Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 14: The Merry Band of Robbers

"You need not step so careful," sighed Dark Michael. "The forest has no wooden planks to creak."

"There are sticks that snap," pointed out Barnaby. "Dry leaves that crunch."

"Then step around them," advised his teacher. "Your goal here is to move without being seen. Choose shadows over light. Seek to remain behind trees and brambles. Select a tree and move quickly to it; then stop to look about, to listen. Ask yourself where you would hide, waiting to put an arrow in a fool walking past."

"The path would be quicker," pointed out Night-Creep.

"The path will be watched," pointed out Dark Michael.

"And what exactly does our brave knight do when he comes unseen upon the forest glen where reveling robbers roister?"

"He dies with a crossbow bolt to the head."

"What is that like?" asked Barnaby. He pressed close to a pine trunk, peering past.

"Can't say," yawned Michael. "Hurts, probably."

Barnaby stared into green shadow, brown forest floor. Was there a man by that bramble bush? No, it was a stump. He hurried to the next tree, looked about.

"No, but I meant dying. What is that like?"

"Wait and find out."

"That's no answer."

"True."

Barnaby prepared to protest this, when the cat interrupted.

"Stop," ordered the creature.

"Trouble ahead?" whispered Barnaby.

"No doubt," said the cat. "But that's no concern of mine. See the willow to the left? The branch pointing east. With a purple creeper wrapping about it."

"Yes?"

"Break it off."

"Why?" asked Barnaby and Michael, echoing one another.

The cat walked up to the tree, began to sharpen claws upon the trunk.

"Willow green with life, kissed by lavender wife," explained the cat. This remark brought blank stares. "Makes excellent wand," he growled.

Barnaby stepped to the tree, tugged at the branch. Expecting a struggle to free it. But for all its green look, it snapped quick and clean, anxious to join his service.

"Keep it for later," advised his cat-tutor in magic. "Assuming a later."

Barnaby placed the stick in his pack.

"I hear screams," said Michael.

"I smell blood," said the cat.

There came crashing through the brambles, cracking sticks, stomping leaves. Someone ran in no fear of being heard. Barnaby felt suddenly sick, stomach and legs going loose.

He looked back towards the road, tempted to turn and flee. He'd done what he could for the bard. But all said, he was a miller, not a bold adventurer.

But I can't just turn around. Well, no, I can just turn around. I'll still be a miller; just the wrong kind of miller.

"I don't much want a crossbow bolt in my head," he admitted to himself.

Dark Michael and Night Creep observed Barnaby argue with Barnaby.

"Might be just an arrow in the chest," said Shadow Creep. "Faster."

"Ah, no, that would be a slower passing," said Michael.