Merciless Consequences

So no matter what I do I cannot find a new title for this piece. I am not especially fond of the current one for some reason; it just bothers me. Anyway this particular story is one of my favorites and one of the better of the "older" stuff I have written, though older is barely a year.
As the blog progresses I will probably put my better writing out, right now it is submitted so I want to wait for the conclusion of that before it becomes more widely known, though right now I suspect no one has read anything prior to.


Coenred road his horse hard with his body pressed low upon it; the beast’s flanks were matted with sweat after a hard days ride. Blood and dirt clogged a wound on Coenred’s shoulder where he had been shot with an arrow earlier that day, it was nothing serious though it hampered his own ability to fight and ride.
Nearby were the Mercian Invaders of the north. Their army was powerful and he had been sent by the peoples of Wessex, his own southern land, to scout them and relay information. A quick and decisive maneuver by the Wessex forces could halt the invasion and turns the odds to their favor for the war as a whole. Currently the army was camped in a vulnerable location, if he could successfully determine the Mercian’s location the Wessex troops could move to one of two positions and defeat the enemy lines, but if the Mercian’s had advanced farther than anticipated there would be no chance of reaching the position in time to fortify it and defeat the Mercians.
The woods Coenred had been riding through thinned out and ahead, over a wide grass field, a house became visible. A small copse of trees that was near to the house with a river running around its far side. It appeared abandoned and Coenred would not be surprised if it was. Trains of refugee fleeing the war front had been marching past the Wessex camp for days.
There were four horses picketed out front of the home, it was impossible to tell to which army the beasts belonged. Coenred concluded it must be his own for it was infeasible that the Mercians had advanced this far already. The scout, however, veered towards the river, he could converse with his fellow soldiers later, first he should get his wound clean lest it become infected. In the army’s camp, Coenred had seen more than one unfortunate soldier’s wound turn foul and lead to horrible consequences because he did not tend to it immediately.
Coenred dismounted at the water’s edge and began to sop the wound with water until it was clear of dirt. It stung like hell and Coenred winced visibly with the first few splashes, but he knew it would benefit him later.
A twig snapped on the far bank. Out of instinct Coenred retreated into the bushes and thick foliage behind him, his horse had wandered a short way up the bank and was almost invisible behind two thick forest giants.
A man clad in a brown tunic wearing a chainmail vest and small iron cap emerged; a Mercian scout. He had a thick red beard that sprouted from his chin and curled forward in a way found most handsome for the times.
Coenred gasped, the Mercians should not even have scouts this far south. If the Wessex army proceeded any farther it would spell certain disaster for his homeland. He cautiously pulled the bow from his back and quickly but quietly strung an arrow against the yew wood. He aimed and tensed himself for the shot; it was less than twenty yards, an easy shot. The man’s companions would not hear him fall, his body would be muted when it fell to the soft forest loam.
The enemy crouched by the water and filled his canteen in the slow current the returned through the woods back to where the house was. A bead of sweat trickled down Coenred’s temple. The enemy’s back proffered and easy target. Coenred rose and took careful aim, extending the bow to its full capacity. He knew he could make the shot, he had done so dozens of times at the range in camp. Then suddenly he changed his mind, unstrung his bow and slipped it back into its buckskin tube. He replaced the arrow as well then returned to his horse. He mounted swiftly, eager to return to the safety of the Wessex army. Now there could be no doubt the Wessex army should move to the second location.
His horse trotted around the fringe of the trees and towards the road; Coenred’s logic was the Mercians would go up the road while he returned back down to where the Wessex army base camp was. Instead as he rounded at the edge of the copse he came face to face with the four scouts. Their horses nickered as the Mercians struggled with their weapons. Coenred forced his horse into an all out gallop, trying to flee the enemy scouts. His horse was fast, even though it was deadbeat tired it could still outrun the heavier stallions of the north; southern horses were always faster.
An arrow zipped past his head, missing him and his mount by a hair’s breadth. A second shot, further to his right, missed him again. He was almost out of range when three shafts passed around him. He was safe now, out of reasonable range.
A lucky shot with slightly more distance and accuracy buried into his back. Coenred crumpled in the saddle and fell limply from it as his horse rode on. The scout’s foot was caught in one of the stirrups and he was dragged several yards before his body came to a rest.
The Mercian scouts patted the back of the man who had made the shot; he had a thick red beard that sprouted from his chin and curled forward in a way found most handsome for the times.