Fifthwind (2 page)

In
the changing light, a slight movement caught Ben's eye and he
reflexively stopped.

"What's
wrong?" asked Mason.

Ben
turned to Mason, cocked his head to the side and pointed with his
eyes. "It seems our stalker decided to show himself after all."

Mason
made a show of casually straightening his pack and peered over Ben's
shoulder. He scanned the meadow for a moment, then shrugged. "I
don't see anyone."

Ben
had only caught a fleeting glimpse, but in that brief moment, he had
felt a sickening pang in his gut. There was something unusual about
the figure he had seen. Something unnatural.

"Look
again," Ben said. "At the edge of the meadow, under that big
oak... just inside the shadows."

Mason
looked again but shook his head. "It's getting dark. Maybe it was
just a woodsman or a hunter returning to town. Whoever it was,
they're gone now."

Ben
slowly turned and glanced back. The figure was still there, plainly
visible, waist-deep in the tall grass at the edge of the meadow, no
more than fifty paces behind.

"Don't
play games with me, Mason. You spent the better part of the war on
night watch. No one has a keener set of eyes, not by a long shot,"
said Ben. "Something doesn't feel right about this."

Mason
squinted his eyes, rubbed his chin thoughtfully and sighed, "I'm
sorry, Ben. I really don't see anything. The Captain will have this
forest cleared of its rats soon enough, but there will be plenty of
time for that later. Let's go. I'm hungry."

Ben
reached out and gripped Mason by the arm. Without saying a word, he
locked his eyes with Mason's until he was satisfied that the old
soldier clearly understood the seriousness of the moment. Mason had
spent too many years in the King's army to mistake that kind of
message.

Mason
froze in place and eased his hand to his sword. He did not turn, but
instead kept his eyes on Ben for instructions. He nodded once and
whispered, "Just tell me what to do."

Ben
glanced back and his heart lurched into his throat causing a
momentary bout of dizziness that grayed his vision. The figure had
somehow covered half the distance across the meadow and now stood
uncomfortably close in the swaying grass.

The
figure seemed to shimmer as if the dull wind was enough to disturb
its tenuous presence. The stranger's features were elusive, somehow
shrouded by an area of moving shadows as if it were hiding within a
cloak of swirling and churning smoke. Ben tried to focus on the
figure's face, but the harder he tried, the more intangible it
became.

He
had already taken a step backward, when the cloaked stranger began to
float effortlessly forward through the tall grass, leaving not a
single bent stalk in its wake. Then, without warning, the figure
lifted up above the grass and rushed forward.

Ben
needed no further coaxing.

"Run!"
Ben shouted and pulled hard on Mason's sleeve as he turned to flee.

In
an instant, he was running headlong through the grass. He did not
pause to look back as he struggled to keep moving, stumbling more
than once and scrambling back to his feet each time to resume his
getaway.

His
ears roared with his own gasps and the sound of his legs crashing
through the thick grass, but despite his best efforts, he planted his
foot unevenly on a stone and fell forward with an explosive loss of
breath. He tried once to get to his feet but slipped on uneven ground
and fell again. Surrendering to the inevitable, he rolled onto his
back to face his pursuer.

A
large figure moved toward him with outstretched arms. He scrambled
backward on elbows and heels until his strength gave out. In a moment
of horror, the silhouette closed the short distance in a blur. Out of
options and with nowhere left to run, Ben reached for his sword. But
a powerful hand grabbed his wrist.

"Open
your eyes!" yelled Mason. "It's me!"

As
if he had been slapped awake, Ben snapped opened his eyes and saw
Mason standing over him. His heart still pounding in fear, he blinked
and looked about in confusion.

Nothing.
The shadowy apparition was gone.

He
was on his back in the middle of the road; in his excitement, he had
covered the distance to the edge of the meadow quickly. He was still
shaking, and his eyes darted back and forth, wide and alert in search
of what he had seen. When he realized the danger had somehow passed,
he calmed himself and got to his feet.

"My
old legs don't move as fast as they used to!" Mason gasped, dusted
himself off. "You'd better have a good reason for that."

"I'll
tell you later."

"You'll
tell me now!"

"It's
going to have to wait, Mason."

"Why?"

"It
looks I've attracted some unwanted attention," Ben said, indicating
the large man on horseback approaching with his sword drawn. The
small caravan of trade wagons had stopped a short distance away and
all eyes were on Ben, who had just burst out of the roadside weeds
screaming like a madman.

The
traders amounted to four teamsters, two stately-looking men, a young
woman and about ten caravan guards. The young woman spoke briefly to
the older of the two men and pointed angrily at Ben. A moment later,
three more guards broke away from the group and moved forward.

The
approaching mounted soldier looked eager to deal with the problem
that had just appeared in the road. His mount was not of the working
breed, but rather a heavy charger, armored and trained for combat.
This man was not a simple hired sword, but a veteran who was
well-equipped in both blade and armor. Apparently, his line of work
paid well. Unfortunately for Ben, his line of work was the
dispatching of unwanted riffraff from the path.

Mason
sighed and dutifully stepped toward the approaching horseman, putting
himself in front of Ben and in direct line with any potential danger.
The old soldier glanced back at Ben and broke the tension, as he
always did, with a crooked grin.

He
said, "In all the years I've known you, I've never seen you run
from
anything
. So, in case I'm about to live my last day, at
least tell me what you saw back there."

Ben
looked back over his shoulder as if staring straight into the eyes of
the watcher in the dark reaches of the trees. He had no explanation
for what had happened, but he was absolutely sure he had not imagined
the encounter. He also knew without asking, that Mason had genuinely
seen nothing.

"I'm
not sure..."

CHAPTER TWO

"Clear
the road!" the rider commanded as he dismounted and stepped
aggressively toward Ben. He was a large, muscular man who held an
oversize broadsword with a firm grip, the heavy weapon conceding to
the dominance of his powerful arm. He moved confidently and with an
impatient purpose in his stride. He was not as big as Mason, but he
was younger, probably stronger, and lacked any hint of compassion.
This man intended to deal with the situation before him quickly and
without the burden of explanation.

Ben
immediately recognized the man's accent as that of a Borderman, a
clansman from the northern disputed lands between The Whip and the
Tanian Empire. Regarded as fierce fighters with unwavering loyalty to
the purse that paid them, they set the standard for personal
protection.

During
the war, the Bordermen were viewed as emotionless killers who
followed orders without question. They could be trusted to carry out
tasks that weighed heavily on the hearts of less dedicated soldiers,
so they were often chosen for the most heinous of missions. Their
absolute loyalty and refusal to question the judgment of justly
appointed officers had earned them the unfair nickname of
Dog
Soldiers
.

Mason
raised a calm hand and said, "I've no intention of fighting you,
friend."

The
Borderman stopped a few feet short of Mason, looked devilishly at his
blade and smiled, "Good, that'll make this go faster."

"The
war is over, friend. Why so eager to spill blood?"

"I've
got a wounded man back there who needs attention and I've got cargo
itching to get off this road. The sooner I deal with you, the sooner
I can be on my way."

Ben
was impressed. Mason had hurdled the first barrier and had gotten the
man to speak. Not only that, but the man had attempted to justify his
actions. Whether the Borderman knew it or not, that was a sign of
doubt and indecision. A weakness that Mason would exploit.

The
Borderman was a stocky man with wide shoulders. He had short, brown
hair and a neatly trimmed beard that framed a stern face. A pale scar
ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. It was not an ugly
feature, but noticeable nonetheless. He was menacing, intimidating
and outright frightening. The man was a walking cliche of impending
brutality.

He
wore a light chain shirt over a dark umber jerkin, which revealed the
blue and yellow sleeves of a standard kingdom uniform tucked under
heavy, black gloves. A moss-gray wool cloak hung freely from one
shoulder leaving his sword arm unencumbered. The simple, yet
functional attire indicated experience. He was no stranger to combat.

Ben
noticed something shining on the neck of the Borderman's cloak.
There, several campaign badges were pinned, one of which caught Ben's
eye. A large, silver badge circled by a gold wreath. It was
unmistakable. Ben considered pointing it out to Mason, but knew that
the veteran soldier had likely already noticed.

Campaign
badges were a matter of pride. Usually fashioned of wood or bronze,
they were a way for a soldier to show off his experience and
longevity. Most were not officially recognized by the Crown, but the
silver and gold badge this man wore was the only one ever awarded by
King Erlich himself. Ben had only ever seen two others like it.

The
Borderman dismounted, squared his stance and sneered, "You look a
bit old to be running around with a boy in the wilderness."

Mason
drew his sword. "And you look a bit young to have fought at
Kruegan's Throat." Mason nodded toward the badge. "When was that?
Fifteen years ago? That badge isn't a trinket to be worn as
decoration by someone who doesn't know how to respect it. A lot of
good men died at The Throat."

Ben
nervously interrupted, "Mason, I don't think this is the time to—"

Both
men abruptly turned to Ben and growled in unison, "Quiet!"

The
Borderman turned his attention back to Mason. "What do you know of
Kruegan's Throat?"

"I
was there."

"Not
likely." An angry finger was pointing at Mason. "If you're going
to tell stories, you should first study your history."

"I
know enough."

"Nearly
two-thousand men entered that accursed canyon. Only twenty-four of us
managed to escape. I'd remember if you were one of us."

Mason
grinned. "Twenty-four may have survived the retreat." He sheathed
his sword and straightened his tabard. "Of those brave enough to
press forward, eight of us made it through to the northern side."

The
Borderman frowned at the apparent insult. "You're going to have to
do better than that to convince me. Everyone has heard the stories
that a handful of men made it through. Haddaway's company was said to
have—"

"That's
Captain
Haddaway!" Mason corrected.

The
Borderman took a step back and cautiously lowered his blade. "That's
a gallant boast you make old man." He sheathed his blade and
crossed his arms arrogantly. "You claim to be one of Haddaway's
men, but what evidence have you?"

"Men
of honor don't question men of honor." Mason gripped the hilt of
the sword on his belt, "And if you insist on calling me an old man,
you could find yourself schooled on how to use one of these things."

The
Borderman chuckled, but Ben detected a nervous edge to the laugh. It
took a long, uncomfortable moment for the man to compose himself. "I
don't believe you. I need proof."

"Proof?"
Mason spat, "Most have heard how Knight-Commander Balzor was killed
while bravely pushing through the pass, but if you were there, then
you know he was killed in the first hours of the assault by his own
men." Mason glared at the younger man. "I guarantee you won't
hear that in any history lesson."

There
followed an awkward silence when the Borderman melted in the
realization of Mason's words. Finally, he uttered, "You
were
there."

Mason
said, "I've already said as much."

"The
mission was doomed from the beginning. Balzor was an incompetent son
of a wealthy nobleman and possessed no real field experience. What
those men did was wrong, but he wouldn't have survived anyway... none
in his company did."

Mason
stiffened. "That may be true, but he was a kingdom officer. Those
men should have hung for their treason."

"Agreed,"
the Borderman conceded. "Provided any of them had survived to face
the gallows, I'd have noosed them myself. Lucky for them, they fell
instead on enemy pikes."

"They
got off easy," Mason grumbled.

The
Borderman stepped forward and offered his hand to Mason. "You can
call me Gordo."

Ben
relaxed. If there was one thing that would ensure a peaceful
resolution to the standoff, it was common ground. These two soldiers
had fought together in the bloodiest ambush of the war, and that
nearly made them brothers. There would be no fighting between them.

Gordo
said, "You still have some explaining to do. This isn't the place
to be running up on my column like crazed men. It's a good way to get
yourself killed." He looked at Ben quizzically and asked, "What
were you thinking?"

It
was Mason who answered, "We just wanted to walk among your numbers
for these last few miles. We're aware of the dangers on these roads,
in fact, you might say it is our very purpose for coming here. We'd
be better equipped, but our horses and supplies were stolen back in
Deagon's Bluff. So, we've come the rest of the way by foot and
cross-country."