Red Knight of Ocix by Roman Dufrene

Author:Roman Dufrene
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: adventure, action, fantasy, magic, gothic, hero, knight, medieval, female protagonist

Chapter 17

Trailing behind Grayclaw, Hawthorne’s feet were sore and his axe felt heavier than it normally did across his back. Every step caused it to beat down on him, as if it were a hammer and he a nail. Hawthorne brushed away his fatigue as best he could and said nothing. Knights didn’t complain. Grayclaw flew ahead silently, her massive wings beating in a steady rhythm. Whenever the owl became difficult to see because she was so far ahead, Hawthorne picked up his pace; he had no desire to be left alone in this part of the woods.

As he walked, Hawthorne looked at the horizon through the tangled mess of trees. The sky was a mixture between orange and pink, but Hawthorne couldn’t tell if it was morning or evening. He wasn’t sure if it was just his perception, but time seemed to move differently in Brewer’s Wood than it did in the castle.

Hawthorne found himself in a clearing full of dead and rotten stumps. They dotted the landscape, reminding the knight of tombstones in a graveyard. He briefly wondered who had left the trees in such a state—fairies never left stumps of the trees they cut down—but pushed the curiosity from his mind. There were other things to worry about. The first of which was quenching the raging thirst that had plagued him as he followed Grayclaw. Figuring that this was as good a time as any and better than most, Hawthorne reached for his flask. The dull gray metal was cool in his hand and he ripped the cap off. Tilting his head back, Hawthorne relished the way the liquid flowed down his throat and into his stomach. It was flavored with lemons and oranges; Hawthorne had never tasted water so good. When he was done, he filled and lit a pipe, enjoying the burning scent of the smoke.

A few feet away, Grayclaw paused on the widest and tallest stump in the grove. She stood perfectly still, craning her neck to look back and forth. Before Hawthorne could ask what she was doing, the owl bolted from the stump. “Scryeah!”

The great gray opened her claws, swooping toward the ground. Hawthorne heard a rodent’s squeal of terror and the forest guardian returned to her perch with a plump rat squirming in her clutches. Holding her prey tight, Grayclaw used to her beak to point at a cluster of striped trees with blue and white bark on the other side of the clearing.

“Yeh’ll find Warchal in there, laddie,” Grayclaw told him. “Go on and talk t’him as y’need, but know that I’ll be right here listenin’. Try anythin’ funny and I’ll deal with yeh like I’m about t’deal with this snack!”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hawthorne replied. He had no intention of prompting such an action from the owl. The great gray owl hooted softly in reply, and Hawthorne walked toward the grove by himself. It was full of the striped trees, which Hawthorne recognized as wand wood after a closer examination.

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