by Ty Johnston
“Any idea who they’re waiting on?” Adara asked.
“Haven’t heard a word on who,” the man said, “but with all those weapons, I wouldn’t want to be whoever it is. This ain’t no social party waiting to serve them up crumpets and tea.”
Adara laughed at the old fellow. Despite the fact her life could be in serious danger at any moment, it felt good to share a chuckle with another human.
“You still want them clothes?” the old man asked.
She glanced toward the big log structure and saw the four men enter through the door at the top of the stairs.
Could she risk it? Belgad and Fortisquo would likely be tucked away in the captain’s room, as would Karitha. The four armored soldiers might not recognize Adara her they saw her.
In the end, Adara decided against taking the chance. “I will come back later for the coats,” Adara said as she untied her horse.
“I don’t like the looks of them either,” the soldier said jabbing his head toward the log building, “but I think they’re here for a bit. You might have to do without them coats.”
“I’ll manage,” Adara said, then thanked the man and trotted away.
***
“I did not think they would wait for us this long,” Kron said from horseback after Adara told him and Randall what she had seen and heard at the depot.
“What do we do?” Randall asked.
“We go north to the next path through the mountains,” Kron said, “but that will take another week, and we still need warm clothes.”
“Let’s just ride back to the nearest village and purchase what we need,” Adara said, sounding frustrated.
“That would take a day or two,” Kron said. “No, we go north.”
***
The image of the old soldier melted away before Belgad’s eyes and left behind the scarlet-headed Karitha standing in its place.
“She had no inkling it was you?” the muscular northman said sitting behind a pine desk in the log-walled room which had until three days ago been the headquarters for the soldiers stationed there.
“She was completely fooled by my illusion,” Karitha said taking a seat on a stool.
“Good,” Belgad said, “then they won’t try the mountain route, at least not here.”
“What will they do?”
“Head north or south, along the mountain range,” Belgad said.
“What will we do?” Karitha asked.
“We will split our forces,” Belgad said. “Fortisquo will go south, while you and I will head north. One of us is bound to catch up to them.”
Chapter Six
There were no roads or decent trails leading north on the western side of the Needles. Kron, Adara and Randall were forced once again to take to the woods. Kron admitted this would slow them near a crawl, but it helped shield them from interested eyes.
A few days after leaving the road near the lodge, the group settled into a routine. They rose with the sun and Kron proceeded with Adara’s combat lessons, sometimes offering Randall a pointer or two if he was interested; the lessons were generally short because they wanted to be on their way, but Kron was already glad to see Adara taking on the skills he offered. His biggest obstacle with Adara was not in teaching her new abilities, but in getting her to unlearn her old training and ways of thinking. The woman thought in too orderly a fashion to be a great sword fighter, Kron told her. She was used to fighting gentlemen who followed rules; Kron was teaching her how to stay alive.
Following Adara’s training, the group enjoyed a brief breakfast during which Randall renewed his protective spells over them, then they saddled their animals and took to the forested way again.
By the third day, Kron was becoming concerned about Randall. The healer had been quiet since he had driven away the war demon more than a week earlier. It had taken much courage, and some foolishness, in what Randall had done. Kron had been impressed by the younger man’s actions.
Kron supposed the encounter with the demon had Randall worried about facing his father. Kron himself was not too worried because he was Kron. Worry did not benefit a man. Besides, Kobalos was weeks if not months away. If they had to stay to the woods the entire trip, it could take them through the summer before they would arrive in one of the outer villages, let alone the capital city Mogus Potere.
Randall would have been surprised that his change in behavior, his silence, had gained the attention of his comrades. He himself had not noticed it, though often he thought of his father and the complexity of their relation. Randall did not know what to say to the man who not only wanted to kill him, but who insisted upon being the one who would draw forth the blade, or the executioner’s ax or whatever other murderous device would be used. When Randall had initially agreed to go to Kobalos, he had been caught up in the moment, in the tragedy of the Asylum and the boy Wyck’s death. Now, after more than a couple of week’s reflection, Randall was again having old doubts. A secret part of Randall wanted to try to talk sense to his father, to tell him he loved him despite everything; the healer feared his father, but the man was still his father, his only surviving family. Another part of Randall wanted to unleash his anger upon the man who had butchered his mother and brothers and sisters. It was that side, the darker side, of the healer that had given him much thought of late. He was scared of it, scared of himself. He did not want to become a monster like his father.
Adara, unlike her two companions, had not had weighty thoughts during their travels. Belgad and Fortisquo were behind her, so she could focus on her daily training. She had to admit she had learned much with Kron, but she was not sure how much of it was practical. The man himself seemed orderly to an extreme, but his teachings on melee were chaotic; Kron always spoke of improvising during combat and of constant movement so your opponent can never tell what will be your next move. Kron also taught other lessons, disappearing into shadows and moving as silently as a feather on paper and the like, but those lessons reminded Adara too much of Fortisquo, her former lover who had turned out to be the retired chief of Bond’s defunct assassin’s guild. Adara was no assassin and wanted no part of that world, so some of Kron’s lessons disturbed her. However, despite the man’s dark side, she had to admit she was beginning to think it impossible for Kron to be an assassin. The man was too righteous to be a proper assassin. Kron saw the world in black and white, which bothered Adara in one sense but it also felt fresh to her in another; for too long she had been with men who were only interested in the pleasures of the world. Kron wanted to be a hero, even though he would never admit it. His vengeance against Belgad, and now Lord Verkain, went beyond a simple reckoning. By his way of thinking, removing the world of Belgad and Verkain made the world a better, safer place.
Kron did possess other, non-martial talents that did not bother Adara emotionally, though she had less interest in learning them than his combat skills. Kron was an able woodsman, with skills in hunting, climbing, tracking and more mundane tasks, such as building a camp fire. Adara at first had shunned Kron’s knowledge in those areas, but the more time she spent with him the more she picked up from him, even if she wasn’t interested. It was no hard task now for her to notice the difference between something as innocuous as rabbit and squirrel tracks. The knowledge had been gained just by watching Kron, by paying attention.
Such as now.
“Three men, with heavily-booted feet,” Kron said as he knelt and stared hard at the ground.
“Which direction are they going?” Randall asked from his saddle.
Kron turned his stare deeper into the woods, away from the heights of the Needles to their right. “Their tracks cross in front of us several times,” he said pointing ahead of them between trees. “They have been back and forth through here at least three times, and we’ve only missed them by an hour or less.”
“What would they be doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” Adara asked.
“This is not the middle of nowhere,” Kron said standing and keeping a w
atchful eye on their surroundings. “There are villages every few miles west of the mountains along an old trading route.
“Two of those men are wearing hobnailed boots. In this part of the the West, they’re likely mercenaries or bandits. Maybe militia.”
“What has that to do with us?” Adara questioned.
The distant snapping of a branch sounded ahead of them.
Kron put a finger to his lips and the group went quiet. He knelt next to his horse again and stared forward, his eyes darting from tree to tree and shadow to shadow. Kron could not detect anything out of place in the woods, so he was as surprised as Adara and Randall when the first arrow came sailing from behind a small hill covered in brush.
“Take cover!” Kron yelled yanking his bow from a leather sheath on his back.
The first arrow missed, falling over their heads, but a second quickly plopped into their midst, thumping into the ground at Randall’s feet as he slid off his horse.
Adara jumped off her animal’s back and pulled the healer with her behind a thick tree. Another arrow, coming from behind, smashed into the tree next to Adara’s face and sent splinters crashing into her cheeks. The woman screamed out but was more shocked than hurt.
Kron could tell they were surrounded, but not by a large force. Two archers were in front while a third was behind. He hoped it was only three men, the same three who had left tracks for him to find, but he couldn’t be sure. He also couldn’t stand his ground at the front the horses and hope to outshoot them. The three archers weren’t the best Kron had seen, but they were near their marks and drawing nearer.
With a glance behind him to make sure Randall and Adara had reached cover, Kron decided he would have to take the fight to the enemy. When another arrow darted in his direction he rolled to his right, avoiding the missile, and came to his knees beneath a low, overhanging branch of dark leaves.
The rain of arrows ceased and all went quiet.
Adara, sword in hand, leaned her back against a tree with Randall at her side, his short sword also drawn. Both of them were taking slow breaths in order to remain silent. They had lost track of Kron in the confusion of seeking cover and had no idea where their enemies might lay. To the animals’ credit, the three horses had stayed their ground and were milling about where Adara, Kron and Randall had left them.
After a couple of minutes of tedious but fearful silence, a gruff voice spoke from the trees. “Toss your weapons near your horses and surrender. We promise not to harm you.”
“What if we do not?” Adara yelled back.
She expected more arrows to fly, but none did.
Instead, the same sturdy voice from the trees said, “Then we will hunt you down like deer.”
Movement behind them made Adara peer around the curve of their hiding tree.
A burly fellow wearing a tattered leather jerkin stepped from a bush. In his right hand was a curved, wooden bow. In his left hand was an arrow, already laid the string.
The man caught Adara’s eyes and raised his weapon.
The shaft of a black arrow suddenly appeared in the side of the man’s neck. He grunted, dropped his bow, then fell to his knees. His eyes stayed locked on Adara’s, asking questions to which he would never receive an answer. Then he fell forward, his face in the dirt.
“Lurge?” another strong, male voice said from the opposite direction of the fellow who had died.
Adara suddenly realized what was happening. They had been surrounded, but Kron was trying to turn the situation on their opponents. Adara could not see Kron, and figured the man in black had disappeared into the woods. From what she remembered from Bond of Kron’s use of the shadows, she thought the other archers stood little chance at survival.
To assure Kron’s victory, Adara pushed herself away from her hiding spot.
“Are you insane?” Randall asked, his face showing he was aghast at her actions.
Adara kept her sword crossways in front of her in hopes of warding off incoming arrows as she stepped into the open near their horses.
“You boys are in a lot of trouble,” she said to the forest.
“Not as much as you,” a voice said from behind.
Adara pivoted on the heel of her left foot as she brought her rapier around and withdrew her main gauche from its sheath on her back.
She faced a large man in a rusted shirt of scale mail. On his back was a rugged-looking short bow. In both his hands was a long hammer with a big, wooden head.
“The Dartague said he wanted you all alive,” the brute said hefting his hammer higher, “but he didn’t say we couldn’t have fun with the pretty lady first.”
Adara spat and aimed the tip of her sword at the man’s throat. “I’ll tear out your eyes with my bare—”
An arrow ripping into the woman’s back cut her off.
“Adara!” Randall screamed, diving for the woman from the cover of the trees.
She felt nothing at first, just a dullness in the back of her right shoulder. Then she stared down and saw an iron arrowhead protruding from the front of her shoulder. Her mind suddenly exploded with pain, then the green of the trees swirled before her eyes and was followed by a sinking feeling. Then darkness.
Randall landed on the ground next to Adara just as the huge man with the hammer stepped forward and raised the weapon over his head.
The healer looked up and saw his death descending upon him.
An arrow appeared in the hammer man’s right eye. He dropped his wooden mallet and grasped the shaft of the arrow with both hands before screaming and sinking to the ground and becoming still.
Scrub brush far to Randall’s left suddenly exploded as a young man in a leather tunic scrambled from it and took off at a run between several trees. Randall had just enough time to see that the fellow was carrying a bow.
Then a bush to Randall’s right exploded as Kron shot out of it and chased after the last of the archers.
Randall looked down at Adara, whose eyes were closed and breathing shallow. Reaching out his hands to the woman, he thought he could save her life. At least if he acted fast enough.
***
The boy proved more elusive than Kron would have thought. The fellow jumped a dry creek then rolled beneath a downed tree, sprang up on the other side and kept on running. He was obviously skilled and knew these particular woods.
Nevertheless, Kron would catch the young man. He would not allow himself to believe any other outcome was possible.
He kept pace with the runner well, staying less than twenty yards behind him. At one point, as his bow snagged on a thorn bush and slowed him a step, Kron realized he was still carrying the weapon in his hands and let it fall to the ground. He doubted he would need it once he closed with his prey and could pick it up later.
For long minutes the youth kept running and jumping, every so often glancing behind himself with frightened eyes to see he was still pursued.
Kron proved relentless. Twice he used long, leafy vines, swinging forward on them to cut the distance between himself and the lad, but it still wasn’t enough to catch him.
Eventually the boy began to tire. He was young, but he had not the athletic training and build of Kron Darkbow. His leaps became shorter and his breathing became harsher.
Finally realizing he would not escape, the youth yanked an arrow from a long, wooden box on his back. Without thinking or looking, he spun and brought up his bow.
The man in black was no longer there.
The boy’s eyebrows scrunched together as surprise dawned on his face. He had escaped. He had outrun the man who seemed never to tire.
Sucking air into his tired lungs, the lad turned to leave.
A black cord slipped over his head, tightening around his throat. He dropped his bow and grasped at the rope with both hands, trying desperately to pull away the cord as it cut off what little air he had.
“Looking for me?” a smooth voice asked from above.
The boy, eyes wide from fear, glared upward to fi
nd the man in black hanging upside down from a tree limb, the man’s legs encircling the thick branch and holding him in place.
“You shouldn’t have hurt my friend,” Kron said and tugged on the rope in his hands.
The boy was lifted off his feet. He began to choke loudly and Kron lowered him just enough so the toes of the boy’s leather shoes grazed the ground.
For what felt an eternity to the lad, he clawed at the rope around his neck. When his scrambling hands began to slacken, Kron let the rope slip from his hands, dropping the boy into the grass.
When the boy woke, the man in black was standing over him, his feet planted on either side of him.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about, or am I going to have to carve it out of you?” Kron asked with a look of rage and hate. Kron had seen the arrow strike Adara and had no idea if she was still living. He had not stopped to tend to her because he could do no more for her than could Randall. And because he did not want the last of the outlaws to escape unscathed.
Laying in grass and mud, the boy stared into the eyes of his captor.
“Talk to me or pay the price,” Kron said.
“I ...” the boy sputtered, but no more came out.
Kron realized his anger was keeping the boy from answering, and he needed answers. He softened his voice. “What’s your name?”
“Tamber,” the boy said with shaking lips.
“Who were the other two?” Kron continued his interrogation.
“My brother Lurge and his friend Isul.”
“One of them said something about a Dartague wanting us alive,” Kron said. “What did he mean?”
The young man looked west. “In Birch Tree Station,” he said, his voice full of fear. “A big man with no hair on his head and white hair below his nose. Had a woman with red hair with him.”
“Anyone else?”
“A couple of men in chain.”
“What did the Dartague want?” Kron asked.
“He said he would pay ten gold a head for you and your companions,” Tamber said.