Iron of the Innocent: The Dark Judge (Vol 1)

Chapter 3: The Pursuit

274 I.C.
Sacren
Solorn Kingdom
Eastland Province
Near the border of the Melsian Province

The light mist drizzled slowly down from the gray clouds above. The drops were so light and tiny, the slight wind played among them. They were lifted one way then another. It all depended on the direction the air moved them like a child's playful mood. The falling particles of rain did create such a massive presence there was a tangible heaviness to it. Seeing objects in the distance became difficult. The sun hid itself behind the gray veil as it neared the horizon, and the deepening shadows slid out from beneath the trees like reaching hands with grasping, clawed fingers.

The drizzle collected on a hood pulled very low over a rider's face. The fabric of the hood and cloak was the color of the absence of light. The cloth, heavy with moisture, hung on the rider and clung to the body beneath. Big, heavy drops of water dripped from the hem of the cloak closest to the ground.

The size and shape of the rider would lead an observer to assume it was a man. He sat astride his horse with confidence and straight posture. Though, there was something unsettling. He was as still as a statue in the saddle, and there was no movement other than the edge of his dark hood lazily moving with the wind.

Black gloved hands rested on the pommel of the saddle holding the reins loosely. The man's arms were covered by the long sleeves of his wet, dark gray shirt. His cloth and tailoring were some of the most expensive a noble man could procure. Black pants, detailed carefully with the needle, were held up by a silver-colored belt, and water saturated them along with the rest of the rider's garments not protected by the cloak. Thick-soled, black leather boots protected the rider's feet. Drops of water rolled down the boots as if in slow motion, hanging for a few moments before finally releasing their hold on him. The rider was waiting. He had been waiting for a long time.

His head raised slightly as his ears heard the distant sound of multiple hooves on the road. A small smile appeared on his lips at the sound, but it disappeared just as quickly as it had come a few moments later. He absently patted the neck of his horse under its armor. Much of the body of the horse was covered by large pieces of overlapping leather. Not necessarily to protect the horse.

The approaching wagon, pulled by four horses, came into view through the gray mists exactly where it was supposed to be. The rider's scouts picked up the trail earlier in the day. The wagoner was just as saturated with water, and he looked quite miserable. His brown and gray hair was wet and plastered against his head under a wide brimmed hat. A prominent brown moustache graced his upper lip. His brown vest was trimmed in red, and was covered by his overcoat. Black boots pressed against his footrest held him firmly in place. The name whispered in the shadows was Bartholomew, a merchant.

Bartholomew approached the dark rider, his eyes roaming the countryside coming to rest on him at last. The wagoner immediately pulled up on the reins of his horses bringing the wagon to a standstill. The brown horses snorted, catching the scent of the dark rider on the wind and flattened their ears. The man's eyes took on a suspicious look appraising the unexpected traveler.

The wagoner's hand slipped to the handle of his crossbow. "Greetings stranger. A foul twilight to be traveling these roads."

"Yes it is," the dark rider replied in deep, hollow tones the hooded face not moving. The wind caught his voice and pushed it away to be lost among the trees.

Bartholomew heard the dark rider speak, but he could not hear the words because of the wind and distance between them. "What was that? I didn't hear you," Bartholomew called as his horses slowly moved forward. There was no answer. When the wagoner halved the distance he said again, "My pardon, but I didn't hear you."