by Sandra Kopp
John and Mason secured one end of the rope under Abuttska’s armpits. John threw the other end over one of the higher branches and then two more of Bertrand’s men pulled the loose end down, hauling the frantic Abuttska out of his saddle and leaving him dangling some four feet off the ground. The men tied the rope and mounted their horses. Legs flailing, Abuttska continued his pitiful whimpers and muffled curses.
“Leave his horse,” Bertrand commanded and then flashed a smile at Abuttska. “Don’t kick so, Mr. I-Am-A-Buttski. You’ll only chafe your armpits. Besides, you’ll need your strength later when the birds come around. Now farewell, friend. We go to Barren-Fel to claim my throne.” With a booming laugh, Bertrand turned his horse and waved the company forward.
Charles detested Abuttska. Yet the fate awaiting this doomed man sickened him. Even the worst scoundrel hardly deserved to be eaten alive. “Do you really mean to leave him so?” he demanded.
Bertrand gave no answer.
“We’ve no place for weak stomachs, mate,” Mason growled as he brushed past to join Bertrand. “Believe me, that rat deserves far worse.”
Bertrand chirruped, urging his horse into a gallop. The company thundered across the field, not slowing until they reached the forest’s edge.
Charles looked back. From this distance Abuttska looked small but no less miserable. Feeling Bertrand’s black eyes boring through him, Charles turned to face him. He heaved a short sigh. “I know he’s trouble; but shouldn’t we rather just put an arrow through him and be done with it?”
Bertrand sat straighter. Gazing at Charles through half-closed eyes, he took bow in hand and whipped an arrow out of his quiver. “As you wish.” He turned his horse toward the oak, aimed, and shot.
Charles had expected to see Abuttska’s squirming body go suddenly limp. Instead, Abuttska fell to the ground, the rope suspending him severed by Bertrand’s arrow.
“There.” Bertrand put up his bow, turned his horse, and started for the forest. “We’ll be well away before he can do anything more.” He caught Charles’ incredulous stare and chuckled. “He’s resourceful. He’ll find his way out of those ropes and back to town.”
Charles raised a brow. “You intended this all along.”
“As I told Master Greene, even that miscreant will serve a purpose.” Bertrand clicked his tongue and as his horse stepped out, he said, “Let’s find your friend.”
Charles stole another backward glance at Abuttska, now on his side and wriggling helplessly. He felt a strange chill. Abuttska might indeed serve a purpose; but Charles feared this man, presently the butt of their jokes, might prove their executioner.
They rode well into the afternoon, stopping only to water their horses and swallow a few bites of jerky and cheese beside one of Barren-Fel’s rushing streams. Bertrand seemed pre-occupied, even moody, for he stared at the ground as he chewed and only answered questions directed at him with grunts or monosyllables. At one point Robert crossed from beside William O’Dell to sit beside Bertrand, and from his posture Charles guessed he enquired of his brother the reason for his changed demeanor. Bertrand shook his head and waved him away, at which Robert shrugged and returned to his place.
Charles wondered whether Bertrand now regretted abusing Ian Abuttska so severely. He knew nothing of their previous encounters; yet Bertrand’s actions seemed unwarranted and raised concerns in Charles’ mind that he had sealed not only his own fate, but those of his entire band. Abuttska’s mental and physical anguish, along with the sheer humiliation of the experience would drive him to whatever vengeance ultimately appeased his trampled pride. Charles considered that perhaps he should pull Bertrand aside for a private talk.
Charles rose, stepped over the log on which he had sat and walked toward Bertrand.
“Aye, let’s march.” Bertrand hastily gulped the last of his food and jumped to his feet. “Come, lads. Daylight’s a-wasting.” Without so much as a glance at Charles he scooped up his satchel and waterskin and headed for his horse.
Charles halted, frowning. Catching Edwin’s eye, he raised his brows in exasperation and pointed his thumb at Bertrand. Edwin only shook his head and shrugged before mounting his horse.
They meandered among moss-robed trees and tangled thickets, traversing hills paved with weather-beaten stones clothed in velvety moss. Silence pervaded the musky air, which smelled of pine and rotting logs. Charles could scarcely believe that, just days before, he and Royce had torn through these woods pursuing an elk.
No, he thought, it had to have been further north and west. It seemed an eternity had passed since then.
The land leveled out. Fewer stones littered the ground and the shrubbery filling the gaps between trees increased. The area seemed familiar, and when Charles spied the foot and hoofprints around the long indentations made by pallets being dragged he knew they approached the woodsmen’s last camp site.
Around midafternoon they spied a blackened snag with twisted limbs. Charles swallowed, remembering the grotesque corpse buried under the rocks in the nearby glade. At that very moment the foulest of stenches met his nose. Some in the company coughed and cleared their throats. Others pulled their neckerchiefs over their noses. Royce gagged. The horses tossed their heads and shied toward the north, trying to run. Some reared, hopping forward on their hind legs when their riders held them in.
Bertrand spat as he fought to control his mount. “Bloody hell! What a stink!”
Charles guided Vitimihovna up beside him. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Marcos’ company camped in the glade yonder while two of us hunted. In our absence one of them killed what they thought was a wild dog that had entered the camp.” Charles paused and moistened his lips. “After death, the creature transformed into something resembling a human spider. It wasn’t a dog.”
Bertrand stared, incredulous. “Shapeshifter?”
Confusion clouded Charles’ face. “I-I don’t know.”
“Who killed it?”
“The man’s not with us.” Marcos rode up. “He took ill in Madmarose and stayed behind.”
“Probably a good thing.” Bertrand twisted his mouth aside. “I’ve heard stories about shapeshifters—not sure how many are true—but supposedly these blighters can cheat even death.”
Charles bit his lip. “The sight of this one made my skin crawl. Even in Madmarose it haunted me.”
He darted a glance toward the glade. From the corner of his eye he saw Myan bob his head that very direction, beckoning the handful of Little People around him to follow. Single file, they set off for the glade. But almost immediately, Myan’s horse snorted and reared. When its front feet alit, it whirled and tried to run. Myan pulled his mount down, but now all the horses danced nervously. Trevor seemed especially anxious, for he reared repeatedly and pawed the air with his powerful forelegs.
The company retreated north several yards until the horses calmed. Bertrand spied a small pond and motioned toward it. “We’ll stop here.”
Myan drew his axe, threw his right leg over his horse’s neck, and dropped to the ground. The rest of the Little People dismounted likewise. Myan selected ten and, after instructing the remainder to wait with the horses, swiftly and silently led his group toward the glade. They disappeared within a few feet, melting into the shadows as they stole through the trees.
Bertrand leapt off his horse and grabbed his bow and quiver.
“Give them some room,” Marcos urged.
Bertrand’s eyes gleamed. “I must see what lurks there, whether a shapeshifter’s corpse or his vengeful ghost.”
“We’ll follow, but keep a distance. Any danger, they will know at once and give us warning whether to fight or flee.”
By now everyone had alit. Bertrand scanned the group, then jabbed a gnarled forefinger at Mason, Robert LeConte, William O’Dell, Charles, Marcos, and Benno. “You six come with me. The rest of you stay with the horses; we can’t afford to lose any. If we’re delayed or you hear fighting or a summons, then come, but leave at least
ten here. Understand?”
“Understand,” John returned.
Bertrand nodded once. “Alright, you six, let’s go.” He slipped into the trees.
Charles shot Edwin a sympathetic glance as he led Vitimihovna and Trevor to him and offered the reins. Edwin grinned wryly as he accepted his charges. “I’ll stay gladly; this bum leg’ll only hinder you,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry. I’ll guard these steeds with my life.”
“I know you will.” Charles clapped him on the shoulder, then pulled his bow and quiver off his saddle. “We’ll be back as soon as we can. I won’t stay in that stench any longer than I have to, believe me.” Charles shouldered his bow and hurried after Bertrand.
They walked some thirty yards before smelling the first traces of decay. Within just a few feet the odor escalated into a foul stench that thickened with every step, a horrid sourish, putrid emanation they could almost feel and taste. Those with kerchiefs tied them tighter over their noses and mouths; those without tore off pieces of clothing to breathe through or pulled their shirts up over their noses. Even so, they were hard-pressed not to retch.
At length they reached the edge of the glade. Five of the Little People clustered near the group of stones Charles recognized as those marking the strange creature’s grave. The other five stood with Myan near some trees near the grove’s edge.
Myan pointed to the rocks. “Look.”
Bertrand’s group spilled across the glade. The Little People stepped back as they approached. One pointed to the middle stone.
Bertrand led his group to the stone indicated but stopped five feet from it. He whistled. Charles stepped up beside him and gasped.
A monstrous, moldy, deformed claw—reduced now to bare bones—stuck out from beneath the rock. Charles reeled, remembering his vision of the moving soil at this very spot. Either they had buried the creature alive or. . .
Maybe these creatures can cheat death! Charles drew an uneasy breath and murmured, “Surely this creature died. Could it have escaped this body and now be roaming the earth in another form? Or did the rock contain it such that it did succumb?”
“Ugh!” Bertrand snorted. Turning away, he proceeded to Myan’s group. “What have we here?”
Myan bobbed his head toward a huge pine and then pointed at the ground. Bertrand and his company noted the bloody trunk and bits of hair sticking to it, and then the enormous hoofprints imprinted on the soil.
Marcos stared. “Those weren’t there when we camped here.”
“This is not like the other. This is living blood,” Myan rasped.
“What do you mean, ‘living blood,’” Charles asked.
“This creature was bludgeoned while still alive.” Myan stepped closer to the tree and sniffed. “Yes. But that over there. . .” he bobbed his head toward the grave . . . “dead.” He turned and chattered something to the Little People, who spread out through the surrounding foliage, peering about as if seeking something.
Charles stared at the grave in consternation. “What does he mean by ‘living’ or ‘dead’ blood,” he murmured. “Blood is blood, in my opinion. One was bludgeoned while alive, he said. Is he saying the one we buried. . .” he waved a hand. “I don’t understand these woodland folk. Maybe I’ll ask him later.”
He started as Bertrand brushed past. Bertrand took no notice, but continued to Marcos, now studying the branches on a rotting log nearby, and paused beside him. “What are they looking for?” he asked, motioning toward the Little People.
“Another corpse or someone injured.” Marcos stepped onto the log and stomped a stout, knotty branch near its juncture with the main trunk, snapping it off. Alighting, he scooped up his prize and skirted the pine to a thicket beyond, using the branch to push aside the thorny limbs spilled across the ground. “I hope we find nothing; but. . .” Marcos continued searching.
Bertrand grunted and set off after the Little People.
Mason looked disgusted. “Why do we waste the time?” he grumbled, but snatched another branch off the log and followed Bertrand through the trees.
The pair reached Myan. Bertrand started to speak but Myan silenced him with a warning hiss. “Something approaches!”
The men froze, listening to the steadily rising, rhythmic rumble of heavy hooves. Somewhere in the distance a man’s deep baritone spewed garbled gibberish.
Myan gasped. “The Red Horse!”
Bertrand scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“A monster that will leave none of us alive if he finds us. Run!”
They scampered deeper into the trees and shrubbery, leaping over logs and bushes, tripping over roots and stones or slipping on flat mossy rocks. The furious drumming grew louder.
I must see this monster! Charles flung himself over a massive log and crouched against it.
The ground shook under thunderous hooves. Cautiously Charles peered over the top, leaning first one way and then the other as he strained for a glimpse, but heavy shrubbery blocked his view. The beast had to have entered the glade, he thought, and inched toward the end of the log.
A tormented bellow, too deafening to have issued from a human throat, sent him scurrying back. The branches before him popped and snapped like tinder amid conflagration as the monstrous behemoth plowed through. Charles fell onto his back, gaping at the flailing hooves now pawing the air above him. The powerful forelegs slammed the ground. The creature reared again, descended, and stood still, facing northwest as it sniffed the wind. Unleashing an explosive snort then, it tossed its head and reared. The front hooves stomped the ground as they alit.
Charles tried to sit up but could only stare, horrified. He saw a horse’s body, but a man from the waist up fused into the place where the horse’s neck and head should have been. A shaggy red mane crowned a face once dear but now barely recognizable and almost hidden behind a long matted beard. The eyes blazed maniacally. Foam dripped from a gaping mouth. The bare chest bore a crisscrossed network of long bloody welts. The crazed creature raised his fists and threw back his head, unleashing roars that rang throughout the trees.
Abruptly he ceased, bringing his arms down hard to his sides. Fists clenched, he lowered his head and glared at Charles through bloodshot eyes.
A mixture of recognition, horror, and disbelief overwhelmed Charles. Anguish twisted his face. Damn the witch! I thought her cruel, but her treachery exceeds my worst fears!
The raging features softened. The beast cocked his head. A tear slid from the corner of one eye and dripped onto the matted beard. Heart racing, Charles held out a trembling hand. Those huge fists opened. Ever so slowly the Red Horse began extending his right hand. . .
The beast suddenly recoiled as if Charles had stung him. Fury contorted his face. Spewing curses, he struck out at Charles, who rolled backward just in time to elude a brutal front hoof.
Thwack! An arrow sang past and buried itself in the beast’s shoulder. Bellowing, the Red Horse spun around and tore through the thicket toward the glade. More arrows streaked past. Amid the branches to his right Charles saw Bertrand and Mason ready two more.
“No!” Somehow Charles found his feet and dove at Bertrand, knocking him into Mason just as the two released their shots. One arrow spiraled into a nearby trunk. The other arced high and disappeared over the trees.
Bertrand cursed. “Bloody fool! What are you doing?”
“Don’t kill him! He’s no monster, he’s a man!”
“My arse! He’d have killed you but for us! Now you’ve let him loose to kill again.” Bertrand slammed his fist against the trunk of a nearby fir.
Heavy hooves pounded across the glade, retreating at first, but then approaching, then retreating and approaching again. Myan hollered from the glade and Charles winced at the sound of a dozen fired arrows.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Put up your weapons.”
More branches snapped. The hoofbeats thundered away, faded, and finally died.
Marcos seized Charles’ arm, spun him north and
shoved him forward. “Move, man! We’ve got to get out of here. Bertrand, let it go! Come on!”
Bertrand glared toward the glade and then at Charles. “You gone mad?” he bellowed, pointing in the direction of the departing hoofbeats. “We could have killed that monstrosity and gotten another enemy out of the way. Now it’s wounded, angry, and bound to come at us again!” He blew out a breath and dropped his arm. “It’s bleeding bad and weakening. We can chase it down with the horses and finish it. And you—” He jabbed his finger at Charles —“just stay out of our way.”
“Listen, will you?” Charles shouted.
“Shut up, both of you!” Marcos hurled his stick to the ground. “The beast is gone and we’ve no time to look for it. Our people are still out there somewhere needing our help, and they can’t wait while we fight and bicker and chase something we may never find again. Forget it! Let’s go!”
Without another word the men raced for the horses. Charles wheezed and gasped as he stumbled forward, his fevered mind still scarcely able to process what his eyes had seen.
Their comrades had gathered at the edge of the camp, armed and ready to fight. Edwin stood at their head. “What happened? The Little People spoke of the Red Horse. Did you see it?”
“Aye, and we would have killed it, but for this fool,” Bertrand growled, motioning toward Charles.
All eyes turned to Charles. Edwin cocked his head. “What does he mean?”
Charles returned their stares, tightlipped. “I saw it plainly. It’s—” His voice broke. Finally he croaked, “It’s no monster. It’s Hans Ogilvie!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Edwin stared, stunned. “Hans is the Red Horse?”
Charles’ head jerked up and down. “I saw him plainly. It was Hans, no mistake.”
“Every account I ever heard described only a red horse with no rider.”
“They saw it through shadow in deep forest, and only a horse’s hindquarters as the beast retreated,” Myan told him. “They never saw the entire creature.”
