8 hours had gone by and the
trio hadn't heard a blast from the terrifying weapon. The forest
continued around them though in the midst of the pitch blackness,
forcing them to stumble and curse with it's array of surprises. One
such surprise smacked Borg in the face as he carried himself forward,
he let out a snarl and ripped the branch from his path.
“Careful Borg,” Laurel
cautioned quietly. “There are bears in these woods.”
“There's also some nutter
with a mysterious weapon capable of turning our heads to goop in a
second.”
“The goop weapon, that has a
ring to it.”
“Do not call it the goop
weapon Laurel, it needs more respect than that.”
“Well, what would you call
it then?” Laurel asked loftily.
“The face eater.”
“It's called a firearm,”
Crole said firmly from ahead, magenta tooth glinting in the
moonlight.
“Anyway, never mind what
it's called, we should focus on getting away from it. The river
should be here soon.” They caught up to him to catch him gazing
wistfully into the night in front of him as if it was welcoming him
into it's dark embrace.
“Well, let's get going then,
as long as we're heading north to claim what is now ours,” agreed
Borg licking his lips expectantly as if he could eat his reward.
“I'm going to be pissed off
if the rest of the band gets the reward first, especially Sedrick –
that one knows how to gloat.”
They kept on travelling
through the forest up a gentle slope with a gnarled old oak tree
marking the end of the forest at the top. Borg reached the top first,
ready to stop for a rest and let his tired limbs recover. From below
the others saw his clear interest as he peered through the branches
to what lay beyond.
“A fire,” he stated matter
of factly as they reached him. Beyond the oak the forest opened out
into a series of grassy fields illuminated in the moonlight and
stretching into the distance. The forest continued along it's right
edge to encircle it once again a mile or so away. Just beyond the
tree-line on the far side of the fields a river swirled across the
countryside reflecting silver by the moonlight. The three of them
stared, then looked at the fire just within the forest to the right
of the fields.
“Could be him,” Borg
muttered suddenly feeling the cold a lot more as he gazed at the
fire.
“Could be anyone!” argued
Laurel, “but it is probably food.”
Borg's stomach continued to
rumble, the desire to eat was strong within him.
“We should get a closer
look,” Crole said pointedly. “We know how to get close to a
target without him seeing us.”
“We don't need the food,”
Borg answered.
“We can hunt,” he said
gesturing at the forest around them.
“And how well has that gone
throughout the night? Are you really that scared of him Borg?”
“I'm pretty sure you wet
yourself earlier.”
Laurel turned away, ignoring
him. “I'm going.”
“We're going,” Crole
asserted moving stealthily down the path. Borg hesitated, then shook
his head and followed. It wasn't like him to let fear get in the way
of something like this, plus if they wanted to get to the river –
the quickest way was past that fire, either through the forest or
walking exposed across the fields.
It took half an hour to get
close to the fire, the trio didn't say a word during this time.
Despite his brave words earlier Laurel knew the danger and feared the
loud, deadly weapon. Sweat trickled on his hands as he crouched
forward, making the minimal amount of sound as the light from the
flames drew closer. The woods cloaked around them; with trees and
thick undergrowth hiding their every move; skill and practice
enabling them to do so with the slightest of sounds: a slow draw of
breath, a suction as feet edge out of the mud covering the floor or a
slight creaking as a branch is gradually swept aside. Soon the
crackling of the fire was masking the sounds they made. Laurel was
the first to come in sight of it with the other two further behind.
There was the makings of a camp surrounding the fire for a single
person which set nerves cramping through his belly. Nevertheless,
there was no-one in sight and several cooked fish simmering gently
next to the merry flames. Dinner. Laurel quickly and silently swept
in snatched up the fish and moved on his way beyond the camp. Fish
meant a river and Laurel intended to get away and cross it; his
comrades could catch up if all went well.
Crole cursed to himself,
masking the controlled, quiet outburst under the trickle of a stream.
He watched as Laurel made off with the fish: he would have to hurry
to get a hint of that meal. The camp was nearly in sight and clearly
empty by the way Laurel had confidently moved in, which begged the
question – where are the camp occupiers? A quick, short tap on his
shoulder broke his train of thought as Borg indicated for him to look
right. Crole obliged and froze in shock. The dark, dangerous shadow
of a man loomed fifteen paces in that direction. The shadow was
casting about in the undergrowth, a large tube-like object in his
hand. The moment his eyes registered the shape, Crole followed Borg
in carefully shrinking away back up the forest path. He could feel
his heart hammering painfully inside his chest as if attempting with
all it's might to give away his location. As they stepped away the
man straightened up. Silence stretched out suddenly, even the trickle
from the stream appeared to be gone. Borg ran, Crole followed unable
to contain his leg's apparent desperation to get away from there.
They scampered through the woods in a repeated mad dash away from the
fear-provoking weapon. They tripped and stumbled as branches
clattered into their legs and roots reached up for their crunching
feet.
The lone traveller returned
to his fire wondering as to where the men who had decided to invade
his camp had come from. Annoyance scratched at his neck when he saw
the fish were gone and he kicked a piece of firewood off into the
night. It had taken him all day to extract that fish from the raging
river! Still, at least his cargo was still intact. He didn't know why
wine was so rare in these parts but the circulating rumours were
enough to persuade him to make the trip. Maybe the people of
Batesmoor wouldn't pay as much as the cities that lay around this
forgotten land, but they would still pay more than his country where
wine could easily be found. In addition, he had reasoned, there would
be other traders aiming for the cities – he wasn't likely to find
any competition in these parts.
Only swift reflexes from a
life on the road allowed him to duck under the garrotte that came
looping over his head. A much too sloppy move to get him! His time as
a merchant bodyguard ensured the reflexes displayed were followed
through with a spin into a crouching defensive pose. The last
movement he was allowed to make as his head was blown to smithereens
with a terrific bang. The green man was quick to smash the wine and
after inspecting the debris, stalked off towards the river.
The explosive sound paused
Crole and Borg's terrific scrabble as fear curled in their chest for
a second time.
“Laurel?” Borge queried
quietly. “What do we do?”
“Keep moving,” was the
gruff reply as Crole headed west- hopefully to an alternative
crossing.
Laurel raced away heading
downhill from the camp-site, his pack clanging against him with
spectacular noise in the tranquil night. The explosion could only
mean that the camp belonged to one certain person and that Crole or
Borg or both were dead. His brain quietly assured him again and again
that the green man would have seen him if he had noticed the other
two and he will be here soon. His main hope was be the first to reach
a crossing in the river. After that he would simply keep heading
north faster than any possible pursuit. The threat of death should
surely motivate him to move the fastest of the two. He was a young
man, but not as fit as he could be – his legs were growing weary
from the exhausting day as the roar of the water closed in on him. He
burst through a final bush and looked out over the river gushing
below. It was at least 100 metres wide and the water was travelling
at an impressive pace, quashing any realistic chance of swimming
across for the best of swimmers. Laurel searched about him, looking
for an area that might be crossable. It was hopeless. The grey water
slushed past laughing at his inadequate ability to escape. To jump in
would be to put himself at the mercy of the roaring element, to lose
the cargo and put himself at incredible risk. He paused and glance
back towards the woods. Which option contained the greatest risk? Had
the green man even seen him?
A crack behind him to his left
caused Laurel to leap in fear nearly tumbling into the swirling
current below. He braced himself enough to glance up and find the
source of the sound. The green man was stepping round a tree on a
ridge overlooking his position by the river. The tube was being
raised up expectantly seeking out it's target. Laurel dived instantly
arcing out away from the muddy ledge. The dirt where he had stood
splayed up as the explosive sound he dread ricocheted around the
riverside and then all he knew was water. Water flooded everywhere
around him taking away his ability to move, hear, see or smell. He
simply crashed onwards with the river as the dirty water taste filled
his mouth, quickly leaving the green man far behind.
