“You know of him?”
The old man looked at her as if she was someone to be pitied.
“Well of course I know him. Who doesn’t?” he barked, and moved around to the back of the building. She followed along behind.
“You need to head out to the Hawser place,” he said, grabbing a bucket and moved back the way he had just come, passing her and heading out into the street.
“Where’s the Hawser place?”
He stopped to look at her again. “You simple?” he asked, and when she shook her head he just sighed.
“You take the Hawser road…” He noticed her blank stare. “You go to the middle of town and take the road going east. Even you can’t miss it. It’s the only road in town ‘cept for the one yo’r standing on. Master Sath is always visitn’ the Hawsers. They can put you in touch.”
“Thank you,” she said grabbing his hands, suddenly bursting with excitement. “Thank you,” she repeated and without thinking she kissed him on the forehead. The old man looked at her, and at first she thought he was going to scream at her. But he smiled and though his face was old, his eyes were young again. He nodded.
“Take care…what’d you say your name was again?”
“Sam,” she replied moving back to Bull.
“Sam,” he repeated and even waved to her as she rode by.
The town had suddenly taken on a wonderful new glow, and for the first time in nearly two weeks she began to think that she might truly be safe. She felt elated and hopeful, at least until she reached the Hawser road, for there on the far side of town was a rider, dressed all in black. She cried out involuntarily at the shock of seeing the Executioner once again, and though he was too far away to make out any of his features, she clearly heard his triumphant laugh as he spurred his horse into a gallop. Samantha didn’t wait, and turning up the Hawser road, she thundered away on Bull. Hope and elation had fled; fear and resignation had come to roost, for she knew Bull had no hope of outrunning the sleek mount belonging to the man pursuing her.
XVIII
The Hawser boys took to Van right away. Though he was Deutzani, he clearly did not have the temperament of a soldier, and everyone believed him when he admitted to being conscripted.
“Not so much by the army and King, as my father,” Van explained. “He never did approved of me, or believe I would ever become a man, at least not one who would amount to anything. So when my older brother Viktor joined the cavalry, father thought it would be a good idea if I joined up with him…I’m not much good on a horse though.”
Restless, Gwaynn was out cutting wood as he remembered the boy’s tale…the boy. As it turned out, Van was not quite a year older than he, but somehow Gwaynn felt much, much older. He sympathized with Van, and under different circumstances thought he would have turned out much the same. His early years were strewn with ripe disappointments for his father, but luckily for Gwaynn, he had two older brothers, both rough and tumble, for his father to dote on. At the thought of his father, Gwaynn shook his head with a rueful smile. He wondered what King Arnot would think of his youngest son now. He would be surprised, no doubt, and yes, he believed his father would be proud, but Gwynn… He didn’t like to think of Gwynn. What would she make of all his killing? In his youth it was Gwynn’s affection, Gwynn’s thoughts and esteem that he hung on. His life revolved around her, and he wondered if he would ever care for anyone, or anything as much. When she lived, Gwaynn was Gwynn and Gwynn was Gwaynn. She was a part of him, the better part.
Gwaynn drove away these thoughts and put down the axe. There was enough wood to last a good while in any case. He was alone. All of the others had left early in the morn on a hunt. They were all gone, all excited and Bock had even taken Van with them. The ranch was deserted except for Mrs. Hawser and Krys, who were both inside. Gwaynn had begged out of the hunt, wanting to be alone with his thoughts. The dreams of his sister the night before had him on edge, and he needed time to settle his thoughts, to meditate on what he was to do now that he was home. Cutting firewood was only a means to get his thoughts moving. He looked around at his surroundings.
The Hawser Ranch was placed in very beautiful spot. The morning fog was burning off, offering a much better view of the surrounding countryside. The ranch backed up to the thick line of trees where the Scar Forest began. He had failed to notice the forest in the dark of the previous night, but the trees hung over the place, not fifty yards from the rear of the main house, and much closer to some of the out buildings. To the south nothing but trees, to the north was the lane they had crossed upon arriving. There were thick hedgerows that ran down either side of the road and hid most of it from view. Also running beside the road, to the south, was a mid-sized creek. It ambled past, directly in front of the house, and on the far side of the road, visible through a manmade break in the hedges, was the vast expanse of the empty Plateau. In that direction Gwaynn could see for miles, all the way to the far horizon.
He sat on the stump of a log, adjusting his kali so that he could sit comfortably. He had decided it was time to wear the weapons proudly, after all he was not subject to Deutzani law, and nor would his people be for long, if he got his way. He needed to find Afton Sath. He knew this. Gwaynn, while he may be very good at fighting, knew that there was a vast difference between single combat and leading an army. He needed someone who knew the tactics of large scale fighting, and the only person left from the old days was Master Sath. Gwaynn had read up on military tactics as much as possible while on Lato, but reading and doing were very different endeavors. Gwaynn decided he would wait for his old teacher here. It was as good a place as any, and better than most. He only hoped that his father’s old Weapons Master had been busy gathering as many men to him as possible. Gwaynn was impatient to get started. He glanced up alarmed when he heard the pounding of approaching horses. He could see a faint dust trail but little else behind the thick hedges. He stood, and began to move slowly toward the bridge that spanned the creek. He moved warily, not wanting to be caught in open by a large patrol of Deutzani cavalry.
ǂ
Bull pounded away from Koshka with all the speed and power he could muster. He sensed the fear in his rider and it opened within him new pockets of energy. But Bull was built more for power than speed, and could feel in his hooves that the horse behind was closing steadily. Bull pressed harder. He hated to lose.
Samantha couldn’t help but glance back regularly as they fled. She thought about trying to use the bow, but knew it was not very likely that she would hit anything, and much more likely she would fall from Bull. If that happened she knew she was dead, so she hung on, crouched down low, and shouted encouraging words into Bull’s ear. She did draw her knife, holding it tightly in her right hand, mindful not to cut into the neck of the horse charging beneath her.
She glanced back and was alarmed to see that the Executioner was only a dozen lengths behind. His black cape was billowing out from the back of his galloping horse, whose eyes were wide with excitement; their prey finally so close.
Sam turned back and ducked her head low.
“Come on Bull,” she yelled and kicked him, though not nearly hard enough for the horse to notice at this point. She spotted a row of hedges which lined the road up ahead and briefly considered veering off into another direction, but there was a creek to the south and crossing it at a gallop would be very dangerous and to the north was nothing but open country. She hesitated, undecided until it was too late and she was between the thick rows of tall bushes. Some part of her mind told her the way was pretty, and she had to bite down a laugh at the thought, not wanting to become hysterical.
She risked a glance back and nearly screamed when she saw the gray face of the horse chasing her even with Bull’s rump. They had gained so fast. Fear now gripped her so hard that tears formed in her eyes blurring her view ahead. She blinked rapidly and that, plus the rush of the wind, allowed them to clear. She was suddenly aware that the Executioner was now pounding down the lane next to
her. They were close, necessarily so, for the lane was not overly wide, only little more than a large wagon’s width and on either side the thick hedges hemmed them in.
The Executioner reached out, attempting to grab her. She screamed and kicked at him but only caught air then the horses moved closer and she felt the fingers of the killer brush against her sleeve. She leaned away and kicked out hard again, this time connecting solidly with the gray horse under him. It shied away, nearly going into the hedgerows. She heard the man racing next to her grunt as he held up an arm to ward off the stray branches that whipped at him in passing. His horse veered back toward the middle of the lane, and this time pulled ahead. He reached out again in an attempt to grab Bulls reins. Sam was on the verge of panic when she caught sight of the knife in her own hand. She swiped out at the man bent on killing her. She missed and he quickly became aware of the danger, even still he reached out again, relentless. She swung the knife once more, but this time he pulled back quickly and struck, hitting her in the forearm hard enough that she dropped the knife. She looked back for it in dismay but it was gone in a flash. Her arm was tingling from his blow and when she tried to grip the reins again pain shot through her. She cried out, pounding down the lane now with one hand.
‘It’s coming to an end,’ she thought as the Executioner once more pulled slightly ahead and leaned over to grab Bull’s reins. If he succeeded she was done for, so she jerked Bull’s head away and he veered close to the nearby hedge. It was her turn to be whipped and lashed by stray branches. She yelped in pain as a particularly nasty branch caught in her hair pulling her head back so hard she was nearly unseated. Somehow she held on with her left hand and in a split second, a good quantity of her hair gave way and was ripped from her scalp.
The move had opened a bit of space between the horses. The Executioner was still slightly ahead, when anger finally surged through Samantha. She reached down and grabbed the reins with her right hand, ignoring the pain, and steered Bull sharply into the other horse. Bull reacted quickly, almost as if he grasped what she intended to do. He turned and charged directly at the horse to his right. And before his rival could react, he struck the smaller, lighter horse, driving him and his rider to the right. They all hit the hedgerow hard and they all came to an abrupt halt. Sam was thrown over the top of Bull, who was falling. She flipped and hit flat on her back, hard, and everything went black.
Screams of a dying horse rang in her ears as she painfully sat up. She was facing the way they were running and she could see a break in the hedgerows up ahead and the corner of a bridge leading south. The screams continued as she tried to clear her head. She glanced back. Bull was up and moving, but he was not using his right front leg. She thought of her bow, but he was hobbling away from her. It was the Executioner’s horse that was screaming. The animal was lying deep in the hedges, a thick branch sticking through its belly. The horse kicked and screamed in obvious agony. There was no sign of the Executioner, but Sam didn’t wait for him to appear and slowly climbed to her feet. Surprisingly everything seemed to work, at least until she tried to make a fist with her right hand. Pain shot up her arm and she desisted, then holding the injured limb close to her body she began to move farther up the lane toward the bridge.
‘If I can get to the forest...if Uncle Sath is at the ranch,” she thought and began to run. Behind her came a great crash in the brush, and despite herself she stopped and turned.
Near his dying horse the Executioner struggled out of the hedges. His face was torn and scratched in a half dozen places, and he had a wild look in his eyes as he peered down at his dying horse.
“Killed another one bastard!” Sam yelled at the top of her lungs, her chest heaving from exertion. She hated the man before her like no other, and wanted to deliver as much pain as she could before he finally killed her.
The Executioner looked up at her, clearly dazed and then he slowly drew his kali. She didn’t wait around, but turned and ran as quickly as she could away from him. He chased after, no longer thinking of his dignity, no longer thinking that an Executioner need never hurry. His only thought was that this girl must die!
Sam reached the break in the hedges and saw a group of buildings to her right, and beyond them the Scar Forest. She veered toward the bridge and was half way across before she noticed a tall young man moving slowly toward her. Sam shook her head.
“Run!” she gasped, not wanting anyone else to die on her account. The man before her, however, did not follow her request. He did stop walking and as she got closer she had the distinct impression that he was amused by her disheveled appearance.
“Easy Miss,” Gwaynn said, shocked by the wild look of the girl running toward him.
“Did your horse throw you?” he asked but she just ran up to him, fear and anger plain on her face. Then, to his surprised, she ran past him, staggering slightly before collapsing in a heap by the firewood. He turned to look at her, wondering just what she was about, but she said nothing. She was breathing hard, but with great effort she rose to her feet once more. She reached out and pulled the axe free from the log it was wedged in. She used her left hand, keeping her right cradled close to her body. When it was out and in her grasp, she turned to look past him.
“Run,” she yelled again, standing tall, defiant, gripping the axe tightly. She looked fierce…and somehow free, no longer afraid, and despite her grubby appearance she was dazzling to his eyes. Her attention was clearly on something behind him so Gwaynn turned, and there on the bridge coming toward him was the Executioner Navarra. Here, before him now was the man who had killed Gwynn; the man who had killed his mother; the man who killed Mille.
“Run you fool. He’s an Executioner,” Sam shouted to him from behind, wondering why the idiot just stood there.
Gwaynn glanced back at her. “I’m in your debt,” he said and with practiced ease pulled his kali from his belt.
“Don’t fight him you simpleton…run!”
But the young man did not answer and instead of running away he actually moved toward the Executioner. Samantha cringed, but noticed that the Executioner’s eyes were also wide with surprise, and despite his previous anger and obsession with her death, now he no longer even looked her way. His eyes were only for the youth in front of him. It was then that she caught sight of something she never expected to see on that face; the face she knew so well; the face she hated, on his face she clearly saw…fear.
Samantha knew she should run, but instead stood perfectly still, holding the axe.
“Navarra,” the young man said, so softly that she could barely hear him. She glanced down at her bare feet, surprised that she was moving forward.
“Prince Gwaynn,” the Executioner called back. “Do I finally get to end the rest of the Massi family line?”
“I’m afraid not,” the young man answered and suddenly the fighting began.
Sam jumped in spite of herself, watching fascinated, as the two dueled. A door slammed behind her and she glanced back to see an older woman in the doorway watching with horror.
Gwaynn struck with all the normal speed he could muster. He would not use his skills with time against the Executioner. He’d come to that decision long ago; it would be far too dangerous. He would have to kill this man the old way, the slow way. So he attacked, and Navarra parried, dodging and spinning, always just out of range, just blocking the deathblow. They circled one another, Gwaynn always on the attack, Navarra always on defense. The two women present watched the deadly dance without a comment or sound.
“I should have killed you first,” Navarra snarled, backing away from another close call. He tried to counter but it was rejected with such authority that he was quickly put on the defensive again.
“Yes, you should have,” Gwaynn answered, breathing easily as if he was taking a stroll through a park.
Navarra backed away; dimly aware of the women watching…the girl watching.
“I will kill you both when I’m through with him,” he yelled and risked
a quick glance at the Fultan girl. He was hoping to catch a glimpse of fear in her eyes, but was disappointed. Her gaze was filled with wonder as she watched the boy in front of her. Navarra grimaced and then caught sight of a kali heading directly at his face. He ducked to the side, but not before his right ear was sliced in two. He howled and staggered back, retreating quickly, ignoring the desire to put a hand to his wound; the blood would make his grip on his weapon slippery, and it was all he could do now to hold onto his kali during the constant ringing the boy was sending through his arms. The Prince had grown strong…very strong.
Gwaynn said nothing, just continued to advance, and as on the beach back on Noble, Navarra realized that he must end this soon. The boy had stamina; the boy had strength and skill. Navarra knew that if he was to win he would need luck or use trickery and guile.
He backed away, trying to give himself time to plan, to come up with an idea. He took another slicing blow along his side, right at his hipbone. He jumped away moving clear, then back pedaling he glanced down at the cut in his shirt. He caught a glimpse of open skin and of blood dripping into the top of his pants. He circled around the back of the house with Gwaynn following. Behind him came the old woman and the Fultan girl, still carrying her pathetic axe. He charged forward, catching the boy off guard, even so his blows were blocked with ease. Navarra managed to push the boy hard with his shoulder, before moving quickly away. There was a large fire pit half way between the house and the forest, though it looked to be burnt out. Navarra caught a glimpse of charred lumber and piles of ash. He backed toward the pit, an idea growing in his mind. Gwaynn followed unsuspectingly.
“I still think of your mother’s screams,” Navarra said, gasping for breath and then had to use every ounce of his skill to block the onslaught that followed. ‘The boy’s inhuman,’ he thought and circled around the pit.
The Black Horseman (The Temple Islands Series) Page 36