Chapter XIII - Skirmish

TWO YEARS, TWO MONTHS

Tancred squinted against the rising sun and surveyed Mairbrac Forest. The forest lay before him like a great dark-scaled dragon that slumbered in a carelessly sprawled position. Chale arched his neck and inhaled deeply, his delicate nostrils flaring. Jaedon’s horse also stepped eagerly onward; both creatures sensed they were close to home. In only a bit over half a day, they would be back at the Hunter’s camp. Tancred and Jaedon had made good time, completing the trek back in only three days.

Egan swooped down and flew parallel to Tancred’s head. The pseudo-dragon had taken to the skies for most of the journey back to Mairbrac, coming to rest on Tancred’s shoulders only at the end of each day. Now he purred gently, his golden eyes keenly roving the forest. “Be patient, Egan,” Tancred remonstrated with a quiet laugh. “We’ll be home long before dark.” Chale broke into a canter for a few paces and then slowed to a trot once more, clods of dark earth flying up from under his hooves. Tancred laid a steadying hand on his stallion’s neck and stared thoughtfully at the approaching forest. We’ll be there before dark, he thought in a deliberate sort of way, but I expect we shall leave it before morning’s light, too.

He had worked out the finer details of the coming mission with King Trystellan and his panel of advisors before taking his leave of the castle. Jaedon was to accompany him to Ruma, as always. Before Tancred could leave for the Elangsian capital, however, he had to return to his camp to collect the trading artifacts that he kept stored there. He had contacts who kept him well supplied with the Meruvian artifacts, but he never carried the relics with him, keeping them stored safely away at camp. Now he would collect several of the smaller, more manageable items and head back to Ruma.

Back to being Cormac Alstair, he thought with a cool look entering his eyes. Back to being the unemotional trader, the man who hears all and sees all without appearing to do so. It was always a challenge preparing his mind for spying missions, but it was a vital step that could not be forgotten or put off. Without his mentality re-trained to think like Cormac, he could easily make fatal mistakes. Gone must be the Hunter and Tancred Ralyn. In their place would be Cormac Alstair, Meruvian merchant.

Deus, help me, he prayed grimly. I am returning to the den of the enemy…give me the courage to battle them not with the strength of my arm, but with the cunning of my mind.

è è è è è è è è è

At mid-morning, Zoe walked to the cobbler’s tent. Niles looked up as she entered and smiled warmly, his laugh lines crinkling. “Mistress Zoe! How goes it for you?”

“Well enough, Master Niles,” she replied. She reached down, pulled off her boot, and continued, “But I fear not so well for my boot. It needs some attention.”

Niles took the shoe that she offered him and whistled. “This has seen years of hard usage.” He examined the soles, which had begun to part from the rest of the boot, and remarked, “They were well made, though. How old are they?”

“They were new three years ago,” Zoe said impassively.

“Three? You are in need of both repair and burial,” he told the boot with a rough guffaw. “I must say, Mistress Zoe, that burial would be more merciful to the poor thing.”

She smiled faintly. She would not tell him that she would never throw them away, simply because she and Taerith had labored together to make them back in Braedoch. “Please just repair them, Niles,” she requested quietly.

He shrugged and got to work. Thirty minutes later, both of Zoe’s boots had received some much-needed care while she sat at the small nearby fire and dried her stocking feet. To her mild disgust, she had accidentally tramped in a puddle of water on her way to the cobbler’s tent. After thanking Niles and walking out with dry feet, she turned toward the cluster of trees where she kept Brac.

He greeted her with a whicker before she came within sight of him. Ducking under a pine branch, she ran her hand down his muscular neck, which was sleek with his fine-haired summer coat. “Hey,” she murmured, inhaling his rich scent. “Ready for some exercise?”

He bobbed his head and she grinned. He was wearing a rope halter and tethered to the pine, but she had left his saddle back in her tent. “Oh well,” she said. “You won’t throw me, will you?”

Brac turned one dark eye on her and she laughed at the incrimination she thought she glimpsed in his stare. She untied him and looped the rope over his head. When she vaulted unto his back, she took care to stoop her head to avoid several low hanging branches. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nudged his sides with her legs. Once they were free of the trees, she sat erect and relaxed.

“G’morning, Mistress Zoe,” Hartley, one of the first men she had met after arrival, nodded respectfully at her as she rode by. She smiled back and responded in kind. She and Brac made their way through the encampment at a steady pace; she allowed Brac his head to roam where he willed. She spoke with many of the men as she passed. Zoe had made numerous friends during her stay at the Hunter’s camp. It would be difficult when she had to depart.

The thought of leaving came to her suddenly and quickly sobered her. Still, it must be done. She was sensible enough to separate reality from thoughtlessness. Grace awaits me in Ruma. Her sister…what was her name? Riana? She probably thinks her little sister dead. And in the meantime, Grant and countless other slavers continue to kidnap more people and sell them like animals. Just thinking about the situation made her blood run hot within her veins. Calm, Zoe.

Her thoughts shifted slightly. It had been three days since her dream, or vision, or whatever it had been in her tent. She had woken the day after the occurrence and lain still, wondering if it had actually happened. Now as she thought back to it, she came to the same conclusion she had three days ago: the Presence, the feeling of peace, the calm blue light…it had been real. She now had to decide what to do because of it.

Brac halted and Zoe slid off his bare back. They were on a small hill above a stream; Zoe absently recalled that it was the same knoll she had stood on when she first had a long conversation with Tancred Ralyn. Tancred who had been Cormac and was now the Hunter. A sigh came from somewhere deep within her, causing Brac to nuzzle her shoulder questioningly.

“I’m all right,” she murmured. Just confused.

She turned to look at her horse closer. His intelligent eyes shone back, meeting her gaze. “We’ve been her for just over four months,” she began quietly, “and we’ve helped stop five slavers and raided four Elangsian battalions. That’s not bad work, Brac.”

He whuffed in agreement.

She considered him, rubbing the softest part of his muzzle with the back of her index finger. “But it’s still not enough. This stupid war has been going on for so long—twelve and a half years. The slave trade has been going almost as long, too. I wonder how many Elangsian slaves are Aerilyan by birth, separated from their families for these long years?” A terrible thought entered her mind. “Or, how many of them have died before they ever returned to their home in Aerilya?” She said nothing for a very long time, staring blankly at the lush forest that surrounded her.

“Their situation is like mine,” she finally spoke again, softly and deliberately. “The only difference is that they have hope…and I…” her voice trailed off. They have a chance to see their families again, no matter how slim. They can cling to some bedtime story about the Hunter when they are in captivity, hoping against hope that someday they will be free and reunited with their loved ones. Their hope cannot be mine, though.

A strangely cool breeze blew from somewhere, smacking her cheek harshly. She inhaled sharply and looked around, but the wind had died to nothing.

Their hope is your hope. Their peace is your peace.

Her heart pounded hard and she swallowed carefully. The whisper in her mind echoed and reechoed, drumming into her skull. She prided herself on not backing down from a fight, but she had a feeling in the pit of her stomach that if she fought against this Presence, she would not win. Deus? Can it be? She looked around and saw nothing. “Deus…Christus! If You are there, show Yourself,” she challenged under her breath.

Nothing but the steady rushing of the stream answered her confronting words. She waited, but no voice came from the skies, no breeze tousled her hair, no peace blanketed her soul.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, frustrated with herself. She believed in Deus—yes, she always had believed. But the line between belief and devotion was not one she wanted to cross, not yet. I don’t have enough assurance that Deus will come through on His end of the bargain, she thought darkly. Trust works both ways. And now, it’s time to go to Ruma. Her thoughts ended sourly: Deus, I’m going…with You or without You.

She felt like an impatient, rebellious child and hated herself for it. It was too late to go back on her thoughts now though. She would leave. The only question was when.

She glanced around herself and traced her foot over the ground. Her sole left a furrow in the dirt. Next week. That will give me enough time to get food together and pack what I need.

Loud crashes sounded from the woods behind Zoe, and she whirled, her hand flying to one of the knives at her belt.

“Zoe! Quick, c’mon!”

She looked down to see Geoffrey below her, a mixture of mad excitement and nervousness in his eyes. “What is it, Geoffrey?” she asked, forcing her grasp on the handle of her dagger to relax.

“An Elangsian battalion,” he explained. “Lance is going to ride out with a few of the men to fight them and said I could come too. I thought you might be a good asset, you being so good with weapons…and all.” His voice trailed of a little near the end. He was obviously slightly embarrassed to be paying her compliments.

She smiled a little, amused, and nodded. “All right, I’ll come,” she agreed. It can’t hurt to stop one more battalion before I leave. She swung up on Brac fluidly and rode down to Geoffrey. “Hop on,” she ordered. “He can carry the both of us back to camp.”

“Yes indeed!” Geoffrey replied with awe, carefully scrambling on behind her. Zoe had allowed nobody on her stallion since arriving at camp so the boy realized what a privilege it was.

They cantered into the camp and Zoe rode straight up to Lance, who was surrounded by a group of men. “We will ride with you,” she answered his questioning gaze.

Lance smiled at her in the warm way he seemed wont to view her with recently. “As you wish, Mistress Zoe. Saddle your mount quickly and come with us. We are glad for your company.”

Zoe dropped Geoffrey off by his horse, a sturdy pony with a thick coat and heavy feathers around his hooves, and trotted Brac back to her tent. Sliding off his back, she ducked inside, grabbed his tack, and again hurried out into the afternoon. She had her stallion bridled and saddled in several minutes, and he snorted eagerly. He sensed the excitement in the air; the tense feeling that always came before combat.

She checked her quiver for arrows and slid her bow over the bow of the saddle. With quick, practiced movements, her sword was strapped to her back and she was in the saddle. Armed and prepared, she rode back to join the group of men. She knew Lance and Geoffrey the most of everyone in the assemblage, but several other faces were familiar to her: Jerome, a seasoned warrior; Richard, young and green but a sturdy arm and good friend to Geoffrey; and York, a renowned archer. Altogether they made a company of about twenty, a formidable force to confront.

“The battalion was spotted a mile to the east,” Lance said, his voice loud so that everyone could hear him. “When you see them, engage them in battle with the rest of the group. We will triumph when we fight together, not in a splintered formation.”

“Aye!” the men called back lustily, raising their swords.

Lance grinned, his dimple appearing deep in his cheek, and lifted his sword with them. “Ride!”

The group thundered out of the camp. Zoe leaned forward on Brac’s neck, her braid whipping behind her like a fiery rope. She was well on her way to becoming an experienced fighter, but always before each encounter, she fought a feeling of apprehension. The sensation would disappear after the first stroke of her sword or twang of her bowstring, but she had come to realize that she had to distract her mind before the clash or she would lose her nerve. Now she made herself focus on the sound of Brac’s hooves and twitch of his alert ears, keeping her mind away from the coming skirmish.

It began almost before she knew it. They rounded a steep, pine-covered hillock and almost ran headlong into the Elangsian forces. Zoe drew her sword with a rasp of metal and dropped her knotted reins; Brac knew what to do without her directing him. A startled Elangsian soldier lifted his sword to meet hers but misjudged her swiftness. He died silently, his eyes staring blankly as he toppled from his mount. Zoe turned away quickly, pushing his features forcefully out of her mind, and faced the next man who was much more prepared for her attack. They locked swords and began slashing away. All around them was the ring of metal on metal, intermixed with the zip of flying arrows, the fierce battle calls of the commanders, and the screams of the wounded or dying. She eventually disposed of the man in front of her and heeled Brac into the melee in front of her.

She knew the faces of each man she killed would come back to haunt her later, in the hours of darkness. When it was night and everyone but the sentries had retired to their tents, she would lay awake and think of them, and their families who would never see them again. She always told herself that they would have killed her ruthlessly if given the chance, but it never seemed to help.

Just then, Brac reared high with a scream of fury, and Zoe saw a spurt of blood coming from his chest. The man she was fighting had slipped his sword low and sliced Brac, causing the horse to reel backwards in pain. Zoe fought to stay on the enraged stallion but it was a losing struggle; she toppled back to land in a patch of soft plants with succulent tendrils.

She sat up, shook her head to clear her scrambled thoughts, and rose a little unsteadily to her feet. It had been a long time since she had been thrown from her horse’s back. She looked up and her heart almost stopped.

“Brac!” she yelled, sprinted forward. “No!”

Her stallion had leapt toward the mounted soldier—the commander, she noticed with vague surprise—with bared teeth and ears laid back. His eyes were sparking angry fire, his head outstretched with unmistakable ill intent. Zoe raised her sword aloft after reaching Brac’s side and squarely met the downward arching blade of the Elangsian commander. Brac’s teeth found their mark on the commander’s arm and he jerked the man out of his saddle with a vicious pull. Zoe finished him off as he was struggling against Brac, but the commander’s dagger left a deep parting gash on Brac’s neck.

Zoe muttered angrily under her breath and swung back unto her horse. “You idiot!” she ground out, her teeth clenched.

He snorted back, still brimming with rage at the attack. Zoe looked up and saw four Elangsians riding toward her. They obviously had seen their commander fall and were keen on bringing down the lone soldier and her horse that had done the deed. Glancing around quickly, Zoe realized she was boxed in: the hillock was at her back, too steep for Brac to clamber up quickly enough; and the Elangsian foursome who closed in on her at a gallop, blood-lust in their eyes, had ended all chance of escaping to the right or left.

Readying her sword and drawing a dagger, Zoe awaited the onslaught. Brac pawed the ground and trumpeted a stallion’s challenge, then charged forward to meet the enemy.

è è è è è è è è è

Tancred raised his arm and Jaedon pulled his gelding to a quick stop. “Do you hear something?” Tancred asked quietly, his eyes roving the forest landscape around them.

Jaedon listened intently. “A skirmish,” he said finally. He pointed ahead and slightly to the left. “In that direction.”

“That’s what I thought as well,” Tancred replied. He drew his sword and Jaedon’s blade responded with an answering ring. They exchanged a glance and urged their horses forward into a canter. Chale wove through the trees swiftly, naturally taking the lead by a half-length in front of Jaedon’s mount. Egan had flown ahead of them to the camp, so he was not around to accompany them. All the better, Tancred thought. He would get a wing cut off; he’s too impetuous.

They were nearing the battle quickly, and Tancred pulled up on Chale’s reins when they reached the top of a rise. Below them, in a miniature valley of sorts, a fierce skirmish raged. Tancred easily picked out his own men from the Elangsians and rapidly judged the situation. “The odds are in our favor; the Elangsians are weakening,” he muttered to Jaedon. “Let’s finish them.”

“Aye,” Jaedon replied, his voice ringing with anticipation.

Their horses leapt down the hill and Tancred steeled himself for the jolt that would come when he entered the fray. He was almost to the edge of the combat when a flash of unmistakable auburn-red caught his gaze: Zoe. Tancred saw her atop her injured stallion, backed up against a nearby hill, furiously fighting three Elangisan soldiers. She had wounded one of them, who lay on the ground with a long handled dagger through a rift in his leather armor at his shoulder, but she was obviously suffering beneath the heavily raining blows of the others. Jerking Chale’s reins around, Tancred galloped toward them.

Releasing his legendary war cry, and with his blue eyes spitting icy fire, he burst into the isolated ring of battle, slashed his powerful sword around, and blocked the blow that would have severed Zoe’s unprotected arm. Why isn’t she wearing some sort of armor? he wondered furiously. Thrusting the thought from his mind, he focused on his opponents. Zoe delivered a blow to the man she was fighting and Tancred took on the other two.

They were obviously thrown off guard by his sudden entrance and quick attack; one of them he felled with a single swipe. The other he fought for a moment before leaving a deep gash in his upper arm and simultaneously disarming him. The Elangsian stared at him with wide eyes that were set in a sweaty face. He clamped his jaw tight and looked at Tancred defiantly. “Do it then!” he cried. “Kill me!”

Tancred looked long at him before glancing around the rest of the grove. The fight had quickly turned ill for the Elangsians. They were subdued: all were dead or captured at sword or knifepoint. Bodies littered the glade and the air was already tinged with the unmistakable, almost metallic stench of blood.

His gaze returned to his own captive, and he shook his head slowly. “I won’t kill you,” he said evenly. “You and your remaining companions will return to Elangsia.” He raised his blood-stained sword and brushed the man’s throat with it. The Elangsian visibly gulped, his wounded arm trembling involuntarily. The silence around them was deafening.

“Tell your king that the Hunter allows none to ride unchallenged through his land. Don’t return here,” Tancred finished in a very quiet tone.

A few moments passed, and then the remaining Elangsians mounted a nearby steed and turned northward. Several of the wounded were helped to straddle a friend’s horse and within five minutes they had all disappeared over the hills, wearing a strange mixture of humiliation and chagrin upon their faces.

The heavy hoofbeats of a slowly approaching steed came from his left and he turned to see Lance approaching. The young man saluted him with a rakish smile, a lock of his hair plastered to his forehead. “Welcome back, sir.”

A slow grin worked its way up Tancred’s face and he clapped Lance on the shoulder. “What a welcome,” he said, shaking his head. The men cheered, and Tancred motioned to their surroundings. “Have the men stay and clear out what remains of the skirmish. Clean the weapons and collect the loose horses and reusable armor. Bury the dead.”

“Aye, sire,” Lance said quickly. He heeled his horse around and began dispatching the orders with the ease of much practice.

Tancred sat still on Chale for a moment, and then turned his head to look beside him. Zoe was still seated on Brac a couple paces to his right; her features were motionless and unreadable. Loose strands of hair that had worked free of her braid stuck to her sweaty face and neck. She met his gaze evenly and ever so slowly inclined her head to him. Just as calmly, he nodded back to her. She glanced around at the dead men, lingering a little longer on the one who had almost cut her arm off—the one Tancred had stopped. Tancred knew what she was thinking but would not say: Thank you for your help.

She tugged Brac’s reins and she and the stallion moved slowly back toward camp.