Night Blades and Morning Blood

Chapter 2

Not before long the sun was setting in the west over the trees. The day had started bright and beautiful with bird song in the air, but by mid-day the heavens had opened, heavy and unyielding.
The knight stopped just after sun down, taking shelter in an old, burnt out cottage. The dwelling was blessed with neither front nor back door and most of the roof was missing, but it was dry for the most part.
He decided to risk a fire in the hearth, the cold and wet winning out against the ingrained desire to keep a low profile. The flames meant an opportunity to dry his clothes, but his stomach groaned painfully. He hadn't eaten since his burnt breakfast that morning and although was used to hunger (when necessary) he did not like to make a habit of it. Tomorrow he would hunt. Deer, rabbit or even squirrel would do, as long as it was meat and it was warm, but thoughts like that only made his stomach growl worse.
The false knight brought his horse inside too in an effort save it from the downpour, it would need its strength for tomorrow, the journey’s end was still many miles away.
Finally, he plucked straw from what was left of the roof and laid it down by the fire. The bedding was itchy but he kept reminding himself that it was better than the cold stone floor and his horse needed something to eat.
Settled for the night, he inspected his wounds; a deep hole in his thigh greeted him as he unwrapped the bandages and another ached just under his ribs. He had been wounded more times than he could remember and once again his armor had stopped the injuries being much, much worse and hopefully they would no lasting trace but for just another white scar to add to his collection.
Luck had been with him too, the stab in his ribs was deep but the blood had clotted well and the bandages kept him together and prevented the puncture from re-opening. He had been less fortunate with the wound to his thigh, he could feel where the muscle was damaged, and the knife’s track panged as he walked despite the pressure from the wrappings.
As he lay watching the embers dance, his mind wandered back to the map, but clear answers remained elusive regardless of how he arranged the facts in his head. No matter how much he sniffed it or ran the softness through his fingers, its message was still unclear. Disappointed that the cloth’s secrets would remain just that for another sunrise, he settled down and closed his eyes.
He awoke while the moon was still high and full, naked in the night through the section of missing thatch. The fire was burning but a wolf’s howl invited another log to be sure. Most forest dwelling wolves wouldn't venture out of the trees, let alone across a road, a farmer’s field and into a fire lit home but he kept his sword close just in case, the memory of the white wolf pack still fresh.
But wolves weren't the only danger out on the road. Bandits and thieves often camped just inside the tree line and forests across the land were where covens of witches preferred to make their homes. Witches that wouldn’t think twice about a crossing short stretch of open ground to perform their unthinkable deeds.
When he next awoke, the sun had replaced the moon and the hark of crows replaced the howls of wolves. The rain was an ever constant though, still hammering the ground like a thousand liquid mallets. He re-saddled his horse and dressed in his warm but still damp clothes. The false knight packed the cart hastily, but the closeness of the forest thick cautioned him to strap his sword tight to his back.
The rain poured all morning as he rode and was now accompanied by a driving wind. A gale so fierce the knight almost stopped again for fear of being knocked off his steed. Blowing towards the sun his horse swayed and staggered like a sail on the path, the woods giving no protection from the relentless battering.
The rain was normally his favorite weather, it muffled sound, made people look at the floor and cover their heads, made them rush and scamper to be out of it. But most of all it made them immobile. It forced people into warm rooms, away from the fields and forests where he was often called to do his work.
The rain also had an uncanny ability to sooth the knight’s muscles. After a long hard climb or a pursuit lasting many miles, a heavy rain could take away the pain and leave the twitching fibers rejuvenated, ready for the final blow. The cold drops of water exaggerate his sense of touch; the ridges on a daggers hilt, the sharpness of a taught bow string or the softness of a woman's lips. Kissing in the rain. The knight didn't make a habit of it but there was something special about kissing in the rain.
But not all rain was created equal and the flavor of the current downpour was not to his liking. This was a deluge that would take you from dry as a bone to freshly swam before you'd crossed the road. After prolonged exposure, it would make your skin milky white with ridges usually only seen after long baths. It would send the feeling of damp right down to your bones and grab gold of them like invisible, icy hands. And the wind, the wind made the water on his skin and soaking his clothes like a blanket of ice. With every gust, it swept every trace of warmth from anything it touched. In truth, this wind and rain made the knight shiver more than any snow or ice ever had. Without the prospect of a warm fire any man's resolve would quickly shatter like over tempered steel.
Just as the traveler was considering giving in to the deluge and building the biggest fire he could muster, it stopped, as suddenly as it had begun. The wind still howled through the trees and across the fields, but the rain had stopped. That, at least, was something.
The mere sight of the sun was enough to lift the knight’s spirit. The loss of the rain had detracted from the his chill but now the pang of hunger re-appeared with a harsh vengeance. He had to hunt it could be put off no longer. Taking advantage of the mild weather he pulled his horse quickly into the woods lining the road to his left.
He had been riding alongside the sporadic mix of trees since his journey north had begun; it was a very long forest. On his journey to the witch-stricken village, almost two weeks ago, he had dipped into the bare branched forest's supply of pigeon, perhaps today would yield a similar bounty.
He was without his bow as before but there were other hunting techniques that could be just as effective. In the cart his pack held his armor: boots, gauntlets, mail skirt and cuisse, breast plate, pauldrons, grieves and helmet all crafted from steel of the highest possible quality but none of that would be of any use in the silent forest against prey unarmed and unwilling to fight. He rummaged in every pocket and pouch before gathering a pile of brown and yellow leaves and hiding the pack to the best of his ability.
String, finishing hooks and his silver tinderbox were all that could be found; it seemed he'd travelled a little too light perhaps. After filling his belt with tiny throwing daggers, he moved off into the woods his mouth already beginning to water at the prospect of a meal.
The wind continued to dive through the trees and into his face apparently unhindered by either beach or elm. No birds sang on the branches, No animals scampered through the leaf litter. Under the ever-present howl and rustle the knight moved silently.
A few hundred yards into the forest he reached an old, dying oak tree and set his traps with silent concentration. The holes in the weathered trunk and around its roots made it the ideal home for rabbits and squirrels preparing to go into their winter slumber and was as good a place as any for his snares.
Strings tight and hooks poised the knight continued on into the forest.
A small pool rippled with the wind deep in the  thickness of the trees. Moving slowly and silently to the water’s edge he studied its muddy bank. The tracks of wolf, deer, rabbit and pigeon crisscrossed only a small stretch of exposed dirt, the damp weather keeping the footfalls deceptively fresh. The hunter looked up and gazed around the between the trees, hoping that a one of the thirsty animals might still be wandering nearby but he was apparently alone.
He returned his gaze to the pool and saw his own face looking back at him. Brown hair stood atop blue eyes the color of a summer sky. Skin, fair and never touched by the cold steel of a blade covered a strong jaw, dark with stubble. He drew patterns in the water, disturbing and distorting his reflection. It was cold and within seconds his fingertip felt the beginnings of numbness. The same face came back to greet him and melted away again with another swirl of his finger.
The face came back to clarity once more but was disturbed this time by a ripple accompanied by a rustle from across the pond. A rabbit drank heartily from the bank. Lunch! A big lunch too. And a fur hat to keep out the wind? Perhaps not that big, but a must hit target none the less.
The knight drew a dagger silently from his belt, his prey unaware of the impeding peril. Thump! The noise of steal against skull momentarily broke the silence. His screaming belly would be sated. He collected his kill as the blood flowed slowly into the pool, where it danced and swirled in the water. Beautiful! The crimson against the black lake bed, barely visible under the winter sun, the patterns they danced as they flowed and spread were morbidly memorizing.
The limp back to his horse was loud and uneventful. The traps yielded another rabbit and soon the fat from both dripped and danced in the fire. The rabbits were fatty and succulent, and the knight surprised even himself by finishing them both. Right on queue as he licked his fingers, the rain started again; the same as before, driving into his bones and trying to rust the steel of his spirit. But now his fortitude was bolstered by the invigoration of sumptuous meat and the weather would have a harder time grinding him into submission.
Soon the sun was setting again to his left, over the trees only visible in snatched from behind the dark clouds. He decided to ride through the night. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t thirsty, he wasn’t tired so why stop? Why stop on a bed of straw when his own feather bed waited for him? Why stop in a burnt-out cottage with half a roof when hard stone walls and roaring fires blazed for him?
As the sun disappeared and the stars took up their posts, the knight stared into the moon, a bright, pearlescent orb in the sky, unwavering and unmoving. The moonlight shone on every surface, bathing his surroundings in a silver lacquer. The shining visibility was short lived however, as the curtain of rain clouds swept across the night, enveloping everything in darkness. The knight could just make out the dirt road against the not quite as dark green grass that flanked it. His horse must’ve been part owl, he never strayed from the route once, missing every rut and ankle breaking hole like he could see in the dark.
The woods were silent as the grave until once again the howling wolf in the distance caught his attention. It was a quiet howl, perhaps that of a pup; it lacked the depth and length of a howl that struck fear into the hearts of women and children who huddled around fires.
The horse plodded on and on through the rain and the dark, but soon the moon and the stars began to fade once again. The uneasy dawn came into view and the sun pushed the clouds away, bringing a welcome stop to the driving drizzle and more importantly, the wind.
Not long after dawn, before the sun had realized its full potential to shine, the road forked, betraying the reality of just how close to home was.  To the right, he could see the town of Treadknee, its single squat keep surrounded by a grey halo of smoking chimneys and uniform slate roofs.
The right-hand fork, leading toward the small wood-walled town was considerably the more travelled. On this path, the rain had made a quagmire, reviving the smell of slurry and providing a hazardous bog for any foolhardy cart drivers should they take a fancy to spend the day digging out their wagon’s wheels. But on the less travelled road it simply served to feed the great overhanging trees; giant oaks, planted long, long before the knight was born.
The crossroads however, were not as he had left them. As the path split to the left, a mosaic of footprints surrounded the first oak and the adjacent path. The prints were both large and small, shod and bare but all headed off to the west, into the long forest after much, apparently random, congregating.
On the lowest branch of the oak hung three pieces of rope, swaying slightly in the wind, a mere shadow of its former self. Dismounting, the knight crouched with a grimace and inspected the dirt. Directly below the boughs, something odd that didn’t belong, a finger, trodden into the dirt, almost lost in the chaos. A dirty, blood stained digit, female judging by the size and shape, taken above the second knuckle in a mess of white and red.
Oddly, he could see very little blood saturating the dirt and he mused at the wet soil. Had the claret liquid been washed away by the rainstorm? Or was it never there to begin with? Or was the finger simply removed somewhere else and completely unconnected to any of it?
Something nagged in the back of his mind; the destruction of the ground, the three strings of rope and lone severed finger were at odds with the lack of crimson.
There was a soft buzz in the air with an evil tone, almost imperceptible but somehow unmistakable. He had felt the aura before, most recently beside a fire on a hilltop. But this was slightly different, it’s note more malicious, holding disgust at the deed that might have happened. The Knight couldn’t escape the feeling that there should have been… more. More blood, more body parts, more evidence to betray what had taken place, but instead there was just a single severed finger and a confused map of trampling footsteps in the mud.
The knight mused, his face calm, his heart hammering, his mind racing with anxiety of possibilities, the hairs on his nape buzzing. Something so confusing this close to home? Surely nothing good could come of this.
He slipped the finger into his pocket and re-mounted. He could not wait any longer to be home.