Michael Spradlin - Trail of Fate

“Are you all right, Templar?” she asked.

With great care, I slid off the horse, nearly tumbling to the ground. With hands on my knees, I struggled to breathe, but each gasp only brought more pain.

“Just need a little rest, but I don’t want to hold you up. If you’ll just tell me where I can find the nearest port, I’ll sleep for a day or three and proceed on my own.”

“We’re stopping here for the night anyway. Here is fresh water. Philippe should be able to find us something to eat,” she said.

By now the other riders in the party had caught up to us. The other young woman and three of the men dismounted and began making preparations to camp for the night. Philippe spoke to Celia in low tones. It was impossible to hear what they were saying, but from their expressions it looked like an argument. She raised her voice at one point, and he glowered in my direction before riding off into the woods. The other members of her group paid no attention to their little spat.

In a matter of minutes, the horses had been tethered between two trees, their saddles removed. A small fire was built in short order, and two of the men scoured the nearby woods for more firewood.

The woman pulled a few cooking implements from a bag she had carried on her saddle. She knelt near the fire, adding more wood.

Still sore, I limped to a nearby tree, slowly lowering myself to the ground and leaning back against the trunk. Sleep came instantly. The clattering sound of Philippe returning woke me. It was still light, but the twilight shadows crept through the forest. Philippe dismounted, carrying some type of large fowl across his saddle. He handed it to one of the men, who left the clearing to clean the bird.

Celia was circling the camp, her hand on the hilt of her sword as if she’d been keeping watch.

“Feeling better?” she asked when she saw me awake.

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

“We’ll have food soon. Philippe is an excellent hunter, and Martine is an even better cook.”

Looking at Philippe, I saw no evidence of a bow or other hunting weapon.

“How does he hunt with no bow?” I asked.

“He has his ways.”

Wonderful. I was already on unfriendly terms with a large, enormously strong man with a sword who evidently captured wild game with his bare hands. My situation was improving by the hour. Using the tree for support, I clawed my way to my feet. My back and knee felt better, but I resigned myself to several days of pain and stiffness.

The fowl was cleaned and mounted on a wooden spit. Martine took some herbs from her bag and sprinkled them over the bird, then propped it over the fire. The sight of the food made my stomach growl in anticipation.

Celia smiled and walked to the fire. As I followed her with my eyes, I caught Philippe glaring at me. He had pulled his sword from his scabbard and was sharpening it with a stone. As he worked, he periodically ran his thumb along the edge, never taking his eyes off me.

I smiled and gave him a jaunty wave.

“Bonjour, mon frere,” I said.

He was not amused. His eyes darkened and his jaw muscles clenched. It was quite possible he might jump across the fire and thrash me, but he returned to his sword. Then his head snapped up and he hissed, catching everyone’s attention. They were on their feet in an instant, silently drawing their swords.

The woods were quiet. Too quiet. Unsure what was going on, I was afraid to pull my own weapon from my belt, lest the friendly Philippe misinterpret it as a threatening move. Something was wrong.

Philippe slowly rotated, looking intently into the woods surrounding our camp. He cocked his head to the side, like a dog searching the underbrush for vermin. He stood about five yards away from me when without warning an arrow thunked into the trunk of the tree between us. Gray goose feathers were attached to the shaft, and I recognized it instantly.

Robard.

Philippe shouted out a command, and in a blur one of the men kicked dirt over the fire, dousing the flame. He let out a bloodcurdling scream and charged into the brush in the direction the arrow had come from. The other three men melted into the forest.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Robard, don’t shoot! These are friends!”

Robard didn’t answer, and when I turned to explain to Celia what was happening, I was startled by the sight of Maryam holding Celia firmly from behind with one golden dagger at her neck.

Oh no.

“Maryam, wait! Stop. Everyone stop.”

Celia was not moving but cursing rapidly. Maryam ordered her to drop her sword. Celia shouted something back and reluctantly complied.

“Maryam, let her go! For God’s sake, she’s a friend. These people have not harmed me!”

Maryam looked confused, but did not release her grip on Celia. I heard Robard shout, “Tristan, run! I have you covered!”

“No! Robard, stop! Please put down your bow! And watch out! You have a very large, angry Frenchman headed your way.”

“What?” he shouted back.

“Just don’t shoot anyone. I’ll explain everything. Come into the camp!”

Maryam still held Celia, but in the seconds I’d been preoccupied, Martine had advanced toward her, sword at the ready.

“Martine, s’il vous plait. Arrete! ” She ignored me, swinging her sword up. Maryam crouched slightly, then shoved Celia away. She stumbled the few feet between us before falling into my arms.

“No!” I shouted. Martine’s sword flashed down, but the Assassin was ready. She crossed both golden daggers over her head, catching the blade of Martine’s weapon between them. With blinding speed, she twisted them to the side and the sword was ripped loose.

Pushing Celia back to her feet, I ran between them, holding up my hands against the now advancing Maryam.

“Maryam, stop. It’s all right!”

“Tristan! You are alive! Praise Allah! Robard and I are here to rescue you!” she shouted.

“Maryam, I don’t need rescuing! These people are helping me. They found me washed up on the beach. Please! Stop this! Before someone gets hurt or killed. Put your weapons away.”

Maryam’s eyes darted between me, Celia and Martine. She crouched, tense like a coiled spring, and I was torn between enormous joy at finding her alive and extreme worry that something horrible was going to happen. Robard was also in grave danger. There were four Frenchmen in the woods who didn’t know these attackers were not enemies.

“Celia, these are my companions from the boat. They made a mistake and mean you no harm. They incorrectly believed me to be a prisoner. Please! Tell your men to stand down!”

Celia looked from me to Maryam and was still angry at being held at knifepoint.

“If one of my men is injured by your bowman, I will hold you responsible, Templar!” she said. But she shouted out to the men, and the woods went quiet again. After what felt like an eternity the three men returned to the clearing. All but Philippe.

“Robard, if you can hear me, you need to put away your bow! These people found me washed up on the shore this morning. They’ve been helping me. Please! Come into the clearing so we can all discuss this!”

No sound came from the woods. Then from the underbrush, there came a yelp and the sounds of a scuffle. Next, a shouted curse in English, followed by one in French.

The men in the camp were still ready to fight at any second, holding their swords unsheathed.

“Celia, please tell Philippe to stop,” I begged.

“Sorry, Templar,” she replied. “When Philippe is in a rage, there is little I or anyone can do to control him.”

Philippe and Robard emerged from a thicket thirty yards beyond the camp. They were grappling with each other, but I could tell they were both tiring. Robard had his hands around Philippe’s throat, but the big Frenchman clubbed his arms away. He threw a wild punch, but Robard ducked it easily, jumping on Philippe’s back when his momentum carried him around. Philippe tried to flip him off and finally caught Robard by the hair, tossing him forward through the air.