Myghal hadn't seen grass in years.
He stopped his horse as the mountain trail opened upon a valley. Southern Country was mostly rolling hills which ended at the edge of lush tree lines. The clouds were parting, the snow had stopped, and there was grass. Lush, green grass.
His pause was interrupted by a hawk's call. Lifting a hand to his brow, he blocked out the trickling sun in search of wings. There, from the east, a hawk rose above the treetops. It circled, wide on a current, and dove beneath the limbs.
"Better keep moving," he patted the horse's neck before urging them forwards. Coming down from the Arctic Ridge, he had already gained far too much attention. It had been his shaggy horse and the furs, bear pelts and deer skin, that stood out to the people of Alkstead. They had stared. So, he traded what he could: the bear pelt, his quilted coat and any gear associated with the Northmen. He kept the hide boots and his fighting staff.
Throughout town a shadow continuously caught his eye. Seeming a trick at first, he finally spotted the hooded cloak as it slid behind a covered wagon. It was time to move on. He was still too close to the Arctic Ridge and Northmen scouts could easily follow him here. He exchanged the heavy tack at the stable, settling for something of a lower grade for lack of time and in need of something more fitting for the area. On his way out, he bought only a few provisions and took to the road. As they moved, he kept glancing for the skies and into the trees, taking turns south whenever he could.
By the next morning he still felt the northern border was still too close. He couldn't ignore the menacing air coming down from the mountains. Maybe he was paranoid. Maybe years of forced warfare under arctic warlords made him abnormally anxious. Or, maybe, the idea of what they would do if the found him kept him restless. Regardless, his native home was months, if not years away, and he wouldn't get there any sooner by taking his time.
He only stopped when he came across a river. Letting the horse rest while he bathed and shaved, it was all he dared to spare. He took turns walking and riding, not wanting to tire out the shaggy, cold climate steed. For now, it was the only transportation he had besides his own legs, and he doubted they would get him very far. Escape hadn't been easy. Tired, sore, and hungry, walking was enough to run him down.
Something about the trees kept him moving. Whatever it was, it felt like it was following him. It kept bringing to mind the cloaked figure he had seen in Alkstead, and the hawk flying over the trees. Too many scouts used birds and if had been one, he couldn't stop to rest. Not that he hadn't expected as much. In merely considering escape he knew someone would come after him. The Northmen would send hunters, trackers, warriors skilled in pursuit, he simply hadn't considered it would happen so soon.
The hills became engulfed by trees, the road south becoming shaded, almost like a tunnel burrowing straight through the thickest part of the forest. His head kept on a swivel, eyes wide, ears open, jolting at any faint snap or hiss back in the woods. Lone roads like this were perfect for trackers. Some place they didn't have to be seen, bearing no witnesses. A horse snorted –not his horse. His stomach knotted, gripping the knife on his belt as he slowly turned to look over his shoulder.
A hooded figure rode behind him, a distance back, just far enough to quiet the sound of hoof beats. They didn't hurry, lanky horse at a leisure stride, as dark as their cloak. Myghal turned back, attempting to keep tension from his shoulders to alert them. Knowing they had been spotted, it wouldn't take long for them to act. Myghal focused on the trail ahead, searching for any shadows attempting to head him off. His ears, however, were locked on the faint, off rhythm of the horse behind him. After a while, he nudged his steed into a trot.
Hooves behind him picked up in speed.
Myghal glanced over his shoulder, the cloaked rider copied, their horse's long legs beginning to close the gap. He was being followed. No telling just how long. With a flick of the reins, Myghal urged his horse into a gallop. The tracker looked small, narrow, and he was sure if he couldn't outrun them, he could fight them.
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.
"Wh-where are you going?!" Myghal barked, gaining a raised hand to wait before he was gone. As the black horse caught its breath, the noisy riverside faded in with a chorus of sound. Crickets sawed in and out, frogs chirping in chorus as the sun began to set. It took time, but his mysterious guide finally returned.
"We've lost them," he announced, brushing a few twigs and leaves from the folds of his cloak. Myghal watched them cross the clearing, glancing back for the tree line before dismounting.
"So, are you going to tell me what's going on? Who are you and why are you here?"
"My name is Ira," he scooped the hood from his head revealing short, dark hair and an olive complexion. For his height, he wasn't that young. Myghal guessed he was the same age if not a bit older.
"Alright, Ira," Myghal nodded, more at ease in stepping away from his horse. "And why are you following me?" Ira turned from his saddle causing the two grey feathers clipped in his hair to flutter. He rolled his sharp eyes, muttering something under his breath. "That was part of the deal; I follow you and you'd tell me what's going on."
"I stole from an old blind woman and she placed a curse on me." He blurted with an indignant shake of the head, half turning away.
"That does sound like something an old, blind woman would do," Myghal couldn't help but grin. "Probably wouldn't have done that."
"Yes, well, hindsight is crystal clear."
"I don't feel like that's something that should have taken hindsight," Myghal titled his head. "You know, stealing from an old blind woman. Doesn't sound like a good idea."
"That isn't the point," Ira snapped, pivoting on his heels to pace.
"So, what is? What does the curse have to do with following me?"
"Since I was cursed," he balked, stopping, taking a few more steps, and turning again. "Since the curse there's been this... this urgency to find something. It's a clawing inside my head, something of an addiction that I have to find. And now, since I've found you, it's stopped."
"Uh...huh," Myghal slowly bobbed his head. "Well, congratulations. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there's no gold at the end of this rainbow."
"But you're supposed to have the answer."
"Answer to what?"
"The curse!!"
"Look, Ira, I can't help you. Alright? I don't know what the answer is. I don't even know where I am. I haven't been south of the mountains in eight years." Ira stared at him, teeth set and mouth stretched in a thin line.
"No wonder it took so long to find you." With a dismissive roll of the eyes, Ira stared at their horses. "So now what?"
"Now what? Now I'm going home." Myghal laughed at the question, "I don't really do curses. And, just being honest, I don't make the company of thieves a priority."
"Ah, yes. Because, clearly, you have so much company at your disposal." Myghal ignored him, making sure his horse's saddle was tight enough before mounting up. "Man of few manners, aren't you?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Myghal couldn't help but chuckle. "I didn't realize I owed a demanding thief anything."
"Maybe a simple thank you for when that archer could have had you."
"Of course," Myghal drew out, as sarcastic as possible. "Because they were really there, no doubt about it. Completely not fictitious." Ira glared up at him, arms crossed and mouth turned in a snarl. "Yeah, thanks." Myghal threw up a wave as he turned his horse, following the setting sun.
"And the Northmen, when they find you –because they will– what will you do? Outrun them on that shaggy mule? Fight them, with that injury?" His horse slowed, unconsciously pulling the reins to a stop. "If I can tell it, so can they. Were you shot? Right side, right? That's why you pulled your horse to the side, used your less dominant arm to defend yourself less opening a wound. Hm?" It was Ira's turn to laugh, a light, chiming, irritating sound. "Take it from a wanted man. You'll live longer with someone watching your back."
"You're pretty creative, I'll give you that." Myghal nudged his horse, refusing to look back as he entered the trees. A cursed thief, who had stolen magic –obviously a mad man. Myghal needed to make some distance as fast as he could.
After a few days, there was no more sign of Ira or forests filled with stares. Riding through open fields, Myghal began to wonder if Ira had been a manifestation of his paranoia. His wound wasn't anything to worry over. Sure, it hurt. It was sore. It made it a bit difficult to be his best, but it wasn't anything he couldn't hide. A bit of a curse, maybe Ira was the worry of his wound in some hallucination. Well, he would turn it away just the same. It wouldn't stop him from getting home.
A blight of pain burrowed into his shoulder. Rocking forwards on the saddle he clutched at it, unable to reach the bolt pinned in his back. Gasping for air he heeled his horse on, pulling right on the reins for the trees. The jarring hurt. Breathing hurt. Moving his arm hurt. But he couldn't ignore the fact whoever shot him was inches from killing him. A bit to the right, a bit higher, it would be in his throat or skull. His horse did its best and he had to admit it. Stocky and made for snow, it did well for getting him to cover in a hurry. Only once in the trees did he glance back.
It was a horseback archer, shoulders lined in dark orange fox pelts.
Myghal cursed, turning them for thicker trees. There was an archer. A Northman archer, and he had taken a hit. His good arm reached back for his staff, breathing through the pain. He knew there was a small chance he would get to use his weapon, they could get close enough without having already killed him, but having it in his hand made him feel better.
Until it hit a low tree branch.
Still attached to his back.
He was yanked backwards, head hitting the horse's rump, arrow snapping and throwing him off the saddle. He slid down a gully, shaking for air as the arrow wrenched in his shoulder, pressing deeper. Half of this staff went rolling past him, snapped in two like a toothpick. Hissing leaves gave way into mud and he slumped to a stop. Trying to crawl burned his shoulder, frantically searching the gully for cover. It was wide open.
An arrow made a tac against a bow, drawing his stare up to the archer above. Face painted in white streaks, camouflage for snow, blizzard fronts when their arrows would be useless in the wind. They pulled the arrow back on the string, lining up a shot. Blood ruptured from their throat, shooting into the dirt a foot from Myghal's face as they slid off their horse.
"Why, thank you, Ira," the horse shifted uneasily as the cloak and hood emerged from the trees. "I was a little too proud of myself back there. I'm glad you're here," Ira kicked the bow away, crouching over the archer who was trying to crawl off. "Because I apparently can't take care of myself." He snapped their neck, retrieving the short knife from their throat. "If you hadn't shown up when you did, I'd be dead." He lifted his head, glaring with those large, dark eyes. Myghal gawked, stare focusing on the red fletchings that came a moment from burrowing into his forehead.
"Come on, out of the mud." A rope startled him, slapping near his face. "At least get out before you pass out, don't make me haul you out." Myghal grabbed the rope, tying a quick knot to wrap his wrist in. Ira hauled him out, heeling the archer down into the gully instead. Sitting on the side of the bank, Myghal held his side, injured arm hanging on him in fear of stirring up pain. He didn't know why Ira was following him, curse or not, he didn't have to help him. In fact, if there was a curse, wouldn't it be broken if Myghal was to die?
"Alright," Myghal wheezed, keeping his stare unfocused through the trees. "Thank you for saving my life."
"That's the best you've got?" Ira slung the horse's saddle to the ground.
"But, why?" Myghal titled his head without turning. "Why are you following me –really? Why would a thief risk their life to save mine? You don't know me." Ira didn't answer and Mygahl turned to look at him.
"I'm more than a thief, alright? I don't go around calling you brute or walking target, or whatever it is you do, pole-man. The rest I've told you. There is a curse, it has to do with you, it's not going to let me take off and let you get killed. That's it."
"So, what happens if I die?"
"I don't know." Ira pulled open one of the bags from the saddle, "Really, I don't. Do you think I like following you around? Enjoyed traveling an entire year looking for something I wasn't even sure what it was?" His lip stuck out as his brows shot up, impressed with the contents. Knotting it back up, he tossed it beside Myghal. "Maybe it would be over, but something tells me that old hag knew what she was doing. It wouldn't be that easy. Believe me, I considered it. I could just slit your throat and be done with it."
"What did you steal from her that she put a curse on you for?" Ira tossed over another bag with a sigh.
"Magic."
"What did you say? Magic?"
"Manipulation magic. I heard about it from, uh, an acquaintance," He nodded to himself as if that was a fitting title. "I need it for... reasons, so I went and I took it."
"How do you steal magic?" Myghal squinted. "I thought magic was studying books and saying words?"
"I honestly don't know how to respond to that. Eight years? You've only been away for eight years?" Myghal nodded, "You're sure? Because everyone knows that's not how magic works. Magic is like a blessing. Someone has to give it to you, an inheritance. How I stole it has nothing to do with you."
"You didn't get anything, did you?" Myghal grinned, "she caught you empty handed and cursed you." Ira frowned again, face sharp. He drew in a deep breath, as if he were going to scream, but he didn't.
The bag he was holding went from loose and wrinkled to sagging with weight. A blue light crackled between his gloved fingers, bridging across them like miniature bolts of lightning. The cloth turned thick and round, tearing apart into fat, writhing snakes. His hand opened and they flopped to the ground. The horse nervously stepped back, head bobbing a few times as it shifted itself around the tree. Myghal tried getting to his feet, slipping in leaves as they slithered towards him.
Ira snapped his fingers and they deflated into strips of torn burlap.
"Believe me now?"