“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.
“They stopped here.” Tully pointed ahead, as Garth, then the Duke, gained his side.
Fairchild sensed deception here, and slowly scanned the area. It was still too open for an ambush, he decided. Nevertheless, he drew his sword quickly from its scabbard.
“Ready your bow,” he ordered Garth. Something in his guts was telling him to beware. “Tully, go search the area around us and tell us what you see.”
There were only three of them, Mikahl saw, with a flood of relief. He would soon have an easy shot on the one with his arm in a sling. The man was off of his horse and moving closer, as he inspected Loudin’s mocked-up camp.
If Loudin could take out one of the two still on horseback, then Mikahl felt certain that he would have time to draw and loose on the other one before he could get too close. Ironspike was leaning against the tree nearest him, but he didn’t want to have to draw it from its sheath and use it unless he had to. He was already going to have to explain why he had it to Loudin. The hunter had been struck speechless when he’d seen the jeweled hilt. Then, he had grown angry thinking he had conspired to help a common thief elude the sword’s proper owners. Only after Mikahl had sworn a blood oath that the sword wasn’t stolen, and had promised vehemently that he would tell the whole of his situation to Loudin if they survived this encounter, did the old hunter relent.
The fargin bastards are nearly standing on top of me, Loudin thought to himself. He hoped they weren’t too close for him to attack. He had heard the sound of steel ringing free from its scabbard. There is nothing else that even resembles the ringing hiss of quality steel being freed, and the sound electrified something in his blood. The other had a bow, he heard them say. That’s the one he would go after. He wished he knew how many of them there were. Even though he felt as if the boy had betrayed him somehow, he would do his best to keep these people’s arrows out of him. Just then, he heard the unmistakable thump of Mikahl’s arrow hitting the first man. A heartbeat later, Mikahl yelled, “THREE!”
For an instant, Mikahl felt wrong about putting an arrow into an unarmed, and unsuspecting man, but a glance at King Balton’s sword steeled him to the task. He stood up as calmly as you please, loosed his arrow at the startled fellow, and then yelled, “THREE!” so that Loudin would know how many they faced. The arrow he’d loosed, he saw, had gone most of the way through the wounded man’s chest.
Loudin burst from his shallow leaf covered grave, startling the swordsman’s horse, so that it charged right at Mikahl. The tattooed hunter’s spear drove up at Garth’s side, but only grazed him.
Mikahl’s heart was exploding in his chest. A wild-eyed destrier was almost on him, and its semi-armored rider was, of all people, the infamous Coldfrost Butcher. Mikahl recognized him, and panicked. He threw away the bow and grabbed Ironspike, and then dropped to the ground behind the lizard skin blind, and rolled. It was a foolish gamble of a move, made in haste, and Mikahl realized this as soon as he was committed to the action. The Duke’s horse wouldn’t try to leap the blind. It was too high, and the color and texture would confuse the animal. Mikahl could only hope that he rolled to the side opposite that which the horse chose to take around it. If they went the same way, then he was sure to be trampled. It was too late to stop when he saw that he had chosen wrong. All he could do was clinch his eyes closed, and wait to feel the battle horse’s steel shod hooves crushing into him.
By some stroke of luck, or maybe divine intervention, when Mikahl rolled into its path, the heavy horse leapt completely over him, instead of trampling him. He barely had time to get to his feet and draw Ironspike from its sheath. The terrifying man that King Balton himself had nicknamed, “The Butcher,” was already turned, and about to run him down.
Loudin managed to dodge the single arrow Garth loosed at him, but the man had the advantage of being mounted, and quickly spurred his horse out of Loudin’s weapon’s range. Rather than try to dodge the next arrow that Garth was already nocking, Loudin launched his weapon at the horse, and charged. The blade of this spear hit the horse in its rump, and sunk deep enough to make it buck, and scream. Garth was thrown from the saddle, and ended up landing badly. Before he could get himself up, Loudin was there to deliver a running boot to his face. The kick had enough force behind it to render Garth unconscious, but Loudin took no chances and pounced on the fallen man. In one fell swoop, Loudin drew his dagger, and cut Garth’s throat wide open.
Duke Fairchild’s eyes gleamed with murderous intent, as he casually spurred his horse into a slow trot towards the squire. He would have to wound him, and then kill the other man. Lord Brach, and the wizard, Pael, wanted the boy alive, and at least able to speak. The man on top of Garth would die though. The Duke recognized him as one of the many poachers that plagued the Reyhall Forest. He wasn’t the unknown conspirator that his lord wanted to find, he was just a hunter the boy had come across in the woods. The squire would get to watch the slow death of his companion. It would go far towards deterring any attempts the boy might make to escape. Fairchild would enjoy the slow kill, and watching the boy’s will break.
When Mikahl pulled the sword free from its scabbard, he felt its perfectly balanced weight in his hands. He had brandished it before, in the privacy of the King’s Royal Weapons Closet, while he was cleaning it, but he hadn’t unsheathed it since King Balton had died. Dropping the scabbard, he took the leather wrapped hilt in both hands, and got into the proper stance for fighting a mounted attacker from the ground. For all its familiarity, the sword somehow felt different. A strange vibration was coming from deep inside the blade. He could feel it in the bones of his wrists and arms. It had never done that before. He nearly dropped the weapon, as the strange sensation grew into a visible tremor. He tried to ignore it and gripped the hilt even tighter. Was it his own fear that was causing him to tremble so? He didn’t think so, but he was terrified. The Duke was almost on him now, and Mikahl couldn’t see even the beginnings of fear in the Coldfrost Butcher’s eyes. The man was one of the most ruthless killers in the entire realm, and Mikahl knew that he was in serious trouble.
When Duke Fairchild saw that the terrified boy was holding Ironspike, he hesitated. Surely, Lord Brach and Prince Glendar would’ve told him that the squire had stolen it. Unless they didn’t know that it was missing. With all the worry over Balton’s death, it must have gone unnoticed. The idea that returning it to the new king was far more important than keeping the squire alive, flashed into his mind like a whip crack. Convinced now that sparing the boy was no longer a priority, and that Ironspike was, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and charged.
The moment of indecision that Mikahl saw in the Coldfrost Butcher’s eyes, coincided with the brilliant surge of energy that shot through his entire body. Suddenly, his blood felt charged, and his skin prickled, from head to toe. It was as if he were trapped inside a bolt of lightning. The world around him began to move in slow motion, and he was compelled to step to his right. The Duke’s sword was slicing downward at his left, and realizing that it was a committed stroke, Mikahl waited until the last second, and spun across the charging horse’s path. Deftly, he ducked under the horse’s chin, and came twisting up on the Duke’s unprotected, left hand side. Riding the momentum of his spin, as if it were a tidal wave, he continued around again. Ironspike was humming now, the sword’s razor sharp blade was glowing a pale pastel shade of blue. Mikahl could feel, and hear its power, coursing through him, electrifying his body, filling his head with an angelic symphony of glorious music. He, and the sword, for that moment at least, had become one.
As Duke Fairchild’s sword went slicing through the air where Mikahl had just been, Mikahl came around swinging with all his might from the other side of him. Ironspike’s magical blade cleaved into the Duke’s back, just above the waist, with little or no resistance at all. Plate mail, padded leather, and then flesh and spine alike, were sheared through. Mikahl barely had time to pull the blade tip in as it came out of the Butcher’s belly. If he hadn’t, it would’ve hacked right into the back of the Duke’s horse’s neck.