From Man to Man Page 4

  V.

  'If the others could see me now…'

  Withdrawing into the folds of his cloak, Draven caught his head nodding. Eyelids drooping, each blink taking longer than the last, he fought the waves of exhaustion that beat down upon him like the sun. The sun itself was nowhere to be seen, and the moon held sway, cornering Draven with an army of stars, offering him terms of surrender in sleep.

  'Would they laugh?'

  The sound of his own half-choked snore jerked him awake. Muffling the splutter in the crook of his arm, Draven throttled the axe haft in his grip. The rough wood bit into his palm, though callused as he was, the splinters offered little respite from the temptation to sleep.

  'Would they offer a hand?'

  His leg twitched, and his whole body snapped to, alert. Clarity, though sharp in the bitter cold of the dead of night, was short lived. A yawn threatened him, and though he gritted his teeth, his mouth betrayed him.

  'Would they say 'I told you so'?'

  Cursing, Draven pushed himself upright with the aid of the tree. Stamping his feet to ward off both chill and tiredness, he blew into his hands and cast about for Shrike.

  The Huntsman smiled at him from the low hanging branches of an Emberfen tree.

  "Comfortable?"

  "Don't you start." Draven bent to retrieve his axe, feeling the muscles in his back strain. He straightened with a groan.

  "Too many nights in a warm bed before the fire. That's what your old life was like, wasn't it?"

  "Ha! If only! Life in the Guild was more sleep when you fell, rather than sleep when you wanted." Draven stretched his arms overhead, his back reminding him of the all too many times he had slept rough.

  "Busy times?"

  "Busy business. Been that was since the end of the War, though you'd know that."

  "Why'd you leave?"

  "Why didn't you join?"

  Shrike turned away, thrumming the string of his short bow.

  Thumbing his eyes, Draven yawned again, using it as an excuse for a moment's thought.

  'He chose his own.'

  Draven looked to Shrike, though the Huntsman seemed lost unto himself.

  'I didn't laugh at you.'

  He took a step away from the tree.

  'And though I didn't offer you a hand…I see now that I should have.'

  Another step – a rustle of leaves underfoot, the crunch of dirt, and the snap of a twig.

  'And even now, when you should turn your back on me for how I was…you've helped me…you told me that you always would.'

  A third footfall, and still Shrike would not meet him face-on. He could see the Huntsman's eyes roaming the forest about them, though what little could be seen in the moonlight was nothing but trees and shadows to Draven.

  "Shrike, I-"

  "Ssh!"

  "But-"

  The Huntsman nocked an arrow to his bow and dropped from the branch. Crouching, he darted for the nearest thicket, disappearing with nought but a rustle.

  Despite Draven's more than colourful history, the craft of the footpad was not one familiar to him – in recent years at least. Doubled low, the axe-head concealed in his cloak not to glint in the moonlight, he followed in Shrike's wake. The thicket received him with a thorny welcome.

  "Finished waking half the forest?" Shrike's disembodied voice scolded from the tangle of barbs.

  "Where are you?"

  "Close."

  A hand loomed from the thicket, dragging Draven lower.

  "But he's close, too."

  The hand dragged at him again, this time pulling him deeper into the undergrowth. Pressing himself to the dirt, Draven allowed himself to be led, worming forwards on his belly.

  Reaching the edge of the thicket, Draven felt Shrike tug at his cloak.

  Draven heard rather than saw the arrival – he smelt it, too. A snort of breath, the muffled fall of an iron-shod hoof, and the travel stained perfume of a traveller not long from the road.

  "Ho, rider!" Shrike called out.

  The sound of hooves came to a halt, the horse they belonged to whinnying in protest. Draven felt Shrike move beside him, and before he could stop him, the Huntsman stood up.

  "Ho, stranger!" The rider's tone was pinched, nasally. Though the Arneuton accent was reedy thin as a norm, the man's fear edged a shrill to his words.

  "No such stranger as luck would have it." Shrike stepped clear of the thicket, and Draven made swift pursuit. "We've been waiting for you."

  The relief in the rider's voice was evident, though Draven could still not see his face in the gloom. "Men from the Blacksmith?"

  "The very same."

  "Clansmen?"

  "Show you the markings if you want."

  "Are you armed?"

  "Do you even have to ask?"

  "No, but is it necessary?"

  Draven squinted, trying to make out the man hunched in the saddle. "I don't know…you tell us!"

  He heard Shrike let loose a hiss.

  The Tax Collector did not stray closer, keeping to the shadow of the woodland. "McGowan seems to think so – Abbatte's gavel, I don't know why!"

  "It's said you aren't welcomed with open arms, or open purses."

  "What Tax Collector would be? Begrudged coin and begrudged welcome traded for a thankful goodbye, though little thanks to show for it!"

  Draven turned to Shrike, whispering, "seems harmless enough - though he makes a point."

  "A point?"

  "How the villagers will treat him."

  Shrike laughed, extending a hand to grip Draven's and shake it. "And those villagers won't be getting paid for the pleasure of his company…but we will. Easy coin for easy work – not village work. I told you so."