Ridden hard…

Worried Man Blues

Wim barely remembered being carried. He barely remembered the second egg though the taste lingered. He barely remembered being laid down. Sleep came hard and was fitful. The Felfar called to him from the ground.

His dreams were of sparing with his older brother and his friends. The boys each taking their shot and striking Wim on the arm and leg with wooden swords as his father laughed at his in vain attempt to defend himself from boys that had a good three hands reach on him. They struck the same spots over and over again till his body was in a constant state of throbbing pain. Wim threw his weapon down as this was not a fair fight though the strikes kept landing. Even Boyce was there striking him. Anger fed upon anger.

When the alarm was sounded to mount, Wim moved on his anger. He grabbed Boyce’s blade and book and hobbled to his horse. Boyce’s blade was better than the cheap blade that he received from the Keep. This blade meant he was no longer “Boy”, at least in his mind.

Wim moaned as he had to stand on his bad leg to mount. Throwing the bad leg over made it ache. So did using the bar arm to hold the reigns. The wagon was lost so, was the lantern and the writing supplies.

The wagon was a loss, much of his supplies were a loss, his clothing was a loss from the wounds. He held the reigns in his good hand as they rode out. The grey mare sensed the danger and kept flicking her ears back to listen for those chasing them.

Each hoof fall rang through him, hunger was misplaced by pain. Sweat came down Wim’s neck as the the pain festered in him like puss in a old wound.

The grey mare gave him all she had. Her body sweated till it rose like steam in the cool air of the night. Each hood beat at a trot or run was a risk of a stumble or a fall. The mare ran with all she had. Wim went numb as the pain over powered his nerves. He was no longer awake or a sleep but someplace caught between. Wim peed himself at some point on their flight adding to the smell of horse sweat and dirt.

When they made it to the mining village and stopped, his hose laid down letting him roll off. Wim knew this was not a good sign but there was nothing he could do. His mare was probably in as bad of shape as he was. He prayed that it was exhaustion and that she had not gone lame.

Again he laid on the hard ground looking up at the stars.