To Cheat A Curse

Chapter 1: Meetings

They charged after. Thick trees gave him no chance to change direction, shoulder too steep to try and dart off into the forest. He couldn't help but think this was a trap. One tracker would chase him into a waiting party, where, once outnumbered, they would be able to subdue him and take him back to their Warmaster. Myghal pushed on. He wasn't going back. Yet, his horse was a northern breed, stocky, meant for deep snow instead of high-speed races. It wasn't long before he could tell they were leveling out.

The tracker, didn't.

Their sleek horse closed in fast, each hoof beating against the ground in an effortless gallop. Myghal pulled the staff off of his back, bringing the horse to the right side, staff on his left. They would be forced to attack from his defending side, and no sword would get to him through his staff. He glanced over as they saddled up next to him, cloak billowing and hood smeared across their face. They were close enough and he swung.

Missed. Somehow.

A kick knocked him off his saddle, staff flipping away as he rolled over his shoulder to crash into a tree. His horse kept going. Myghal clawed at the ground, fighting for air as he pressed himself to his hands and knees. He wasn't really hurt, dizzy and sore, but unharmed. Air flew into his lungs and he pressed to his knees, searching for his staff as hoof beats approached.

The dark horse slowed, stopping in front of him, shifting back and forth in anticipation.

"If you would have hit my horse, I would have killed you," they had a dark voice, sharp and dangerous. Myghal looked up, surprised there wasn't a crossbow aimed at him. "Is that your idea of a hello?"

"Wh– You were after me!" Myghal sputtered, in disbelief they were arguing over pleasantries. "Why would I say hello to you?"

"I'm not after you," there wasn't much of his face Myghal could see. Just an angry frown snarling their words.

"You've been following me all the way from the mountains, probably. You're with the Northmen, aren't you?"

"No," they scoffed. "Do I look like a barbarian to you?" Myghal squinted up at them, letting himself take deeper breaths.

"To be honest, you look like the Son of Death." The frown didn't appreciate as much, deepening thin lips into a scowl.

"Are you running from the Northmen?"

"I want my answer first. Why are you following me?" The hood moved, faint turns left and right, checking around them with eyes he couldn't see.

"Someone is following you. To answer that we need to lose them first."

"Oh, so now someone is following me." With effortless movement, and extreme balance, the cloak leaned over the side of their horse –almost face to face with Myghal.

"Get up, get on your horse, and follow me. Then I'll tell you why I'm here. Unless you'd like to be caught by that fox-pelt archer over there." Myghal didn't move, couldn't. He wasn't sure if he trusted the hooded man or if he wanted to risk looking back into the forest and spotting a Northman Scout. If this man could see them, they could easily shoot and kill at this range.

They offered down a hand, an empty hand, and Myghal took it.

The sleek, black horse ran five times faster than his could, but the cloaked man never left him behind. He wove them down a goat trail, over a creek, around a hillside to cut up another. Myghal himself was sure he couldn't find his way back to the main road if he tried. When they slowed, the trees broke up into a clearing by a wide, smooth river. His new guide made a wide turn with his horse, letting its trot wear down. It had barely stopped when he was sliding off the saddle, darting back into the trees.