Jack Frost: King of Thieves

CHAPTER XI: A Fool's Errand

Elsa rode slowly through Graywood Forest, steering her bay among the trees. She wore a brown bodice over her riding dress, but still, the air was starting to grow cool, and she was eager to return t Burlington Manor and a warm fire. She'd had a successful hunt; the brace of pheasants hanging from her saddle would easily feed Sandy and her, and Old George beside.

If she made it home. Suddenly she had the feeling that she was being watched, hunted. She slowed the bay and began to reach for her bow, which hung beside the pheasants.

Before she could nock an arrow, though, a figure dropped down from a tree, landing just in front of her. She started and gasped. But her fear was short-lived. The creature before her appeared at first glance to be a wild animal of some sort. It wore fur and landed deftly on the path. But while it held a sharpened wooden lance that it pointed at her heart, it didn't look to be very threatening. Or very big, for that matter.

Elsa heard a footfall behind her. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that a second ... animal-thing had stepped onto the road behind her.

"Forfeit what ye have!" the first animal demanded. "Victuals, coin, clothing, or your life!"
She would have laughed had she not been so annoyed. Rather than give the creature anything, she reached out, grabbed the lance, and yanked it out of the creature's hands. The animal, who clearly hadn't expected this, scampered back away from her. And as it did, its animal mask slipped down, revealing a young boy. After a moment, Elsa realised that she recognised him.

"John Darling! Is that you?"

Chagrined, the boy swallowed and gave a reluctant nod. She remembered that the boy's father had marched to war years ago, and his mother died soon after. There had been others like him, war orphans all. They hadn't been seen in ages.

"For two years you've been gone," she said.

He nodded again, and as he did, he broke into a hacking cough.

Looking at him more closely, Elsa saw that his skin had a greyish cast to it. He had rings under his eyes and his face had a pinched look. She wondered when he'd last had a proper meal.

Eyeing the second boy, Elsa realised that she recognised him, too. A moment later he fell into a coughing fit of his own. Was this where all the town's boys had gone? Were they creatures of the wood now, barely alive and scrounging for food? If so, they were fortunate to have survived this long. From the looks of them, they wouldn't make it through another season.

* * *

Jackson Overland rode northward through the wood, with King Manny's riderless white charger galloping beside him. He had twelve knights with him, flanking him in twin columns, the hooves of their mounts rumbling like thunder on the forest floor. The king's horse carried a pannier that contained Manny's crown. The Homme-Sur-La-Lune would not be making the journey home to the Southern Isles, but his helm would. It had fallen to Jackson to inform the queen consort that her son was dead.

As they rounded a bend in the road, Jackson heard a sharp sound. Several. Axe blows. Before he could rein his mount to a halt or shout a warning to his men, two enormous tree trunks, as wide around as the battering ram that shattered the castle gates, fell onto the road in front of them.

One of his lead riders was crushed. The two men riding at the rear of the columns were knocked flying off their horses and sprawled onto the forest floor, their chests smashed in.

Jackson managed to rein his mount to a halt, as did the other knights. He looked about frantically, taking in what had happened, looking for the likeliest escape route. But before he could so much as bark an order to his men, a dozen archers emerged from behind trees and began to loose their arrows.

As if from nowhere, riders bore down on them, lances levelled.

Jackson reached for his sword, even as he ducked under another volley of arrows. He barely managed to get his weapon free before a lance took him in the gut, knocking him off his horse and to the ground. His sword landed beside him, its point sticking in the earth.

All around him his knights fell, pierced by arrows or run through with lances. Several more attackers rushed forward with pikes to finish the fallen. A few of Jackson men raised hands weakly to ward off the killing blows. Others didn't move at all. Six more horsemen appeared on the road, galloping in from the far end, opposite the direction from which Jackson had come. Most of them wore what appeared to be Alsace-Lorraine cavalry uniforms. But it was the man in front who drew Jackson eye. He wore chain mail and over it a black tabard that bore a brightly coloured insignia Jackson had never seen before. He might well have been a have been an Alsace-Lorraine nobleman.

His head covered with long black hair, his eyes deep-set, so that they appeared shadowed and dark. He was lean and lithe, and he rode with skill. When he halted and dismounted a few feet short of the first tree trunk, he did so with a swordman's grace. He regarded the scene coolly. The man who had ridden in beside him didn't appear to be a common soldier, either. He looked over the dead and dying while wearing a faint smile.

"Trouvez-le!" the leader called to the other men. Find him!

The attackers began to examine each of the dead, flipping over those who had fallen face down and pulling off helmets to get better looks at their faces. The leader stepped over the dead, pausing occasionally to use the flat of his sword to turn a dead face so that he might see its features more clearly.

"Manny? Manny, où êtes-vous?" Manny, where are you?"

Jackson groaned, drawing the man's gaze. The stranger sauntered over to where the knight lay. The lance was still in Jackson's gut, and now the leader leant on it. Agony. Jackson felt as though his body was being ripped in half.

"Où est Manny Homme-Sur-La-Lune?" the man asked in a silky voice. Where is Manny the Homme-Sur-La-Lune ?

Still holding the end of the lance, the man walked a slow circle around Jackson, twisting the weapon in the knight's stomach. Jackson howled in pain, writhing against the wood.

"Tell me, sir," the man said, his Islsh perfect, devoid of any accent. "Where is the king?"

"Dead," Jackson rasped. "This morning. A crossbow bolt."

The leader looked over at the man who had ridden in with him, his surprise obvious. The leader of the attackers gave the lance one last vicious turn, ripping another scream of torment from Jackson.

"I don't believe you," the man said.

Jackson could barely raise his hand to point. "There is Manny's crown—on his horse. We bring it to Abita, with the news."

The man looked at the white charger. Releasing the lance, he stepped to one of the dead knights and looked down at him. With his sword, he moved the man's arm, which bore a black band for the fallen king.

He looked up at his companion and laughed.

"We are on a fool's errand. To assassinate a king who is already dead." He turned to his pikemen. "Bring me the crown."

Two of the Alsace-Lorraine soldiers started toward Manny's white horse. But as they drew near, the creature stamped, reared, wheeled and bolted, leaping over the downed log.

"Get the crown!" the man shouted to his men. "Kill the horse if you have to!"

Several of his men remounted their horses and gave chase.