The Bloodied Field and the Archer

         The riders reined in their horses as the farmer stopped near the gate. The man pointed with one knobby finger, the skin rough and brown from his years of working the land, dirt still caked over the knuckles. He had been waiting for someone of authority to come to his humble farm that sat in the shadows of the forest. He worried the blood would be gone by now, washed away by the light rain that had fallen the day before or rubbed off by the sheep as they used the course wooden rails for itching posts. To his delight it was still there, and it was at the small trail of blood that he pointed now.

         "Don't know where it come from," he said, his voice rasping as his tongue struggled to form the words. He lived alone and had no use for the company of others; he never had much reason to speak. "Checked my sheep and cow. Count twice daily. None be missin' an' none been hurt."

         One of the men dismounted with a great sweeping of his cloak, the roan coarser he rode taking two steps back. His deep hood covered his face in shadow, masking the scar that ran horizontally beneath his right cheekbone and the piercing blue of his eyes. He took off one glove, touched his finger lightly to the cold earth and smeared the blood. It had sat long enough to turn brown yet still retained a pool of bright red in the center where it was thickest.

         "How long ago did you find it," he asked as he stood and pulled his glove back on.

         "Three days now. Sent word right when I seen it. Heard somethin' in the night an' went for a look-see at dawn. Plenty o' blood I tell ya but nay a body to be foun'."

         "Right. Let's see if we can pick up a trail in the forest." The man motioned for the farmer to open the gate while the others dismounted. They dropped the reins and spread out over the damp dirt between the farmer's field and the forest; their horses followed a few paces behind, searching not for blood but for exceptionally green patches of grass. Only one man among the five was untrained in tracking, and he rubbed his head as the others knelt down and then stood with a frown and a signal to the rest of the group: there's blood here.

         The leader of the men, a man named Owen Renton, had found one steady trail that led straight to the forest, with another pool at the roots of a young maple tree. His frown deepened as he looked back at his men, the three of them milling around, pushing tufts of grass with their thick leather boots; his charge simply stared into the depths of the forest. He crossed over to the young man. "What do you make of it, milord," he asked quietly.

         The younger man started from his thoughts, surprised both by the voice and the manner of the question. Normally the captain would ask another of his men; their conclusion would be the same. He couldn't help feeling this was a test, and he was hesitant to voice his thoughts.

         "There seems to be a lot of blood for just one person."

         "Person? You don't think it could be from a creature of the forest, milord?"

         Darrak paused, his breath catching in his throat. He ran his hands through his unruly dark curls and shifted his gaze to the three guards. Two of them were still scanning the ground for patches of browned blood; the third was tugging at a patch of thick grass that the horses were interested in. "My lord Darrak," Owen said, shifting so he stood half in front of his charge; he knew that at times the young lord was easily distracted and would be hard pressed to follow through with what he was told or said. "Please speak your mind."

         "Well it seems to me ..." He stopped again, a frown tugging at his usually smiling lips. He crossed the clearing and stood where Owen had been before, at the trail that led away to the forest. "If one were to find blood from animals it would be all in one pool with fur and claws and teeth, at the least. A body maybe. Man is the only creature that takes his dead or wounded away. And man is the only creature capable of attacking from a distance." He held his hands up, imitating an archer drawing back his bowstring, moving his imaginary arrow to each spot of blood that had been found by the three guards.

         They were staring at him now, their dark hair ruffling in the light breeze that was beginning to blow from the south, their mix of grey and blue eyes inquisitive and sharp and disciplined. He dropped his arms to his sides, suddenly embarrassed. Owen went to his side again, threw back the hood of his cloak to reveal a mass of blond hair that seemed to glow golden. His frown was deeper than ever, pulling on the scar near one end and giving the pale line an unevenness that upset the balance of his face. What the boy said could be right, he mused, but there had been no reports of poachers in this area nor of possible scouts from the north face of the mountains. He sighed.

         "Ser, if I may." Garin stepped forward, something clenched in his hand. His scruffy beard was turning a dark grey and growing long; the whiskers had been drawn into one section and tied. He tugged on it when he was contemplative, as he had been while Darrak spoke. Owen nodded and he brought forth a broken arrow.

         "I found it there." He pointed to the horses. "It was stuck in a thick patch of grass, nearly hidden. Can't say whether the tip is broke off there or in a body, ser. But I think the lord Darrak is right."

         Owen glanced down at the earth, the dark brown of the dirt smeared with the lighter rust brown of dried blood. There was something else there. He knelt, scraped the ground with his fingers and freed the object.

         It was material, lighter than any he'd held and softer, not quite white yet not quite brown. One edge was frayed and rough, the other hemmed with tight, even stitches. Strings fell from the weave and disappeared from view as they touched the ground. It was a long strip of material, as though it had been torn from the bottom of a shirt or cloak. He handed it to Garin, the best tracker among them.

         "So the young lord is right about an archer, but what do we make of that?"

         Sabrin and Halverd joined them. They passed the thin material around the group, Garin keeping his opinion to himself until they'd all seen and felt it. He took it back and wrapped it around his fist, putting it beneath his nose and giving it a long sniff. They waited.

         "Bandage."

         "Darrak's archer is injured then?"

         "He would have made a stand here," Halverd declared. "It would make the most sense - lose the enemy following you before you reach territory you're most uncomfortable in."

         "Or territory you're most comfortable in," Sabrin added. "Territory where maybe you're hiding. Perhaps the lord Darrak's archer is a vagabond with enemies in the area and he uses the forest as cover. The wood covers a vast area of potential farmland, comes close to many a town. It would be an easy way to move about if one had the mind to, and the talent for it.”

         “What shall we do, milord?”

         Darrak tensed. That was twice now Owen had asked his opinion on a matter he knew the least about. He was no tracker, a poor hunter, not a man to spend his time thinking out plots and plans and ploys. He couldn’t move as silently through trees and bushes as Garin; he wasn’t as good a healer as Halverd; he wasn’t the tactician that Sabrin was; he was most definitely not a natural-born leader like Owen.

         The Ser Captain of the Royal House seemed to sense his unease at being called upon. “We could follow the trail,” he offered. “See where it leads to and to whom. Or we could leave it alone. We came to determine what happened and we have a good assessment of what might have occurred. The farmer and his flock are in no apparent danger from the archer or the men chasing him; your citizen is safe, Highness. If you desire, we can leave it at that and continue on to your father’s castle.”

         “He’s asked you to test me, hasn’t he.”

         It wasn’t a question, Owen knew, but there was no accusatory tone in the words either. Instead, there was the slight taste of fear and doubt. He did not answer. He knew Darrak better than most, better, some said, than even the boy’s own father. He knew where the insecurity stemmed from; he knew what fed it and gave it such a hold in the young man’s heart. What he did not know was how to end it.

         The others stood uncertainly, trying to forget the prince’s words and the silence of their commander. They looked over at the horses, up at the thin clouds that were coming in, down at the bloodstained earth beneath their boots, into the trees that stood ever vigilant over the land.

         Darrak sighed. “Let’s find the archer.”