Wychling

Chapter 51

Corby sprinted off to the cliff edge to hold Tal's rope as she went down to tie it to the bags. Ulrich and Shimon scanned the forest below for another sign of the commotion. Birds fled in every direction as the horn sounded again, out to the southwest.

~Still ahead of these ones at least, thank the stars~ thought Shimon, catching Ulrich's eye and nodding back towards Corby, who was straining with effort trying to pull their packs up the cliff.

Ulrich went to help him haul on the rope as their supplies rose steadily up the cliff face. Shimon maintained his watch from a small rise, closer to the river. Eyes scanning intensely for the source of the commotion. Suddenly the bank erupted as an enormous black shape sprang from the undergrowth on the far side of the river and arced through the air like the shot from a catapult.

Shimon jumped, heart thundering as the mass of shadowed fur resolved into Suma, paws spread wide for balance as he cleared the river in one great leap and careened into a stretch of young pine trees on this side of the water. He had crossed at the narrowest point for miles, but by Shimon's eye he had still leapt fifty feet across and thirty feet down. Nobody sane would be following him.

A crack like lightning splitting the sea boomed out across the forest as the supple branches of the pines gave way to Suma's mass. He hit the trunks with a resounding crash, knocking two of them down with his bulk, and yet still dropped to the floor with an impossible grace. The sheer arrogance of the manoeuvre took Shimon's breath away, and left him grinning like a fool, even as his heart returned to its normal pace.

His smile was soon stolen away as his eyes were drawn to movement on the other shore, where a large group of horsemen burst from the trees with all the clatter of a taphouse brawl. One rider launched an arrow at Suma, but he was already running for the cliff at full tilt, and it missed with room to spare. Suma's feet were a blur as he hopped from rock to rock, swerving madly through trees, and he was quickly lost to sight. The horsemen continued across the small clearing at the edge of the water trying to close the distance to their prey, but they were already far too late.

They pulled up in a messy huddle as those at the front reached a thick line of trees. The riders behind not slowing, suddenly crowding the front line and causing all manner of shouting and cursing. One voice barked over the top of them all, high pitched and authoritative. A familiar voice.

The horsemen cleared themselves out of the way as a single figure rode to the edge of the riverbank. Even from this distance, Shimon could tell he was built thicker than those he rode with. He seemed to be engrossed with something in his hand before looking up sharply, the weight of that stare landing directly on Shimon, crouched on the rise.

Shimon couldn't be certain, but Brother Ryland seemed to be grinning wide enough to be seen all of three hundred feet away. Seeing no point in dissembling, Shimon stood, outlined clearly as he could be with the mountains behind him. He understood in his bones that everything had just changed; there was no more stealth left in this race, just a sprint to the finish line. If he had ever doubted it, he knew, there and then, that this was the kind of race where winning meant you got to keep breathing.

He was a good fighter, but there were twenty horsemen down there. Even with high ground, he didn't like their odds in a straight up fight. They had limited resources, so they couldn't outlast an enemy that was more manoeuvrable than they were. That left guerrilla action or gaining a good defensive position and making the enemy bleed.

Either way, there were some grim times ahead. He thought back to the tunnel. His axe sinking into flesh, crunching bones. His calm, elated butchery. He hadn't done that in fifteen long years. He had been a man of peacekeeping for so long that he had convinced himself that that dark part of his life was gone, finished, and never to return.