Philip was bewildered.
He had been on the road fifteen days, pushing hard, yet Ashcroft and his men were increasing the lead daily.
“How is it possible?” 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, there’d 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, didn’t smell trustworthy.
He now regretted not insisting on accompanying her on her journey. But, then, he hadn’t 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 shouldn’t have let any one or two people pass through the east road without an escort.
But with the certainty that Scarlet was the same girl he loved in his youth, it brought him back to those years. He had thought about her so much over the years, wondering why she had disappeared—why she had left him. He hadn’t even known what it was to be lonesome for someone at the time. He hadn’t known that her disappearing would leave him devastated. He didn’t know that could even happen to a person—until it did.
He’d 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. She’d just been gone without warning, and he’d not known why or where.
Philip had courted two other women since then, but neither of them had been a serious consideration. One was quite pleased with her own beauty and the other quite dull. They had not compared favorably with Esme. Not even close. He’d stopped courting at all by the time he’d turned twenty-one. He didn’t see the point.
Despite that, 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.
He’d 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 he’d felt—flustered. Philip never got flustered. By anyone. Not even the queen. But the swan had caused him consternation.
Then, at dinner, with the Duke and Duchess on one side of the table and two young adults sitting opposite with similar features, he had guessed right. The swan had been Scarlet Wentworth—the very girl the queen wanted him to marry.
He hadn’t spoken to her at the dinner after confirming who she was, and had determined that he would not do so. But then he’d found himself walking in the hedge maze on the estate, and she was suddenly there. Despite his intentions, he very much had wanted to speak with her. He’d wondered if, finally, there was a girl he could enjoy spending time with.
But that was before she ran off with Ashcroft, just before he had reached her.
Much later when she’d come to the garrison full of determination and will and internal strength—and those green eyes—he’d nearly said things to her. Nearly.
But all he could think about in those moments was the girl from his youth, so he hadn’t. His loyalty to a memory had been his undoing. It had been her all along, unrecognized. He’d 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.
That’s 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 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.
He crouched and slipped behind a great ash tree and saw steel flashing.
Philip 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.
On the other hand, going to the road might be the greatest risk. He would be in the open where they could more readily ride him down. There were no trees for cover.
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 time to sidestep the arc, and slash at the rider in the uncertain dark. His blade bit something but then was ripped from his grasp.
On the next pass, he leapt at the rider, grabbing him by cloak and collar, and pinning his sword arm to the horse’s flank.
He pulled with all his strength, lifting his legs as the horse moved, and found purchase on a stirrup with one foot. He heaved backwards, ripping the rider from the saddle.
They hit the ground hard. The wind was knocked out of Philip, but it had no effect on the rider, who didn’t seem to need wind.
He scraped the ground, but could find his sword nowhere, and knew he could not stay tangled up with one opponent with three others closing.
But the horse was close by. His foot found the stirrup and he was upon it in two seconds. He kicked the animal into action, as three other horsemen gave chase along the road.
Philip heard, rather than saw, the swing of a sword from his right. He ducked just in time as the blade passed over his head.
“What do you want? Who are you?” he shouted.
Another sword strike came his way, this time from his left. He saw this one, and lifted his left leg from the stirrup to avoid the blade. But he realized too late that the strike hadn’t been aimed at him. It penetrated the horse’s flank, causing the great animal to shudder.
Whoever these men were, they were not beyond killing their own horses to get to him. The thought didn’t cause him fear. It made him determined.
His borrowed horse was already laboring. Probably a punctured lung. It wouldn’t be long before it came to a stop and faltered and collapsed. Philip decided not to wait.
He leapt from the horse toward another rider—another shadow in the dark—swinging 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 had the wherewithal to grab the pommel on the way over. It was just enough purchase for him to land on his feet.
He heard his opponent’s sword clatter and saw a glint of steel in the moonlight. He scrambled along the ground and found the blade with his bare hands. He slid it carefully through his fingers, found the pommel and turned the weapon at a lunging figure.
Philip felt the blade pass through the man’s ribs, and heard the crunch as it severed backbone. His opponent collapsed.
That left two, with a third possible a couple hundred yards back. The two swirled around the healthy horse, which Philip used as a shield. He crouched under it swinging his stolen blade from side to side.
“I don’t know who you are,” Philip shouted. “But you have picked the wrong man to mess with.”
He heard what might have been a laugh—if a laugh sounded like a boot heel dragged across stone.
The voice that followed was no more real.
“The master will use you well.”
“Who—who is your master?”
“He has had many names.”
“What—are you?”
“We are the last thing you will know.”
Philip heard the slap of a blade against the horse’s flank and the creature bolted, knocking him prone and scattering the sword somewhere distant.
He was unarmed, against three, and he knew this was it. This was 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.
“What do you want?” Philip demanded.
The gravel voice said, “The master wishes you to know that you and all your friends will bide, beginning with her.“
“If you touch her—”
“Fool! Do you not know the hour of your own death?”
Scarlet! Where was she?
He fought to pull his arms free, but they held him with unnatural strength.
His heart cried out to her.
Esme! I have failed you!
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 he’d done well. The things he’d done poorly, being swept from his body, as if judgment was occurring.
His mouth went dry first and he tried to grasp that hand away—that horrid hand—drawing 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.
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