Blood in Snow: (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book Three)

by Robert Evert

  Upon reaching the rocky summit, he peered into a narrow valley shielded somewhat from the churning snow. Skinned moose and deer and elk roasted over scores of campfires.

  Well, they aren’t starving.

  No, but they’re freezing.

  He watched the King’s men huddle around their pitiful fires, thin cloaks and blankets wrapped about their shoulders and faces. Even the horses looked miserable; penned in rope corrals, they stamped and pawed at the snow, puffed steam from their nostrils. More than a few lay on their sides, nearing death.

  It looks like they’ve eaten some of the evergreens.

  Poor beasts. They don’t deserve this.

  Edmund scanned the dismal camp, trying to count the men visible. He’d expected a thousand but guessed that there were no more than five hundred spread out along the valley.

  Maybe some have already started to desert.

  Or die.

  He surveyed the camp again.

  At the center stood a large red-and-gold pavilion with smoke rising through the hole at its top. Men in platemail guarded its entrance, unmoving, as if their armor had frozen solid. Several people had emerged from the pavilion. Edmund recognized one of them immediately.

  King Lionel was wrapped in several fur-lined cloaks and deer pelts, while all around him, men shivered, still in their autumn attire.

  Ass.

  The King and his company made their way through the camp, stopping to talk with various groups of men who approached. Lionel seemed agitated, gloved hands moving this way and that as if swatting away gnats; his company huddled together for warmth.

  Edmund studied his surroundings through the blowing snow.

  The valley’s hillside was sheer; the King’s riders couldn’t come up that way. They’d have to swing a half mile to the north or south until they reached gentler slopes. That would give Edmund the time he needed to escape.

  To the northwest sat a forest of dark evergreens. Cedars and pines scented the frigid air.

  Edmund had never been up that way, but the region was often described as “skyless” because rocky hills created deep folds riddled with narrow fissures, the bottoms of which rarely saw sunlight. There were also numerous caves in which bandits could hide from law enforcers. At least, that’s what the history books in his former library had said.

  Edmund shivered.

  “Might as well get this over with.”

  He pulled off a mitten and clutched the end of one makeshift ski pole. The wind bit his fingers, making them feel thick and difficult to move. He cast his fire spell. The strip of cloak at end of the stick caught and began to blaze like a torch. Stepping out from behind the barren trees crowning the ridge, Edmund yelled through the flying snow, “King Lionel!”

  The flaming branch whooshed loudly as he waved it over his head.

  Men in the camp looked up at him, but either because of the cold or they thought he was one of them, nobody reacted.

  Edmund called down, “Hey! Get your King!”

  “What?” somebody hollered back.

  “King!” Edmund pointed at Lionel, still surrounded by a host of knights and noblemen. “Get your King!”

  “Our King?” another repeated, clearly puzzled.

  Edmund cupped his mouth. “Get … your … King!” he yelled.

  Men exchanged glances and talked among themselves. A cluster of them near King Lionel motioned to the ridge where Edmund stood waving his flaming branch over his head again. The King approached the bottom of the hill.

  “Well? What do you have to report?” he called up. “Have you found the rebels?”

  “I—” Edmund’s voice caught in the wind. He tightened his flapping cloak. “I’m the head of the rebels!” He gestured to himself with exaggerated movements. “I am!”

  “That’s the spirit!” the King shouted. “I want their heads as well! Where are they? And where did you get that hat? And those mittens? I’ll give you a lordship if you give them to me!”

  “No,” Edmund shouted back, “you don’t understand. I am the leader of the rebels! I am!”

  The men surrounding the King talked animatedly, as if trying to piece together what Edmund had just said.

  The King glared up at him. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “I’m not one of your—”

  “Get down here this instant and give me those mittens and cloak! And give me that coat as well!”

  Edmund groaned.

  Idiot.

  He threw back his hood and took off his hat and scarf so everybody could see his face.

  “I am not one of your men! I’m Edmund!” He pointed to his black eye patch. “Remember? I was going to be Lord of the High—”

  “Yes! Yes! You can be Lord of the Highlands. You can have this entire godforsaken region; burn it all down for all I care! Now give me those mittens and that coat! And that thing you had wrapped around your face! It looks warm!”

  The crowd around the King grew. Everybody stared through the blowing snow at Edmund.

  “I’m Edmund! Lord—I mean, Governor … Governor of the Highlands!”

  A couple of men pointed at Edmund and said something to the King.

  “If you leave,” Edmund shouted his throat raw, cheeks beginning to go taut from cold, lips unable to move properly, “if you l-leave, I’ll g-g-give … I’ll give you supplies! You’ll live! If you don’t, you’ll die. All of you!”

  Everyone peered up at him and shook their heads, bewildered.

  “Rebel!” Edmund screamed, thumping himself on the chest. “Rebel!”

  “Here?” the King bellowed. “Finally! To battle! To battle!”

  He barked orders to those around him as men scurried off in many different directions, grabbing shields and weapons.

  “No!” Edmund cried, but King Lionel no longer paid any attention to him. Instead he gestured every which way as a young squire brought him his helm and his golden breastplate.

  Edmund stabbed his flaming branch into the snow and made a snowball. He heaved it at the King, coming within inches of hitting Lionel’s royal nose. Everybody stopped and looked up at him, stunned.

  “I’m a rebel!” he shouted.

  “What the devil has gotten into you, man?” the King snarled. “Good god! I’ll have your head! Now get down here so I can chop the ugly thing off! We’re mobilizing as we speak!”

  “I’ll give you supplies. Supplies! If you leave! If you d-don’t, you and your men are going to die!”

  Three men-at-arms ran up to the King. They could have been the scouts Edmund had talked to earlier, though he couldn’t tell through the gusting snow. At first, Lionel didn’t appear to want to listen and promptly waved them away. Then something they said got his, and everybody else’s, attention. The crowd looked at Edmund.

  “You!” the King roared. “You’re the rebel! You are the, the …” He sputtered. “You!”

  “Parley!” Edmund shouted with all he could muster.

  “No!” the King shouted back. “No parley! Why, I am going to beat you to death, you miserable traitor! I am going to bury you up to your neck in this blasted snow and let you freeze! You, you … traitor!”

  The King drew his sword and charged halfway up the slope before sliding back down. He charged again and, tripping, fell face-first into the snow. He screamed at his men. “Don’t just stand there! Get him! Get him!”

  Men began running up the incline, but after a few dozen steps, they all stumbled and slid backward. They got up and charged again.

  “Whoever brings me that ugly fellow’s one-eyed head will become lord of these truly ghastly lands!” the King declared.

  Many men kept charging. Several hurried to their horses.

  I told you this wouldn’t work.

  “Listen to me!” Edmund yelled to the men now literally trying to crawl up the snow-covered hillside. “You’re going to die! You’re going to freeze to death. I’m willing to save you if you just let us be!”

  One warrior with a tw
o-handed sword had clawed three-quarters of the way up before he slid back down, knocking over several other climbers in the process.

  “Kill him!” the King ordered. “Use your bows! I don’t care how many arrows we have left! Kill him! Kill him now!”

  Arrows sailed over Edmund’s head.

  Fools. They’re all going to die.

  Chapter Twenty

  Edmund hurried through the forest, panting breaths billowing in the cold. Horses whinnied behind him. He struggled to go faster, but in his oversized snowshoes, he could only manage a lunging hop, and his leg muscles already threatened to cramp.

  The riders drew closer; fifty of them, judging by their whooping and yelling.

  Edmund labored up the slope. Higher ground would give him an advantage in a sword fight, and it might slow the pursuing horses.

  He stumbled, grabbing a branch to stop his fall.

  Damn Lionel! Why won’t he listen to reason! His men are going to die! He’s going to die!

  You’re going to die if you don’t figure out what to do.

  He looked behind him.

  Through the blowing snow, he could still see his tracks, like arrows pointing straight to him. In an hour, they’d be gone, erased by the wind. But he didn’t have an hour. The riders were only minutes away.

  Go!

  He lumbered up the incline, fur hat soaked with sweat. Small icicles had formed where he exhaled through his damp scarf. A snowshoe hit a rock hidden under the snow, nearly snapping its wooden frame.

  Damn it!

  Catching his breath, Edmund glanced to his left and right. Dark tree shapes extended as far as the eye could see.

  He glanced back again.

  Farther down the slope, a shadowy line of horses spread out; a net of riders pushing through the forest, driving their quarry onward. Behind them, men on foot fought through the thigh-high drifts, bows and spears at the ready.

  Unable to outflank his pursuers, Edmund continued straight on, struggling up the incline along the increasingly rocky terrain. Large stone formations rose up before him in the white haze. He half considered hiding behind one or maybe even climbing on top, high above the ground. But he knew he couldn’t hide. His tracks would lead the King’s men right to him.

  Damn it! Damn, damn, damn it!

  Digging deep to find a source of inspiration to urge forward his weakening legs, Edmund thought of Rood and its townsfolk, then of Pond and Becky and Abby.

  At least they’ll be safe. With me dead, Lionel may spare them.

  If they aren’t stupid enough to fight back.

  This thought stunned him. Of course they’d fight back. Since losing Bain, Hendrick and his men had been spoiling for vengeance. Nobody would take Rood from them, not without bloodshed.

  They’ll fight and lose.

  Maybe.

  The riders’ shouts were getting closer.

  Staggering past the rock formations, Edmund drew his short sword to get used to holding it with mittens on. If he dropped it in the snow during a fight, all would be over.

  If only I’d made more of these. Maybe then—

  What? Hendrick and his guards would win a battle, maybe two, but sooner or later, Lionel will come back with more knights, come back in the spring with more supplies and better maps and eventually reclaim the Highlands, killing everybody who defied him. Making the Highlands your own kingdom! What an asinine idea. You’re going to be dead in two minutes.

  Gasping frigid air in great gulps, Edmund reached the top of the hill, where, a few yards before him, the trees gave way and a clearing came into view. In it, brighter light illuminated the flying snow.

  Stay in the woods or go into the clearing?

  Easier to fight in the woods. Better chances to hide as well.

  Shouts behind him got louder.

  Weapons clashed on shields.

  Go! Keep running! You can’t stop! Your muscles are going to cramp up. Run!

  Edmund hopped forward, snowshoes sinking a few inches in the deep drifts.

  Hurry!

  More cries erupted behind him.

  He tried to quicken his pace, but couldn’t.

  Finally, breaking through the tangle of cedar trees, he could see the forest had ended in a line, and reappeared a couple hundred feet ahead.

  He hobbled toward the other side of the clearing, then stopped.

  “No!”

  A fissure ran straight down through the stone, forming a narrow gorge that stretched to either side as far as he could see.

  In the forest, screams mingled with shouts. Horses whinnied wildly. Edmund shuffled to his right several strides where the fissure was narrower.

  Maybe eight feet …

  More like ten.

  I could jump—

  You can’t jump ten feet.

  Maybe if I …

  He backed up and took a practice jump. He barely cleared six inches, if that. He considered taking off his snowshoes, but then he’d sink into the snow; he wouldn’t be able to jump at all.

  “Damn it!”

  What now?

  Climb down where the horses can’t come after you.

  Edmund studied the sides of the fissure; they bowed inward, making the bottom of the gorge wider than its narrow top, grey rock covered in long sheets of ice.

  “Jump?”

  The bottom of the gorge was only twenty feet down, filled with mounds of snow that probably covered large rocks. If he landed on one, he’d break his legs.

  A horse screamed in pain.

  Edmund spun around.

  Down the hillside, about eighty yards away, dark shapes raced this way and that. Many were off their horses. Some were running toward him. Weapons rang.

  Over! Jump over! You’ve got to—

  An idea struck him.

  No. Not jump …

  Edmund hobbled to a nearby tree and hacked at one of its lower branches, the black blade of his sword scoring deeply into the frozen wood. He kept hacking, shielding his face from the blinding snow.

  Horses stormed up the hill. One broke through the line of trees and, riderless, fled northward along the rim of the gorge.

  Edmund’s black blade snapped through the thick branch.

  Hurry!

  He dragged the tree limb to the fissure and reached it across.

  It was long enough, but only the twigs at the end touched the far side. It would never support his weight.

  The running figures in the forest drew closer.

  Cries floated in the wind.

  Another riderless horse broke through, rearing and snorting when it saw Edmund. It raced southward, steam blowing from its nostrils.

  Quickly Edmund hewed off the tree limb’s smaller branches until he had a long pole. Then he cast his enlargement spell. The tree limb doubled in size, shooting out well past the far side of the gorge.

  Hurry!

  Balancing, he began to inch across.

  Careful! Careful!

  Halfway, Edmund glanced back. A handful of figures on foot advanced through the veil of snow.

  A gust of icy wind threatened to drive him off the branch. Teetering, he shuffled forward again. When he’d gotten close enough, he leapt onto the other side of the gorge then kicked his makeshift bridge into the fissure. It fell, clattering against the ravine walls until it impaled itself like a spear into the drifts below.

  Five heavily cloaked figures wearing snowshoes advanced upon him, leaving behind thirty or forty other dark shapes that lay on the ground. One of them was clearly a horse. It cried out a shrieking trumpet of a scream as it fought to stand, then crumpled again.

  The figures drew closer. A familiar voice spoke through the blowing snow.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t Master Filth!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Ah! It is so good to see you.” Kravel unwound the thick scarf from his pallid face.

  Five goblins emerged from the forest, stopping short of the fissure.

  Kravel examined the go
rge and shook his head with a laugh.

  “You are a wonder, Filth. Simply a wonder! How you’re able to do these things is beyond me. So how did you cross? Fly?”

  “Get away from me, Kravel!” Edmund brandished his sword. “Leave me alone!”

  “Yes, yes,” Kravel replied, sheathing a bloody scimitar, “I missed you, too. I trust you are well. It appears you’ve put on a little weight. Sure that’s wise at your age?”

  A goblin next to Kravel nocked an arrow, while others ran along the fissure, looking for a narrower place to cross.

  “Put that down,” Kravel told the goblin with the bow.

  “But I can shoot him,” the goblin said. “He’s right there. I can’t miss!”

  Kravel sighed. “That’d take all the fun out of capturing him alive, now wouldn’t it?”

  “I can shoot him in the leg, before he gets away!”

  Edmund began to retreat.

  “Filth? Get away? That won’t happen. Thankfully we always know where he is. He’s charming in that respect.”

  Other goblins ran up to Kravel.

  “No way across.”

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  “We can use a tree branch to create a bridge.”

  Kravel rolled his eyes with the pain of patience that had been worn thin.

  “Yes”—he smiled—“that would be splendid, wouldn’t it? Then Master Filth here could kill you all as you step across, one at a time.”

  Two goblins laughed.

  “Him?”

  “Sir, we just killed at least fifty human warriors,” the one with the bow said. “Fifty against five, and he’s going to kill us?”

  Kravel turned to Edmund. “Honestly, I hate the enthusiasm of youth, don’t you? Which reminds me. What did you do with our Mr. Gurding? He never returned home. You didn’t dispatch him, did you?”

  “I cut his eyes out.” Edmund watched nervously as the goblins scurried along the edge of the gorge, still searching for a way to get over. “That’s what I’m going to do to you when I get you alone.”

  “You cut out his eyes … and let him live?” Kravel clapped his hands. “Poetic, simply poetic! Honestly, you’re an inspiration! But I dare say, he’ll be hunting you until he’s dead. Mr. Gurding is nothing if not persistent, and there are other senses besides—”