“Why would you do this?”
“I have my own reasons,” said Mica as she thought of Penner, the man with no nose. She also thought of Maureen and Peter.
“It’s too dangerous, you could be killed.”
“Many years ago the flag was placed on the battlefield of Tursy, it protected the wounded, saved them and enabled those who would have died to flee. One of those men was Agar, the man who raised me and taught me how to use a sword. Without him I would not now be on this path, would not have the chance to take my revenge. This is all part of my destiny, let me take the flag into their camp, let me seek that revenge.”
“It seems we’re both on the same path, I can understand your feelings and maybe you are right.”
He turned and disappeared back into the darkness. He simply vanished for a second or two. Then he reappeared leading a big black horse.
“I will lend you my horse, he is a feisty fellow. Be patient with him. Ride him for a while before you enter the village. In the saddle-bags there is a cape along with the flag. I wish you luck.”
He held out the reins of the horse, she took them feeling immediately the pull, the resistance from the magnificent horse.
“Whoa boy, she will be gentle with you.” He patted the horse on the neck and it settled down. “Are you still planning to head north?”
“Yes, to the place you told me. It seems that nobody knows of this place called Santomine.”
“There are those who have never heard of it, there are those who know of its existence and there are those who fear it.”
“Will we be safe there?”
“Very safe.”
“You will be heading south then.”
“Yes, I intend to follow the soldiers, to harass them all the way back to Lothia.”
“It’s my turn to wish you luck.”
“Thank you.”
“What of the horse, will you come for him?”
“No, just set him free when you are finished, he’ll find me.”
“We might not see each other for a while,” said Mica, wishing to say something more, something more appropriate at their parting.
“I’ll seek you out when the time comes, we will meet again, Mica, of that I am sure.” He hesitated for a moment, lifted his shadowed face slightly to look into her eyes, then turned and disappeared.
* * *
The soldiers, shivering in the cold and gloom of the thick morning fog, heard the sound first. It was the sound of a single horse coming toward them at an easy canter beyond the stone arched bridge. They could see nothing through the murkiness of the fog. The horse’s hooves were muffled, almost soundless in fact, except that they were growing louder as the rider came closer. Two of the soldiers stood up from their wooden bench seat beneath the overhanging split-paling verandah and stepped out onto the hard stone-paved road in front of the bridge, their honed and sharpened spears lowered out in front of them as they waited for the rider to appear.
The sound of the horse’s hooves changed, to a sharper, crisper note as the horse reached the stone bridge, they could not see the horseman and they were now a little concerned. Everyone knew they had to stop when crossing the bridge, but this rider had not altered his pace at all. They raised their spears slightly, expecting to use them.
The horse and rider, both blacker than the night, seemed to emerge from the fog like a spirit before their very eyes. They quickly took in the black-hooded cape, the lowered head, the snorting of the horse and its fiery red eyes. But it was the flag on the end of the long lance that the rider held straight and true that caught their attention. It was of the purest white and in its centre there was a black skull. There was no command, no order to stop as both of the soldiers cringed in fear at the sight. At the same time they moved aside to allow the rider to pass and to be swallowed up by the fog, the sound of the hooves growing fainter and fainter.
The rider steered past the butchery, the mangled bodies that the soldiers had not yet buried, the torn tents, scattered items of clothing, cooking utensils and personal items. How many had died? One thousand, two thousand, no one would ever really know for sure. A grey, cringing dog slunk through the aftermath searching for food. Here and there a peasant moved with eyes lowered. They had been cowered into submission by the Lothians, their dreams shattered.
The twin-rutted road turned slightly as it rose to the hill where the large green tent with the imperial flags stood dormant and sagging in the windless fog either side of the entrance.
Four guards stood at the entrance, their concentration sharpened at the approach of a rider, their spears at the ready. A fifth man, a sergeant with broad shoulders, long straggly dark hair, full beard and glaring eyes stepped forward from behind the flaps of the tent, his hand resting on the huge broadsword at his side.
Like the soldiers at the bridge he saw the rider appear from out of the gloom, saw instantly the black caped, hooded figure and the rippling muscles of the huge black horse. A cold shiver swept through his body, a fear embedded in his mind from childhood as he remembered the stories of Shadow Walkers, recalled the descriptions of darker than night clothing and of the flag, the white flag with the black skull.
Shadow Walkers were nothing but ancient legends, stories made up by the old folks to scare children, so he tried to convince himself. Gripping the handle of his sword tighter he stepped forward fighting the panic deep within him. The horse reared on its hind legs, its front hooves clawing the air as the rider pulled at the reins, stopping just in front of him. As the horse settled, the rider pushed back the hood. He was surprised to see that it was just a woman, a woman of intense beauty with cold-dark eyes. He felt a small sense of relief.
“I am here to deliver a message to the general,” commanded the stern, sharp, but acutely feminine voice.
By now other soldiers had gathered; had circled around the young woman astride the black horse and carrying the flag of the Shadow Walker. The sergeant said nothing. He turned and went back inside the tent.
Mica rested her hand on the hilt of her sword; more as feeling of comfort, but it was a false comfort for she could never fight off all these men if they attacked her. The black stallion moved nervously on his hooves, he could feel the tension as well as he raised his head and snorted his dissent. Some of the soldiers took a step back, fear reflected on their faces.
She knew the general would keep her waiting. It would be his way of demeaning her, increasing her nervousness as even more soldiers gathered to see what was going on. Finally, he appeared with the sergeant and another man by his side. He was tall, broad shouldered and clean shaven, his green eyes ringed by blond eyelashes tinged with grey. He wore full armour and a gold helmet with the purple plume signaling his status as a general. He was probably in his mid forties.
“I believe you have a message for me.”
The tone of his voice was condescending, even arrogant to a point.
“I have a message and a request.”
Mica lifted the spear and drove it into the ground in front of the general, right at his feet. The general didn’t even flinch.
“You and your men have slain innocent, men, women and children. You have killed the priests and burnt their church. You have dared to invade the fields of Tursy, a sacrilege in the eyes of all the people of Islabad, a sacrilege that will eventually see the deaths of you and all your men. From this day hence a Shadow Walker will walk the land once again. You and your men will forever fear the coming of the night. You can expect no mercy.”
All was quiet, no one spoke. The general moved his eyes from left to right peering at his men, sensing the tension and the underlying fear that was creeping through them. He stared at the young woman. “Are you, the Shadow Walker?” he said with a grin.
The tension instantly eased as the men caught their commander’s drift and a steady murmur of joviality rippled through the soldiers.
“You might well laugh,” said Mica raising her voice. “By tomorrow morning some of you will be in
your grave, slain by the Shadow Walker.”
Goran took a step forward, took hold of the lance, walked over to a nearby fire and hung the flag over the flames. It flared and disappeared in an instant. He was angry now as he yelled out to his men. “There are no Shadow Walkers, no spirits walking in the night and tomorrow morning we will leave this place, all of us!” He broke the spear over his knee and threw it in the fire as the soldiers cheered.
He strode back over toward the young woman, his hands on his hips. “Are you the woman who slew my men in the camp on the ridge?”
“If you mean did I defend the women and children from your soldiers? Yes.”
“Take her!”
Mica immediately felt the rough hands reaching for her, dragging her from the horse. Her sword and dagger were taken as they threw her to the ground. She felt the boots holding her down, one of them at the back of her head driving her face into the dirt. She spluttered and swore like any man would or should. Strong hands lifted her, dragged her up to stand before the general. “Tell me of your request. It could well be your last.”
Mica spat the dirt from her mouth. “Are you a man of honour, General?”
“I would like to think so.”
“There is a matter of honour I need to see to, I believe you have a man under your command known as Penner.”
“I might have.”
“I want to challenge him to a duel, if he wins you are rid of me, if I win you let me go, along with two of your prisoners, Peter and Melissa Burrows.”
Goran raised his eyebrows somewhat at the girl’s request. He turned and looked at Porta, who in turn raised his own eyebrows. They were both thinking the same thing, here was their chance to be rid of Penner. But was it too high a price to pay, and could the girl actually defeat a veteran like Penner? Regardless, it would create some entertainment for him and the troops; it would also take their minds off what she had said about the Shadow Walker.
“I will agree to your request, but I’ll keep the young man, the girl you can have. Have someone find Penner,” said Goran to the sergeant.
Mica breathed a sigh of relief. She would like to have rescued both Peter and Melissa.
“Give her back her weapons,” said Goran to the scrawny soldier who was studying the inscription and was even now undoing the thin leather covering on the hilt. He saw the jewels.
“Sir, this is no common sword,” said the soldier as he continued to unwrap the leather binding.
Goran strode over to where the soldier was standing. He took the sword from him. He ran his fingers over the blade, felt the razor-honed edges. He saw the imprint of the wild boar and wondered what it meant. The jewels in the hilt and on the handle would be worth a small fortune. This was a sword to be admired, a sword that should belong to a king, a prince, or even a general. The soldier passed him the dagger, it was just a common dagger and no different than any other he had seen.
He twisted on the heel of his boots and took a couple steps, bringing him quite close to the young woman. She was a full head shorter than he and stood with her feet firmly planted on the ground, her dark pitted eyes staring up at him. There was no fear in this stunning young woman, there was no panic. She was completely in control of her emotions. The thought suddenly crossed his mind that this woman had been well trained, she had discipline and confidence that he had only seen in soldiers of some years experience. “What is your name?”
“Mica,” she replied, staring directly into his eyes.
Mica noticed that this man had supreme self-assurance, moved as though he belonged amid the dangers of a battlefield. He had a sword at his waist, a sword similar in dimensions to her own, she sensed, knew that he would know how to use his sword, know how to kill with it, it was what she would expect from a general. “You have no second name?”
“If I have, I have no knowledge of it, I am an orphan.”
“This is a fine sword,” he said lifting it up and casting his eyes over it, “the sort of a sword that a king would own.”
“It belonged to my father.”
“This matter of honour, it has to do with your father and Penner?”
“Yes.”
Goran rested the sword across his right forearm, the jeweled hilt facing toward Mica. “I wish you luck. You are going to need it.”
Mica took the sword, felt its comforting weight. The general gave her the dagger, which she slipped into its scabbard at her belt.
Goran ordered some seats for himself and Porta. As he made himself comfortable he suddenly found himself hoping that she would win. He would not like to see one so beautiful as her, cut to pieces.
“I fear she will be no match for Penner,” said Porta.
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Porta. This is no ordinary woman.”
“She is a woman of rare beauty. A man could easily give up all this to be with her.”
“You and just about every man in this damn army are probably thinking the very same thing.”
Penner’s head was throbbing from heavy drinking in the tavern the previous night, when the sergeant woke him and informed him he had been summoned by the general. He had told him to piss off. But the sergeant insisted that he come immediately. Penner questioned him as to why he was being summoned, but the sergeant would not elaborate. Dipping his matted hair into a bowl of cold water and then shaking his head like a growling dog, he proceeded to find his horse and follow the sergeant.
He arrived at the general’s tent to find him and Porta seated. A young woman stood beside a black horse, and men surrounded the tent in a semi circle. He leant forward on his horse and glared at Goran.
“What’s going on,” he snarled.
“It seems that this young woman here has challenged you to a duel.”
Mica stared at the man astride the horse. A shiver went through her body. This was the man who had slain her father. His battle scared face left her in no doubt. Finally, after all these years she was facing one of the men who had killed her parents, now she would slay him.
Penner snorted through what was left of his nose and then let forth with a deep hoary laugh. “A woman has challenged me to a duel? You must be joking.”
“It’s no joke, Penner. This young woman here has challenged you and I have sanctioned the duel. Are you going to decline the challenge?”
Goran knew that he had Penner trapped. He would not refuse the challenge, he couldn’t if he wished to maintain his reputation; that it was a woman would demand it of him even more.
Penner glared at the young woman, he saw the intense ebony eyes, the expressionless face, the stance of a warrior prepared for battle and her beauty did not escape him either. Why was this woman challenging him? Who was she? He leapt from his horse and drew his sword.
“Let’s get this over with. I have some whoring and drinking to do.”
One day you will meet your reason for being what you are. It will be the culmination of all your years of training. It is vital that you push from your mind the past, the pain and the hurt. You must concentrate only on the sword, on what it can do, what you can do with it.
Penner stepped forward and slashed with his sword. Mica’s swift move easily avoided it. He made several more sweeps that also failed to make contact. “Stand still you fucking whore and fight.”
“My, such manners, you must get all the girls.”
Some of the soldiers laughed.
Penner snarled and swore again as he settled down and began to fight as he should, using tactics rather than brawn. This time Mica had to parry his blows. Her plan was to defend, circle around Penner and wear him down. At the same time she would look for a weakness, something that she could take advantage of.
The soldiers were booing her, making snide remarks about the weakness of her gender. She ignored them. She concentrated only on the clashing of the swords, on Penner’s arm as it twisted and contorted in an effort to reach her, but she was way too fast for him.
Penner began to slow down. He was circling her now and
only making half-hearted thrusts. Mica knew he wanted her to attack him, to maybe give him an opening. She gave him his wish. Their swords clashed in a fiery embrace.
It was Mica who found the first opening, her sword cut into his left arm just above the elbow. She stepped back out of reach. “Do you know who I am, Penner?”
“I don’t give a shit who you are,” said Penner as the blood trickled down his arm.
“I think she has his measure,” said Goran softly.
“You could be right, sir,” replied Porta.
“You killed my father.”
“I have killed a lot of fathers, slain a lot of daughters, after I had my way with them of course. Maybe that’s what I’ll do with you, have my way with you right here in front of all these men. I’m sure they would like to see that.”
“The only thing they are going to see is your death.”
This time when Mica attacked there was no retreating no resting, it was an onslaught that Penner had no hope of fending off. Mica’s sword entered his throat and came out the back of his neck. Penner’s eyes stared at the sword in disbelief. He saw the jewels, saw the wild boar etched in the blade. He now knew who this woman was.
“You… you are, Mica,” he gurgled as he stared at her with glazed eyes.
“What do you know?” demanded Mica as she became aware that this dying man knew who she was, knew her past. “What do you know?” she asked angrily. But it was too late, Penner died with a smirk on his face. She withdrew the sword and wiped the blood from the blade on Penner’s grubby clothes. She turned to face the general who was now standing up with a slight smile on his face.
“You are quite impressive in more ways than one,” said the general, casting his eyes around the ring of soldiers. He saw the disbelief on their faces, but he knew that none of them would mourn the passing of Penner. His eyes returned to the young woman standing before him. “I will keep my word, you are free to go, but if we ever meet again I will arrest you for killing my men.”
“We may meet again, General. This is not over by a long way. I still have another to find.”
The Orphan and the Shadow Walker Page 14
