Wicked Hunt

Chapter Sixteen, Part I

Rafe: Conclusions 

A solid, greying fog resisted any attempts of penetration. The dense rain that pelted the Watch as it approached Hawthorn and its massive, prickly fortress was just as relentless as the strange all-encompassing mist. When they had bedded down for the night in Wessel, the skies had been clear; the moon large and luminous. There had been nothing to suggest the hellish weather they were met with upon waking.

Lightly slipped and sloshed in the sticky mud, losing her footing several times and nearly tipping over. Rafe grunted and tugged his hood over his head, attempting to shield the sheets of water.

"Fucking rain," he heard one of the men mutter behind him, their low voice lost to the wind. A brash gurgling sounded. Then a loud splat. It sounded like someone had taken a tumble in the muck. Rafe attempted a smirk for the first time in seven days, but he didn't turn around to see what had happened. The commotion did not even draw chuckles from the others. The fog and rain were defeating them.

He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. A sick lump had wedged itself deep in his stomach, and he couldn't shake it loose. A nagging worry continually occupied his thoughts. He was missing something. Something too menacing to ignore.

Come to the forest. The Shadow Wood holds the answers you seek...

"Whoa," Rafe called when Lightly slipped again. She staggered as he patted her neck, trying to calm her whimpers and low neighs. He glanced over his shoulder, and he saw his men watching him, shivering and soaking. A hopeful gleam shone in their pupils momentarily.

"Keep moving!" he yelled into the wind. Instantly, the smiles slid down their faces, wet and disheartened as the rain. He muttered to Lightly and himself, "We're nearly there."

For two more hours they edged slowly toward the dark shape of the keep. The village at the front of Hawthorn was deserted, frigid, and lifeless. Not a soul emerged to greet or oppose their entry, the assailing rain their only host. The houses were well-kept and generous, warm hearths could be seen from the windows, shadowy figures darting back and forth in the flickering light.

Finally, life emerged. Two young stable boys ran out to take Lightly's reins. Rafe jumped off her back, his muscles tight with cold weariness. Mud splashed out when his boots connected with the soft ground. His hood was tugged down tighter as he raised his fist in the air to those behind him: the signal to halt until further instructions. If they can even see my hand.

He strode sluggishly to the front door and beat heavily on the thick slab of stone. A grate in the entry was slid open, metal clashing against metal, and a long nosed man with squinty beads for eyes peered down at him. "Who goes there?" he asked haughtily. Already annoyed beyond composure, Rafe flung his hood back, revealing his waterlogged features and hair sticking up fitfully at the top of his forehead.

"The Commander," he replied acidly. The Commander stood on the toes of his boots, grimacing when the leather rubbed his ankles. Still the man looked cautious.

"Open the door," Rafe seethed. "The Watch has come to call upon Lord Jamal Denizen and the hospitality he owes the realm." He shoved his streaming hair out of his eyes. Still the man on the other side did not move. Rafe felt under his drenched cloak for his sword.

"Alright alright." The man's nose twitched as he studied Rafe's movements. "There'll be no need for that." The grate slid closed, jarring Rafe's teeth once more. The door opened with some effort, but the man did not move. Rafe raised his eyebrows pointedly.

"It's Lord Jamal...sir."

"What about him?" Rafe hissed.

"He ain't here."

*****

A meal of warmed bread, seasoned onion stew, and sliced cheese was sat carefully in front of Rafe. A fire burned mercifully next to him in Hawthorn's dining hall. He had bathed and dressed in dry clothing, perhaps Denizen's own or his nephew's. He was alone here except for the frantic servants bustling in and out, eager to do his bidding. The newest of his men were left out in the stables with their horses. The others, with more seniority, were given several rooms down from his own. Christopher and Rufus were among them, but he did not permit them to dine with him, wanting to be alone with his thoughts.

Arriving at the keep and finding Denizen gone was a sorry, inexcusable mistake. His absence only provided more questions that were a long way from being answered. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The words recoiled and sliced into his conscious, berating over and over again. As Rafe chewed, he repeated the mantra, keeping time with each bite.

He wasn't really hungry but ate anyway; the meal serving as some punishment for his foolishness. Oh, if his father could see him now. Trudging through rain and wind to get to Hawthorn, nearly killing the horses, keeping them at a breakneck pace. Eager to arrive and beat some answers out of Five Fingers. He flexed and unflexed his wound fist, then slammed it down on the table. The bowl and plate tittered. His cup tipped over, and the silverware fell to the floor. He sat back, watching the cup roll back and forth in front of him, red cider spilling out of it.

A groaning door. Padded footsteps. Cautious. These people are afraid of me. He barely raised his hooded eyes as the little girl who had brought out his food tiptoed up to him. Several times, she opened her mouth to say something, but each time she faltered.

"Clear this away," Rafe said briskly, putting her out of her misery. She squeaked in agreement and quickly threw a rag over the spilled cider and grabbed the nearest plate. Then, she hurried from the room, leaving the door open when she left. Rafe stared at the table a few moments longer, then stood and strode over to the massive window. He peered out of it, noticing the deep shadows under his eyes in the glass. Blinking, he refocused his gaze to study the landscape, hardly distinguishable in the still blackness of night.

Soon, you'll learn. His father's voice came back to him, and he fought to ignore it.

"Leave me alone," Rafe growled to his reflection. He heard the girl come back in behind him. Swallowing and glowering at the man in the glass, he turned away. She jumped when he spoke.

"I'd like a word with whoever is ruling Hawthorn while Jamal is away," he told her in clipped tones. She blinked at him. He noticed then, giving her his full attention for the first time, that she was only about ten years old or so. Hardly older than his daughter.

"At this hour, sir?" she mumbled, eyes luminous. Rafe glanced at the darkened sky out the window.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Nearly midnight, sir."

He let out an irritated breath. And now the decision came. To be polite or to be an ass.

There was really only one choice for the Commander to make.

He hardly hesitated as he replied bluntly, "Wake them." He crossed his arms, and the girl continued to stare blankly at him.