The mare's steady rhythm beneath him had lulled Gregory into a false sense of security. The road west from Bridane had been quiet for hours, winding through farmland that gradually gave way to scattered woodlands. The sun had passed its zenith and was beginning its slow descent when Gregory first noticed something amiss.
A fallen tree blocked the road ahead—not unusual in itself, but something about its placement struck him as deliberate. He slowed the horse, scanning the surrounding trees with newfound wariness. The woods had grown thicker in the last mile, perfect cover for anyone wishing to remain unseen.
"Steady," he murmured to the mare, who had begun to shift nervously beneath him, sensing his tension.
That's when he heard it—a faint rustle of movement from the underbrush to his right. Gregory's hand moved instinctively to the knife Lord Halvorn had provided, but he kept it sheathed. Better not to appear overtly hostile if this was merely a traveler taking a rest off the road.
"Hello?" he called out, trying to sound casual despite the prickling sensation at the back of his neck. "Is someone there?"
The response came not in words but in action. Four men emerged from the trees, positioned to surround him. They were rough-looking, unshaven, with the lean, hungry look of those who lived by taking from others. Two carried crude clubs, one a rusty sword, and the fourth—the largest and most imposing—held a loaded crossbow pointed directly at Gregory's chest.
"Well now," the large man said, his voice gravelly from years of hard living, "what have we here? A fine horse, fine clothes... a nobleman's messenger, perhaps?"
Gregory assessed his options rapidly. Four against one were poor odds, especially with that crossbow trained on him. He could try to charge through them, but the fallen tree blocked the most direct escape route.
"Just a traveler," Gregory replied, keeping his tone even. "Heading to Huster on business."
"Business, is it?" The leader grinned, revealing several missing teeth. "Must be important business, judging by that fine mare. What's in the saddlebags, traveler?"
Gregory shrugged, affecting nonchalance while his mind raced. "Nothing of value. Some dried meat, a change of clothes. I carry no valuables."
"We'll be the judge of that," the man with the rusty sword said, stepping closer. "Dismount, and do it slowly."
Gregory considered his options. The quality of his mount and equipment had clearly marked him as a worthwhile target. If he surrendered now, they would take everything—the horse, his supplies, the money Bryce had given him, and most importantly, the wooden falcon token that was his only means of convincing Abigail to help them.
He couldn't allow that to happen.
"Of course," Gregory said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "No need for violence. I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."
He began to swing his leg over as if to dismount, watching as the bandits relaxed slightly at his apparent compliance. The crossbow lowered a fraction—not much, but enough.
It was now or never.
In one fluid motion, Gregory swung back into the saddle and dug his heels into the mare's flanks. The horse, sensing his urgency, leapt forward with explosive power. Gregory aimed not for the road but for a narrow gap between two of the bandits, the ones with clubs who posed the least immediate threat.
"Stop him!" the leader roared, but Gregory was already past the stunned men, the mare's powerful stride carrying them into the dense woodland.
Branches whipped at his face as he urged the horse deeper into the forest, away from the road. Behind him, he could hear shouts and the crashing sounds of pursuit. The mare responded magnificently to his guidance, weaving between trees with a grace that belied her size.
For a moment, Gregory thought they might make a clean escape. Then came the sharp twang of a crossbow, followed by a searing pain in his left shoulder. The impact nearly knocked him from the saddle, and he clutched at the horse's mane to keep himself upright.
"Keep going," he gasped to the mare, who seemed to understand the urgency in his voice. She maintained her pace, putting more distance between them and their pursuers with each powerful stride.
The forest blurred around him as pain radiated from his shoulder. Gregory could feel warm blood soaking through his shirt and new cloak, but he dared not stop to examine the wound. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit grew fainter, then disappeared altogether. The bandits had given up the chase, unable to match the mare's speed through the dense undergrowth.
Gregory allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction before the reality of his situation set in. The crossbow bolt jutting from his shoulder was a serious problem, but perhaps not as serious as the fact that he had no idea where they were. In his desperation to escape, he had veered far from the road, deep into unfamiliar forest.
The mare slowed to a trot, then a walk, her sides heaving from the exertion. Gregory's vision swam, darkness creeping in at the edges. He fought to stay conscious, knowing that falling from the saddle now could be fatal.
"Just a little further," he whispered, though he had no destination in mind. "Find water. You need water."
As if understanding, the mare adjusted course slightly. Gregory surrendered to her instincts, focusing all his energy on simply staying mounted. Time became meaningless, measured only in waves of pain and the steadily growing wetness along his side.
When the mare finally stopped, Gregory was only dimly aware of their surroundings. They had reached a small stream, and the horse had lowered her head to drink. Gregory blinked, trying to clear his vision. They were in a small clearing he didn't recognize, with no sign of the road or any human habitation.
With the last of his strength, he slid from the saddle, landing hard on his knees beside the stream. The movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his shoulder, and he bit back a cry.
Cold water splashed on his face as he dunked his head into the stream, the shock momentarily clearing his mind. Gregory looked up, taking in his surroundings more fully. Unfamiliar trees, unfamiliar terrain, the sun already beginning to dip toward the horizon. He had no idea how long they had been riding or in what direction.
The map Taren had given him was in his saddlebag, but Gregory doubted it would help. He had veered so far off course that he might not even be on the charted territory anymore.
"Uh oh," he murmured, the inadequacy of the phrase almost comical given his dire circumstances. He was lost, wounded, with night approaching and no shelter in sight. And somewhere behind him, bandits who might still be searching for their escaped prey.
Gregory reached for the bolt in his shoulder, hissing as his fingers made contact with the wooden shaft. It hadn't gone deep—the heavy wool of his new cloak had absorbed some of the impact—but it was firmly embedded in muscle. It needed to come out, and soon, but removing it would cause more bleeding.
First things first. He needed to stop and assess. The mare had found water, which was essential. Now he needed to find shelter, tend to his wound, and figure out where the hell he was.
Gregory tore a strip of fabric from his shirt and soaked it in the stream, using it to clean the area around the bolt as best he could. Each movement sent fresh waves of pain through his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and continued. When the area was as clean as he could make it, he braced himself for what came next.
With one quick motion, he snapped off the fletched end of the bolt, leaving only the shaft and head embedded in his flesh. The pain was blinding, and for a moment, Gregory thought he might pass out after all. He breathed deeply, waiting for the worst to subside.
The bolt would have to stay in until he found better circumstances to remove it. Pulling it out here, alone and with no way to properly treat the wound, was too risky.
As the sun continued its descent, Gregory forced himself to his feet. He needed to find shelter before darkness fell completely. Leading the mare by her reins, he began to walk downstream, hoping the water might lead to civilization—or at least a defendable place to spend the night.
His steps were unsteady, his mind foggy with pain and the beginnings of fever. The mare followed docilely, occasionally nudging his good shoulder as if encouraging him to continue.
"Some escort I turned out to be," Gregory muttered to the horse. "I wonder how Bryce is faring back in the capital. Probably having a nice hot meal right about now, while I'm out here bleeding in the wilderness."
The mare snorted, as if in agreement.
As the last light faded from the sky, Gregory spotted what looked like a shallow cave in a rocky outcropping near the stream. It wasn't ideal, but it would provide some shelter from the elements and potential predators.
He guided the mare as close as possible to the entrance, then used the last of his strength to unsaddle her. He couldn't risk having her wander off in the night, so he looped her reins around a nearby tree, giving her enough slack to graze but not to stray far.
Inside the small cave, Gregory unrolled his bedding with one hand, movements clumsy and slow. The wound in his shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a constant reminder of his predicament. He fumbled in his saddlebags for the provisions Lord Halvorn had provided, finding dried meat, hard bread, and—blessedly—a small flask of spirits.
The alcohol would serve as both disinfectant and pain relief. Gregory took a long swallow, welcoming the burn as it traced a path to his stomach. Then, with shaking hands, he poured a measure over the wound, hissing as it made contact with torn flesh.
Night had fallen completely now, and Gregory dared not light a fire. The bandits might still be searching, and a flame would only draw attention to his hiding place. Instead, he huddled in his cloak, chewing mechanically on the dried meat, trying to maintain his strength.
As exhaustion overtook him, Gregory's thoughts turned once more to his mission. He was supposed to be finding Abigail, convincing her to help Bryce. Instead, he was lost in the wilderness with a crossbow bolt in his shoulder and no clear path forward.
"Well done, Gregory," he murmured to himself as his eyes grew heavy. "Another fine mess you've gotten yourself into."
With the mare's soft breathing as his only company, Gregory slipped into a fitful sleep, unsure what the morning would bring or if he would even survive to see it.
