Stone Rising Read Free Page A

hunt for monies they would never find.
    Driven. Like geese, like sheep. Herded away from the towns and villages and into the wilderness. No rest, no mercy. Every straggler taken off to be hanged in that god-forsaken keep. Only snatched moments to grab a mouthful to eat or a minute of fitful slumber before moving on again, willing leaden limbs into action.
    How John had felt like giving up. How they’d all felt like giving up. And then finally they’d found themselves, surrounded, cut off; a band of warriors, a dark wall between them and the safety of the forest. Death had closed in. But then salvation. A flash of bright light. The scorching taste of metal on the tongue. And cries had split the air. Arrows darkening the sky. Their pursuers routed beneath the fury of a new force.
    The outlanders. Those who had named themselves so aptly for their new surroundings.
    The Foresters.
    So yes, when Iain spoke, John knew what he meant. He knew of what it was to find new family in the midst of strife. To find bonds of friendship in the heat of bloodshed.
    He knew of hope.
    Though his hope was different from that of the outlanders. They had faith that their lord would be coming to find them, to bring them back to his fold. Was this lord the self-same deity of which the preacher and his men sang every Sunday morning? Perhaps, though he had seen the Foresters exchanging wry grins at some of the sermons, suitably unimpressed by tales of water-walking and resurrection. They’d seen better, the looks had said.
    No, John had no such grand visions. His ambitions were lower. More worldly. A woman. A home that wasn’t this wretched forest. The chance to raise a family in peace. To maybe rebuild his forge, continue his work as a smith.
    To live, for once, as a man. Not a beast.
    He started, Iain’s voice jarring him from his dream of times past and yet to come.
    “Sorry, what did you say?”
    “I said, I think we’d best gather the men.”
    John nodded, reaching for his sturdy, wooden quarterstaff.
    “Aye. And you’d best inform your leader. Speaking of which, where is he?”
    A shake of the head and Iain sighed.
    “Where is he always? Out there, somewhere. Finding trouble. And killing it, no doubt.”
     
    ***
    No sound betrayed his movement. No shape, no shine, no silhouette. He was a hunter.
    And everything was his prey.
    Fingers, strong and sinewy, curled about the wooden haft of his axe, slung low, ready. Footsteps that should have rustled in the undergrowth, muffled by years of experience. Eyes, unassuming, every-day, yet glistening with a burden of power, bored through the foliage seeking their target.
    There; four men, leather clad and wielding crossbows. A vanguard to the larger force that even now approached the outskirts of the forest, making their way as stealthily as they could through the forest trails. Stealthily, yet each clumsy footstep telegraphed a hundred yards in every direction, there to be picked up by even the lowliest of the Foresters.
    To Alann, they may as well have been wearing cowbells.
    His keen eyes narrowed as he planned his attack. Luis had ran past earlier, completely oblivious to Alann’s presence. That was fine by the Woodsman; such hit and run favoured the stealthy and Luis was yet green. He laughed to himself for an instant. That anyone could be thought green after enduring what they had, hah! Yet they were the Foresters; they were measured by a different yardstick.
    A rustling in the undergrowth caught his attention and he turned, silently, just as a flock of birds erupted from the gloom of the mid-day forest. He froze for long moments, rigid, mouth open to help him hear as the last of the wing beats died away. Keen eyes scanned the forest floor, but there was nothing there, no trace of what may have disturbed the birds. His gaze lingered moments more, eyebrows furrowed, before turning back to his quarry that prowled still on the forest path.
    The man on the left had his crossbow slung across his