(eng) Mickey Zucker Reichert - Bifrost Guardians 02 by Shadow Climber

Author:Shadow Climber [Climber, Shadow]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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CHAPTER 8

The Hunted

“Every cradle asks us ‘Whence?’ and every coffin ‘Whither?’ The poor barbarian, weeping above his dead, can answer these questions as intelligently as the robed priest of the most authentic creed.”

—Robert Green Ingersoll, Address at a child’s grave

Oblivious to Ilyrian’s designs against his life, Taziar Meda-kan slipped through the undergrowth and debris of the Kielwald Forest. Long ago, he had sacrificed attempts at stealth in favor of speed. More recently, fatigue had forced him to just concentrate on continuing to move through stands of beech, oak, and chestnut. Nothing seemed to change. Trees blurred to more trees. No longer did he see beauty in the forest or derive pleasure from birdsongs. Moonbear’s frequent disappearances to scout or pick the wild berries which had sustained them through the day ceased to concern Taziar. Memories of gang fellows and exhilarating thefts obsessed him. And I can’t ever return home.

Sadness enveloped Taziar. A city child from birth, he had never learned to appreciate the true wonders of the forest. Ilyrian’s deceit and his own love of action had wrenched him suddenly and cruelly from the only world he knew: his life, his loves, and his friends. He wondered how Shylar fared now and hoped his presence and the guard Moonbear had killed had not gotten her into trouble. He smiled at his own concern. Shylar had spent too many years aiding the underground to become a casualty of the baron’s manhunt.

Engrossed in thought, Taziar did not realize he was once again alone nor that he had passed through clustered pine and into a clearing. A crackle of branches to his right startled him. He turned. A man emerged from the brush. He towered over Taziar, his arms thick as fence posts. His hair hung in wild disarray. His eyes fixed on Taziar, blue and demanding. He clutched a spear, its tip angled at Taziar’s chest.

Taziar recoiled with a surprised gasp. He held his hands outstretched and away from his swordhilt, indicating surrender. He backstepped; the movement nearly impaled him on another spear behind him. He whirled to face a man enough like the first to be a brother. Taziar cried out in alarm. Even as he turned to run, eight more spearmen stepped from the forest, trapping him in the clearing. Guardsmen? Taziar shook his head in disbelief. People in the countries surrounding Cullinsberg sported dark hair and features, yet these woodland soldiers all seemed fair and blond. And spears had never proved a popular weapon in Cullinsberg’s army.

A muscular redhead jabbed his spear toward Taziar and spoke in a strange language with a heavy accent reminiscent of Moonbear’s. The circle closed. Taziar tasted sweat. He shook his head to indicate he did not understand. “My name is Taziar Medakan. I mean you no harm.” Lacking skill with a sword and surrounded by warriors, Taziar realized the absurdity of his reassurances.

The spearmen shifted and whispered to one another. Momentarily, Taziar suspected they would laugh at his name as Moonbear had in Shylar’s tavern.

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