Bock started at the name of the Executioner and Weapons Master to the Deutzani King. He looked into Gwaynn’s face for a sign that he was jesting, but his face was completely serious. Bock nodded, wondering if the young prince truly believed he was a match for the infamous swordsman. Surely not. Master Sath had spoken of Gwaynn’s talent, and though the training abilities of the Tars of Noble Island were renowned, one did not go from a dandy to a wolf in a year and a half. It just wasn’t possible. He glanced at Krys, the Weapons Master, as they trotted along, looking for signs of doubt in his face. He saw none.
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About twenty miles from Manse, Tar Navarra completely lost the girl’s tracks. He traveled nearly two more miles without a sign before turning back with disgust. He was tempted to ride on to Manse and sleep in a bed for once. He was almost positive that the girl was on her way to the town, but some deeper instinct told him this thought was wrong, and over the years he had learned to trust his instincts, especially when it came to tracking those who ran from death. And so he slowly retraced his steps, guiding Chaos down closer to the river in hopes of catching sight of a print in the mud along the bank. He moved slowly when the river widened, the current slowed and the water grew shallow but spotted nothing, and in disgust was about to turn back when the river deepened. The current appeared strong and Navarra thought it unlikely that the Fultan girl would have dared to cross here but then he happened to look to the far side and caught sight of a deep impression. He stared at the spot for a several moments, while his mount drank. The depression was obviously made when a river boat was pulled up and out of the water. He looked for any sign of prints left by a horse. In the end, the distance across was too great, so with a curse he coaxed Chaos into the water and together they made their wet way to the far bank.
He immediately knew that the crossing had been worth the discomfort he now felt. Horse tracks were plainly visible, large tracks. It was her; she had crossed over sometime the previous afternoon. Despite himself, he was impressed. The girl was nearly a day ahead of him. She was now traveling faster, putting more and more distance between them, at least he thought so until he came across the camp and beyond that a new, fresher set of tracks. No, she was less than a half a day ahead. She had foolishly stopped to early for the night, and apparently got off to a late start. Navarra smiled to himself and moved farther up the steep hillside until finally he reached the large, flat expanse which was the Plateau. He looked around at the low brush and hard flat surface of the land surrounding him and his spirits soared. This type of terrain made for very easy tracking. He would be able to pick up his speed and still follow her trail with relative ease.
He pulled a piece of jerked beef from a saddlebag and chewed on it thoughtfully as he followed her tracks to the southwest. He smiled inwardly, confident that he would have her by tomorrow afternoon, earlier if she was foolish enough to dally again.
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Bock had not expected to come across the party of Executioners until maybe Koshka, probably later, hopefully never. Chasing after a large group of highly trained fighting men was one thing, actually catching them was another. Bock was a well trained soldier himself, but had seen enough of fighting and death to know that nothing in battle was certain. He’d seen good men fall to a lesser opponent for a myriad of unfathomable reasons, an untimely slip, a lapse in concentration, or just plain bad luck. Warfare was seldom fair. In fact, a good commander did his best to see that it was war-unfair, because of course, the dead could not complain, which left only the living to tell the tales of the glory of battle. And if the glorious end was that your opponent clumsily fell and struck his head on a rock…well what story could not be embellished.
So it was an unpleasant surprise when only half way to Koshka, along the shores of Wren Lake, they came across a group of soldiers. It was late in the afternoon and moving quickly toward evening, though there was still plenty of light as summer drew closer. Bock’s first instinct was to move off away from the lake and men. Gwaynn, however, stopped his mount and removed his kali from his pack. Krys followed suit and then they turned and headed straight toward the soldiers. Bock, with a feeling of trepidation, followed. It was not until they were quite close that the black capes with red trim, the trademark of the Executioners, became plainly visible on several. Bock’s heart skipped a beat as they moved ever closer dreading the moment when the group up ahead would spot their approach. The group was confident and apparently posted no sentry, most were milling about a large fire, but there were some who were swimming in the nearby lake. The soldiers were still not aware of the approaching riders and Bock found their lack of caution disgusting. But as they drew nearer, Bock realized that along with the eight Executioners there were also several soldiers, three or perhaps four. He could not get a sure count while everything was in motion, but it was plain that their little trio would be heavily outnumbered.
“M’lord,” he whispered, growing alarmed that they were still moving forward.
“Gwaynn, if you please,” Gwaynn answered and gave a reassuring glance to his new friend. “Steady…follow our lead.” He added, but Bock’s mind was in turmoil. ‘Follow his lead…straight to death and hell,’ he thought, but made no comment.
They were only a few hundred feet from the camp when the Executioners finally became aware of their approach, and while they did not appear to be unduly alarmed, several of them did pull their weapons from their sheaths. Much to Bock’s relief Gwaynn pulled his horse to a stop some fifty feet from the nearest soldier, now all but those who were swimming had turned to watch their approach. Gwaynn dismounted, as did Krys, and together the two of them began to walk toward the crowd of enemy. Bock climbed from his horse and followed though he was already nearly twenty feet behind them. The Executioners were interested but still showed no true concern, after all it was only three men, and the newcomers were approaching without stealth or signs of unease.
Gwaynn raised his hand in greeting, smiled and moved within a few paces of the nearest before calmly drawing his kali, and rushing in to attack. Krys was a split second behind him, but Bock stopped where he was and watched with utter disbelief. He had not fully realized that an attack was imminent. He had left his sword back on his horse and only carried four throwing knives on his person. He hesitated, not knowing whether he should go back for his main weapon or if such a delay would be disastrous, so for the first few moments he did nothing but stand and watch.
His two young companions moved like nothing he had ever witnessed before, and he’d been fortunate enough to watch Master Sath fight on numerous occasions. Sath was by far the most gifted fighter with the sword or kali he had ever had the privilege to watch, at least until now. Next to these two, Master Sath looked like a gifted, but old man. They made him look stiff and slow. Gwaynn and Krys were like light itself, and before he could even register it Gwaynn had relieved one man of his head and another of his arm, and Krys slightly behind had skewered a man through the throat. They moved with such ease and grace that it appeared that they knew how their opponents would counter before they actually made move to do so. What was truly remarkable to Bock was the fact that even in the midst of the fighting, the chaos of twirling deadly blades, neither youth seemed to be hurried in the least. They seemed to move from place to place as if choreographed.