Chapter 9: Three Of Swords

Oaf's cough started up again, and his constant hacking echoed through the woods. The only good thing was that they had fetched food from another cache the day before, and had plenty to eat. Rat was mixing up yet another vile batch of moss and dried herbs to try to help Oaf.

They were running short on supplies. Zeb had misjudged how much food they needed to get through the winter. Even making their meals smaller, they weren't going to make it.

"We should go to Chancy," one of the men said, whose name Zeb didn't care to remember.

"And this wonderful Chancy is going to just let you walk in and take his food and shelter?" Rat sneered.

"Every year, Chancy invites the forest bands to join him."

"So, why don't you go?" asked Rat. "It would give us more to eat."

"I don't know the way," the man said. "You just walk west, and they find you."

"I need you here," said Zeb.

"There is more to life than what you need," said the man.

"Is there?" asked Zeb. "I showed you how to get food easily. I can kill you too. You are mine now."

The man's face grew set.

"I don't belong to anybody, least of all you. I'm going to find Chancy, and I'd like to see you stop me."

Zeb was up in an instant with his sword at the rebel's throat. The man rolled to the side and drew a knife.

"Come on, then," he sneered, "I know those hands of yours can barely hold that sword." He circled around whipping the knife through the air making it whistle.

Zeb just watched in silence.

The man shouted threats and called the others to help him, but Oaf blocked the others from interfering. The man made a quick lunge toward Zeb and impaled himself on the sword suddenly extended toward him. With a moan the man dropped the knife. He tried to say something, but Zeb twisted the sword then pulled it out. The man's eyes rolled up as blood gurgled in his throat. A last twitch of the hand and he died.

"Get rid of him," Zeb ordered as he wiped his sword clean.

There was no more talk of finding Chancy. There was little talk of any kind. The men gave Zeb a wide berth, as if they had just realized he would kill them as easily and with as little regret. Rat and Oaf went to get the last of the food from the furthest cache. On their return, they were dragging a small deer.

"You should have seen Oaf," crowed Rat. "He jumped on the deer and wrestled it to the ground until I could cut its throat. He's a crazy man."

The arrival of the food and the good fortune of killing the deer put the band in a better mood.

They sat around the fire gorging on the meat.

"Hey, boss," Rat said, "you killed that idiot with the knife."

"He wasn't useful."

"Yeah, well that's my question," said Rat, "you killed him, and I've seen you kill others with no more concern than I would kill a bug. So, why didn't you kill that kid that stuck you with the pitchfork?"

"We got more with her alive."

"We could have killed them all and taken everything. We did before."

"Hey, back off," Oaf said. "I don't like this talk of killing kids. It's bad enough we've killed adults, but killing kids will send us to the worst part of hell."

"There is no worst part," Zeb said.

"What do you mean?" Oaf said. "There has to be a worst part."

"Why?" Zeb said. "It is all bad. Imagine the most horrible place you can, and hell is worse than that."

"What, are you some kind of priest?" Rat asked.

"I came from hell," Zeb said, "I will go back there."

"So, you're some kind of devil?" Rat said laughing.

"Whatever you say." The conversation moved on, but Zeb wondered at the men's determination to keep their fate after death separate from their lives, as if they believed in Heaven and Hell, but not their power in this world. Even when he as much as told them what he was they just laughed and changed the subject. Perhaps that was the mage's strength, he knew there was power beyond this world. He believed he could summon it and control it.

"I will not serve," Zeb said, but no one was listening.

Their first warning of the attack was the bolt that appeared like magic in Oaf's chest. He gave one last cough then fell across the fire. The other men shouted in panic and tried to run away, but bolts found them as well.

Zeb rolled away under the tent when Oaf had been hit. His small group were slaughtered as he watched. He didn't care about them, but they were his. Whoever fired those bolts would pay the price. His sword settled comfortably in his hand as he crouched behind the tree. The distinctive click of a crossbow arming meant he needed to get into the middle of them, where the bolts were as likely to hit friend as foe.

Six attackers came out of the woods holding their crossbows casually.

"I think we got them all," one said.

"Where's the sword?" another said. "At least one of them had a sword and knew how to use it."

"No swords here," the first one said, nudging Oaf's corpse.

Zeb stepped up behind him and ran him through. He grabbed the dying man's crossbow and shot another man from point blank range. The bolt went through him to strike the man behind. The remaining men shouted in surprise, and their shout was answered from a distance.

Zeb jumped on them in an instant, and dropped two more while they fumbled with their crossbows. A bolt danced off his ribs and blood dripped down from the wound. The last man dropped his crossbow and drew his sword. The shouting got closer. The other man glanced away to see how close his friends were. Zeb stabbed him and ran away into the forest.

He heard a large group shouting and cursing, then the crash of people following after him. With the snow on the ground, he wasn't going to lose them, so Zeb put his energy into running.

Zeb held his own easily at first. He snatched up moss Rat had used to stem bleeding in the others. Zeb had no desire to collapse again from blood loss. He and his men had explored the entire region around their camp, so he knew the fastest paths to take. He sprinted along, and the shouts faded behind him. Too soon his body began to let him down. His obsessive training with the sword hadn't included running, so he gasped for air. His lungs froze in his chest, and he started coughing. Still, he pushed himself. Yet it wasn't long before the pursuit behind him was audible again.

Zeb crossed into country he'd never seen before. The flat terrain became hilly and uncertain. Deep ravines cut across his path. The snow got deeper too. The few inches that had marked his trail without slowing him became a foot or more that made his legs burn with effort. He was finally forced to stop and rest.

He picked a ravine, filled with a tangle of broken branches and stumps, to take his break. Making his trail look like he ran straight into the mess was simple. Then he pulled himself up into a tree.

The aches and pains of his abused muscles and joints were worse when he stopped, but Zeb ignored them. He concentrated on breathing through his nose to ease the constant irritation in his chest. While he waited, Zeb tried to figure out a way to escape without leaving a trail. Jumping from tree to tree might be possible, but he didn't think they were close enough to each other to make it work.

Three men arrived at the ravine. They were gasping for air, but not with the same urgency as Zeb. He watched them drink from leather wrapped flasks.

"Oh, great," one said, "if he's gone into that mess we may never dig him out."

"My brother's blood is on his sword. I will follow him to hell if I need to," a second said. The third just nodded.

Zeb's throat chose that moment to rebel, and he coughed violently. The three gave a start and looked around. Zeb swung out of the tree and kicked the first man out into the ravine. Drawing his sword he slashed at the other two. They retreated and drew breath to yell for help. The one who hadn't spoken began coughing, so Zeb ignored him and attacked the other man. There was a brief clash of swords before Zeb's opponent slipped and Zeb stabbed the man's leg and kicked his sword away. Just as he turned, the third soldier's sword caught in Zeb's coat. Zeb punched him in the throat with the edge of his sword and the man went down.

Looking for the first man, Zeb saw that he was impaled on branches at the bottom of the ravine. Blood dripped from his mouth and a branch poked through his neck.

Zeb quickly killed the injured men, and took their water bottles and hard rations then set off running again. This time, he kept his pace slower, just enough to stay ahead of the people following behind him.

The ambush at the ravine, though not planned, had gained him more time. The mortals had a need to cry over each death. Zeb didn't understand it, but he was willing to use it. He found another good place for an ambush that evening - a high cliff overlooking a valley floor littered with sharp rocks.

Zeb circled around so he would come up behind whatever group was behind him. There were four of them this time. They traveled with their swords drawn, one with a loaded crossbow in his hand instead of a sword. They walked cautiously, constantly scanning the forest around them while the fourth read Zeb's footprints. None were looking behind them.

Zeb waited until they'd bunched together not too far from the edge of the cliff. Then he charged them, holding a log crosswise to add weight, and pushed them over the edge. The man with the crossbow twisted and fired at Zeb as he fell. The bolt cut through the sleeve of Zeb's coat, but he didn't stay to marvel at the man's skill.

He was running again before the four hit the rocks far below.

All night, Zeb half walked, half ran through the forest. His legs screamed in agony even with the slower pace, but he refused to stop. In the morning, it started to snow. Within minutes, the footprints behind him filled in. Minutes later, Zeb couldn't see further than his outstretched arm. He stumbled and pushed his way through the storm using the sword to check the footing in front of him. Yet now that he no longer needed to push himself to the extreme, the flesh he inhabited failed him.

He fell, and when he stood up couldn't make his hands pick up the sword. Shouting in fury, Zeb left it behind. He refused to give in. As he walked, Zeb muttered curses against the mage who had trapped him in this weak flesh. Still, this cold torture was preferable to serving another being willingly. Slowly, the cold seeped up his arms and legs and into his body. Finally, he could go no further. Zeb fell into a bank of snow and let darkness take him.