Sides of War

Chapter Fourteen: A Dagger and a Bow

"Wake up," Draven ordered, nudging Jorlin's side with his boot.

It felt like the night had frozen her body solid. She grunted as she slowly rose, rolled up her bedding, and secured it to her pack. The horses were ready to go, and Draven swiftly mounted Storm.

"Hurry up," he said.

Jorlin rolled her eyes in annoyance, then climbed onto Ignis, clenching her teeth as her aching leg muscles stretched over the saddle. Draven didn't notice as he spurred his stallion northwards. Ignis was quick to follow, and as she rode she watched the sun rise on her right, the clouds reflecting the cold yellow tones on the horizon.

 Several hours later, Jorlin found herself and Draven making their way through a roomy forest. The trees, save for the evergreens, were like skeletons that rattled when the wind blew. Snowfall was recent, for a thin layer of snow rested on the forest floor. They followed a well-worn path that led them safely past dangerous drop-offs and steep hills. They had been traveling through the woods for about an hour when they stopped at a relatively flat area by the path.

"We'll take a break here for lunch," he said, getting off the horse.

Before she could lay down her pack, Draven said, "Come. We need to collect some firewood. Bring your sword."

They both took their weapons from the horses as they headed deeper into the forest. Draven's looked like it had seen its fair share of hardship, while Jorlin's was relatively new-looking.

They had walked only about a hundred feet from camp when a gruff voice yelled, "Alright, hold it!"

Jorlin's heart skipped a beat, and adrenaline shot through her body. Looking over at Draven, she saw that he clenched his jaw and looked around steadily, searching for where the voice came from.

"Drop your weapons."

Jorlin looked over at Draven for guidance, but he did nothing.

"Turn around," the voice commanded.

They did as they were told, and they found themselves before a middle-aged man dressed in not much more than rags. He had a long, unkempt beard and disheveled hair. In his hand he wielded a long dagger. He was undoubtedly a thief.

"I said drop your weapons," he repeated.

"I have a sword. You have a butter knife," Draven growled. "Why are you giving the orders?"

At the thief's signal, an archer revealed himself from behind a boulder, arrow knocked and pointed directly at Draven. He was dressed not much better than the other thief. The archer slowly made his way over to stand beside his companion.

"Put down the swords," the archer ordered. "Or I'll put an arrow through each of your eyes.

Jorlin could only watch as Draven took a step closer to him, his eye storming with anger. "Don't be stupid."

The one with the dagger snorted.

"I'm warning you," barked the archer, pulling his arrow back farther. "Drop the swords."

In the heat of her adrenaline, Jorlin saw clearly what happened next. Draven pushed aside the bow with his free hand with enough force for the archer to release his grip on the arrow, which whizzed into the ground. He swung his sword with a yell, the archer's neck making a terrible cracking sound as Draven's sword sliced halfway through it. He swiftly removed the blade, blood dripping down the edges, and smashed the man's temple with the pommel of his sword. The head made a ripping sound as it tore free of the neck and thumped onto the ground.