Chapter 8

Wolfram estimated they had one day left to catch up. The dark clouds circling Elkinshire promised more rain like the deluge from two nights ago, and he had no doubt that Percy Butcher would slip away if they didn't catch him before the weather turned. For now, it seemed like their quarry was still following the stream, but if he got wind of his pursuit he was sure to head in a different direction.

"Unless he's a complete idiot," Aldrich said when Wolfram voiced his thoughts. "Which I reckon he is."

"They don't fall far from the tree," the man leading their captive said, giving a tug on the rope. Tom groaned and stumbled. He didn't look well at all. He'd been shivering all morning, and his face was unhealthily pale.

"We should send someone back to the village with him," Wolfram said.

Aldrich shook his head. "We'll keep him with us."

They reached the edge of the old forest and were forced to dismount. A narrow trail followed the stream bank, but Wolfram doubted it went far. They would have to leave the horses behind if they went much further. Fortunately, time was on their side. Their early start paid off when they found the embers of a fire on the stream bank. Unlike the ashes from yesterday, these ones still burned hot. The presence of another fire concerned Wolfram. If Percy and his friend could kindle a blaze after the lingering damp from two nights ago, one of them was probably an experienced woodsman. People like that could disappear into the forest on a whim. He shared his concerns with Aldrich, but he was brushed off once again. His travelling companions seemed too preoccupied with the annoyance of leading their horses through the undergrowth to be bothered by anything else.

"Just leave them," Wolfram said. The trail had already thinned, and half the men were falling behind.

"Do you know how much these horses cost? I'm not leaving them to get stolen."

"A couple of us can stay and stand watch."

"I'm not staying," Dom grumbled. "Not with a pair of murderers sneaking about."

Wolfram realised his efforts were pointless. He and Aldrich handed off their horses and pressed ahead while the others fell farther and farther behind. It was unnerving to think that they might stumble upon their quarry without anyone to back them up, but at least they could move quietly now. Without the noise of the horses and the chatter of half a dozen people behind them, Wolfram and Aldrich's steps were muffled by the rustle of the tree canopy.

It was approaching midday when Wolfram held out a hand to stop Aldrich.

"There," he whispered, pointing away from the stream. Between the browns and greens of the forest, there was a splash of white. They crouched down and edged closer. The white was a stained linen shirt. A man had it hitched up around his waist while he squatted to relieve himself in the undergrowth. Wolfram moved back towards the stream, scanning the forest for any sign of a second person. A few dozen yards ahead, he spotted a wiry young man with dirty hair and black marks on his arms. He had a walking pole in one hand and a dead squirrel in the other. That was probably Percy's friend, the charcoal burner. Judging by the squirrel, he seemed to be the woodsman of the two. Fortune was once again on Wolfram and Aldrich's side, for their short detour from the stream kept them out of the second man's line of sight as they approached.

"Wait here," Aldrich murmured. His voice was so quiet it was barely audible over the rustling branches. "I'll get the others."

Wolfram whispered back: "If they see me, I'll chase them and start yelling. Just follow my voice."

Aldrich slipped away without a word. Wolfram winced at the sound of his mail shirt clinking, but neither Percy Butcher nor his friend appeared to notice.

Wolfram waited. When Percy returned from the bushes, the pair set off down the stream again. They seemed weary, their pace slow and plodding. Unlike the woodsman, Percy was plump and had short legs. Aldrich's group would have caught up hours ago if the horses hadn't been slowing them down.

Wolfram crept after the pair, waiting until they were out of sight before moving forward. They were still hugging the stream, so there was no reason to risk staying in eyeshot when their path was so obvious. They would only head into the trees if they realised they were being followed. Wolfram hesitated for a moment, pondering that thought. Aldrich's men would be slow in their mail, and they were sure to make a racket when they approached. Percy would probably be easy to catch, but what about the other man? He looked quick and lean enough to dart away and lose himself in the trees.

Wolfram picked up his pace, angling away from the stream so that the foliage would conceal him from view. His eyes itched from lack of sleep, but his body was used to physical activity on weary mornings. To his relief, a carpet of moss and ferns supplanted the usual undergrowth in this part of the forest. Bushes and brambles would have made it a nightmare to try and sneak around his quarry and get ahead of them. He kept his distance, keenly aware that the red quartering on his surcoat would stand out as conspicuously as the white of Percy's shirt. Once he was sure he'd overtaken the pair, he edged back toward the stream and crouched in a patch of ferns. Aldrich and the others must be close by now. When they caught up, Percy and his friend would be trapped between them and Wolfram.

After a few minutes, the pair hove into view again, still following the stream bank. Wolfram remained still, not daring to move in case he was spotted. They walked past and disappeared around another bend in the stream. Wolfram cursed and picked himself up. His surcoat was muddy from lying on the ground. What was taking the others so long?

For the better part of an hour, Wolfram repeated his tactic of circling around, hiding, and waiting. His heart beat fast, the constant tension beginning to erode his strength. His stomach growled uncomfortably. Besides a piece of bread and a slice of cheese that morning, he'd eaten nothing besides a few leaves of wild mint he'd stripped from a plant in the forest.

Just as he was beginning to lose hope of Aldrich and the others ever catching up, he heard the sound of voices coming from the stream. He was in the middle of circling around to cut Percy and his friend off again. They were to his left now, and something had startled them. One of them hissed a warning before falling abruptly silent, then their boots pattered against the earth. Someone yelled in the distance.

Wolfram's pulse quickened. This was it. Throwing caution to the wind, he drew the long club from his belt and ran forward, angling toward the sound of the voices. Whether by instinct or by luck, his plan worked perfectly. Percy Butcher's friend sprinted around a tree and crashed through a patch of ferns right in front of him. He didn't see Wolfram immediately. The man swerved, trying to make his path erratic so that his pursuers would lose him, and realised too late that he'd blundered into a trap. Before he could reach for the knife at his belt, Wolfram was swinging his club. The smooth wooden shaft slammed into the man's stomach and winded him. He doubled over with a gasp. His shoulder struck a tree, and he fell into the ferns at Wolfram's feet. It was the work of a moment to disarm him and pin him down.

A swell of triumph rose in Wolfram's chest. He'd done it. He'd arrested an outlaw! For years he'd been practising, following orders, still feeling like a boy being led around by his elders, but in that moment, he was a man. The exhilaration brought a grin to his lips.

Percy Butcher didn't get far before Aldrich's men caught him and dragged him back. Once they had both men securely bound with rope, they lined them up next to Tom on the stream bank. Aldrich looked pleased with himself as he paced up and down in front of the trio with his sword drawn.

"Well done, boys. It was all worth it in the end, wasn't it? Now, what are we going to do with these three?"

"I'm not dragging them all the way back to the village," one of the men said.

Tom let out a groan of despair as Aldrich tapped his cheek with the flat of his sword, drawing a rivulet of blood.

The uneasy feeling from the night before returned, draining the thrill of Wolfram's jubilation.

"We have to take them back. They need to stand trial."

"We can hold a trial right here," Aldrich said. "Who thinks these buggers are guilty as sin?" Everyone but Wolfram raised a hand. Aldrich turned around with a smile. The look sent a chill through Wolfram. The reasonable man he'd spoken to that morning was gone. Had it all been an act? He had a terrible feeling that this was Aldrich's way of punishing him for speaking up the night before. He'd led him on under the pretence of carrying out the king's justice, and now he would force him to stand by and watch while something horrible happened.

"How about..." Aldrich began, his gaze never leaving Wolfram, "we show them a bit of mercy? Hear that, you three? You can go off and live free in the forest. But we can't have you coming back to stir up trouble again. That wouldn't do at all. So we're going to have to cut off your feet first."

Tom groaned again. Percy and the other man were pale with fear.

"You can't do that," Wolfram said through gritted teeth.

"Why not? They're outlaws. We can do what we want with them."

"They aren't outlaws! They haven't stood trial."

"Oh, come on," Aldrich scoffed. "Everyone saw them do it. They ran. They're scum. Don't tell me you're going to stand up for them."

"I didn't mean to do it," Tom wailed. "I barely even hit him!"

A shiver of anger tensed Wolfram's muscles. He was sure Percy Butcher was guilty, but they needed to hear the whole story first. Maybe Tom and the other man deserved leniency. He couldn't stand the thought of Aldrich doling out his cruel version of justice with no oversight. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be done.

Had he been as quick with his tongue as Robin, he might have been able to articulate those thoughts in a way that gave Aldrich pause, but all he could think to say was: "It's not your place to decide."

"I don't think you understand who we are," Aldrich said. "Without us, there'd be no one bringing murderers to justice. If we didn't get paid, there'd be a lot more trouble around here. We'd make sure of it, right lads? It's not your colours people look for, baron's boy, it's ours. So we get to decide what happens here." He stared Wolfram down, daring him to object.

"If the sheriff finds out about this, you'll be hanged."

Aldrich's men laughed.

"Who's going to ride all the way across Tannersfield to tell him?"

Wolfram swallowed, fighting his growing fear. "I will."

Aldrich turned to face his men. "He's not that bright, is he?"

"Chop his feet off, too," the chubby young man said. To Wolfram's horror, several of the others jeered in agreement.

"We can't go chopping up the baron's men," Aldrich said. "Then someone really will go to the sheriff. Wolfram's not going to say anything. Are you?"

Wolfram's hand closed around the hilt of his sword. He was standing apart from the others, but most of them already had their weapons drawn. If he ran, they would probably catch him. The look of smug satisfaction on Aldrich's face said it all; he was going to force him to watch while they tortured their captives and left them to die. There was nothing he could do to stop it. The feeling of helplessness bit into Wolfram's soul and tugged like a fish hook. It was worse than fear.

He took a step back and drew his sword.

"Don't be an idiot," Aldrich said.

"I'll duel you," Wolfram retorted. "Unless you're afraid."

The barb landed. Aldrich worked his jaw back and forth in consternation as his men began goading him on.

"Go on, chop his guts out."

"Kill the little shit."

"Shut up!" Aldrich snapped. "Alright, baron's boy. First to draw blood wins."

Wolfram nodded. "If I win, we take these three back to the village unharmed."

Aldrich paced back and forth in front of the captives, warming his arm up with a few swipes of his sword before pointing it at Tom Butcher.

"And if I win, you cut this one's feet off yourself."

Wolfram's muscles felt like knots. Trying not to think about it, he forced a nod. It was best not to think about anything right now. Worrying would only distract him. He just had to win. Unbidden, he suddenly thought of his mother and sisters. They would be horrified if they could see him right now. He wavered, his sword trembling in his grip. Aldrich saw the tremor and stepped forward confidently. Wolfram raised his weapon, ready to defend himself.

The other men stepped back to make room. There wasn't a lot of space on the stream bank, and Wolfram knew he couldn't afford to trip. A tense fear settled over him, the kind that washed away weariness and dulled pain. It surprised him how quickly his body adapted to the lessons that had been drilled into him for the past three years. He wasn't training anymore. This was a real fight.

Aldrich kept his distance, sizing him up. Even though Aldrich was older, they were both of a similar height. The weapons they used were near-identical: one-handed arming swords with medium-length blades and simple crossguards. Wolfram wasn't as confident with the shorter blade as he was with a longsword, but he understood how to wield it well enough. He moistened his lips with his tongue, trying to take in Aldrich's whole posture rather than focusing on any one detail that might distract him.

Aldrich made the first attack. It wasn't intended to connect, only to probe. With their blades held out in front of them, a forward step would be necessary to land a proper cut, and Wolfram knew he had nothing to fear until Aldrich moved his feet. His taunting swipe was just a feint. Wolfram took a quick step and moved his weapon so that it missed. They were testing each other, each trying to get a feel for how competent the other was before committing to an attack. The fact that Aldrich knew how to exercise such restraint indicated that he was no novice swordsman. But Wolfram was no novice either. Three years' training might not have been much compared to a knight, but he was still leagues ahead of a beginner.

The pair of them kept testing, making short, quick swings in an attempt to provoke a reaction. It was no elegant spectacle like the showy duels knights put on at tournaments. They moved sharply and frantically, often stumbling in their hurry to stay out of each other's reach. Even if the goal was only to draw blood, the keen edge of a sword could easily open up a mortal wound if the cut landed true.

Wolfram realised too late that he'd entered the duel at an immense disadvantage. Aldrich wore mail, while Wolfram's only armour was a padded gambeson. He couldn't land a cut on his opponent's torso or arms and expect to draw blood. He could aim for the legs, but it was difficult to cut that low without opening himself up. He would have to try and pierce the mail with a stab, or strike at Aldrich's hand.

Wolfram was the first to break the tense standoff. It was best to attack with offence and defence combined. Every good cut could also function as a guard if the blade was positioned correctly. Every parry should be aggressive, immediately ready to transition into a strike. Wolfram lunged with his blade held diagonally to cover his torso. The attack took Aldrich by surprise. Unused to fighting a left-handed opponent, he reacted incorrectly, throwing his blade out in a guard that swept through the air on the wrong side of Wolfram's arm. The edge of Wolfram's sword ripped through the expensive green fabric of Aldrich's surcoat and scraped across the mail beneath. A cry went up from the men watching, but Wolfram couldn't spare any of his focus on them. He dodged back as Aldrich swiped recklessly, panicked by the hit he'd taken. It hadn't drawn blood, but without the mail, it would have.

Emboldened, Wolfram attacked again. Aldrich's panic didn't override his swordsman's instincts a second time. He threw a parry that forced Wolfram to sidestep as their blades grated past one another. They drew apart, circling, their breath heavy in their throats. Aldrich had murder in his eyes as he lunged, throwing a heavy cut at Wolfram's head. Wolfram tried to dodge back and stab under the blow. Neither of them gained the reach they needed, and their blades met nothing but air. Wolfram cut up at Aldrich's arm. Aldrich turned his sword and knocked the attack aside. Their blades scraped and rattled. Wolfram defended himself against an aggressive attack as Aldrich lunged forward once, twice, then a third and fourth time. He'd lost the discipline of his swordplay. Angry, fearful–or more likely both–he was desperately trying to end the duel by landing a hit as fast as possible. Triumph emboldened Wolfram as he stepped back, raising an easy guard that let him dodge and dodge again. Training beat recklessness every time.

Then he made a mistake. The next time he put his foot back, it found no ground beneath him. His stomach dropped like a stone as his heel splashed into the stream, throwing him wildly off balance.

The stumble saved his life. Aldrich thrust the tip of his sword out in an enormous lunge, but Wolfram was already falling, toppling back into the stream and out of reach. A great spray of water crashed into the air as he fell flat on his back, muffling the roar that went up from the onlookers. Wolfram turned over and groped to find the stream bed with his free hand. If he couldn't get himself back upright, he was done for. His palm found soft earth beneath the water, and his knee followed. He was halfway up before Aldrich's next attack came. He threw his sword out instinctively in a diagonal cut to guard his torso. It met Aldrich's blade with a jarring clash. The keen edges turned each other aside, twisting the sword handle in Wolfram's grasp as his blade slid down the length of Aldrich's in a bind. He pushed as hard as he could, heaving upwards so that Aldrich's blade went past his shoulder while his grazed over the back of his opponent's hand. Aldrich cried out in pain and stepped back. He was about to attack again when Wolfram leapt out of the stream on the far side, putting the water between them. They faced each other in a tense standoff. Neither man wanted to throw himself off balance by stepping in.

Wolfram breathed heavily, his muscles humming with the warmth of combat. His clothes were soaked and heavy. If he'd been wounded, he couldn't feel it. Red blood dripped from Aldrich's right hand into the moss.

"I cut you," Wolfram panted. "I win."

Aldrich looked down at his hand in surprise.

Dom bellowed with laughter. "You let him get you!"

Aldrich rounded on him. Dom's smile vanished. He stepped away, raising his hands in front of him. Aldrich looked back at Wolfram. His hateful gaze lingered for a second, then he lunged toward Tom Butcher and swung his sword. It was a dreadful blow, so heavy that Wolfram heard the bone snap as Aldrich's blade cleaved halfway through Tom's arm and knocked him over.

Half a second passed before he began to scream. Blood poured into the moss, and the stream bank erupted into chaos.

Wolfram wanted to run forward, to attack Aldrich and protect Tom and the other prisoners, but the good sense of fear held him back. He couldn't fight half a dozen men. All bargains were off. Everything that had been said before the duel no longer mattered. Anger and wounded pride were in control now, and Wolfram knew his life hung in the balance. Seeing Tom fall, Percy and his friend threw caution to the wind and ran with their arms still bound.

No one knew where they were going or what they were doing. Half of Aldrich's men stood staring in surprise while the others went after the captives. With his heart in his throat, Wolfram turned and sprinted into the trees. He'd never run for his life before. His chest burned, each breath painful, but numbing adrenaline drove him on. He felt like there were wolves snapping at his heels as Tom Butcher screamed in agony behind him. A second scream followed. It sounded like Percy. Then Wolfram heard footsteps sloshing through the stream in his direction.

He ran as fast as he could.

The stream would give him a head start, but his clothes were heavy with water and his sword was awkward in his hand. There was no time for him to sheathe it. He couldn't see anything but bare tree trunks and sparse ferns around him–nowhere to lose himself in the undergrowth. He made for the ferns anyway, hoping that if he tore through enough of them they might eventually obscure his red surcoat from view. He snatched a glance over his shoulder. The sounds of voices had fallen silent, but he couldn't tell if Aldrich's men had broken off the pursuit, or if they were just being stealthy. He kept on running. There was no doubt in his mind that his pursuers would kill him if they caught up.

Something beyond weariness eventually slowed Wolfram's pace. He ran until his body began to feel heavy and his head light. He stumbled suddenly, his leg refusing to go where he told it, and his ankle twisted. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground, his lungs burning, leg throbbing, and he'd dropped his sword. Blinking hard to try and drive out the dizzy haze, he hauled himself upright. The ground was uneven here. He'd rolled into a small hollow buried in the ferns. Fearing that his legs wouldn't obey him if he tried to walk again, he lay down on his side and scanned the surrounding forest. There was no one in sight. The sky had darkened with clouds and a heavy wind dragged through the treetops. All he could hear was the sound of creaking branches and rustling leaves.

Wolfram lay in the hollow and caught his breath. He was shattered. His stomach felt hollow and full of bile at the same time. The gruesome sight of blood pouring from the rent in Tom's arm came back to him, and he swallowed the urge to vomit. Tom was surely dead by now. The other two as well, most likely, unless Aldrich had kept them alive to vent his sadistic anger. Wolfram felt tears of frustration welling in his eyes and had to grit his teeth to hold them back. He balled his hand into a fist and struck his forehead, letting out a noise of frustration. He didn't know whether it was sadness, anger, fear, disgust, or some horrible new emotion. He'd never felt this way before.

He'd been a fool. He should never have trusted Aldrich. If only he'd gone back to the others that morning like he'd planned. When he felt something warm on his cheeks, he realised he was crying despite himself. He was sobbing like a child, and he couldn't stop. What was wrong with him? He wasn't a little boy anymore. He was a man. He couldn't let himself fall to pieces like this.

With a staggering effort, he hauled himself upright and stumbled on. He didn't know where he was going, just so long as it was away from the stream.

Within a few hours, he was lost, and night was falling.