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.
