England
May, 1605
I should not have stayed away from the Manor so long.
Something stirs. Lord Arik’s eyes swept the surrounding area
as he and his three riders escorted the wagon with the old
tinker and the woman. They sped through the forest as fast
as the rain-slicked trail would allow. Unable to shake the
ominous feeling of being watched, Arik remained alert. At
length, the horses winded, he slowed the pace as they neared
the Stone River.
'The forest is flooded. I suspect the Stone will be as
well. Willem, ride on ahead and let me know what we face at
the crossing.'
Willem did his lord’s bidding and quickly returned with
his report. 'The river ahead runs fast, m’lord. The bridge
is in disrepair and cannot be crossed.'
Arik raised his hand and brought the group to a halt.
'Doward,' he said to the old tinker. 'We must make repairs.
There’s no room for the wagon at the river’s edge. You and
the woman stay here and set up camp. Be ready to join us at
the bridge when I send word.'
Logan, Arik’s brother, spoke up. 'I’ll keep watch here
and help Doward and Rebeka.'
Arik nodded and, with the others, continued the half mile
to the bridge.
'I am not pleased with this new delay.'
'It can’t be helped, m’lord. We would make better time
without the wagon,' said Simon.
'I’ll not leave Doward and the woman unescorted through
the forest, not with what we’ve heard lately. We’ll have to
drive hard to make up the lost time.'
The frame of the bridge stood solid, the planks scattered
everywhere, clogging the banks and shallows. Arik leaped
from his horse onto the frame to begin the repairs.
'Hand me that planking.' Arik pointed to the nearest board.
Simon grabbed the plank and examined it. 'Sir, these
boards have been deliberately removed.'
Arik took the board and lifted it before him. An arrow
whooshed out of the trees, and slammed into the plank’s
edge. Willem pulled his axe from his belt as Arik and Simon
drew their swords. In a fluid, practiced movement, Willem
spun and found his mark. He sent his axe flying. The archer
fell into the river and was swept downstream, Willem’s axe
still lodged in his forehead. A dozen or more attackers
broke through the stand of trees.
Arik tossed the board into the river and readied his
sword. The enemy was poorly dressed carrying clubs and
knives. There was only one sword among them. The leader.
Arik’s target.
'They plan to pin us here at the river’s edge. Come,
we’ll take the offensive before they form up.' They moved
forward, driving a wedge through the enemy’s ragged line,
forcing what little formation they had to scatter and fight,
each man for himself.
A man, club in hand, rushed at Arik. Before the attacker
could bring his weapon into play, Arik pivoted around him.
He raised his sword high, and slammed the hilt’s steel
pommel squarely on the man’s head. Arik moved on before the
man’s lifeless body dropped to the ground.
Willem and Simon, on either side of Arik, advanced
through the melee. Their swift continuous swordplay moved
smoothly from one stroke to the next, whipping through the
air. They slashed on the downswing and again on the
backswing, sweeping their weapons back into position to
repeat the killing sequence. The knight and his soldiers
steadily advanced, punishing any man who dared to come near
them.
'For Honor!' Logan’s war cry carried from the small camp
to Arik’s ears.
Arik stiffened. Both camps were now under attack. He
pulled his blade from an attacker’s chest. The body crumpled
to the blood-soaked ground. Arik breathed deeply, the
coppery taste of blood in the air. 'For Honor!' he bellowed
in answer. His men echoed his call, arms thrown wide,
muscles quivering, the berserker’s rage overtaking them.
The remaining attackers paled and fled headlong into the
forest.
Motioning to his men to follow, Arik raced toward the
camp. He could hear the shouts, and cursed himself for not
seeing the danger. He crested the hill and came to an abrupt
halt.
Logan’s sword ripped through the air as he protected
Doward. The tinker drew his short blade and did as much
damage as he could. But it was the woman Arik noticed. Her
skirt hiked up, she twirled her walking stick like a weapon
with an expertise that left him slack-jawed. She dispatched
the attackers, one by one, in a deadly well-practiced dance.
A man rushed toward her, knife in hand. The sneer on his
face didn’t match the fear in his eyes. She stepped out of
his line of attack, extended her stick to her side, and
holding it with both hands swept the weapon forward,
striking the attacker across the bridge of his nose. Blood
exploded from his face in an arc of fine spray as his head
snapped back. Droplets dusted her face creating an illusion
of bright red freckles. As he fell, she reversed her swing
and caught him hard behind his knees. He went down on his
back, spread-eagled. She swung her stick over her head and
landed a precise and disabling blow to his forehead that
knocked him unconscious.
As she spun to face the next threat her eyes captured
Arik’s and held. In the space of an instant, time slowed to
a crawl. Her hair slowly loosened from its pins and swirled
out around her. His breath caught and his heartbeat
quickened as a rapturous surge raced through his body.
Something eternal and familiar, with a sense of longing,
unsettled him. In the next heartbeat, she tore her eyes
away, leaving him empty. Time resumed its normal pace.
Another attacker lay at her feet.
Arik joined the fight.