Now, in the gray of day, the muddy bank looked naught but mundane. Gone were the ghasts and the chattering demons. Only the fog and the high hill remained, and even they seemed smaller, shabbier, barren. The tents were gone—the horses, gone—nothing left of the fire pit save for a pile of ash salts. And all around were hoofprints, deep cleaves and clods from iron shod destriers, scattered leads in every direction. They’d left him.
“They left without me,” Ogdon reflected aloud the sudden grip of despair over his thoughts, Or do they think I left them? “God,” he said, like the prayer of a dead man being led to his crucifixion. He looked around again at where the horses hooves had torn into the ground. If he could just track them down, catch up and explain, maybe he could save himself. But the prints they left were purpose made to lead astray pursuers, a precaution they’d be taking for the rest of their days in the western lands. There was no way he could find them, no way to catch up, no bargain to be struck with God or fate. The weight became too much. Ogdon collapsed to his knees on the rocky soil, felt his fear become anger and his anger a flash of hatred as he flung his sword and lantern and heard the glass shatter on a stone. The squire cringed at that, already the passion dissolving, then he crawled after his discarded weapon, abashed of his tantrum. He went immediately to wiping what dirt that he could. But as the mud came off onto his sleeve and he saw the scratches and rolled edges on his steel, tears peeled from his eyes. He was a fool, a milksop, and this was the proof—that they would up and leave him to the wolves and the wilderness in the middle of winter in a forsaken land. It made him shiver, knowing now he was truly alone, feeling the numb going from his toes and fingers—replaced by the bitter cold.
A rolling thunder pounded in the distance, the familiar sound of galloping hooves. Ogdon didn’t look. He didn’t believe he would survive if it turned out not to be his companions, and it likely wasn’t. Perhaps Blackheart had betrayed him, or maybe they were pagan horses with naked riders who would catch and flay him and stew his bones. Sylvertre was considering which he would prefer when Jael called out to him, riding hard and leading his horse. His eyes filled with tears again, and he muddied his face trying to wipe them away on his sleeve.
“Thank God,” she started, dismounting with an expression which Ogdon had never thought he’d see. It was something between remorse and joy; and when she spoke, it was with a genuine smile on her lips as she helped him struggle to his feet. “Thank God you’re alive. Are you wounded anywhere? We followed your tracks to where a boat had shored and thought that maybe you’d been captured. What happened to you? Where have you been?”
Sylvertre grabbed onto her sleeves as if they were the inviting hands of an angel. “Come with me,” he said, pulling himself up. “There’s still time. I’ll show you.”
Leonhardt pulled away from him, her face twisted with bewilderment. “No, we need to wait here. The others are out scouting the lake looking for you. They should be back soon. You should rest, maybe change into your gambeson. You’re covered in mud; this wind will give you a chill.”
“But there’s no time!” Ogdon raved, “If we don’t go now, it’ll be too late.” He began down the knoll, moving quickly and against Jael’s protests, yet she followed after him as he hoped she would, and before long they were together on the shore. The broad, square boat was there as well, wedged in the mud not an inch from where he left it. He gestured for her to climb inside. “Come on, we have to go out on the lake. I can’t wait to show you.”
Leonhardt stopped short. “Ogdon, are you alright? Why don’t you just say what it is you want to show me? You can tell me at camp, but we need to get back. I never tied up the horses. And the captain might return any second.”
“Exactly!” Sylvertre snapped. He could feel the blood pooling in his face, the hate seething in his heart. He tried his best not to direct it at Jael. “What I mean is that the captain won’t allow me to show you. That’s why we have to go now, before he gets back.” He turned to face her, his thighs pressed against the side of his boat, his breath quickening in pace with his nerves. And the morning mist was thick. His vision to blurred.
“Ogdon!”
He heard her shouts and the sounds of boots sloshing and thumping as she climbed in after him. She was asking him something, picking him up off the floor of the boat, but he couldn’t understand or get his tongue to work. But he could feel in one hand the tremendous spruce pole and was coherent enough to tell which way the ground was. That proved enough, for the moment Jael managed to prop him into a seated position, he sunk the boat pole as far as it would go into the water and shoved off with all his might.
His cognition returned. They were adrift, slowly yet surely, Leonhardt standing above him, fretting back and forth between him and the shore. Then her focus turned to the pole—too late. Sylvertre was watching her, so when she lunged, he was one step ahead and flung the pole into the water. They watched it disappear into the morning fog before Jael tore into him.
“What in Hell is wrong with you? Did the Devil get to your head? How are we supposed to get back? Why would you—” Her throat suddenly swelled in a fit of
