Banished: Book 1 of The Grimm Laws (27 page)

Today marked a crucial part of the journey, for it was the day they approached the perimeter of Briarbane Forest. The forest held a portent of bad omens, and the very air they breathed seemed menacing. The men were uneasy and the horses jittery. The captain decided since it was late in the day, it would be wise to make camp on the edge of the forest for the night and wait until the light of day to go into the belly of the forest. A sigh of relief settled through the men, for no one wanted to venture into the forest at night. Even though none dared voice it, they were all thinking the same heartrending thoughts—fear of death, fear of the unseen, fear of some faceless monster that was more dreadful than the fiercest flesh and blood enemy. Hurried whispers of dark magic floated in the evening air as the captain tried to maintain a semblance of order.

Thunder sounded in the distance as the first tendrils of smoke from the camp rose into the dank air. It was when the men huddled around their small fires, seeking a measure of comfort in their meager rations and shared stories of home that Rushton was able to steal away. He had kept to the trail running along the edge of the forest. He was relieved when he learned that he would only have to travel through a small tip of the dreaded forest in order to get to the clearing. Now that he was here, the urge to get out of the forest intensified. The tall trees and vicious vegetation were suffocating, and there were too many dark secret places where one could hide and ambush him.

As he entered the clearing, he felt the first drop of rain. He looked at the large formation that was jutting up before him. The sharp points on opposing sides of the jagged rocks marked the two towers, as his mother had called it. He examined the map. This was it! He removed the stone from the pouch and clutched it in his hand. It felt smooth and light, a seemingly ordinary stone. He wondered again if the protective shield was some delusion his mother had concocted. Supposedly the stone would glow red when the connection was made. Another drop of rain, followed by another. The thunder was growing louder. His mother described the location as the face of wisdom, wedged between the mountains. The rocks in between the sharp points were flat on the top, forming a terrace of sorts upward to the sky. The first ledge was a good twenty feet up from where he was standing. If he could make it there, he would have a better vantage point of the land. He hoped to then be able to see the face. He had to make it to the top of the first ledge. “You must insert the stone into one of the eye sockets on the face,” she warned. “It must be done at sunset, as the last rays are touching the earth.” He looked up at the dark clouds and cursed the approaching storm. It would be impossible to discern when the sun was actually setting. Nevertheless, this was his one and only chance.

He continued on, oblivious to the rumble of thunder that was growing louder with each passing moment. A sheen of perspiration covered his brow when a little while later he made it to the top of the first ledge. He stood and looked over the thick clusters of trees below him, stretching as far as the eye could see. It was a breathtaking view, but he had no appreciation for it under the circumstances. Then he turned his sights to the next terrace, scouring it for any sign of a face. To his disappointment, the next terrace looked much the same as the first. Now he had to decide if he should continue on or go back to the camp for the evening. As he was about to turn back, he saw something—a slight variance in the rocks. He looked closely and realized that on the far left side of the second terrace, nestled beside the sharp point, the rocks were different. It looked like it could be a face, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he was up there. He blew out a breath and hurried up to the next terrace. It was drizzling rain, but he hardly noticed. The view from the second terrace looked much like the first. He increased his pace so that he was nearly running, keeping his eyes fixed on the sharp point. He let out a breath of wonderment when he saw it. It was just as his mother had described. The face wedged in between the mountains. Had he not been looking for it, he might have passed by it without noticing, but since he knew, it was obvious. The face was the height of the average man, and the nose was especially large. He looked at the sunken holes that made up the eyes. That is were he would place the stone. Excitement rushed through his veins. He looked up at the sky, trying to judge whether or not the sun had actually set. It was still light enough to see without difficulty … perhaps … He retrieved the parchment that his mother had given him. Words that he would repeat as he placed the stone into the socket—strange words—in a language he didn’t understand.

He held his breath and placed the stone into the socket. Nothing happened. He swallowed hard, stepped back, and began reading the words on the page. Still nothing happened. Disappointment settled over him. He had feared that his mother might be going mad, but until this moment, he had not been sure. The rain was getting harder, and he needed to get back to camp before dark. A shudder ran through him. He had to go back through the tip of the forest, and he did not want to do that in the dark. He went to take the stone, but it wouldn’t move. He clasped his hands around it and pulled with all of his might, but he could not budge it. He let go of the stone and began reciting the words. Nothing happened. He reached for the stone again and tried to remove it from the socket but to no avail. It was as if the stone had always been a part of the face. Strange. Then the remembered that his mother told him he was the only one strong enough to withstand the energy.

He looked down at the words on the parchment that he was holding. “I wonder,” he said aloud. He clasped a hand around the stone and began reciting the words. He got through the first sentence when he felt a slight tingle. He looked at the stone, which was beginning to glow a faint red. He read the next sentence, his voice growing louder and more confident. The stone glowed brighter, and he felt the energy building. It was illuminating his body, so that he was also glowing.

“Halt where thou art!”

He spun around, his hand coming off the stone. The parchment fell to the ground. He unsheathed his sword and crouched into striking position, wielding it out in front of him. His blood ran cold when he realized that there were at least a dozen men, and they had him surrounded. The ones on the rock ledge above had bows with arrows pointed at him, and the ones on the ground had drawn swords. Judging by their crude clothing and savage expressions, he knew in an instant that they were the thieves the company had been searching for. It went through his mind that they had seen the energy and had come for the red stone, but as he glanced, he saw that it had again turned back to its original color, making it hard to tell that it was even there. He was grateful that the parchment was the color of the dirt upon which they were standing. If he could keep the attention on himself then perhaps the thieves would not notice it.

The tallest of the thieves stepped forward. The corners of his mouth drew into a cruel smile. “It seems that one of the lambs has gotten separated from the fold.” He looked over his shoulder at the men behind him. “Pity … we shall have to make an example out of him.” They laughed. The leader cocked his head, his cool eyes trailing over Rushton’s chainmail and cape that was embroidered with the royal crest. A trace of avarice flickered in his eyes. “Fine sword you have there.”

Rushton tightened his grip as a cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach. There was no way he could take on all of these men. He was a dead man for sure. His only hope was to die valiantly.

“So, how is it that ye became separated from the group?” His voice was friendly, conversational, but his eyes glittered with a peculiar light that Rushton had seen before on the battlefield—blood lust. These men were savage killers of the worst kind. They’d left a trail of blood on the King’s Road, not to mention the bodily appendages left on the castle steps.

“I was sent to scout out the area.”

The thief lifted an eyebrow. “Really? You were sent out alone to the dreadful Briarbane Forest—the place of dark magic and unknown terrors?” He shuddered in mock horror. “I think not.” His voice became hard. “Dost thou think I am a fool? We have been watching thy group’s every move since ye left the main road. Your company of men—those serfs of the King—were too afraid to venture into the forest at night, so they camped outside of it. Unfortunately, they will meet an untimely demise before the cock crows on the morrow.”

Rushton had to think fast. “I was sent to deliver a message.”

Interest bubbled in the thief’s eyes. “A message.”

“Yea, a message from the King.”

He sneered. “I doubt that. I should kill thee now and be done with it.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, the predator toying with its prey. “Although a quick death seems too kind. Perhaps I will cut off thy hand and send it as a warning to the others. Or thy limb.”

A shiver of terror ran through Rushton. It was one thing to be killed and quite another to be dismembered. He pushed the fears away, allowing a lifetime of tactical training to take hold. The only chance he had of besting this thief was to outwit him. Every foe had a weakness, and he had caught a glimpse of this man’s earlier when he looked at his sword. The thief was envious of the King’s men with their fine clothes and weaponry. He only hoped that he could use that envy to his advantage. Rushton’s chainmail would give him the edge, whereas the thief’s cloth overclothes made him an easy target. His voice became musing—condescending. “Yea, thou hast me outnumbered, although I would venture to say that if it were a fair fight—between the two of us—then my odds of winning would drastically improve. After all, I am a squire to the King while thou art only a poor vagrant, slinking around in this wretched forest.” He met the thief’s glare full on. “I’m quite certain that my skill with the sword outmatches yours.”

The thief laughed, but a hot anger flashed in his eyes. “This will be more amusing than I thought. Very well. We shall fight.” He drew his sword.

Ruston made the first hit, the clanging of metal echoing off the rock walls surrounding them. The thief looked surprised and stepped back to regain his footing. Then he struck back with a blow of his own. Rushton met it with his sword, and around and around they went. Both were expert with the sword. The thief was stronger, but Rushton was faster. The drizzle had turned to a steady rain that left them sloshing in mud. The thief let out a yell and charged full force. Rushton sidestepped the attack and leveled a hit to the man’s arm, cutting through the crude tunic and into the man’s flesh.

The thief staggered backward and looked down at his injured arm. Rushton went at him full force, slashing through his feeble attempts to defend himself. A moment later, the thief fell to his knees when Rushton’s blade went to his throat. A part of him was tempted to run the blade straight through the neck of this loathsome man, but a lifetime of chivalry prevented it. “Dost thou yield?” Rushton’s voice cracked like a whip through the group of men. Judging from the stunned looks on their faces, it seemed that they’d never before seen their leader lose a fight.

Silence.

I’ll ask only once more before I take action. “Dost thou yield?”

Rather than answering, the thief motioned with his eyes. In a flash, the men closed in behind him. Rushton felt the tip of several blades in his back. He lowered his sword. The thief got to his feet, a murderous expression on his face. He took the sword from Rushton and held it in the air for inspection. Then he spit in Rushton’s face before hitting him across the jaw. The brunt force sent Rushton tumbling to the ground. Before he even had time to move, the thief had him by the neck and was pulling him to his feet.

“I won that fight and let you live,” Rushton seethed through gritted teeth. “Any man of honor—”

The thief’s raucous laughter stopped him short. “I never claimed to be a man of honor. Honor is for the weak! Honor will get thee killed.” He motioned at the man standing on his left. “Cut off his arms.”

Rushton flew into a rage, kicking and fighting with all his might, but he was no match for the other men. They forced him to his knees. The rain seemed to blur everything, making the situation seem surreal. One man encircled his neck in a chokehold. Another grabbed his arm, pushed up the chainmail to his shoulder, and pulled his arm out to the side. A terror like none other he’d felt before seized Rushton as he watched the man raise his sword in the air.

“Halt!” a commanding voice boomed. The man holding the sword immediately dropped it to his side and stepped back. Rushton looked up to see a middle-aged man approaching. He had the confident stride of a man in complete control of himself and his surroundings. The rain flattened his dark hair, making his head look square. He was solid like the trunk of a tree with muscles that bulged beneath his wool tunic. He gave the leader a scathing look. “Must I do everything for thee, Huntsden?”

The leader ducked his head under the reprimand. “Father, I was handling the situation.”

The beefy man’s face went flush and rope-like veins popped from his neck. “Didst thou not hear the man say that he had a message from the King?”

“’Twas a lie, Father. He was merely attempting to save his own skin.”

The older man pointed to Rushton’s cape. “The royal crest doth not lie.”

The young man’s jaw went slack. “Every man camped out near the forest has the exact same crest. Wouldst thou have me spare them too, Father?”

“Not like this one!” the older man roared. “This is not some meaningless guard. He is a squire of the highest rank, a confidant to the King.” He gave Rushton a calculated look. “He could be useful to our cause.”

That this man knew so much about the crest and the inner workings of the castle surprised Rushton. Then he remembered something his mother had said. He looked up at the fortress of a man. “Thou art Ruben, brother of the King.”

A look of astonishment crossed the man’s weathered face, and then he threw back his head and laughed. He looked at Huntsden. “See, I told thee that this one is important.” His eyes went as hard as the stone around them. “And who might you be?”