He poured a sip of water from the skin into his Lord’s mouth, and then another.
“We had all but bested the lot of them, but the blasted Highwander Blacksword warriors came a riding through out of nowhere. It was just a few of them, but they hacked and cleaved everything in their path.”
Wyndall paused for breath, and poured another dollop of water into Lord Gregory’s mouth.
“Why?” Lord Gregory asked after he swallowed. He didn’t really expect the boy to know the answer.
“That’s not the whole of it, m’ lord,” the boy continued. “They did the same thing in the Ways. The Blacksword rode down unarmed folks, crofters, and merchants. Women and children even!”
Wyndall’s face contorted at the idea of it all. Anguish was threatening to take hold of him.
“They cut down Westland innocents, Redwolf soldiers, and they killed half a herd of Valleyan horses. Then they set fire to some of the Dakaneese wagering pavilions, while people were still in them,” he sniffled. “Then they came through here. It was only me, Gowden, and Parker who survived it!”
He started breaking down then. Tears flowed down his dirty cheeks, and the ghastly reality of the horrors he had just seen, racked through his young body with a force. He shuddered as he finished.
“A Seawardsman got Gowden, and Willem, was, he was down. I fell and I – I didn’t get back up. Not until after – after they had moved on.” He slumped down into himself, and began bawling like a babe.
They know about King Balton’s death, Lord Gregory thought to himself. The thick blackness in his skull seemed to be ebbing. Fear of what was to come was like a torch light in the dark foggy muck. He was sure that someone here knew that King Balton was dead.
The funeral had been public. Poisoned, King Balton had told him, from his own deathbed. Now, Prince Glendar, the wizard Pael’s little puppet, would have the whole of Westland behind him when he started his war on the east. Gregory couldn’t figure out why the kingdoms of the east were playing so perfectly into Glendar’s hands though. Another thought struck him then like a hammer blow. Lady Trella, his wife.
“Wyndall,” He rasped. The boy was lost in his grief and didn’t seem to hear him. “Wyndall, listen to me!”
This time, the boy responded by wiping his nose on his forearm, and taking a deep breath.
“Yes, my lord?” he whimpered.
“Listen very closely, Wyndall.”
It was painful to be speaking, but things had to be done and people had to be warned. King Balton had given him orders that still had to be carried out, and now he understood the magnitude of them. The King had foreseen his own poisoning, and this collapse of order, and had prepared for it wisely. Gregory was sorry that he wouldn’t be able to complete his part of the design. Hopefully, Mikahl would be able to get along without him.
“Take my ring. It will be proof of the origin of this message. Take anything else you might need, save for my horse. Ride like the wind to my stronghold, at Lakebottom, and tell my wife…Tell Lady Trella these things for me…”
When he finished giving his orders, he made Wyndall repeat the messages and swear to deliver them. He also made him swear to protect Lady Trella with his life. The boy foolishly thought that he had shamed himself when he hadn’t gotten back up earlier to be slaughtered by the impossible odds. He was glad for the chance to regain his honor, and he gave his solemn oath that he would die before he let any harm come to her.
Sometime later, Lord Gregory slipped out from the blackness again. He had dreamed that he had died, but he found now that he no longer wished to be dead. He still hurt so badly that he couldn’t move his body, and he was sure he had pissed himself yet again, but his mind seemed clear. He felt, at the moment, like he might somehow survive. He had a duty to King Balton that needed to be fulfilled. Its importance demanded that he get up and fight for his life, but no matter how hard he tried to rise, he couldn’t.
He was still laying there, half conscious in his misery, when an eager carrion bird came flapping in, and landed on his face. It was a hungry looking, scraggly brown crow. He was sure that it would try to eat his eyes out first. They usually did. He had seen it happen dozens of times. He wished he could move his arms to bat it away, but he couldn’t. When he rolled his head and yelled, the bird just flapped and hovered, and then re-landed, as if his nose were its favorite perch.
Feeling stupid now for cursing the gods and asking them to take his life, he squeezed his eyes closed, and waited for the inevitable. He only wished that he wasn’t letting his beloved King, his wife, and probably the entire realm down, by dying. He remembered his mother then, of all people, chiding him for something or another in that matter-of-fact voice that only mothers can muster.
“Be careful what you wish for Alvin, because you just might get a barrel full of it!”
“Look!” Mikahl whispered.
Loudin turned to see what had alarmed Mikahl. The tattoo covered hunter was leading them due east now, trying to get them to the Leif Greyn River before their pursuers caught up with them. At the very least, he wanted them in the thick, dense strand of forest that ran alongside the riverbank. They could use the cover to make an ambush point, or better yet, just hide until the trouble passed. It was a foolish hope, Loudin knew. If the men had tracked them this far, a confrontation was going to be unavoidable. Hiding wouldn’t be a viable option. He saw what Mikahl had seen, the lantern light that their pursuers were using to care for the man who had stuck his arm into Loudin’s steel-jawed trap had just been extinguished.
“Did you see it go out?” asked Loudin.
“No. I looked back, and it was still way back there where it’s been. Then, just now, I looked again, and it was gone.”
“Aye.” Loudin’s voice was grim. “They’ll be after us again then. We’ve gained a turn of the glass, or two, on them. Not much more than that.”
He climbed off of his horse and went to his pack.
“You’ll be wanting to string that bow of yours now. We’ll stay on foot until we get a little daylight, but, if they want you bad enough to ride through this forest in the darkness, then they’ll be catching up soon, no matter what we do.”
It took a while for the seriousness of the situation to sink in. It made Mikahl nervous, to the point of trembling. He was glad to be on foot. In the saddle, especially with the lizard skin making the ride so awkward and uncomfortable, he would’ve been fidgety and distracted.
Walking briskly behind Loudin, he was at least moving, and forced to listen to the hunter’s barely audible footfalls. Only every now and again, when the forest’s canopy broke overhead, could he see the tattoo covered man, and then, only fleetingly. He was grateful for Loudin’s help; even though he was sure that the hunter would’ve abandoned him long ago, had he not needed Windfoot to help carry his prize lizard skin.
“Why did they stop so long? Why risk the light?” Mikahl asked.
“It probably took a while to get that leg or arm out of my trap, lad. And they know that we know that they’re after us now.”
Mikahl thought he heard a slight chuckle escape the old hunter’s mouth as he spoke.
“Then, it took a while longer to splint the broken limb.”
The mirth suddenly fell from Loudin’s voice, like a heavy stone.
“After that, they found the other traps, and then wisely rested their horses so that they’d be fresh enough to run us down in the morning light.”
“What will we do?” Mikahl’s mind was racing.
“The river is not that far ahead of us. I can smell it.”
Loudin’s voice held very little confidence, and Mikahl found no comfort in it. Mikahl though, was starting to form an idea of what they should do on his own.
“The forest grows thicker there,” Loudin was saying. “…more underbrush. The trees are smaller and closer together. We might be able to ambush –”
“But we don’t need that cover!” Mikahl cut him off. His idea had manifested itself into a plan the moment Loudin had spoken the word, “ambush.”
“Don’t need cover?” Loudin responded rather loudly. He stopped in his tracks and cringed at himself for being so careless with his voice. “Are you daft?” he finished in a harsh whisper.
“Why don’t you hunt bark lizards with a bow and arrows?”
“Because arrows won’t pierce the hide, but –” Loudin suddenly understood what Mikahl was getting at. He didn’t want to risk damaging his prize, but it was a grand idea. There was no better camouflage in the forest, and it would be an utter surprise to be sprung upon out here in the relatively open woods. He thought about it for a few more moments.
“We’ll make a blind then, just as soon as we can see to do it,” said Loudin, finally.
If Mikahl could’ve seen the look of respect on the hunter’s face, he would’ve beamed with pride, but as it was, he could barely see Loudin at all.
The length of time that passed between their idea’s conception and daybreak seemed like an eternity to Mikahl. Already, his old life as King Balton’s Squire, living in a warm castle, where the biggest concern of his day was which serving lass he would try to bed that evening, was but a memory. They were the memories of a lifetime ago. In a way, he was glad to be preparing to make a stand. The fear of flight, of being chased and hunted, was wearing off now. He was an excellent swordsman, one of the best on the training yard at Lakeside Castle. He was a fair archer too. He had been trained by Westland’s best, and Lord Gregory had advised him personally while Mikahl had served him at Lakebottom Stronghold. He was ready to stand and fight. At least, he was telling himself these sorts of things while he was helping Loudin unroll the bark lizard’s skin to make their blind.
On the ground, between two tree trunks that were spaced about four paces apart, they sat the roll. They unrolled only enough of the skin so that the top edge was at chest height. Then they stretched it between the two trees. To pin it in place, they broke the shafts off of two arrowheads, caked them in dirt, and hammered them into the tree with the butt of Loudin’s dagger.
Loudin had Mikahl squat behind the blind, and went to where they had tied the horses. The barkskin was so perfectly blended in color and texture, that the hunter was amazed. All they had to do now was cover the rest of the roll with deadfall and leaves.
“Can you stand and loose from there?” Loudin called out to Mikahl.
Mikahl hopped up, and mocked the action of drawing and releasing an arrow. It looked to Loudin as if a head and torso had just popped up from thin air and he nodded his satisfaction.
“With ease,” Mikahl responded competently. The hunter couldn’t help but notice a smile on the boy’s face. He wasn’t sure yet if that was a good sign or not.
“All right then Mik. Come over here and start digging.”
“Digging?”
“Aye!” Loudin laughed.
His entire part in the plan hinged on whether Mikahl could hit his target on the very first shot. He hoped the castle born boy wouldn’t throw down his bow and flee, the way he had when the lizard had attacked his pack horse. Loudin wasn’t even sure he wanted to make this stand with Mikahl. What exactly was it he was risking his life for? A lizard skin? He knew he could easily take the boy’s horse, elude him, and the other pursuers, if he wanted to. He had lived in this forest for the last half dozen years and he knew its ways well. He wasn’t doing this just for the lizard skin, he decided. As much as he hated to admit it, he liked the boy. Something deep inside him was compelling him to protect Mikahl. What it was, he wasn’t sure, but the compulsion was there, and he couldn’t ignore it.
“If there are four or five of them, we might be setting a trap for ourselves,” Loudin said, in an explanation of his command to dig. “We can’t afford to put all of our coins in one pouch.”
Duke Fairchild had almost killed Tully on the spot, for being so ignorant as to stick his arm into a trap. He would have, but Tully’s keen tracking skills might still be needed. Something as simple as a silver coin had tricked the man. Now, his arm was a ruin, and it was his sword arm at that.
Duke Fairchild found himself impressed with the cleverness of his prey. The choice of baits laid in the jaws of the three traps, told him a lot about the two men he was after. Setting one of the traps to catch a man, was ruthless and smart. They had known they were being followed, and Tully’s scream had told them what sort of a predator was stalking them. He was just happy that Garth found the other traps. A horse could have easily been crippled there.
The Duke decided that it would be better to wait for daylight. There was no telling what other sort of traps the squire and his companion might’ve left for them. He considered it a pity that the lamp light was needed to tend to Tully’s arm. Its light would tell his prey that he was stopping, which, in turn, would give them a few more hours distance and the time they might need to set more pitfalls, or maybe even an ambush.
When the sun finally colored the forest an amber gray, they were already up and moving, and had been for awhile. Even the horses were eager to resume the pursuit. Tully’s arm had been splinted and wrapped tightly with pieces of torn canvas. The Duke had given him a dose of his personal elixir. It would dampen the fool’s pain and make his mind as sharp as Wildermont steel for awhile. Fairchild always kept some of the sweet medicine on hand, in case he was ever wounded in the field. An expensive blend of ground flower seeds, and Harthgarian herbs, mixed with fine brandy wine and honey. Only the wealthiest of men could afford the luxury of it. Tully would get no more of it after the squire was captured, no matter how badly he was hurting.
They made good time, even though they were being extremely cautious, and looking for more traps. The forest was still too spread out for an ambush, the Duke figured, so he pushed them on. Tully rode out in front, wincing, as his trotting horse jostled his wounded arm. Garth was next in line. Fairchild would let them find the trap if there was one. His level of awareness was increasing as the morning wore on. His blood was beginning to tingle with the thrill of the hunt, but his patience was wearing thin. He was just beginning to think that Tully had lost the trail, or maybe his dose of elixir had worn off, when the tracker all of a sudden reigned up his horse.