Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (24 page)

“Or, perhaps he could get his carcass to bed so he doesn’t fall out of his saddle tomorrow!” Falon stood with her arms crossed, glaring at them both. “He’s not exactly skilled on a horse to begin with. It would be a shame if he fell asleep in the saddle and broke that pretty neck of his.”

Elise curtsied as if Falon was royalty and quickly disappeared.

“What did you have to go and do that for?” Michael asked.

“What were you going to do? Bed her for the night and leave her a note?”

“Now, hold on—”

“You’re old enough to shave so you’re old enough to be stupid, but you don’t have the luxury. Once we finish this little adventure, you can bed all the serving maids you please. Till then keep your head where it belongs.” She stormed past him.

He stood there, mouth hanging open, unable to think of a retort till she turned the corner.

“Women.”

***

The cold morning air proved warm compared to the reception Michael received from Falon when he arrived at the stables.

“Something wrong Falon?” he asked, swinging his saddle over Red.

“No,” she snapped, “why would anything be wrong?”

Michael glanced around looking for help. Garen’s eyes darted back to fastening his saddlebags. Max paid them no mind adjusting his stirrups and Jorgen was nowhere in sight though Caballus stood several paces away saddled and waiting patiently.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “You seem a little snippy.”

Falon yanked on the girth strap of her saddle harder than necessary to cinch it. “Let’s not worry about me. Perhaps that slip of a serving maid is more to your liking.”

“Now hang on,” Michael replied, hotly. “She’s the one—”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

“Why would I?”

Falon’s cheeks colored. “Never mind,” she said.

“If you two love birds are finished,” Jorgen interrupted, stepping out of the tack room.

Falon glared at both men equally then swung into her saddle and walked her horse to stand beside Caballus, back stiff and head held high like a queen.

With fresh supplies, horses, and a renewed sense of vigor, the company rode out of Rhalmadia. Jorgen’s presence restored the drive the nightstalkers had stripped away. They traveled the hard packed road that meandered southeast toward Elowe for two days then turned due south into the Vorn Eyre Forest.

Without the threat of nightstalkers dogging them, their travel became routine. Camp went up at dusk and they were back in the saddle at dawn. Michael considered it easy after their mad dash for safety. Each morning Jorgen buried the fire and removed the signs of their camp as best he could. “No reason to be careless,” he said. Other duties were shared and rotated. Michael often volunteered to assist Falon, which annoyed Max for some reason, though he wouldn’t talk about it. Garen snickered and gave him a hard time when Falon was not around. Regardless, Falon intrigued Michael; soft and hard, stately and earthy, all at the same time. He found her intelligent, knowledgeable, and easy to talk to when her hackles weren’t raised. She talked freely about Shaladon, but when he turned the conversation toward personal topics like her home or family she would give vague answers then change the subject. Her dodging annoyed Michael. The more she refused to open up the more determined he became to find out.

“Leave it alone,” she snapped while they collected wood one evening. He had shared about his father and their carpentry. It seemed like a fair question to ask about her father. She did not speak to him again that night, leaving him frustrated and confused. Every time he thought he made progress she pulled away, raising up walls solid as any castle.

“What is it about women?” Michael asked, lying on his bed, looking up at the stars through the canopy of trees.

“What’re you talking about?” Garen replied, stifling a yawn.

Falon slept on the other side of camp out of earshot and Max snored loudly. Jorgen had the first watch prowling somewhere in the darkness.

“Falon. One minute we’re conversing just fine and the next she gets tight-lipped and doesn’t want to talk. I guess it’s me. I never have been very good with girls.”

Garen rolled over and gave him an incredulous look. “You’re kidding right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Michael, you had plenty of girls fawning over you in Whitewater’s Forge.”

“Me!”

“What are you, blind? Yeah, you.”

Michael snorted. “You’re the one who had all the girls.”

“Because of who I am. The whole man in uniform thing.”

“It wasn’t the uniform,” Michael countered. “You have a way with girls. They all wanted to dance with you at festivals.”

Garen grunted. “You had your fair share.”

Michael shook his head. “The only girls that ever danced with me were Jessica, Michelle, and Amalia.”

“Because you never asked anyone else.”

“Well, I didn’t think anyone else was interested.”

“You’ve always been that way. You never picked up on the hints, and you chose to stay where it’s safe. Like now.”

After three days in the Vorn Eyre Forest they slowed their constant pace and spent a day replenishing their food stocks. Happy for a break in the monotony, Michael and Garen quickly volunteered to hunt and headed off with bows in hand before anyone could object. By mid-morning Garen and Jorgen were skinning a deer while Max commandeered Michael to help him and Falon forage for berries, roots, and other foodstuffs. Not far from camp Max sent Falon looking for berries. Michael suspected he wanted to separate them. He thought about demanding why Max didn’t like him spending time with her, but Max had never given direct answers before. Why would he now?

A mile or so from camp Max grew excited, running to a tree Michael was vaguely familiar with. “Look at this! Look at this!” he exclaimed digging at the base of the tree with his knife. “Mandard root,” the wizard said holding up a black root. “It contains a healing agent. This might have saved the four soldiers. Can’t cure nightstalker’s poison but it will slow down the effects.”

Michael said nothing. He had forgotten about the soldiers ambushed near Whitewater’s Forge. Funny how he could forget about people who had died because of him. Was that part of being a king? It may not be his fault they were attacked, but he still felt responsible.

Max stooped back down working to harvest more roots. “Look for more, will you? The bark of the tree will be tinged with more green than the elms. See here,” he pointed at the bark of the tree.

Michael nodded and moved off in a different direction as he added Mandard root to his list of items. Personally he would be ecstatic to find wild potatoes.

He came upon a stream whose clear waters flowed gently. He thought about doing some fishing till he noticed Falon further downstream. A sly smile emerged on his face and he slipped back into the trees, slinking silently toward her. Knowing she was a skilled tracker made the success so much sweeter. She moved toward him, head down, as she scanned the bank. Michael could hear her humming an unfamiliar tune as she stepped directly in front of his hiding place.

“Yah!!” he exclaimed as he jumped from the bushes.

Falon shrieked and stepped back onto the slippery rocks, arms flailing as she tried to keep her balance.

Michael reached out and grabbed her hand to keep her from falling. A strange sensation like hot needles pricking him shot up his arm. Instinctively he yanked his hand away and watched in horror as she fell into the cold stream.

“Oh, you raging loon!” She screamed. “You bullish wool head!”. She slapped the water in anger.

“I’m...I’m so sorry,” Michael stammered. He started to offer her his hand again, but she slapped it away.

“I can manage just fine on my own, thank you,” she snapped, sloshing her way past him. Over her shoulder, she shot one last retort, “unless I want to get soaking wet again.”

Michael spent the rest of the afternoon fishing. More as a reason to stay away from camp than for food. Unfortunately, fishing allowed for more contemplation than he wanted. He played the scene over and over in his head, wishing he could stop it. No matter how he tried to angle what happened or why, he came back to one fact: he was an idiot.

When he reached camp, the sun was dipping below the trees. Smoke wafted up through the holes in woven leaf covers lying over two fire pits.

“Ah, fish, excellent! That will go nicely with the venison back strap,” Garen commented.

Michael glanced at Falon standing beyond the smoking pits. She looked worried for some reason. At least she didn’t scowl at him.

“Jorgen and I dug out the pits,” Garen continued. “By morning we’ll have enough dried venison to last us weeks.”

Max sat beside the campfire boiling mandard roots, watching him and Falon equally. Michael could almost hear the lecture about acting his age or the seriousness of their journey.

The company feasted like royalty on venison and fish, complemented with berries, and (to Michael’s delight) wild potatoes which Falon made sure he knew she found after her dip in the stream.

Michael hung his head. Garen and Jorgen laughed while Max sat silent, in a sour mood for some reason. Sour moods and ribbing did not matter though because Falon smiled at him. And made everything right in the world.

C
HAPTER
23

The Witches of the Forest

The air held a chilly bite as the company woke to a foggy morning. Jorgen quickly cleared the campsite while the others saddled their horses.

Two hours in the saddle Michael grew groggy. He shook his head, but the drowsiness persisted. He got a good night’s rest, well, as good as could be expected on the ground, so why was he sleepy? The past days in the saddle had not worn him down that much. Surely he had grown accustomed to the saddle by now.

The fog added to his annoyance. Something bothered him about it. Midmorning and the cloudy mist still billowed without any sign of lifting. If anything it seemed thicker. He could see Garen in front of him while Falon and Max were more obscured behind him, carrying on a spirited yet hushed discussion. Jorgen roamed somewhere in the soupy air. Was he watching their backs or scouting ahead? Michael could not seem to remember. His head sagged, the grogginess overcoming him.

Michael picked up his head and could not see anyone through the fog.

“Max! Falon! Garen!”

Silence answered. His head had only been down for a moment, he was certain. He faintly remembered someone else traveled with them. Why couldn’t he remember who?

“Max!”

“Michael, there’s no need to yell,” Max replied gruffly through the fog. “Just keep your eyes down and follow the path.”

Michael shifted his focus to the trail barely visible a few feet in front of him. Something seemed out of place, but his mind felt dull and the concern fell back into the recesses of his mind. Staring at the slowly passing ground became mind numbing, but he kept quiet not wanting to irk Max again. Content to let his horse follow Garen’s, his eyes closed once more.

Michael’s head shot up as if he had been poked. The grogginess was gone, replaced by warnings going off in his head. How long had he been asleep in his saddle? The sun had not moved nor had the fog diminished. The thing that bothered Michael most was how silent the forest had grown.

“Max! Garen!” His voice seemed unable to penetrate the fog. He called out again. No one answered.

Something moved at the very edge of his vision. He felt it more than saw it.

In his mind, it seemed like a voice from far away was trying to warn him, but he could not understand it. He wished he had a sword to draw, to steady his fears.

Another movement out of the corner of his eye was all the warning he got. A massive body knocked him out of his saddle, slamming him to the ground. Michael screamed, grasping the black furred neck of the nightstalker, its jaws inches from his face, its breath rank with death.

In a flash the white fog and nightstalker vanished, replaced by a shadowy, dank cave. Michael looked around bewildered then his eyes fell on the woman lying on the floor. Haggard looking with wispy, grey hair, her white eyes stared at nothing. Blood still poured from the gaping wound that had been her neck, an expanding pool of crimson.

He looked toward the mouth of the cave. The wolf stared back at him, golden eyes alight, then he darted away.

Michael was certain it was the same wolf he had seen at his parents graves. Impossible as that might be.

“Michael?” Falon’s weak voice sounded sweet in his ears. She lay on the dank floor beside Garen. “What happened?”

Michael helped her up. “I don’t know.” Checking Garen, he breathed a sigh of relief when his friend mumbled something. Michael lifted him up to carry him out.

“I’m awake,” Garen replied sharply, stumbling away, putting some distance between them. “Muh...Michael?” he stammered, eyes struggling to focus. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “What happened?”

Michael put Garen’s arm over his shoulder to support him. “I don’t know but let’s get out of here.”

“Who is that?” Garen asked, noticing the dead woman.

“I think she’s the reason we’re here and it wasn’t for tea.”

The mixture of horror and revulsion on Garen’s face said he had been experiencing something nightmarish as well.

“What happened to her?” Falon asked.

Michael moved toward the cave entrance. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” What would she think if he told her about the wolf? Was it any crazier than what they had experienced?

Emerging from the cave, the afternoon sunlight hit their eyes hard. They headed south looking for a path. Miles later, voices weary from calling out for Max and Jorgen, the paladin appeared across a ravine.

“Where have you been?” Jorgen asked.

“Oh, we found this wonderful cave we had to explore,” Michael replied.

“Where’s Max?” Jorgen asked, his sharp tone squelching any more sarcasm.

“I don’t know,” Michael replied.

Jorgen climbed the ravine, giving each of them an assessing look once he stood in front of them. “When the fog lifted you were nowhere to be found. So what happened?”