But whatever skills in woodcraft he possessed, the youth did not share them, and it was only because of this that Dalen was able to track them at all, carrying on the unenviable task set him and tracking down the most notorious warrior in the world.
It was difficult to mark the passage of time here, beneath the boughs of the great trees, and it felt as if the world of men, the world of which Dalen was a part, did not, could not exist in this place, as if conceits such as time had no meaning. Yet, he knew that it was late in the evening, perhaps even the early morning hours, and he was surprised to find that his targets had not yet stopped to rest. He had heard the stories, of course, of Feledias’s brother—there was not a man or woman living who could claim otherwise—stories which had served sometimes as cautionary tales and other times as horror stories, but he knew, too, that the man, despite the stories, was just a man and that like every other man, he would need to stop, to rest, sooner or later. And if not him, then certainly the youth who traveled with him.
Yet as he continued to work his way through the Wood, hurrying to catch them up, to have this part of the task done so that he might leave this blasted forest behind and return to the relative safety of his prince’s company, Dalen began to doubt. Did they intend to travel through the night then? Leading him a chase that would last forever, one in which they never stopped, one in which they continued to outdistance him despite the efforts he put in—even foregoing some of his usual caution in favor of speed?
Or—and this was a far worse thought—had he lost their trail, somewhere? Was he now following the meanderings of some animal of the forest or some Fey creature out of nightmare? Would he grow lost in the Wood, tracking someone—or something—which was not even his target? Was he lost already? Dalen was not a man to panic, was known for his courage among his fellow soldiers, for trackers such as he spent much of their time alone, braving the elements and enemy forces without any help from their comrades. But now, he did not feel brave, and while he might not have normally been a man to panic, he felt some panic now, a churning, unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He moved faster, trying to be as quiet as he could, to move through the forest while disturbing as little as possible, yet accepting those small, inevitable noises he made as sacrifices made in exchange for speed, a speed which he hoped would pay off by him finding his quarry and then being able to put all of his fears and unfounded worries to rest.
And indeed, no more than an hour had passed when he began to feel that his rush through the woods had been worth it. The signs of his quarry’s passage began to seem fresher, and he even chanced upon a few footprints left on the ground, footprints that the falling snow had not yet managed to cover. It was then that he cautioned himself to slow down. It was difficult, though, knowing that his quarry was close now, that soon he would be able to accomplish his errand and leave this damned place behind him, hopefully never to return.
Still, his heart racing with a mixture of anxiety and excitement, he crept through the woods and soon came upon a small clearing. It was still dark, only a small amount of moonlight filtering its way through the trees to illuminate the clearing, and he sat and watched, trying to pick out things in the darkness.
He felt a great wash of relief as he saw two bedrolls spread out in the clearing. One, judging by the size of its occupant, belonging to the youth who was turned with his back to him, a back which slowly rose and fell with the breath of sleep. The other was beyond his sight line, lying as it did in a patch of shadow, and so Dalen could not make it out, but that was alright. It was them—that much was certain. The two his master had sent him to find, to track.
Now he could return, could leave his fears and doubts and—
He froze at the sound of what sounded like a twig breaking behind him. Then, slowly, Dalen turned to see a great, hulking figure standing behind him, no more than two feet away. How the man had come upon him without him hearing, he could not imagine, for it was a feat he doubted he could have duplicated despite the fact that he had spent nearly his entire life in the woods.
He wondered for a panicked moment who the figure was, but that curiosity did not last for long, not long at all, for he recognized the man standing before him, looming over him, in truth. And as he stared at the grim, cold expression on the man’s face, at the cold, pale blue eyes which studied him and the massive battle axe clutched in one fist, Dalen realized something. He realized that here, this close, no amount of stories did the man justice, and that those stories, as he had thought on occasion, had not been exaggerated after all, but, if anything, fell far short of the truth.
“Hi,” the man said in a voice that somehow reminded Dalen of the sound of trees snapping in the frost. Then, there was a sudden movement, a burst of speed from him that Dalen would not have thought possible from a figure so big.
I should not be here. It was the last thought that Dalen had before the axe the figure held flashed in the moonlight. It was the last thought, in fact, that he ever had.
***
Matt woke with a gasp, sitting up in his bedroll and throwing it aside. He spun, looking around, but at first saw nothing, heard nothing to account for his sudden wakefulness. But that did not make him feel any better. He did not feel relief, not at all. Instead, he felt alone. A great, terrible loneliness. He looked over to where Cutter had laid his own bedroll, desperate for some sort of companionship in the darkness, even if it was from the man whom he thought he was growing to hate. But the big man’s bedroll was empty.
The sound of something rustling behind him made him jump, and he spun to see some monstrous beast appearing out of the woods. Only after a moment, the figure stepped out of the shadows and was not a monster or some strange, alien Fey creature after all. It was Cutter.
The man had a grim expression on his face which was not particularly surprising as it was pretty much the only expression he ever seemed to have. “Cutter,” Matt said, still out of breath. “I-is everything okay? I thought I heard something. A scream, maybe.”
“Everything’s fine, lad,” the big man said.
Matt frowned. “Then why do you have your axe?”
Cutter grunted. “Just patrolling, that’s all, make sure nothin’s creepin’ up on us in the dark. The Fey, as I think you’ve seen, do love their tricks. Anyway, if you’re awake, we might as well get movin’.”
Matt blinked. “But we only just stopped…didn’t we?”
“A few hours gone now,” Cutter said. “But we need to make it out of these woods soon. The Fey might have patience—though it’s likely even that is stretched thin, just now—but the men chasing us do not. We have squandered too much time already, and if we waste more, they will find us.”
“But why are they chasing us?” Matt said. “I don’t understand it, any of it. What did we ever do to them?”
“Later,” Cutter said. “For now, pack your things. We’re moving.”
“More secrets,” Matt hissed angrily.
“Yes,” Cutter said. “More secrets. Now, come on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Why do I fight?
Why does anyone do anything?
Fine, if you insist. I don’t fight for honor and glory—that much is sure.
You can’t eat them, honor and glory, you can’t drink them.
You ask me why I fight? Fine, I’ll tell you—
Whores aren’t free.
—Challadius “The Charmer” in interview with Exiled Historian to the Crown Petran Quinn
The three of them sat atop their horses—at least, Maeve and Priest did, for Chall it was all he could do to keep from falling off the ornery beast—and stared at the Black Woods. He did not want to go into that place of Fey magic. Some believed that magic had originated from the Fey, magic which included his own, and perhaps that was even true, yet he did not care. Certainly, that sense inside him, the sense gifted him by his magic, rebelled at the thought of entering, for the Wood was an ancient place, a place steeped in magic and
age, one which bore a hatred for mankind that it was impossible to ignore.
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he said, trying to keep the squeak of fear from his voice and not altogether succeeding. “Maybe there’s another way. We could send a message to him or…”
Maeve barked a laugh without humor. “A message? And who would carry that message, Chall? You know as well as I do that no messenger would travel into the Black Woods, not for all the gold in the world.”
“Which just goes to show that not all men are fools after all,” he snapped.
Maeve sighed. “Look, we’ve come this far. Anyway, it isn’t as if we intend to cut down some trees, maybe build a house—”
“Don’t even joke about such things!” Chall snapped. “Damnit, woman, these are not normal trees, don’t you get that? And this is no normal wood. These trees think, and what they think…” He shook his head, heaving a ragged sigh.
“Oh enough bitching,” Maeve said. “Anyway, this is where you said he’ll be, right? According to your vision, he should be close to the edge—with any luck, we won’t have to take but a few steps in until we find them.”
“With any luck,” Chall muttered, “we wouldn’t be here at all.”
“Forget it,” Maeve said. “Priest and I will go. You just stay here, how’s that? Who knows,” she went on, grinning evilly, “perhaps Feledias will be along directly. I imagine he’d be pleased to see—what was it he called you again? Oh, that’s right, his brother’s ‘pet magician.’ Who knows? Maybe he’ll throw a ball for you—or an execution. After all, unless my memory fails me, I seem to recall your name being on the list of those of us he means to kill.”
Chall shuddered at that, scowling at the pleased look on the woman’s face. “And what of the Fey?” he challenged. “Somehow, I doubt they’ll exactly welcome us with open arms—why, I’m certain that if they find us, they’ll kill us just as quick as Feledias would and with just as much energy.”
Maeve grunted. “Best we not be found then, isn’t it? Now, come on. Daylight’s burning.”
With that, she gave her horse a kick and after shooting him a look of compassion, Priest did the same. Chall watched them for a minute, thinking that, if he somehow survived the next day or so, he was really going to have to make some better, safer friends. Like a pack of wolves. Or a bear, maybe. Then, he gave his horse a soft kick, and the beast snorted in anger, trying—and nearly succeeding—to buck him off before starting toward the forest. A stupid animal, that was sure, but not so stupid that it didn’t hesitate, requiring another kick, before it walked into the forest. Which was fine—Chall just wished there was someone there to kick him.
***
They were heading east, now, toward the forest’s border. Cutter had led them south for as long as he dared, and he knew that coming out of the wood should put them into the fields outside Valaidra. He should know, after all, for years ago, during the war with the Fey, he had traveled the lands often on one campaign or another, most often at the head of an army.
The boy had said nothing for a while, but then he did not need to, for Cutter could feel his anger, his hate, coming off him in seething waves. He told himself that was fine. Let the lad be angry, if it helped him. What was important was that he lived to be angry.
The forest was silent as always, the only sounds that of him and the boy breathing and their footsteps crunching in the snow. They had been traveling east for several hours when another sound intruded on that silence, and he held up a hand, ordering the boy to stop.
“What?” Matt asked. “What is it?”
“Quiet,” Cutter hissed. He unlimbered his axe from the sling at his back and turned, glancing back. “Stay here,” he mouthed. “Don’t make a sound.”
And then he was moving. Cutter’s father, long ago, had insisted on training his sons in woodcraft the same way in which he had insisted on training them in so many other things, and so his footsteps were nearly silent as he moved through the woods, using the great trunks of the trees as cover as he inched forward.
He walked this way for several minutes, was beginning to think that he had imagined the whole thing, when he heard another noise, what sounded like a muttered curse. He ducked low, turning, and caught a flash of color, what might have been purple, from a short distance ahead. Then it was gone again, covered by the thick trees and undergrowth.
Men, that much was sure. Another, in his position, might have waited, might have let whoever it was go by, but Cutter did not, for he knew that any mortals who dared venture into the Black Woods could only be there for him and the boy. Feledias must have sent another scouting party, that was all. After all, the man had plenty enough resources as well as the motivation to do so.
So instead of waiting, Cutter charged, running on the balls of his feet to make as little noise as possible. The man was guiding a horse. There was another, a woman, walking in front of him, but Cutter paid no attention to her. One at a time—it was the only way to get the thing done. The man let out a squeal as he finally became aware of Cutter’s approach and spun—or at least tried to. Cutter grabbed him, bringing the axe blade unerringly to within inches of his throat as he spun him, interposing him between Cutter and the other companions so that his back faced him. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The man froze, letting out a mewling sound of terror. “W-wait, just hold on a minute, alright? I don’t know—”
“Wait a minute,” Cutter said, grunting with surprise at the voice, for even squeaking as it was, it was one he recognized. “Chall?”
He spun the man around and, sure enough, was shocked to see the magician’s pale expression staring back. Fatter than before, older but undeniable for all that.
“H-hi.”
“What are you doing here?” Cutter said, letting the axe drop, then he turned to the woman and was unsurprised to find that her face, when she turned to regard him, was one he also recognized. “Maeve?”
“Hello, Prince Bernard,” she said calmly. “How have you been?”
Just then, there was an almost imperceptible sound behind him. “Priest,” he said, turning to regard the old man who had stepped out from behind the cover of a nearby tree, and was holding a bow that he released the tension on, smoothly sliding the arrow that had been nocked to the string into the quiver at his back.
“My prince,” the man said, bowing his head.
“Not prince,” Cutter growled, surprised by how angry it made him to be called that, “not anymore.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” the man said, “but a man can no more change who he is than a leopard might change its spots. You are a prince, exiled or not, that simple fact remains.”
Cutter sighed. “What are you all doing here?”
“Me?” Chall asked, swallowing and pulling at his collar. “Well, just now, I’m thinking that I’m going to have to find a new pair of trousers.”
Maeve shot the man an annoyed look. “We came here to help you. Feledias is tracking you.”
“I know. One of his scouts found us last night.”
“Fire and salt then we’re too late,” Chall groaned. “The man’ll report back to Feledias and—”
“No.” Cutter interrupted.
The magician shared a meaningful look with Maeve at that, then seemed to blanch. “Ah, well that’s…good, of course.”
“We came,” Maeve said, rolling her eyes, “because Chall had a vision. It’s Feledias, Prince—”
“Do not call me that,” Cutter growled, “I go by Cutter now.”
Maeve grunted in what might have been amusement. “Well. I can’t say that it isn’t appropriate.”
He winced at that and was about to respond when suddenly the underbrush rustled behind him, and the boy came out of it, his eyes widening as he took in the four of them. “I told you to wait,” Cutter growled.
“I heard voices,” he said, “and a scream. I thought…I thought something was wrong.”
“It wasn’t a scream,” Chall muttered. “More o
f a…ah, forget it.”
“W-who are these people?” the boy asked, his eyes wide, his voice breathy with nerves. “Is it…the men that are chasing us?”
“No, lad,” Cutter said. “These people are different they’re…friends.”
He turned back to see the three of them staring at the boy, their eyes wide. “Is this…him?” Maeve asked in a breathy voice.
“This is Matt,” Cutter said abruptly. “A boy from Brighton. His village was attacked.”
“Damn my eyes, but it’s uncanny,” Chall breathed. “He looks just like her, it’s as if—”
“Enough,” Cutter said.
“Who?” Matt asked. “Who do I look like? I don’t understa—”
“Later,” Cutter growled. “There’s no time. We have to get out of these Woods and fast. Feledias is not far behind and—”
“We know,” Chall interrupted, then seemed to quail when Cutter turned his attention on him. “I mean…it’s why we’re here.”
“Fine,” Cutter said, “anyway, we need to leave. We’ll head for Valaidra. It’s the closest city and—”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Chall interrupted.
“Oh? And why not?”
“Feledias knows you’ll go there,” Chall said. “In the vision I had, Pri—” He cut off at a warning look from Cutter, then paused, swallowing, before continuing, “What I mean Cutter, is that he’s waiting with his men. He plans to ambush you once you leave the Black Woods.”
Cutter hissed. “Very well. There’s another place—a small village by the name of Ferrimore. It’s a bit farther south.”
A Warrior's Burden: Book One of Saga of the Known Lands Page 18
