Mikahl’s bloody dagger found Jerup’s chin then. He quickly forced the man to roll off of him, and Jerup howled as the sudden movement affected his wound.
Donniel was at a loss. He had no idea what to do. Part of his mind screamed for him to run. Another part of his mind told him to stay and help Jerup. He started towards Mikahl, but when the boy rolled to his feet, he saw the golden lion on the breast of Mikahl’s tunic, and he froze. It would be the dungeons for sure if they were caught. Jerup would have to fend for himself. There was so much of Jerup’s blood on the boy’s chest that Donniel figured his friend was done for anyway.
“Donnie!” Jerup’s voice was weak and full of terror. “Come… Come help me man!”
Mikahl started towards Donniel, and Donniel started to untie the reins to the pack horse’s bridle. He wasn’t fast enough.
With a hard overhand throw, Mikahl’s dagger went spinning across the distance between them. It missed the bandit and buried itself in the tree limb where the leather lines were wrapped. With a yelp, Donniel started to run away, but he was suddenly yanked to a halt. To Mikahl’s surprise, the dagger had pinned Donniel’s sleeve to the tree. The man’s panicked face was full of urgent fear as Mikahl closed in on him, but oddly, his expression calmed when they were finally face to face. He could see over Mikahl’s shoulder that Jerup was now on his belly reloading the crossbow, with nothing less than dire determination on his steadily paling face.
“We…uh…I didn’t do na… nothing t’ you man!” Donniel stammered, trying to buy Jerup some time. “We… uh… Didn’t get away with anything. So… no harm right?”
Mikahl untied the pack horse’s reins with a blank doubtful expression on his face. He didn’t care about these two fools. He just wanted to find Windfoot and be on his way.
Donniel took the blank look for hard and uncaring, as if icy cold water flowed through Mikahl’s veins.
Jerup struggled to aim the crossbow, right at the base of Mikahl’s skull. By the time he managed to pull the trigger, the blood covered boy was turning to lead his packhorse off into the forest. The bolt he’d just fired wasn’t wasted though, it found Donniel’s neck. The bladed tip nicked both his windpipe and his juggler vein. For most of the morning, while Jerup tried desperately to stop the flow of blood from his inner thigh, Donniel’s life leaked from his neck, in a gurgling, pleading hiss.
Windfoot’s trail wasn’t hard to see. The frightened steed had broken branches, trampled undergrowth, and knocked patches of bark from the trees as he’d fled. What made the trail hard to follow was that Mikahl had to search out the signs, with eyes brimming over with hot, salty tears. He was sad and afraid. His whole body shook at the thought of taking Jerup’s life like he had. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that his blade had found the fat vital artery in the man’s leg. There was no doubt that he would soon bleed to death. The fact that he was a thieving bandit, and was about to kill him, did little to ease the empty feeling he felt inside. He had to stop more than once as terrible sobs racked his body. Only after he cleared his mind and took several deep breaths could he think straight.
He was now as wanted as a man could be in the Kingdom of Westland. He reminded himself of this fact, over and over, when his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. It helped keep his dire situation in perspective but didn’t make him feel any better about what he had done. Taking a man’s life was a monumental thing. Though he had witnessed more than one man’s end, Mikahl had never had to kill anyone. He fought through the powerful emotions that were assailing him, and found a way to continue on. He had no choice. Ironspike was strapped to Windfoot’s saddle, and the horse was running scared. He had to find him and quickly.
Mikahl’s distraught condition kept him from noticing that the sun had crept high overhead. He was getting deeper than he would’ve ever intended into the forest. By the time he realized this, the morning had turned into afternoon. Now he would have to spend the night out here in the woods. Even if he found Windfoot soon, it would be dark before he could work his way back out to the road. He took another look around and found that he wasn’t sure he could even find his way out of the forest again, much less find the trade road.
He cleared his mind of the ill feelings about killing the bandit. The fear of being caught had eased now that he had other things to worry about. King Balton’s sword, as well as his own weapons, were secured to Windfoot’s saddle. He had to catch up to the horse no matter what the cost. Windfoot’s trail was leading generally northward, so Mikahl wasn’t losing ground; but if the horse was allowed to wander throughout the night, there was no telling what sort of forest creature might get a hold of him. Rumors of dread wolves and saber cats had been spread for as long as he could remember, but he didn’t recall ever seeing any such higher predators come out of the Reyhall Forest. There were things out here that would, and could, kill a horse, or a man for that matter. Of that there was no doubt.
“Think, then act,” he told himself again.
Mikahl began trying to mimic the distinct whistle he had often heard the stable man use to call the Royal Herd in from pasture. He felt a little better now. Knowing that none of Prince Glendar’s men would be looking for him way out here in the middle of nowhere went far to that effect. He would find Windfoot and Ironspike and get himself up into the Giant Mountains, even if it killed him. He winced at the thought, and then bit back a laugh as the weight of it sank in.
After he whistled for the fourth time, he thought he heard the horse in the distance, snorting its disapproval at something. He quickened his pace and noticed that the trees were thinning somewhat. The sound came again, and this time he was sure that it was Windfoot.
The forest eventually gave way to a sizable clearing. On the far side of it, across the lush, green, flower filled expanse, was a pond. Not too far from the water, was Windfoot. His reins were tangled in a shrub. The poor horse wanted to drink desperately and was fighting the plant with all he had. It seemed to Mikahl that the bush was winning. As he approached the disgruntled animal, he saw the King’s blade still tied securely to the saddle, and a tidal wave of relief washed over him.
The pack horse whinnied and stomped. It was glad to see its companion again. Windfoot gave a frustrated snort of acknowledgement in return. Soon, Mikahl had them picketed side by side at the ponds edge, where they took to drinking and grazing contentedly.
The glade was full of life. Insects buzzed by busily, and the birds sang, calling out to one another. Mikahl saw a rabbit tearing across the tree line as it fled some invisible predator, and by the variety and quantity of tracks pressed in the mud by the water’s edge, he knew that this was a popular watering hole. It was a beautiful and peaceful place, and Mikahl decided to rest here for awhile.
He washed himself in the pond. He was sure that, save for the battles at Coldfrost, he had never seen so much blood in all his life. He was glad to see it all slide away from his clothes and skin. When he was done, he laid his things out to dry in the warm evening sun, and then he went about getting the dried blood out of his chain mail shirt with an oil cloth. When that task was done, he took his dagger and tore the fancy, embroidered Westland lion from his saddle. It was slow work. The emblem had been carefully sewn with tiny wire threads that had been painted with enamel. The saddle had been a gift from King Balton on Mikahl’s most recent birthday, and defacing it brought a tear to his eye. Since his tunic also bore the kingdom’s lion insignia, he sank it in the pond. He simply tied a fist sized stone up in it, and threw it out into the middle of the water. From now on, he would have to try to blend in with the common folk. Anything that connected him to the King, or the kingdom, would only draw the wrong sort of attention. He stood there a long while, watching the rings that the splashing bundle had made in the pond, grow larger.
Suddenly, he realized that the forest had gone deathly quiet. He looked around, turning a slow circle, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He told himself that it was only the sound his tunic had made when it splashed into the water, but he knew that wasn’t true. Just to be safe, he pulled his damp britches back on and took his sword from Windfoot’s saddle. After slipping his chain mail back over his head, he buckled his sword belt around his waist, and began quietly unpacking his longbow. He had just gotten the longbow strung when a loud crash of breaking branches and undergrowth came from out in the forest off to his right. The sound was huge and heavy, like a big tree being torn apart. Whatever had caused it had to be enormous.
Mikahl’s heart was racing. He had heard tales of dragon’s, trolls, and bloodthirsty flying swamp dactyls. He had listened to campfire stories about night stalkers, orcs, and giant snakes, but he had never seen any of them. He didn’t have to remind himself that he was no longer in the Northwood outside of Lakeside Castle. This was the Reyhall Forest, where the monsters of all those campfire stories had originated. What kind of creatures truly dwelt here, he had no idea, and even though the Royal Huntsman had once told him that all those monster stories were just tales told to keep curious young boys from wandering off, Mikahl found that he was more than a little afraid. By the way Windfoot and the pack horse were snorting and stomping around him, he could tell that they were
