Philip was bewildered.
He had been on the road fifteen days, pushing hard, yet Ashcroft and his men were increasing the lead daily.
āHow is it possible?ā he asked aloud.
He was sleeping no more than four or five hours a night, pushing through the day, taking a short rest in the afternoon, and then continuing on through the evening until it was too dark to continue.
How could they be outpacing him? The remnants of their camps were either too far apart, or he was losing his ability to follow a trail.
At some point, he assumed, thereād be another confrontation with the baron, not that he looked forward to it. The man was full of himself and, as far as Philip could tell, didnāt smell trustworthy.
I should have gone with Scarlet when she came through.
But, then, he hadnāt known she was the same person as Esme then, had he? The knowledge changed how he thought about his decision, but he wondered if that meant it was a bad decision to begin with. Maybe Ashcroft had been right. He shouldnāt have let any pair pass through the east road.
He had thought about her so much over the years, wondering why she had disappearedāwhy she had left him lonely. He hadnāt even known what that was at the time. He hadnāt known that her disappearing would leave him devastated. He didnāt know that could even happen to a personāuntil it did.
Heād sought her at all their usual places for weeks and weeks, but she was just gone. Moved on. Maybe moved with her parents to some other part of the city, or some other city. Sheād just been gone without warning, and heād not known why or where.
Philip had courted two other women since then, but neither of them were a serious consideration. One quite pleased with her own beauty and one quite dull. They had not compared favorably with Esme. Not even close. Heād stopped courting at all by the time heād turned twenty-one. He didnāt see the point.
But he had still held out hope for Esme. Maybe one day he would see her in a market. Maybe in a sun cathedral worshipping Epherion. Maybe at a gate passing into or out of the city. But she had never been at any of those places.
And heād never been interested, truly, in another girl, until the swan. The way she spoke had seemed so witty and familiar at the same time, and the way she had moved had caused him involuntary shivers.
There had been one moment when she had turned her head to look into his eyes and heād feltāflustered. Philip never got flustered. By anyone. Even the queen. But the swan had caused him consternation.
Then, at dinner, when he saw her sitting across from Duke Wentworth, saw the Duchess and two similar looking young adults across the way, he had guessed right. The swan had been Scarlet Wentworthāthe very girl the queen was suggesting.
Heād intended not to speak to her again, but then heād found himself walking in the maze and she was suddenly there and heād wanted to walk with her. Heād wondered if, finally, there was a girl he could enjoy time with.
Before she ran off with Ashcroft, that was.
And then when sheād come to the garrison with her determination and will and internal strength and those green eyes, heād nearly said things to her.
But all he could think about in those moments was the girl from his youth.
Damn being loyal to a memory! It had been her all along, unrecognized. Heād wasted precious time with her and now?
He could only pray that she was still safe.
He stopped for a short lunch and wrote in his journal, one simple statement:
The girl I love is the girl I love.
Thatās what journals were for: confessions.
He tucked it away in his saddlebag and rode on, but he let his hand drift to it, touching its shape through the pack, knowing those words were there and knowing they were true.
When Ashira set that evening, and only Isen graced the sky but was running close behind her, it became too dark to travel any further without risk to his horse. He set up his tent and slid his bedroll inside it.
It was a cool night, but not yet cold, and he hoped that would hold off for a while. Somewhere in his packing, he had forgotten one of his wool blankets. He berated himself for his own stupidity.
He lit a lantern, planning to read more from the Kiranoise primer, but then got up to relieve himself in the forest, carrying the lantern with him.
He had taken no more than ten steps when he heard and felt the thunder of hooves. Multiple horses, charging in his direction. At least three, possibly four.
Philip dodged to his left, slipping behind a great ash tree, and then sprinted back toward the road.
He heard an unnatural shriek, almost like the sound of an eagle, but more grotesque. He ran toward Bella, cursing that he had removed her saddle just twenty minutes earlier. But if he could get on her bareback, he might be safe.
On the other hand, going to the road might be the greatest risk. They could more readily ride him down with no trees in the way, and there was no place to hide.
He chose to forego the horse, but managed to drop the lantern and grab his sword before a rider was upon him raining a vicious blow with a long blade.
Philip barely saw it flash in the moonlight, but it had been just enough to see, sidestep the arc, and leap at the rider, grabbing him by cloak and collar and pinning the sword arm between himself and the horse.
He pulled with all his strength, lifting his legs as the horse moved, and found purchase on a stirrup with one foot, and he heaved backwards, ripping the rider from the saddle while they were both on the move.
They hit the ground hard and knocked the wind out of the rider, who seemed to feel no ill effect, as if he didnāt need wind.
He could see the sword nowhere, and knew he could not stay tangled up with one opponent with three others closing. But he could see the horse. His foot found the stirrup from a lifetime of practice and he was upon it in two seconds and riding in three as three other horsemen gave chase along the road.
Philip heard, rather than saw, the swing of a blade, and he ducked just in time as the blade passed over his head.
āWhat do you want? Who are you?ā he shouted. āIf you need money just say so.ā
Another sword strike came his way, and he lifted his left leg from the stirrup to avoid the blade. But he realized too late that the strike hadnāt been aimed at him. It had penetrated the horseās flank.
Whoever these men were, whatever their need, they were not beyond killing their own horses to kill him.
The thought didnāt cause him fear.
It made him determined.
But the horse was already laboring. Probably a punctured lung. It wouldnāt be long before it came to a stop and possibly faltered and collapsed. Philip decided not to wait.
He leapt from the horse toward another riderāanother shadow in the darkāswinging his arms wide to grasp and grapple.
It worked, as he pulled yet another rider from his mount and they both ended up on the far side of the healthy horse. Philip, however, had the wherewithal to grab the pommel on the way by so that he landed on his feet.
He heard the sword clatter. He stopped, saw a glint, and found the blade with his bare hand. He slid it carefully through the fingers of both hands, found the pommel and turned the business end at a lunging figure.
Philip felt the blade pass through the manās ribs, and heard the crunch as it severed the manās backbone. His opponent collapsed.
One down, a couple hundred yards away, possibly still trying to collect his horse, but two swirling around the healthy horse, which Philip used as a shield.
He crouched under the horse, swinging his blade from side to side.
āI donāt know who you are,ā Philip shouted. āBut you have picked the wrong man to mess with. Iāll give you one more chance to leave, before I gut you like a hog.ā
He heard what might have been a laughāif a laugh sounded like a boot heel dragged across stone.
The voice that followed was no more real.
āThe master will use you well.ā
āUse me? Who is your master?ā
āHe has had many names.ā
āWhoāWhatāare you?ā
āWe are your doom!ā Three voices at once.
Philip heard the slap of a blade against the horseās flank and the creature bolted, knocking him prone and scattering the sword somewhere distant.
This is it. This is the end.
But he did not feel the bite of steel.
Instead, rough hands grabbed him from both sides pulling him up into a kneeling position.
The third creature stood in front of him.
āWhatāWhat do you want?ā
The gravel voice said, āOur master wishes to convey that the Lady Scarlet is in good hands.ā
āScarlet! If you touch herāā
āFool! Do you not know your own moment of death?ā
Scarlet! Where was she?
Oh, I have failed you. I have failed you!
Esme.
I am sorry.
But the creature did not spill his blood.
Instead, it touched his forehead.
It felt like the wind passing through a canyon, whistling, an unstoppable force, drawing everything with it, branches, leaves, and discarded things. But it was not those things that actually moved.
It was his thoughts. His memories. The things heād done well. The things heād done poorly, being swept from his body, as if judgment was occurring.
His mouth went dry first and he tried to grasp that hand awayāthat horrid handādrawing his life from him. But he could not move.
His body simply shivered, and he felt tears being drawn from his eyes, forming particles of mist that fell upon the creature touching him.
Every drink of water. Every morsel of food, somehow dissolved into a memory and filtered away from him as he faded. Faded. Faded.
His skin grew tight.
His eyes grew dim.
There was nothing left of him.
Epherion!
Epherion, hear me!
Do not forsake me in my hour of need!
The world faded away into blackness, to be replaced by an ethereal glow.
Philip Beckwith was at peace.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
WHAT NO WAIT NO NO IT CANT BE