Blade of Champions

Chapter Twelve: A New Beginning

Was that a neigh? He froze, his head tilted to one side, listening.

There it came again; far down to the left, among the thick trees. 

Favour's black ears swivelled in that direction also, and Hughell knew had not imagined the sound. 

He slid off and looped the reigns around a branch, grateful that his animal was too well trained to call out in reply. He left her standing and crept stealthily down the hill towards the sound, weaving through the underbrush without disturbing so much as a fern. After a minute, he found a hollow log and wormed his way inside. A damp, earthy smell filled his nostrils as he pressed his face against a crack in the rotten timber.

Further down the slope, heads were just visible above the waist-high ferns; they were seated, probably.

The neigh came again. This time, Hughell caught a movement between the trees and was able to pinpoint the.

'What's wrong with Cappo?' said a male-sounding voice.

'Don't know,' replied another, deeper and gruffer than the last. ‘Guess he’s weary of being tied up.'

There was silence for a while.

An insect buzzed in Hughell's ear, but he made no move to brush it away. The first voice spoke again, more quietly this time. 'You know, I can't stop thinking about the slaves. If we'd left just one week sooner, we might have caught them in time. But we didn't-'  A shaky breath, then the speaker continued. in a voice tight with an emotion Hughell could not quit distinguish. Was it sadness? Anger?

'What will that one week cost us? What will it cost them? I can't stop thinking...' The man broke off, clearing his throat several times.

Hughell squinted through the narrow crack, straining to catch every syllable. Who were these people? Highwaymen? Slave traders?

The thought made him grit his teeth. He had to get a closer look.

Using his elbows as leverage, Hughell dragged himself out of the log and slithered further down the slope, a few inches at a time. As the ferns thinned, he could see three figures, seated around the remains of a small cooking fire that had been built in the base of a hollow stump.

The smallest of the figures lifted her head wearily. She was sideways to Hughell, so there was little chance that she had spotted him, but it made no difference. He felt his body stiffen, and the shock sent a knife blade through his chest.

It was Lady Nadoli. 

Hughell sunk lower into the leaves, willing himself invisible. With her were two other Knights of the Prince. There was the stocky man with the many tool belts who Hughell had seen long before, though he did not recall his name. The other was a tall, dour-faced man with very pale skin. Hughell did not recognise that man at all.

Hughell sunk deeper in the leaves, willing himself invisible.

'Surely you did not mean for this, my Prince,’ he breathed. 'Anything but this.'

They bore the mark of the Prince, the same mark he now carried, yet to meet them face to face... He shrunk at thought.

As he watched, Lady Nadoli looked slowly around at her companions. Every line of their shoulders, every tilt of their heads spoke of complete dejection. She herself looked helpless, as though wanting to encourage them but at a loss as to how to go about it. After a long minute the lady got up, collected a few empty water-skins and slipped away into the bush.

As she trudged down the steep slope, a water-skin swinging from each hand, a shadow flicked along beside her, but she did not see it. Her eyes were cast upon the ground.

Soon the trees grew thick and close, the air became tepid and insects hummed in the shade. Here the slope ended in a narrow valley. A shallow rivulet ran gurgling between the stones.

Lady Nadoli sank to her knees beside the water, but made no move to fill the skins.

Finding a hiding place further down, beside a curve in the stream, Hughell watched. He could see the reflection of her sword, a silver band shimmering across the ripples.

In many ways, she looked different to how he remembered her. Her skin was darkened by the sun, her faded hair now hanging past her shoulders. The clothes she wore were far more militant – grey tunic and dark pants, topped with light leather armour. She seemed older, many years older, while not quite a year had passed. 

But there was no way to tell how she had truly changed. What would she do if she knew he was there, barely a dozen paces away?

'I'm sorry,' she said suddenly.

Hughell's breath caught in his throat for a moment, but she was not addressing her silent observer. 

Suddenly, her shoulders trembled, her head bent low with the force of quiet weeping.

'Forgive me, my Prince,' she went on, 'We lost them. I lost them... I wanted to serve you, but what good can come of this? '

Her hands spread out in a silent entreaty, bumping one of the water-skins. It fell with a plop into the stream and the water carried it slowly away.

Still the bent figure did not stir, a veil of unkempt hair hiding her face.

Something about the sight moved Hughell. He could no longer withhold himself.

'The King reigns... and His Son,' he murmured, stepping down into the rocky stream. 

The water was not deep. A cold sensation met his feet as it parted and flowed around his boots. He waded out and bent to catch to water-skin as it bobbed past.

He was straightening when the lady lifted her head and saw him standing there, barely ten paces away, holding the water skin out towards her.

Like lightening, Nadoli was on her feet. The sword was in her hand before he had time to react, and a stab in his direction emphasised the question she flung at him. 'Who are you?'  

Woohoo! First photo of Hughell is up! This is close, but not exactly how I imagine him, so if you want to picture him differently too then be my guest ;)

Stay Brave,

G.S