Chapter 9

Saved by the Buzzard

Besides two sets of thundering hooves, the forests of Duskwood were silent. The dull clup of horseshoes hitting the cobbled roads echoed in Stefan’s ears. After several minutes of relentless riding, he had grown used to it. But he was agitated as ever, because his quarry had not slowed in the least bit. The hooded man rode on, barely visible in the encroaching fog. Stefan goaded his steed to greater speeds, but he was unable to overtake him.

What’s worse, they were running out of Duskwood. He looked back as the faint outlines of Darkshire disappeared, leaving only the desolate gray of a small opening in the canyons ahead. Stefan knew where they were the minute the air changed; Deadwind Pass was as the name said it to be: dead. A cup of undisturbed water was not nearly as stagnant as the air that enveloped the dark terrain. As he pursued the man into the Pass, he knew things were about to get much worse.

As if in response to his worries, a large buzzard swooped low, its talons missing Stefan’s scalp by a few scant centimeters. Stefan waved his free hand about, throwing wild blows toward the winged villain. It crowed agitatedly in response, apparently turned off by the thought of food that fought back. It turned away and flew out of reach. Stefan smiled as he noticed what it was heading toward.

The buzzard took the man by surprise, nearly knocking him off the horse. He slipped from the saddle, hanging by the stirrups that his feet had luckily become entangled in. He screamed violently as the horse skidded to a halt, putting the man’s head dangerously close to the rugged ground. After the horse settled down, he slowly raised himself back into a sitting position.

Only to be clipped in the temple as Stefan rode by, mace outstretched. The man was thrown over by the momentum of the blow, and rolled several times before coming to a dazed stop. Stefan slowed his steed to a halt, dismounted, and strode over to the hooded figure. In a pathetic attempt, the man raised a hand and began to weakly mutter a spell. Stefan cracked a mace across his fingers, earning a wail from the hooded man.

“It is rude to point at someone,” said Stefan, wrenching the man onto his feet. “Now, give me it to me.”

“What?” replied the man between winces of pain.

“Don’t play stupid. The medallion.”

“No!” said the man, pulling away. “You will bring ruin to us all!”

“I bet. Now hand—”

The man suddenly lashed out with his hand. Stefan felt a jolt of pain rip into his side. He retaliated instinctively, driving the butt of a mace into the man’s throat. As he toppled over, choking on his own Adam's apple, Stefan looked down to where a dagger was lodged in his left side. His face scrunched up as he ripped it free and threw the weapon aside. He felt lightheaded, but let the feeling pass while he regained his bearings. By now the man had stopped choking and wheezing, permanently. Stefan searched the body, finding the medallion clutched in the dead man’s hand. He pulled it free, admiring the craftsmanship of the piece. Still, there was something unsettling about it. He hadn’t been holding it for more than a few seconds and already he loathed its touch. He couldn’t wait to be free of it.

He dropped it in a pouch at his waist, got atop his horse, and rode off. He was relieved when the air of Duskwood began to fill the empty dryness that Deadwind had left in his lungs.