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A knot of fear clenched in my chest, I opened my mouth, my voice breaking through the quiet of the night. “Draven!”
Whitehorn's head whipped towards me and in that moment, Draven moved.
Rolling out of his bedroll, his own sword flashing out in the moonlight as he sprung to his feet, landing in a cat-like crouch.
My jaw dropped. There was no way he had been asleep. No one could move from sleep to wake that quickly.
Draven shifted his sword in his hand, leaping forward with a preternatural grace. He was a large, hulking man but he moved with the grace of a much smaller one. Had he been holding back with me in the sparring ring, I suddenly wondered.
I enjoyed seeing the contrast between them. Whitehorn, smaller and skulking like a coward, gnashing his teeth over his lost chance to stab Draven so easily in the back.
A malicious gleam in his eyes, Whitehorn let out a grunt of anger, unsheathed his own sword, and darted forward.
The two swords clashed together. The sound of metal on metal filled the night air as the two men traded blows, each trying to get the upper hand.
Draven was a talented fighter. I knew this from experience. He was larger and more muscular than Whitehorn.
But Whitehorn was quicker than he looked and he did not lack skill in swordplay. He was also not beyond playing dirty, kicking out his legs and slashing his sword at Draven's knees.
I watched in disbelief as a wide grin spread over Draven's face and he leaped backwards just in time.
“Always knew it was going to come to this, Whitehorn.” He panted slightly as he feinted and rolled. “Been looking forward to it, if I’m telling the truth.”
“Damned right,” Whitehorn spat, trying to push forward. But I wondered if he was really as confident as he was trying to seem. After all, he’d preferred the coward’s way to this. “Right back at you.”
But Draven was stepping up his attack. He drove Whitehorn backwards, then back once more, until the other man was pinned against a huge tree.
Whitehorn stumbled, his eyes wide with shock and fear. I felt a jolt of glee. He was trapped.
But I had underestimated Whitehorn's cowardice.
As Draven moved forward, sword raised, Whitehorn flipped around the trunk of the tree and bolted into the forest. Running like a hare from a fox.
Draven didn't hesitate. He chased after, into the trees, into the darkness.
I sat alone on the piebald, my hands still tied, my heart in my throat, listening to the muffled clanging of swords in the distance.
A cry came from the trees. Then silence.
I waited in the dark, alone and increasingly afraid. Who would return? Whitehorn? Draven?
Or no one at all?
After what felt like an eternity, Draven reappeared. Baring his teeth like a wild animal’s, he grinned up at me as he crossed the campsite. He had just killed a man, so why did I feel a strange pull, low in my stomach, as I watched him approach?
“You’re fucking enjoying this,” I said accusingly.
His eyes took in my bound hands. Walking over, he slid a knife across the rope, splitting the knot, then helped me from the horse. “Not all of it.”
I stumbled, my arms numb from being tied, my body still weak, and he caught me around the waist.
He led me back over to the campfire and gently pushed me down onto a bedroll, then began to gather more wood. When he had stoked the fire to a roaring blaze again, he crouched down before me, concern on his face.
I realized I was trembling.
Draven lifted a hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up.”
He left, only to return a moment later with an armful of blankets which he draped over me. Then he went back over to the fire and hung the kettle over it.
