They were eyes that reminded him of his own haunted youth. His heart lurched.
He’ll have to learn the hard way. Then, the youth’s spin away from him ran through his brain. It was a dance-like spin, the spin of a girl in a new dress. No...if this is who I am looking for...she is the one.
Time to raise the stakes. How much do you really know, and how much is left in your purse?
The swords began to sing as they clashed hard, strong, and frequently. In a close-range battle, Ransom severed the purse from the youth’s belt. It fell to the ground.
Empty. So that is why you so desperately wagered your last piece of silver for a chance at a small fortune. Time to bring this to a close.
He made his move. It should have flung the sword into the air and right into his hand, but the youth saw it coming and tried to recoil from the blow. The sword left Bartholomew’s hands and clattered on the cobblestones. They both lunged for it, but Bartholomew was there first. A headlong dash brought it into his grasp and, still on the ground; he whirled around, holding off the sword that was nearly at his throat. He tumbled away, rolling to his feet, blade meeting blade. As he stood, they locked swords.
Bartholomew’s eyes flickered around the crowd. His face paled for a moment, a flash of recognition flitting through his blue eyes. “This needs to be over,” he murmured.
Pushing away from the lock, Bartholomew’s onslaught against Ransom was sudden and full.
All right; let’s see how you handle this, thought Ransom, loosening the grip on his sword. The swords flew from their hands as he struck Bartholomew’s. They clattered to the feet of the onlookers.
The crowd was thick. They were all holding their breath, waiting for what would happen next—ready and waiting to cheer. But who was the winner? The man? The boy? Both? Neither? Would they run for their swords and resume the fight?
Bartholomew stood, waiting for Ransom’s cue.
“Can you wrestle as well as you fight?” Ransom asked.
“No, sir,” said Bartholomew, taking a step back.
Ransom’s face broke into a smile and he bowed slightly at the waist. “Well, call it a draw—for a later time.”
The crowd broke into a cheer. Bartholomew turned, shying away as he retrieved his sword.
Any other boy would be beaming ear to ear, eating up the praise and encouraging it, thought Ransom. He stepped towards the youth. “Well, I bested you, so that makes me the winner, and you bested me, so that makes you the winner. So, shall we split the spoils?”
“Sounds fair to me,” said Bartholomew, retrieving his purse from where it had fallen. “Did you really have to do this?” he asked, picking it up.
“Unfortunate casualty,” said Ransom with a shrug. He offered the youth a handful of coins from his own bag.
“Thank you,” Bartholomew said with a slight bow, and started making his way into the crowd.
“Won’t you join me?” asked Ransom, laying his hand on the youth’s shoulder.
“Join you?” Bartholomew asked, shrugging off Ransom’s hand and putting distance between them.
“Two swordsmen are better than one. It is a good way to earn a livelihood,” he said with a shake of his coin sack.
“Good for one person, but not two. Good day.” With that, he turned to lose himself in the crowd.
Taking his time, Ransom followed the boy as he mingled in and out of the crowd, changing directions several times. The boy seemed relaxed; he would have melted into the mass if no one had been looking, but people were watching him.
Bartholomew was flushing out his followers one by one, always staying just out of their reach.
Four men were following the lad. They gathered to team up on him when Bartholomew suddenly disappeared. The men looked around, baffled, but Ransom noted a girl with loose hair walking by, her cloak hood pulled around her, her eyes to the ground.
Ransom smiled. Silently, he followed the girl. She dashed into a side alley, and a moment later Bartholomew appeared, shoulders erect, running with the girl’s brown cloak in his hand. On reaching the edge of the city, he stopped and gave a low whistle.
A black horse came trotting up, and without assistance, Bartholomew swung into the saddle, galloping off into the open countryside.
Casually, Ransom made his way back into town to retrieve his horse. The four men were still standing in the square, looking through the crowd. Despite their disguises, they were not well hidden. They were the men of Lord Raburn.
Lord Raburn had a reputation. Anyone when asked, would tell you he was one of the kindest men alive, a good noble, and highly thought of. In the shadows of the taverns, in the heart of the dark, the truth barely dared to whisper. For three years, King Fredric had been fighting in the Crusades, and Lord Raburn had climbed from a barely noticed noble to Prince Alfred’s lord protector. He was feared and that reverently, save for the few who dared to poke holes into the kingdom he was trying to create.
There were two particular aching points at this time. An anonymous person who sang only in the dark and always referred to himself as Song Lark, who spread all kinds of nasty rumors that harked closer to the truth than people claimed to believe...and a girl.
A single girl shouldn’t have been much of a problem, if she had been a regular damsel, but Ransom knew she wasn’t. He smiled as he remembered his commission.
“Find her, earn her trust, and bring her to me.” That he would do.
At the edge of town, he mounted his horse and followed the trail. It would be a good half hour before Raburn’s men would figure out they had been fooled. They were too stubborn and sure of their own strength to believe that a mere girl could elude them. What other reason could there be? She had been on the loose for six months and was still unscathed, uncornered, and uncaught.
Casually following the trail, he entered the cool shadows of the woods. He hadn’t realized how hot it was until the trees shaded him from the burning sun.
The forest seemed to be steeped in a mossy breeze, and there was a thin, chuckling brook running through it. Bartholomew knelt at the brook’s side, taking a deep draft from his canteen. Laying it aside, he bent over the brook and splashed water over his face, rubbing the back of his neck.
I should just call Bartholomew a girl. It’s obvious. That, or he is a hopeless dandy, Ransom thought as he watched her adjust the hat sideways, then straight, then to the other side. Now it seemed to sit in a satisfactory manner.
As she reached back for her canteen, she turned fully around, her hand seeming to rest casually on her dagger. Ransom knew better; it was a trained action.
“I didn’t fancy that I would see you again,” said the youth, quirking a half wry smile.
Time to make fiction fact. “I almost thought that you were a girl.” Ransom let on with chuckle as he dismounted, leading his horse towards the stream
“What?” the youth tried to keep the look of surprise off his face. “Are you daft?” he said, plunging his canteen beneath the surface so it would fill faster—trying not to act edgy.
“Of course I am. You are very good player, but it won’t see you through. You keep too clean; someone is bound to notice. Oh, and cut your hair so you don’t have to keep it under your hat all of the time. It seems rude.”
“Thank you for the advice. I just might take it,” he said sarcastically, rising to his feet and securing the cover of the canteen.
“You fight well, but you use too many dance steps. Like that twirl you made. It reminded me of a girl whirling around in a pretty dress.”
“What? Dance steps? You are out of your head, sir.”
“Nonetheless, it proves to be a valuable asset to you. Next time you fight, don’t show feelings in your eyes; it might give people the wrong impression.”
“You are one sore loser.”
“You are desperate. You need the money. What else are you after?”
“None of your business,” Bartholomew said, stalking towards his horse and securing his saddlebags
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“It becomes my business when you take half my earnings.”
“Then take the money; I want nothing to do with it!” Bartholomew tossed it arrogantly at Ransom’s feet.
Ransom ignored the coins and stepped beside the youth. “I asked you a question and I expect an answer.”
“Well, I don’t expect to answer it,” the youth said, beginning to mount.
Ransom grabbed Bartholomew by the belt, pulling him down onto his feet.
“Let me go!” he said, turning around to face his opponent.
The swordsman tightened his grip on the belt, pulling the youth into himself. He held him there as the youth squirmed against his firm hold.
“How dare you insult me in such a fashion!” said the lad, his face turning bright red.
“Those are awfully high words for such a lad. In fact they sound very much like a lady’s. Holding you this close would only be an insult to a lady, you know.”
There was a flash of metal. A dagger pressed into Ransom’s throat.
“Let me go.” Bartholomew’s eyes were cold and calculating. His mouth pulled tight.
The swordsman released the belt and backed away. Dagger in hand, Bartholomew stepped toward his horse.
“Don’t forget your earnings,” Ransom reminded.
“They aren’t mine,” he said with a quick mount. “Hya!” The youth disappeared into the forest.
Ransom looked after her with a smile, then glanced down at the small boot prints. Every sense told him it was a girl. What he had just held in his arms was a girlish figure, despite the baggy outline declaring otherwise. Yes, it was a girl. A girl in desperate need; one who was willing to challenge men to earn her keep and tell the truth. This was the one he was on the hunt for. How long would it take to earn her trust?
“Come on, boy, let’s follow her.” Mounting, he turned his horse to track her down.
Chapter 2
Her trail was easy to follow. It was apparent that she didn’t consider him a threat, or maybe she was just trying to get distance between them.
Breaking out of the forest, he saw her cutting across the rolling hills of the open countryside. Pulling his horse to a halt, he paused. He had discovered her, but to win her trust was a different matter. She had eluded him twice. He had to be careful not to spook her, or he would never obtain his goal.
He pulled his horse to a standstill within the rim of the forest’s shadow. As she reached the crest of a hill, she pulled up harshly. The horse reared pawing the air. Changing directions, she was flying back towards the forest, hugging the neck of her horse; a moment later, four men came riding over the ridge.
They didn’t even bother tracking her! No wonder they can’t find her. Maybe she’ll need my help after all.
By the time she reached the forest, they were breathing down her neck. She plunged through the wood, her only purpose to flee, surmounting whatever obstacle came her way.
Ransom turned his horse and followed; this he had to see.
Weaving like a serpent in and out of the trees, she kept their crossbows at bay as the arrows flashed into trees, nearly grazing the horse and rider. Ransom’s breath caught as he saw a felled tree across the way. It was far too high to jump and too low for a rider to get safely beneath, even if the horse could.
Ransom watched as she swung both legs to one side of the saddle. Lying sideways over her horse, her head hung above the ground. A stray branch swept off the hat, letting her hair tumble free; it just brushed the earth. Passing under the tree, she pulled herself upright and swung smoothly back into the saddle. A moment later, one of Raburn’s men tried to pass underneath. Leaning close to the neck of his beast, he was swept off his horse and fell into an unconscious spiral. Only three pursued her now.
A black-fletched arrow from the bow of Raburn’s men found a target in the horse’s neck, sending the galloping steed to its knees. The girl tumbled from the saddle and rolled onto the ground. She didn’t move.
Ransom pulled up his horse, wondering what he should do. The men passed her and then returned. Two dismounted while the third stayed on his horse.
“She’s out cold,” one of the men murmured, kicking her legs.
“Finally. Never thought we would catch her with such little fuss.”
“Won’t she be surprised when she wakes up.”
“Hurry up, you two. We have six months’ time to make up for.”
As one man bent down to tie her hands, there was an unexpected movement. A flash of leg landed in one man’s stomach, while a flying arm caught the second man in the chin as she rolled to her feet and pulled out her sword to face the rider.
He laughed. “You really think you can take on a man?”
“We’ll see if I can,” she challenged, panting slightly for breath.
The captain dismounted and pulled out his sword. The other two were still moaning on the ground.
He tapped her sword. She didn’t flinch, but looked him dead in the eyes. The captain approached her slowly, his blade touching her raised sword. She let it come down to the hilt of her blade.
The captain laughed, “You are a foolish one.” He lunged for her core.
Sweeping aside the blow, the girl jumped away.
“Try and kill me again and you will regret it,” she threatened through clenched teeth, her eyes flashing.
“Oh, to the contraire, my dear Annabeth; I’ll enjoy it very much.”
There was no foreplay of swords, no attempt to hide the purpose of the battle. It was an onslaught to her death.
She only wanted to survive.
A minute more, and the other men had recovered and were drawing in on the fight, swords drawn. She met their blades without fear.
Without warning, her sword went flying and she fell to her knees as a sword point came to her neck. Looking up to them, she did not beg for mercy or quarter.
“What should I do with you?” sneered the leader.
“As you please. Death is not too good for me,” she answered calmly.
He twisted the blade against her throat, tracing her neckline. She winced as he prodded the sword into her neck. She closed her eyes.
THERE WAS A SUDDEN cry of dismay, and the sword at her neck quivered. Annabeth opened her eyes.
The man named Ransom, who she had fought in the square, stood there, his dagger at the leader’s throat. He was pulling the dagger out of the captain’s belt.
“Are you really going to kill a girl for such a simple offense? I know wearing boys’ clothing is a punishable crime, but death seems a little severe,” he said calmly.
“She, sir, is a wanted criminal.”
Ransom laughed. “She! A wanted criminal? Yes. I see it. The hardened lines about her face, the refusal to yield at your command. See that look in her face? It is indeed the sign of an impossible child. But only a child, sir, and a girl at that. Let her go.”
“There are a thousand pieces in good gold coin on her head.”
“No head is worth that, except the silly bard, Song Lark. Why would someone want to kill a minstrel, anyways?”
“She, is in league with the Song Lark, who is a conniving traitor to the crown.”
Slowly melting back from the blade that licked her neck, Annabeth moved towards her sword, that lay just out of reach. The men’s swords were trained on the stranger, so surprised by his unexpected appearance they did not notice her subtle movements. In a flash, she had her sword. Without hesitation, she let it sing through the air, sending the captain’s sword out of his hand. Raburn’s two other men turned towards her as she rose to her feet.
“On your guard!” Ransom shouted suddenly, pushing the leader in her direction while throwing both daggers at the same time into the other men.
As the leader barreled down towards her, she held up her sword in defense. It ran him through. Cringing from her sword, Annabeth dropped it and turned away, a wave of sickness washing over her.
There was a long moment of silence. Then she heard the subtle
crunch of the underbrush beneath his boots. His stance was strong: hands on hips, head cocked to once side. She could feel all that with her eyes closed. She didn’t really want to open them again, to see the men around her. Dead men. She had only seen one before, and it was something she would rather forget. Still, it was one of the reasons that kept her going when she wondered why. A shiver escaped up her spine. Suddenly she felt weak; the adrenaline was gone. Her stomach turned, reminding her there was nothing in it but water. It rose in her throat and she forced it back down, shoving the thought of the bodies out of her mind.
“What is your real name?” he asked.
“Annabeth,” she answered with a slight choke in her voice.
“You are that Annabeth?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes,” she answered, opening her eyes and turning to face him. “What are you going to do? Turn me in?” she asked, suddenly realizing she felt too weak to run even if she wanted to.
“Why would I do that? I just saved your life.”
“There is a price on my head. You heard: a thousand pieces of gold.”
“You don’t seem like an outlaw to me. What did you do?”
“I ran away,” Annabeth answered with a touch of sarcasm. She was fighting to find her strength; her inner armor had slipped away.
“That is your crime? Running away. From what are you running, may I ask?”
“The less you know, the better,” she answered flatly.
“You aren’t very grateful.”
“Just because you rescued me doesn’t mean I have to be grateful.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No,” she said, turning to look at him fully. Then she glanced down. It was too much to take. Her body revolted, sending up the fresh liquid she had taken in. Going to a nearby tree, she leaned against it for support, trying to hold it in. The attempt was useless. A minute later she sank to her knees, resting her head against the tree.
Closing her eyes, Annabeth breathed deeply, but it felt as if the very air was suffocating her, as if she could never breathe enough again. At that moment, she couldn’t have cared less what happened next. She wanted it over with. All she wanted was to be free from being hunted and haunted. Her body was in need of rest, and she was never going to get it at this rate.
Annabeth's War Page 2