to him, the corpse facing the brush where the arrows flew. He watched helplessly as his men fell, one after another, in sprays of blood. And then men were upon them.

From here he saw two men at the front of his group run down by panicking horses; two more dodged in time, only to be taken by five men in shaggy sheep-skin clothing, men with full beards and lean, taunt bodies. Tribesmen. Jorbert knew they would not hesitate and they did not. They cut the two men’s throats, kicked them over, left them face down to die.

Then it was over.

Grunts and the sound of rustling clothes. Going through pockets, he thought. Panic welled up from his chest.

The corpse, his shield, now his hiding place, had a sword in his scabbard and a knife in his belt. The knife, that ought to do it. He reached a hand around slowly, pulled it from the dead man’s belt. Funny. He didn’t even know the man’s name. It was on a list somewhere back at Redforest.

“Well, well.” A surprised, gruff voice from behind him. “One alive.”

Jorbert was dragged to his feet by his tunic's collar, choking him as he went. But as soon as his feet touched solid ground, he spun, driving the knife into the first place its blade-tip touched.

It glanced off the tribesmen’s sternum.

The savage’s face was a portrait of surprise, his mouth the shape of an over-ripe pear. He grunted. Looked down at his chest. And when his face arose to look at Jorbert once more, dark shadows were where his eyes should have been; his brow was furrowed into a look of hate.

Jorbert could do nothing before the tribesmen reeled his arm back, his hand a fist the size of a whole castle’s keep, and struck him square in the nose.

He tasted tin and copper in the back of this throat as he fell to the black.