Hunter's Pride (Closed)

The last wisps of smoke from the fire floated up into the early morning air before her booted foot ensured the embers wouldn’t catch alight again. Small clouds of ash rising as she did so. Keen eyes swept the small clearing making sure no trace of her time there was left. Covering the blackened circle on the ground that had kept her warm during the darkness and cooked her food was the last thing to do before she moved on. Carefully laying foliage over the top so to the untrained eye there wouldn’t be a trace of her stay, even to one who knew what they were looking for, the signs would be difficult to spot.

With barely a sound she slipped into the trees and continued onward, always onward. It wasn’t wise to linger long here. All manner of things lurked in the shadows, eyes watching hungrily. Hunters prowled these woodlands. Rosalind should know.

She was one of them.

Her eyes were sharp, scanning the trails for the marks her quarry left without realising. Branches snapped by their passage between bushes, marks in the mud, the scent of distant smoke in the air. Picking her way carefully so she didn’t leave a trail herself, she followed him. She’d tracked him through the woods for the last few days and going by the last fire she’d found, he wasn’t far in front of her. Maybe today, definitely by tomorrow, this hunt would be over and then she could…stop.
She’d been hunting for the last five years and she was tired. Ever so tired.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

Rosalind’s childhood had been a happy one, almost blissfully so. Her family were farmers, going back as far as anyone could remember. The stead handed down from father to son, mother to daughter, whichever back was the strongest and head was the clearest would inherit. Given her brother’s love of girls and her attentive ear, she was certain the farm would be hers when the time came. Theirs was an arable holding, with crops going to market to feed those who never prepared the food they ate. Lords and the nobility buying most of what they grew. They weren’t rich but there was always food on the table and clothes for all to wear. The family kept a few cows for milk, some chickens for eggs along with a horse to draw their plough and cart. They were self sufficient.
And that was the problem.

Eyes of those less fortunate and less inclined to hard work saw what they had and wanted it for themselves. One night, when she was just twenty-two, a band from a neighbouring village broke into the farm. To this day she’ll never understand what they thought they’d find but, in the panic and chaos as her father and brother had charged into the barn, her father fell. An over zealous swing of a mace meant he fell into a sleep from which there would be no waking. Running to their father’s aid, her brother had fallen foul of a dagger and by the time she and her mother found them it was too late.

Always a placid and easy going child, Rosalind had found herself filled with pain as she tried to comfort her mother, pain that rapidly morphed into something she barely recognised, darker and far harder to ignore. Anger, hatred and the desire for revenge, all began to flow through her veins. She tried to fight it, pretend it was just a natural reaction to the deaths of those she loved. It was grief. It was just her mind trying to cope with the devastation they’d been left with.

Weeks went by and despite a hefty reward being in place for the capture of those responsible nothing had been done. So Rosalind decided to avenge her relatives herself. Taking her father’s sword, the one he’d received for serving in the last Great War, she dressed in her best dress and rode to the village she was sure was hiding the culprits. She knew she’d attract attention, not least for being an unfamiliar face. To make sure though, her dress was modest in cut but not in colour. Deep red and with just enough of a dip around her neck to show a little of what she had been blessed with. Smiling coyly, she headed into the tavern and asked for water.

She’d been there a little less than an hour and with the right questions attached to the right smiles, she’d figured out who the ring leader was. A young man, barely five years older than her, bragging about how he’d put the wind up some stuck up farmers. A little over an hour later she had him at the tip of her father’s sword, having lured him outside with a wink and a smile, and was marching him towards the house of the local sheriff. The temptation to run him through had been great but she’d resisted. She was better than him. She had to be. She got the names of his friends and by the end of the following week she had single handedly rounded them all up.

She was efficient and unexpected. Her father and brother had taught her well enough how to track and you didn’t grow up in the country and not know how to defend yourself. Rosalind became an unofficial deputy for the sheriff. Helping him to find those that ran out on debts, petty thieves and so on. Then she was called upon by a neighbouring Lord. Someone was stealing livestock from the farms on his land and could she help. All too soon she was known as a hunter, but not of game. She found those who were running and returned them for the bounty they had on their heads.

The majority of the money went to her mother, to help pay for managers and hands to help run the stead, to allow her to buy a little more livestock and more land, improve the yield and take a little of the pressure off. The money also made sure that the connection between her and her family farm was kept hidden. She was simply known as ‘The Rose’, for her name and the red cloak she wore. The hood covered her flowing blonde hair, the curls that helped trap many a man far quicker and more effectively than any weapon could. As yet she’d only killed two men and both were in self-defence. The pair were wanted for helping themselves to the profits of their master, a tailor in one of the larger towns. She thought her reputation would keep them in hand. She’d been wrong. A mistake she didn’t plan to repeat.

This hunt though, she hoped, would be her last. Her mother’s health had been fading over the last two years. No doubt the loss of her husband, and son, had weighed heavily upon her. Rosalind’s departure not long after couldn’t have helped. She wanted to go home, to rest. To sleep in her own bed and not have to worry about keeping a dagger beneath her pillow.

Keeping a hand on the handle of the sword at her waist, hidden within the folds of her cloak, and shouldering her small bag Rosalind trekked deeper among the trees. The man she was seeking could well be dangerous, he’d supposedly killed a man. She needed to keep her wits about her and her blade close. After all, complacency could get you killed.

The man paused and peered into the dappled gloom above. The tall trees grew sparser here and he glimpsed the sun. He reckoned the hour to be approaching noon and a hollow ache in his midriff just above the heavy buckle of his sword belt told him much the same. He lifted his canteen and shook it, grimacing at the empty sound. He needed water more than food so he would not stop, not just yet.

His eyes raked the forest ahead. To his right the ground sloped downward beneath a shroud of fern and rhododendron. That way lay his best chance of finding water soon, although his tracks would be easy to follow through the dense undergrowth. His lips pressed into a bleak, ironic smile at this thought as, with a last backward glance at the trail behind, he plunged into the shrubbery and let the slope carry his booted feet down.

Soon the sun was a faded memory as the forest drew tightly and jealously about him. He moved quickly but not carelessly, though he left enough bent branches and trampled greenery to mark his passage to one who had the skill to see it. His ears were tuned to all the varied sounds around and above him. More than once a startled bird or animal made him freeze, his callused hand snatching at the long knife sheathed at his hip, his eyes narrowed to gleaming slits until his mind convinced his instincts that the alarm was false. Apart from the short, powerful hunting bow over his shoulder, the knife was the man’s only visible weapon. He’d left his broadsword hidden at the forest’s edge. The long heavy blade was cumbersome; it’s use limited in the close confines of the trees. Also, when the time came, the knife would bring him closer to his adversary; murderously close, where the desperate strength of his lean hard body would tip the balance in his favour, or so he believed.

At the bottom of the wooded hollow lay a pool, its shaded waters dark and still. The man knelt by its edge, captivated for a moment by the reflection that stared back at him; wild and unkempt from many days on the trail. He was tired, hungry and alone. Unknowing, he had shed the implacable mask that he habitually wore like an iron-clad shield for his emotions and his innermost thoughts. In that brief unguarded instant he glimpsed a strange, unfamiliar face; tight, pensive and thoughtful. And beneath the scarred brow his eyes were aglow with a strange light; desperate, bleak and... Hunted.

After all, he was.

His name was Hallow, John Hallow. He was a killer and he’d been hunted through the forest for three days and nights.

Hallow thrust his hands into the pool, shattering his reflection and sending bright ripples outward over the dark, placid surface. He lifted his hands to his face, pushed back the heavy cowl of his cloak and ran damp fingers through the tangled mane that spilled forward as he lowered his head.

Sudden and unbidden, an image of his wife’s face floated in the star-bursting darkness behind his tightly closed eyelids. Disdain and irritation were plain in her cool gaze and the curl of her lips; those same lips that had once lifted laughing to his. She had barely glanced at him as they said their goodbyes three days earlier - for all that they both knew he might not be coming home again. And when he’d knelt to kiss his infant son, his beloved Jeremiah, she’d fidgeted impatiently as though she just wished him gone.

The years had stretched the distance between them. At first Hallow told himself it was her way of dealing with what he did; never knowing which goodbye would be their last. But Mia was a hard, unsentimental woman raised in a warlord’s household. She had not changed, not even after she’d pushed their baby son, soft and squealing into the world. It was he who had changed.

He remembered the night Jeremiah was born like yesterday. That night was seared into his brain as though with a brand. It was the night he and Randall’s lads had raided Blackvale and burned it to the ground. He returned in the early hours sodden with beer, blood and victory to find everything had changed, forever. Hallow held his son in his arms for the first time. He’d lifted him to a sky that still shone red with the distant fires and he’d sworn he would have a better life; a peaceful life removed from fear and greed and war. There was no way his son would walk the same hard, bloody road that he had.

Yet, in that instant of soaring emotion and diamond-bright clarity, with his dreams for his son setting his mind ablaze, Hallow had cast down Mia’s dreams of high walls and warriors and women to wait upon them. He’d trampled upon them and Mia couldn’t forget or forgive.

Hallow plunged his head deep into the pool as though he could cleanse it of his thoughts. When he stood, he felt keener and more alert. The water seemed sweet and untainted but he would seek a stream to fill his canteen. As he turned to leave, his eyes caught a splash of colour in the shadows of the pool’s far bank. Blood red petals opened from a bush of thorn. Hallow smiled; a wild rose... how... apt...

She too would need water. She would find his trail, or her reputation was undeserved. Perhaps this was as a good a place as any for them to finally meet.

The day looked set to be a clear one, going by the patches of sky that came into view between the tall tree tops above. Rosalind was glad. There was nothing worse than tracking in the rain. Cold and wet, it was easy to lose focus and trekking through mud meant precious energy was wasted. Not to mention tracks were all too easily lost, any woodland creature scampering through the trees could ruin a trail with ease. That the day was clear and bright was good, in a way it felt like an omen, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

By the time the sun was at its zenith Rosalind thought she wasn't far behind him and so allowed herself a rest and even built a small fire to make a mug of tea. Inhaling the fragrant leaves as the tea infused the boiling water with flavour she smiled. It was a blend made by her mother, fresh and invigorating; she always made sure she carried a pouch of it with her when she was hunting. On the nights when she felt alone and vulnerable, the smell made her feel calm and the herbs within the tea usually helped her settle enough to sleep.

Today the tea helped her remember why she was doing what she did. Every criminal she apprehended, every villain she stopped, it helped lighten the weight upon her conscience that she’d been helpless to help her father and brother. The tea helped her focus on the true bounty waiting at the end of this hunt.

Home. Rest. Peace.

Draining her cup she rose to her feet. She didn't want to stay put for too long, after all, every minute that passed was more time for her quarry to increase the distance between them. Dousing the flames with the dregs from her tea she buried the ashes and continued on her way. Pulling her cloak a little closer, the trees grew closer and closer together and the air between them grew cooler and the light faded. By the time she saw his trail take a sudden turn down an overgrown bank, she couldn't really tell whether it was day or night any more.

Carefully, and quietly, she drew her sword and started to follow the trail of snapped ferns and marks in the mud down the slope. Treading carefully with her eyes darting around to make sure she wasn't walking into a trap, Rosalind moved onwards. It was silent, not even birdsong could be heard. That in itself was a sign. Someone or something had been here recently. Maybe they were still around. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled at the thought.

When the ground levelled out she found herself stood at the edge of a sizeable pond. The marks in the mud carried on for a little way around its edge but somehow, she knew, she wasn't alone near the water. Dipping into a crouch, she dropped her free hand into the water and licked a few drops from her fingers. The water wasn't as fresh as it could have been but it was clean. It would do if she didn't find moving water nearby. No doubt the man she was following had had the same thought. Moving a little further around the edge of the woodland pool, she shrugged off her small pack and leant it against the trunk of a tree. Slipping a small knife out of a side pocket and hiding it underneath the bag. With her sword visible in her hand she knew that if the man she was hunting was there, it would be that he would probably try to relieve her of. A little extra protection was a matter of course in her profession, which was why there was a second sharp dagger concealed in her boot.

Standing back up she took a deep and steadying breath. Then with her sword held before her she turned back to the water, her free hand reaching up to push the hood of her cloak back from her head. She needed to know she could see and hear as much as was humanly possible.
"I know you're there," her voice seemed extremely loud against the hush of the trees, "I know you have to be as tired as I am."
She began to follow what remained of the trail she had been following for days.
"You could carry on, try to lose me, but we both know that's not going to happen."

Rosalind paused, in her speech and in her motion. Eyes quickly scanning for the slightest sign of movement, ears listening for a sigh or a laugh. She'd caught many men by pricking at their pride. This one, though, he was different. He was good, very good. She'd been able to follow him which had made it both easier and more unsettling. It almost felt too easy at times to follow his tracks. As if...he hadn't tried to hide them, not really. Men who didn't know what they were doing, men running scared, left signs all over the place about which way they were going and how long it had been since they'd moved on. This one, he'd left hints at his path but she knew it wouldn't have taken much more effort on his part to conceal them entirely. Either he didn't know better, or he knew too much.
Running her tongue over her lips she stalked on a few more paces, leaving the edge of the water and stepping into the trees.
"You can't run forever."

Rosalind frowned when the silence after she'd finished speaking drew out.
Maybe he had moved on after all.

"No one can do this forever." She muttered wearily to herself, turning and heading back to her pack. She could camp here for the night and pick up the trail she was sure he had left behind when the sun was back up, maybe even before if she slept well enough to wake up before dawn. Although given the gloom in this part of the woods it made little difference whether she pursued him in daylight or dark. She took off her cloak and draped it across her pack, rolling her shoulders as she got used to it's weight being gone. Taking her practically empty flask to the water's edge she put her sword onto the ground beside her and pushed it into the pool. Bubbles rushing to break the surface as it filled.

One more night, then. One more night out in the cold with a weapon in her hand and then she could head home at last.

"You could carry on, try to lose me, but we both know that's not going to happen."

The girl had guts, Hallow had to give her that. Grudging admiration was just one of the emotions that surged through him as, finally, he sighted her. After all, she was stood in the open; her sword poised, her shoulders thrown back, while he skulked under a bush like a snake.

Hallow lay in wait on the far side of the pond, watching the trail from a thicket. He didn’t have to wait long. She was closer than even he guessed. He watched as she emerged from the trees, her slender figure swathed in the scarlet cloak, her throat so pale in the forest gloom. Hallow thought of a slim, red candle burning in a darkened cloister. Then she drew back her hood and he sucked his breath through his teeth.

The Rose’s challenge and her courage surprised and stung him in equal measure. He’d imagined a cautious, stealthy approach. After all, she probably needed to take him alive in order to collect the Sheriff’s bounty. That fat, sanctimonious fool would want to parade Hallow before his wide-eyed, simpering public. He would be dragged in chains through the thinly disguised farce of the court and then death would finally be dealt him; kicking and pissing his life out at the end of a rope in order to satisfy their notions of justice.

A host of scenarios for her attempts at his capture had played through his mind over the past few days but none had her so bold, so brazen.... The girl’s eyes swept the bushes where he lay hid. Briefly they seemed to meet his and Hallow stiffened even though he knew she couldn’t possibly see him in the half light across that dark stretch of water. No not brazen, he corrected himself. There was no bravado in her clear, searching stare. She was tired yes, but resolute and so ...alive. And there was only the faintest glimmer of the fear that he knew would swallow her if she wavered for an instant.

Hallow metally shook himself; she would not waver and neither must he! He had the advantage and he must take it. Connaught only needed that pretty cloak and maybe a finger or an ear in order to pay on their deal. And what a pay out! The Rose must have inconvenienced the gang master greatly for him to offer Hallow such a sum. Enough perhaps to take Jeremiah from the cold bosom of his wife and make a new life for them far away. It would be enough to make a start anyhow... An arrow through that soft white throat is all it would take. All.

Hallow licked his cracked lips as he reached for his hunting bow and a black-fletched arrow. The Rose was kneeling now, filling a canteen; oblivious vulnerable. When she stood....

Hallow froze, kneeling with an arrow nocked to the string. Something in the trees a few hundred paces from the girl caught his eye. Two figures were threading between the black trunks towards her and he thought he saw a third moving in the darkness behind them. To Hallow’s experienced eye there was no mistaking the purpose in their movements, nor the glint of naked steel.

Bastard! Hallow fumed, consumed now by an icy fury. Did Connaught not trust him to do the job right?!.. Did he feel the need to send more of his thugs for the girl? It might be that she’d made other enemies, of course... No matter - The Rose was his! He needed this... He needed her. It would be John Hallow and no other who took that cloak and traded it for gold.

“Rose! ‘Ware to your left!” Hallow bellowed as he stood and loosed his first arrow at the bigger of the two, startled men. Hallow had time to loose again and then he was running, his long knife drawn, leaping briars and dead trees, to reach her before they did...

The bellowed cry and the whistle of the arrow pierced the air instantaneously and Rose was on her feet before she heard the groan from behind her as the arrow apparently found a home. Undoing the clasp at the neck of her cloak, the heavy fabric dropped to the ground, losing it's weight would make it far easier to move. With her sword in her hand she saw the man who had shouted appear from the undergrowth before her, his attention still focused behind her. She should cut him down, certain he was the man she had been pursuing but he had warned her and that meant it was likely that there was more than one person behind her to take care of.

Whirling on the spot she came almost face to face with a large man, his expression grim and his sword flashing bright in the gloom as he charged towards her. As he lunged, she twisted to the side, dodging his thrust and bring her sword down in a sweeping arc across his back. Hearing him hiss, she turned back to bring her sword down again as he stood up. This time he didn't return to his feet, falling with a relatively dull thud into the bushes.

The clatter of metal against metal behind her alerted her to the arrival of another man. The one who had leapt from the bushes was currently trying to gain the upper hand against him and seemed to be winning. Turning her attention to man his arrows had pierced she approached him warily, fingers relatively loose around the handle of her sword. Should he be faking death and try to knock it away, she had her dagger to hand and was sure she could finish him off. He didn't move, even when she straightened and prodded his back with her boot.

Turning back, the two men were still struggling to overcome one another. One of them appeared to be injured, crimson was smeared across the clothing of the man who had warned her. A shove from the man attacking him sent the pair of them back towards the water. There was a splash and Rosalind cursed under her breath, her pack sinking into the murky depths. Before she could mourn it's loss the fight seemed to come to an abrupt end. A well timed punch and a thrust with his knife and the man she believed she had been hunting ended the life of the one attacking him.

For a few moments nothing happened. Both Rosalind and the man she thought was called Hallow stood and caught their breath. As he stepped away from the edge of the water, she quickly crossed the distance between them until she was blocking his path. Ending up stood in almost the same spot she had been when he had called out. Her cloak in a heap beside her feet.

"You clearly know who I am, and I believe I know your identity too." Her eyes moved over him. He looked tired but not beaten. She'd seen for herself that he knew how to handle himself so she couldn't afford to be complacent for even the smallest instance.

"Before I place you in irons, for that it surely what must follow in the near future, I must thank you." She smiled, the expression grim on her face.

"You saved my life just now and for that I am thankful, I will make sure those that seek your capture know of your gallantry and perhaps it will soften the hearts of those that will sentence you." She bowed her head ever so slightly in his direction.

"But, gallantry cannot erase what you have done and so I must charge you to lower your weapon and agree to come with me."

She knew it wouldn't be as simple as that, it couldn't be. What she didn't know was how he would react and what it was he wanted. She also knew that even if he consented to accompany her without a fight, her pack was now somewhere at the bottom of the small pond, her provisions lost for the moment. She would need to either get it back out, there was little inside that would be overly damaged by the water, or find out what he had to that they could use. Her sword remained between them, the point in his direction and level with his chest.

"You can come quietly or noisily but I will not ask you a second time."

Hallow regarded the girl as he struggled to catch his breath. The fight had been short but desperate. The hammer of his heart began to slow but as his chest heaved Hallow felt a sharp pain in his abdomen and he knew, without glancing at his blood-drenched shirt, that the man’s knife had gashed him deeply.

Hallow wanted to throw back his head and howl like a wounded dog. He’d made a mistake. He should have let them have her and then set an ambush and taken her for himself . He’d acted like a hot-headed fool and now he was at a disadvantage. By showing his hand too early he had wound up looking at the Rose down the bright length of her sword. It was not what he would have chosen.

Her eyes fenced silently with his as they faced each other in the gathering gloom. She wanted him alive but he knew she was ready to kill him if she had to. Hallow had seen her take her man. She was quick and agile, unhesitant and sure. She wanted him alive and in that circumstance lay opportunity - that and the fact she surely didn’t know he needed her dead.

The fever of the fight subsided. Hallow felt weak and tired but his mind had stopped churning, enabling him to think at least.

“I know who you are,” he said, “and I’m damn sure you know who I am. You’ve been tracking me through the trees these past three days, after all. But what now?”

Hallow spread his hands and advanced a pace, his eyes dancing between her face and the trembling point of her sword.

“Here we are... You’ve found me! And, gallant or not, I reckon I have just saved your skin, girl. You say you want me in irons, but I wonder if those bracelets you brought for me aren’t at the bottom of that pond along with everything else you need to get us back to wherever you came from.”

Hallow watched her through narrowed eyes but the girl’s face was a mask; a pale and lovely mask, bone white and glowing in the dusk. She’d dropped her red cloak and her golden hair spilled and coiled around her slim shoulders like autumn fire. Hallow imagined the feel of it in his hand, between his fingers, wrapping his darkly scarred fist...

Her face seemed to expand then shatter apart then coalesce again as a thousand fragments came together, above him now and staring down. Hallow realised he was on his knees holding himself off the ground with one hand while the other clutched his abdomen, coming away warm and blackly smeared...

Hallow tried to laugh but his throat was dry and what came out sounded more like a groan. “Looks like you will have to carry me.. girl....” He tried to speak again but his tongue felt thick and not like a part of his mouth. He stopped trying and darkness fell.

She tightened her grip on her sword as he suddenly swayed and sunk down onto his knees. She'd seen many methods used to try and catch her off guard, injury was a popular one. But as he moved a hand from his stomach she saw the worrying colour staining his palm. It seemed this time the faint was genuine. He tried to speak but then his eyes rolled and he slumped onto the ground. For a second or two Rosalind waited, he didn't move. He barely seemed to be breathing. Creeping closer she dropped down beside him, keeping her weapon pointed at him, and laying her free hand against the side of his neck to seek the beating pulse that would indicate he was still alive. Too quick and it would be a fake on his part, adrenalin pumping his heart more than he could slow. Her fingers felt a thready beat and she knew she would have to act fast if she were to save him.

Dropping her sword, she rolled him over onto his back. Her delicate features wrinkling with disgust as she saw the messy wound to his abdomen.
"Luckily, for you," she groaned, hands working to pull his clothing away from the wound, "you're worth more to me alive than dead." Her dagger made quick work of cutting the shirt away and cutting away the bloodied section before balling it up and pushing it down hard against the wound. Elbow down on the bundle of cloth to maintain the pressure, she worked to loosen his belt and then dragged it up until it was over the shirt. Tightening it back up she knew she'd have to clean the wound properly and dress it if he was to stand a chance. He'd lost a lot of blood already and she didn't know how deep the cut actually went.

Hoping the pressure of the shirt beneath the belt would help stem the bleeding, she moved to the edge of the pond and thrust her arms down into the black water. She needed her bag. Leaning a little further over the edge, she leant further into the pond. Hands sweeping back and forth, brushing plants and what she thought might have been a fish or a frog. Whatever it was it didn't stay around long enough for her to feel it a second time.

"Damn!" She exclaimed, sitting up and shaking water from her arms and hands. A glance back over her shoulder towards her unconscious quarry made her frown deepen. Rising she headed towards where he had appeared from. Reasoning he had to have had his own supplies with him, she looked among the bushes and ferns until she found a pack. Heavier than she expected, she carried it quickly back to his side and began unbuckling the straps.

"I don't usually do this," she muttered to him as she flipped the lid of the pack back and began looking inside, "I leave the pickpocketing for the people I capture but, needs must."
A short search soon revealed some dry kindling and a flint along with some meagre rations, what looked like a salve of some kind and clean clothes. Laying what she'd found onto the moss that covered the ground, she delved back into the bag, this time searching for weapons he might be able to use against her later. She found a small bundle of leather in the very bottom of the bag with something hard at it's centre. Gingerly, she withdrew it and sat back on her heels to unwrap it.

Once the dark leather lay open in her palm her expression was one of confusion. There was no weapon, no deadly poison he could slip into her food. Instead there was small wooden horse. Rather crudely carved but as she turned it over in her fingers it was smoothly finished, it had obviously been made with love if not with talent. There were initials on it's stomach but the dim light wasn't enough to read them. Rosalind glanced back over her shoulder at the unmoving man behind her. A lover's token perhaps? A child's toy? Frowning she looked back at the horse before quickly wrapping it back up in the leather and forcing it back down to the bottom of the pack. She didn't want to think about it. Thinking about him having a wife or child made it harder to be ruthless about him.

Pushing the pack aside she set about cleaning and dressing his wound carefully. Her nose wrinkling as she wiped away the clotting blood from the injury. She hadn't been lying when she'd described him as being worth more to her alive. It was a lesson she had learnt the hard way but to take back a body almost always meant a reduction n her fee. With the threat gone, there was little reason to pay her so much. If he was alive and she was underpaid, those who hired her could easily find that he had been freed and she would need to be paid again to recaptured him. As well as the practical element that if he was alive, he could walk himself out of the woods and carry his share of the weight.

Once the wound was covered with clean cloths and bandaged tightly with material torn from one of his shirts, she lit a fire near to where he lay and then returned to the water to try and retrieve her pack. She had food they could both eat but it was useless to them both at the bottom of the pond. Certain it was just out of reach she peeled off her dress, wet clothes did not dry well in the shadows of the woods, and with a gasp at the temperature she slid down into the water. It was cold and the bottom was covered in a film of slime. Moving her feet around in cautious circles she soon kicked what had to be her bag. Taking a deep breath she ducked down and picked it up from the bottom. She pulled herself up and out of the water and hurried over to the fire. Her pack was well waxed to keep her things dry in even the worst of the winter storms and so had served to keep her belongings dry. She hung her dress over a low hanging branch to keep it from the damp ground and sat beside the fire. Pulling out a blanket she wrapped herself in it and waited for the fire to chase the chill out of her body before starting to make them some food.

One eye on him the entire time and one hand hovering over the handle of her sword.