Marked (33 page)

“You’ll soon be able to rest, my faithful friend. It won’t be long now. We’ve cut into their advantage quite a bit over these last few days. We’ve almost got them now,” he whispered to his companion.

His tireless steed snorted and nodded its head as if joyfully expressing its agreement. Lasgol smiled. Looking up at the sun he took a moment to evaluate his situation. He had to carefully size up the status of the hunt, just as his father had taught him so many years ago.
Always judiciously analyze your next step; do not let the prey you are hunting circle back and take you by surprise.

From the beginning of this mission, nothing had gone quite as expected. All indications were that the Assassin would return to his base in Rogdon from which he apparently operated. But he had gone toward the steppes. In a way it was logical; his objective was, after all, to temporarily elude the groups who were combing the roads to the south that led to Rogdon. Not a bad strategy. But why had he headed toward the Masig plains? It would be easy to follow his tracks there and find him. Nowhere to hide for miles around. It did not make sense. Who hides from the enemy in the flatlands when he could hide in a lush forest? Was he perhaps taking the girl back to her tribe? If so, why? Too many inconsistencies to make it all fit together. And what Lasgol could not piece together generally ended up causing problems.

He thought about the young Masig—another mystery that greatly intrigued him. How was it possible that an Assassin with the skills to kill one of the most powerful and best protected men on the continent had let her live? Furthermore, he had rescued her, running an unnecessary risk. It did not fit. At all. And now he was still with her, which was no doubt slowing him down. Baffling. Was he taking her someplace specific in the steppes? They were already deep into Masig territory—five days walking within the boundaries of the tribes of the prairies. The young woman could have managed to get away from him by now and headed for one of the many nomad tribes. Something was totally off here. Why would they continue traveling together across the plains when the safest and most intelligent thing to do would have been to separate and seek refuge in the vast forest to the east? What was their plan? He did not understand it, and that was disconcerting.

Coming up with no answers, Lasgol pushed the questions from his mind for a moment. There was another perplexing event that had him even more worried: two days prior, he had found Kyjor’s lifeless body.

Kyjor, dead!

Unbelievable... a man of his experience and skill... inconceivable. Like any good tracker, Lasgol had thoroughly examined the footprints and every other trace left behind from the confrontation. He could see that Kyjor had had the advantage of being higher up on a small hillside, camouflaged by the tall undergrowth. He had been kneeling when he’d aimed down the hill and shot his bow. He had had every advantage; the wind in his face, the sun at his back, the elevated position... and still he’d missed. Incomprehensible.

Lasgol had found the arrow stuck in a solitary tree a few paces downhill. How was it possible that a shot as good as Kyjor, who had nary a rival in the entire kingdom when it came to handling a bow, had missed from such an advantageous position? He could not fathom it. And what was even more difficult to understand was how he had not had time to take another shot at his enemy. Two trails of footprints began at the tree against which the Assassin had leaned; the prints were going toward the archer, but they suddenly disappeared and then reappeared where Kyjor had positioned himself for his shot. It was as if the Assassin had leapt uphill at least six paces.

Incomprehensible.

From the evidence he was able to find, Lasgol deduced the Assassin had knocked the ranger off his feet and slit his throat. Very strange... Kyjor was a confident and excellent combatant, yet he had fallen quickly, almost without putting up any fight at all. Lasgol could only conclude that the Assassin was no ordinary man... not in the least. Given what he was seeing, that Assassin possessed Talent; he had the Gift—and that was going to make things much more difficult.

He was going up against an Assassin with dark power.

Lasgol mounted Trotter and, heading west, continued his hunt through the plains. Before him was nothing but miles and miles of flat steppe. The only variations to the landscape he could make out in the distance were some undulating low ridges; behind them were a few small hills and, behind those in the far-off distance, higher mountains with snow-capped peaks. Several hours by foot toward the southwest he could discern a large blue lake that broke up the dominant greenish-yellow of the prairie’s vegetation. It was Great Lake Udian, considered sacred by the Masig. The tribes that populated that region did not allow foreigners anywhere near it. It was a holy place, the tribes’ font of life, and they protected it with brutal ferocity. If the fugitives had made it to the lake, it would be extremely dangerous for Lasgol to pursue them there.

The last few days, he had seen some six groups of different Masig tribes from the region on their migratory hunt. Up to this point they had only watched him for a time, after which they continued on their way without interfering since he represented no danger to them. Food was a much higher priority for them than a lone foreigner on horseback. But that would change if he went near their sacred water.

He continued on the two fugitives’ trail for hours until finally stopping at the top of a small elevation. Gently stroking his mount’s neck, he whispered in its ear. “It seems our luck has run out, Trotter.”

A short distance to the west, on a small rise in the prairie, six Masig on dappled horses of the steppes watched him intently.

These were not hunters.

Their arms and faces were covered in war paint. Armed with bows and spears, they were wearing leather armor fortified with resin and wood over their chests and back. Patrol warriors from one of the area’s tribes, Lasgol presumed.

“I’m afraid they coming for us, my friend. We will either have to fight or die,” he warned Trotter. The horse neighed restlessly and shook its head as if understanding what was in store for them.

“You are brave and clever, my dear companion,” whispered Lasgol with a smile.

Trotter sensed the warriors’ presence and the tension it was creating.

Lasgol’s eyes scanned the area. He was surrounded by a sea of never-ending plains, small yellow-green hills that looked like waves of earth. Nothing but undulating prairies for miles in every direction. No possible escape.

“There is nowhere to flee. We will have to confront them, dear friend.”

Lasgol dismounted slowly so his opponents would see he was not afraid. And indeed he wasn’t—but he wanted them to know it. Mental games were of vital importance in critical situations such as this. He carefully studied each one of the horsemen. They were out of reach of his bow and they knew it.

The Masig threateningly menacingly scrutinized surveyed the blond ranger’s every move.

Lasgol picked up the long bow; it would give him farther reach but less accuracy. He knelt down and put his quiver on the ground. He stuck six arrows into the dry soil—slowly, one by one, sending an intimidating message to his adversaries. Then he nocked the last arrow in his Norghanian yew bow. It was nearly as long as he was tall and a masterpiece of one of the most renowned artisans from Norghana. It had cost him a fortune but was a weapon without equal.

Turn back and you will not die here today. If you attack, I have an arrow reserved for each of you,

Not the least bit intimated, the Masig warriors seemed to ignore his bravado.

Luck is not on my side. They’re going to attack me—I can feel it.

He picked some grass and dropped it in front of his face to determine the direction of the wind.
From the east; light... I’ll have to adjust a hair to the right.

The six warriors were on the move. They separated, galloping toward him.

“They didn’t fall for my bluff. All right, buddy, wish me luck!”

Lasgol looked at them, weapon at the ready.

Five hundred paces away; out of range. The nerves brought on by impending battle flooded in; he had to take a deep breath to calm himself down.

Four hundred paces.

They were now approaching at a full gallop, covering the distance that separated them before he could possibly take them all down. But Lasgol did not rush.

Three hundred paces.

Time to act. From that distance and with his well-trained eye he was sure to hit his mark.

He tensed the bow and aimed it at the horseman in the center. After calculating the distance and the parabola, he inhaled and released the arrow.

The horseman fell from his mount, an arrow protruding from his right shoulder. His light armor could not stop Lasgol’s arrows—especially using such a powerful bow. At two hundred paces with such a fine piece of weaponry, Lasgol would be able to pierce metal armor and at one hundred paces or less it would penetrate heavy cuirass.

In one swift motion he had reloaded the bow. Moving it slightly to the right, he took his shot.

Repeating the same motion, he aimed more to the left and released.

Three Masig warriors were no longer galloping toward him.

Two hundred paces.

A pair of arrows shot by the horsemen fell ten paces short, never having reached their target.
Short bows; good for shooting from horseback but not from such a long distance. They’re speeding up now that they see I can reach them.

Lasgol reloaded and shot two more times in short succession, once to the right and once to the left—knowing that from this distance he would not miss.

Only the horseman on the far right was still left.

Lasgol nocked the last of his six arrows and looked at him.

One hundred paces.

He continued to stare at the man but did not shoot. If the Masig warrior tensed his bowstring, he would have to shoot him. And from this distance, it was a sure hit.

But the warrior stopped his mount, lowered his bow, and looked at Lasgol for a moment.

Lasgol decided not to take him down and lowered his bow.

The Masig saluted him in a gesture of assent. He returned it. Then the warrior turned his horse and rode over to help his fellow warrior that had fallen closest to him.

So my bluff wasn’t a bluff after all... they should have turned around...
He’d been training on the bow since he was four years old, when his father had built him his first weapon and taught him to shoot it. And since that moment he had never stopped training, and that fact, coupled with a natural ability for handling the bow, had turned him into an excellent archer—one of the best in the north. But what had really made him exceptional was the Gift; it gave him even greater skills, making him a marksman without equal. He could easily shoot twenty arrows in sixty heartbeats, and with a short bow could even use his talent to shoot volleys of several arrows simultaneously. He stood up and put the bow in its leather case. Then he agilely jumped onto the back of his one and only true friend.

“We will live another day,” he whispered in the horse’s ear. Patting it lovingly on the neck, he resumed the hunt for fugitives.

Several hours later Lasgol arrived at one of the tributaries of the Yen River which, like a gigantic, sinuous snake, wound its way through the steppes, its scales carrying along the refreshing liquid that gave life to the prairie’s vegetation. Lasgol dismounted and let Trotter drink while he scanned the horizon. He could not see the fugitives though he was absolutely certain they were not far off, north of his current position. He was closing in.

A reflection in the water a few paces to the west caught his attention; he turned and carefully pulled out his short bow. Without missing a beat, he nocked an arrow with white plumage and cautiously crept forward, following along the border of the peaceful tributary as it flowed into a deep ravine. At the bottom of the ravine, he discovered a body, face up in the river.

Gurkog.

Dead.

His throat was slit from one side to the other. Lasgol immediately stopped and focused intently. He noticed no unusual scents, but the wind was at his back. There were no sounds other than those of nature. When he put his power to use, a dormant alarm went off inside him; a basic, animal-like instinct warned him that danger was very near.

They are here... Stalking me... I feel it; my Gift is signaling it. The dead body is a trap, left here as bait. If I go to examine it, I am a dead man. By the man-eating lions of Zagria! How did they manage to kill Gurkog—the best tracker and manhunter in the kingdom... This is unheard of!
Lasgol felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach, leaving him with a sense of emptiness, fear, and distress.

He was in danger. Serious, mortal danger.

Instinctively he slipped down into the tall grasses to hide, all the while thoroughly studying the terrain as he tried to calm his nerves. He looked at the sun, high in the sky behind him. That would work in his favor. If the wind were to change, he would be able to discern where the lethal Assassin was lying in wait. The ideal positions would be either to the north, on the wall of the ravine behind the thick undergrowth, or to his right behind a small hill covered in thick vegetation. The spot in the ravine seemed to him the most suitable for an ambush since it put the attacker at a clear advantage to his victim. One agile leap or one arrow to the back and it would be over.