Long Night At The Bullrush Inn Pt.2

Long Night Of Tales At The Bullrush Inn.

Part Two of Two

         Despite his protestations that nothing was stolen from the Bullrush, Cheyne suspected Kranig's bags were bulging a little more than normal. The town was quiet apart from frogs, with people either asleep or making their way through the swamp to create a little havoc. Kranig was surprised - he suspected the locals were all air and no action. He and Cheyne slunk out to the stables and balanced an oil lamp on a rickety chair while they saddled up Patch and Kranig's grey-speckled horse, loading their bags on top.

         "So, you interested in returning for their fighting tournament, Cheyne? Or maybe one of their others?" Kranig pulled buckles and straps tighter.

         She gave him a look of loathing. "The only tournament I want to be part of is the 'Getting the Red Hells Out of Here Tournament'. Were they born like this do you think or is it something in the water?"

         He wrinkled his nose. "I doubt any of them have more than a passing acquaintance with water. Maybe it's in that stuff we were drinking tonight. I still feel queasy from it."

         Cheyne belched and winced. "Me, too. I've cleaned my boots with better. They say that each time you drink strong alcohol a small part of your brain dies."

         Kranig chuckled. "These people were weaned on it, then. Do you want a hand with Patch?" He noticed her horse seemed jittery.

         Cheyne shook her head. "I don't need help. I can handle him..." she paused and glanced underneath, "... her. I think she's spooked by this place, too. I don't blame her."

         Patch swung around, her rear hoof clipping the chair with the lamp. It toppled and the lamp cracked open on the floor, spewing oil over the old straw. With a loud whoofh noise the oil caught alight, making the horses panic all the more.

         Kranig grabbed a millet broom and shook his head at Cheyne, tut-tutting. "You and fire. What is it about the two of you getting together?" He beat at the flames with the broom but instead of putting it out, his actions fanned the fire larger and splashed burning oil onto the wall. It ignited the broom and licked up the handle to his hands. He dropped it in shock - and it fell onto a pile of hay.

         Cheyne stomped on the burning oil to try extinguishing the flame but succeeded only in splattering the oil on her boot, setting fire to her foot. With a yelp she ran across the barn to the water trough and jammed her foot inside, unaware she was leaving burning footsteps in the straw in her wake.

         "That's better. Kranig? Oh, oh..." She turned and saw the stables were filling with smoke and flames. Kranig had given up trying to put it out. The fire had leapt and sizzled over the dry straw and hay, igniting the old wooden building. Rats and mice and enormous black bugs were tumbling from gaps in the woodwork, falling like rain and fleeing out the door. Kranig knew it was time to follow. He untied the other horses in the building and grabbed the reins of their mounts, pulling them out the door which led out the others. Cheyne was right behind him.

         "What do we do, Kranig?"

         "There's nothing we can do, it's too far gone. So, we didn't see it and it never happened, Cheyne. Let's get out of here before we're rightfully blamed."

         "We can't..." her innate sense of right told her not to leave the fire, but Kranig was correct. There was nothing they could do. At least they had saved the horses. "Maybe we should tell someone?"

         "You really want to wake up anyone still in Yate and admit you've burnt down a stable? You are brave."

         She was not that brave. "I guess they'll know soon enough. Let's go."

         "You know, there are precious few towns we have been to where we haven't burned something down." He climbed on his grey.

         "At least this one was unintentional." She clambered onto Patch.

         "I like that excuse. I'll use it next time I'm caught pick pocketing."

         "I thought you'd given up picking pockets."

         "I like to keep my hand in." He spurred his horse on and hers followed down the road towards the far end of town. Out of Yate.



         Cheyne and Kranig followed the main street of the town lined with shacks as it meandered through the swamp. Only the road clustered with shops and lean-tos was on high, solid ground, the rest was a misty quagmire that few living things could survive without being sucked down and swallowed by the deep sludge. They passed the buildings at the far end of town, mainly stables and storehouses, and then there was nothing but the raised road on a ridge above the stinking mud. Eventually they reached the end of the road - literally - but they smelled and heard it before they came close. A large cattle pen stretched from one side of the road to the other, from swamp to swamp. Within were nearly a hundred head of rust-coloured cattle, profits from previous rustling adventures, jammed shoulder-to-shoulder and none-too-happy about it. Their frustrated mooing mixed with the laughing of the frogs and the groan from Cheyne.

         "A dead end. Just what we didn't need. Kranig, was this part of your plan? Hot food, hot bath, hot stables... lots of trouble?"

         They glanced back at the fire some way behind. The glow over the silhouetted buildings implied it had grown and spread. He shrugged. "Things could be worse."

         From the distance, carried by a light breeze, they heard the shouts of the townsfolk of Yate coming back through the dark swamp on their secret trails, alerted by the fire glow.

         Kranig gritted his teeth. "Now it's worse. Well, no going back, so what's forward?" He left his horse and clambered up the railing fence, trying to see the far side of the cows. "I think the solid ground continues over there. We can go through... once we move the cattle."

         Cheyne jumped to the dirt and pulled their horses to the side, tying them to the fence. "Very well, farm boy. Move the cattle."

         Kranig picked the rusting lock easily and pulled the chain apart. With nothing to secure them, the gates swung open wide. The cows remained, packed tight, shoulder-to-shoulder. Kranig threw a rock at the closest one. It stared at him with wide brown eyes and moved closer to the others, waving its tail. He jumped up and down, kicking the dust, waving his arms and yelling incoherent fragments. Cheyne very slowly applauded his efforts.

         He was miffed by her wordless sarcasm. "You don't understand. They are hungry and fearful because of years of mistreatment."

         "I don't want to know if they're happy, I just want them gone. Come on, do some sort of thiefy-thing."

         "I rarely thieve from cows."

         "Stop making excuses, Kranig."

         Muttering with frustration, he scaled the fence and stood on the top rail. With arms outstretched for balance, he trod with care around the enclosure until he was on the far side. Again he tried the waving of arms and yelling and had the same lack of effect. Then he noticed something. He was about to explain it to Cheyne when the old wood crumbled under his foot and he tumbled into the seething mass of cattle. This panicked the cows.

         Within seconds the animals inside the enclosure were running out, bellowing and charging mindlessly, funnelled away down the only road back through Yate. The earth beneath their hooves vibrated with the combined weight and strength of the crazed herd.

         Cheyne managed to scramble aside and keep the horses calm during the stampede. It was like nothing she had ever seen - so much mindless, wanton power thundering blindly along a narrow street. She found it frightening and exciting. What could stand up against a stampede like that? Then she thought of her companion stuck amongst them - where had he gone? When the dust had cleared and no four-footed animals were left alive in the pen, she raced to the gate, yelling. "Kranig? You alive?"

         He staggered out from the gloom, his cloak and face covered in dirt. He zigzagged towards her, avoiding the many cowpats and dead, bloated cows between them, and spat out a brown glob. "I'm alive, Cheyne."

         "Good!" She brushed aside her concern and smiled. How silly of her to be worried - Kranig was always all right. She slapped his back and watched the dust rise from him. "Let's go."

         "No point." He gestured to the far side. "I saw it when I stood over there. It's swamp all behind and around the pen. There's no way out. This is a dead end. The only way out is..."

         They looked back at the flaming town and listened to the rumbling hooves in the distance; the shouts and the screams of the strange Yaters; the crackling roar of the fire catching to other buildings...

         Both felt a moment of dread. They were trapped.

         "Well, look on the bright side," Kranig said eventually.

         "All right, what's the bright side here?"

         "Well... It's just a figure of speech."

         They stared at the town, defeated, frozen in place and with no idea what to do. Suddenly Kranig turned to Cheyne and poked her in the arm. "Bet we make it out of here alive."

         She stared at him a moment in shock at the idea of such a bet, then considered the odds. "I bet we don't."

         "You are always so contrary and negative. I bet we do. I've got a plan."

         "A plan? Would you put a gold on it?"

         "Two gold, Cheyne."

         "Two?" She cheered up slightly. "You must be confident. Let's go, then."



         His plan was simple but she could not fault it. Just follow the cattle at full gallop and with any luck in the confusion the townspeople would think they were just more stampeding cows and stand aside. It was only as they approached the buildings that Cheyne and Kranig realised the amount of devastation they had caused. Half the buildings of the shantytown had caught fire or collapsed having lost the support of other structures. The cattle had knocked over or trampled much of what remained on their way out. That included people.

         Kranig noticed the bodies of several prominent members of The Bullrush Inn, scorched and flattened, including the unofficial lord mayor and barman, Martan. The rest of the people were panicking, nursing their wounds or trying in vain to put out the inferno with buckets of water or dismantle more shanties to create a firebreak. They were too preoccupied to notice Cheyne and Kranig riding past. Cheyne and Kranig, however, were too preoccupied watching at them to notice they were riding towards another pair dressed in red leathers, galloping hard. At the last second Cheyne saw them and drew her mount to halt. Kranig stopped at the same time, and the oncoming two did the same, stopping only twenty feet away. All wore expressions of surprise for various reasons. Cheyne was first to speak, astonished. "Captains?"

         Two captains from the Montayne guard stared in horror at the scene in front of them as well as the two riders opposite. Both captains were Montane nobility, Braymon and his best friend Fiennes, and were guardsmen in name only having bought their ranks. As nobles, they had never had an opportunity to witness havoc like that before them. They were used to the cleanliness, order, and refined qualities of their home city of Montane - or at least the parts they frequented were like that.

         Both captains closed their slack mouths and set to business. They were there to perform a duty for their lords in the name of the King's law.

         Braymon used his best commanding voice. "Fugitives! Cheyne Dorin and Kranig Aldershan? I am here under the obligation of the nobility and in standing for the King and his laws-" He was cut short by the small grain silo nearby exploding, sending smouldering debris raining down.

         Kranig was flabbergasted. "Who would have thought wheat would explode?"

         Fiennes looked from Cheyne to Kranig and back, aghast. "Did you two do this?"

         "Do what?" Kranig blinked, looking as blank as he could.

         "This fire, this disaster, these cows everywhere..."

         Cheyne gave a shamefaced smile "This may sound daft, but it was an accident."

         Braymon adopted his noble voice again. "I came here to avenge the honour of our town and to enforce the laws of the King upon the thief, Kranig Aldershan."

         "Oh, come now," Kranig snorted. "You've come all this way after me for that? Are you stupid?"

         "He's a nobleman," Cheyne clarified. "It's an honour thing."

         Fiennes drew his sword. He did not take kindly to anyone calling his best friend in the whole world 'stupid'. "The nobility are obliged by their position to protect the peasants and serve justice in the name of King Eonghus IV. We demand that you fight us in the name of those whose honour you have plundered and now for this poor destroyed town."

         Cheyne shook her head. "It's just gossip. We haven't really done all that much - well, yes I suppose we did, but not in the way you say. Just like we haven't caused this here... not in the way you think. Though I guess technically we did..." she sighed. "Things just seem to happen near us by coincidence."

         "Things do." Kranig added helpfully.

         Fiennes snarled, his anger getting the better of him. "You should be ashamed of your evil, as Braymon and I are both ashamed of you and what you have done."

         As Fiennes spoke he noticed the remaining local townspeople had gathered around the four horsemen. They had realised Yate was beyond being saved so their attention turned instead to those who caused the destruction. Cheyne and Kranig, the lords had called them. One of the grey-clad thieves, Silver, stepped forward. He was singed and streaked with black, like most of the townsfolk.

         "Cheyne and Kranig. Did you two do all that they claim as well as this?" His eyes were dark and unreadable.

         Kranig gave a little nod. What do we have to lose? Only life and limbs. "Well, I guess we did, but like Cheyne said, it was-"

         "You set fire to our town? You stampeded the cattle? You robbed the inn?"

         "Oh, Kranig!" Cheyne scolded. "You promised you wouldn't!"

         "And you stole our gold key trophy?"

         Kranig winced, uncomfortably aware of being the centre of everyone's attention. "I couldn't help myself. It's brass, anyway, you cheap buggers."

         "You even killed our mayor?"
"If he was trampled or burnt then I guess inadvertently we had a hand in it, but-"

         Now Braymon Driston drew his sword as well. The two nobles held their weapons high as he spoke. "You have both committed unspeakable crimes against so many. You have become totally immoral - I do not know what could possibly have possessed you, Miss Cheyne, but I assume it is the wicked influence of this scoundrel. You both must pay the price and surrender to justice in the name of good King Eonghus!"

         The crowd's attention turned to Braymon as if just noticing him and Fiennes in their guard uniforms. A stout young man in brown with lank hair in a ponytail and swollen cheekbones stepped forward. "We don't like your sort."

         Braymon leaned closer in his saddle. "Yes, good peasant? And what sort is that?"

         "We don't like... nice!"

         The noblemen exchanged puzzled glances.

         The crowd suddenly surged closer, reaching their hands up to Cheyne and Kranig. Cheyne drew her mace and batted them aside and Kranig drew a couple of daggers to keep them at bay, but then they realised that they were not under attack.

         The crowd were reaching up to touch them and be touched, to congratulate and honour the two. A chant began; "Evil, evil, evil..."

         Silver spoke for them all, now their mayor was dead. "We are truly in the presence of masters of evil. This will go down in our history as a great day! Better than The Decapitation of Garrat the Slasher. Better than The Bloodbath Cattle Stampede of Autumn. Better than The Long Night of Fear and Turtles!"

         The crowd cooed in appreciation.

         "This is a great day for Yate! We shall long remember The Fiery Bovine Vengeance of Cheyne and Kranig!"

         The crowd roared in approval and those with two working arms applauded.

         "You're a bunch of crazed idiots!" Cheyne yelled.

         The crowd howled louder.

         She looked to Braymon for support, but he was even more flabbergasted by the crowd's reactions.

         "I... I...say," Fiennes' sword drooped as he looked to his friend for advice, as usual. "Does this mean no fight?"

         The mob roared and turned as one, drawing their weapons and heading to the noblemen. With a gap around them, Cheyne and Kranig charged their horses forward along with the people, pushing them aside and breaking through. One thug went under Patch's hooves as the horse panicked.

         Silver gave an excited commentary. "Cheyne's just killed Derral Tharane!"

         "I'm still alive..." a weak Derral croaked.

         The crowd awwwed with disappointment. Kranig spurred on past them and the noblemen and through the straggling cattle, Cheyne at his side. As they disappeared into the night, Braymon and Fiennes realised the peril of their own position - two guards against a mob. They waved their sharp swords, keeping the wary crowd at bay, but they were slowly being surrounded.

         "Retreat!" Braymon called, allowing Fiennes to go first. With expert swordsmanship and horsemanship, Braymon fended off the nearest of the townspeople, slashing upper arms to drive them back without killing unnecessarily. He was perturbed to find that the more he wounded and fell, the more the crowd seemed to approve of him. It was just too much for the nobleman. He fled, following his second, convinced that they had left behind some of the most insane people on Traedis.






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