The Dorston Fall [Book I in the Dorston Legacy]

Chapter 6 - The Rider

It didn't take Sammy very long to discover the source of the smell. Following the pebbled bank of the stream, he soon arrived at an oversized, weeping willow tree; it's mess of roots diving into the water and its head of leaves waving in the wind and whispering. Amazed, Sammy walked slowly towards it; marvelling in its twisted, lichen covered trunk. The tree must have been thirty feet tall, forty if you count its head. Its branches spanned about seven men wide. He smiled then, thinking of his mother. Being the healer that she was, she no doubt would have examined her book of herbs and remedies to see what healing properties the willow possessed. She would have taken out her little knife from her brown purse and taken a slight sample of the leaf and bark to take home and test. She would have loved to see this, Sammy just knew it.

As the smell grew stronger from behind the willow, he passed through the curtain of vines and walked as quietly as possible, minding his footing as he went. Coming out the other side, Sammy saw a golden mare tied to a fallen tree, her head hung low and its ears flat against her head.

Someone's not happy, he mused, looking round hastily for its rider. Creeping closer, he spied a saddlebag and a pair of fur blankets, abandoned beside a fire that burned steadily; its logs black and charred, glowing molten orange and smoking. Then, Sammy felt drool begin to fall from his mouth. Held over the fire was a rabbit, roasting on a spit. Skinned, its meat burned a delicious brown and black; juices dipped into the flames and sizzled. His hunger controlling him, he kneeled down beside the fire and reached for the animal.

Suddenly, Sammy felt a thin, sharp edge pushing into the skin under his jaw. Inches from his prize, his hand freezes in mid-air and he draws in an unsteady breath. How had he not heard him approach? Once again, he was thinking more with his stomach than his actual brain, the pathetic thing.

"Do you know the penalty for stealing, boy?" the rider asked, rough and angry. Sammy swallowed hard, retracting his hand slowly. He knew the penalty, all too well. Many a man in Harwood had lost their hand for a quick steal. His heart raced. If he lost his hand, his life was over. He was a blacksmith. He needed his hand or his family would suffer. Yes he knew the penalty, but he wasn't going to motivate the rider further with a reply.

"Are you mute, as well as stupid?" jeered the rider, drawing the blade from Sammy's neck to the centre of his back. "Stand. Now."

Sammy rose with his hands above his head, like a prisoner. His chest panting, he was trembling with resentment and adrenalin. Admittedly, he was a lot of things. He'd lied somewhat, broken young hearts, stole if only to feed his family. He was pending poverty just as everybody else in his wretched village was. He was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. As the blade point nudged down to the small of his back, something clicked within him; a strength and confidence he knew only from practising with a sword, a sword he'd forged himself.

I can disarm him, he affirmed. Sammy took a deep breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the rider, their face hidden in the shadow of their hood. Then, not giving the rider a moment's thought, Sammy turned with the full force of his hips, his hands closing around the sharp edges, his right foot rising and finding a home in the rider's stomach. In pain, the rider released their hold on the sword and crumpled to the ground. Panting, Sammy spun the sword in the air, the hilt landing in his palm and the point directed at the rider. In a moment of silence, he expected surrender. But, unknown to him, the rider was just as stubborn as he and wouldn't be defeated.

Their pain subsiding, the rider grunted; pulling out a leg, hooked Sammy's back leg and tugged sharply. Taken by surprise, he crumpled to the gravel with a groan, the sword still in his hand. Then the rider was on top of him, reaching and fighting for the sword hilt. Yelling, they fought for the sword; the blade threatening to harm them both but neither of them cared. Whoever held the sword held the power, was the dominate fighter. Surprised by their strength, Sammy had a hard time keeping control. For someone so light, the rider kept Sammy on his back; restricting his movement. He realised this quickly and strained to sit up. Pushing up, as if pushing a wheelbarrow of coal, Sammy rolled the rider on their back; still fighting and grunting. The sword now between them, vertical and the blade lingering at their throats, Sammy started to push it toward the rider. Their face still hidden, he felt he was fighting a human possessed by a shadow. Then, as the blade touched their skin the rider gasped and their knee jerked up in a sharp thrust. Sammy choked out a wheezing sound, falling to the side; his hands at his privates. Quickly, the rider sprung up, snatching back the sword and straddled his chest, trapping his arms under his legs.