Macster - The Missing Links

Pounding relentlessly along the broad, packed dirt of the only safe road through the Disenchanted Forest, the hooves of Viscount Lansky's noble steed bore him steadily onwards. His cloak billowed behind him with his speed, while his hands clenched the reins in a tense grip. He knew well the legends of this forest...how it never ended, how it could swallow you up and never release you. How it was haunted by spirits, and by the strongly real pursuit of the Queen's Huntsman. But he had no choice. Time was running out...the Troll King advanced further with every day, and it had taken Lansky several hours to make it this far. Wendell had to be found and warned.

Assuming the letter had been genuine, and not the forgery he feared it might be. For the Queen was devious, and could well have intercepted the Prince's true letter as part of her dastardly mischief.

He allowed himself to think for a moment on the Queen's evil, on how he, like everyone else, had been so completely fooled by that secretive, demure little smile. But never again. Whatever she planned this time, he would foil it, he swore it for his prince and his Kingdom.

At a wide bend in the road, Lansky reined in his horse to survey his surroundings. Lifting an iron canteen from his saddlebag and gulping its contents thirstily, he flicked his azure eyes from one shadow to another, ready to bolt at a moment's notice if danger threatened. But nothing appeared, only an intense foreboding chilling his massive frame.

Replacing the canteen, he wiped his mouth, spurred his horse, and continued on, still focused on his perilous but necessary mission.

Within half an hour's time, Lansky had turned off the main road and passed the final mile marker, entering the broad trail that led to Wendell's hunting lodge. Countless trees, as tall and straight as sentinels at watch, lined the roadway on either side, their leafy limbs forming a sheltering bower over the forest loam. Ahead, he could see the lodge itself rising through the trunks and underbrush, a massive stone keep formed of blocks into a squarish profile, adorned by pillars and arches and festooned with centuries of intertwined ivy growth. Weathered battlements crowned its heights, and two wings extended off into the choking foliage and thickets. All in all it was very impressive and daunting, belying the misleading term "hunting lodge". But it did befit the forest residence of a prince.

Reining in his horse at the foot of the lodge steps, the viscount dismounted and took hold of the bridle near the bit, leading the animal after him as he approached the silent structure. It loomed above him, dark and still, and he could see no other horses or carriages around it, although he supposed they could be around back.

"Your Majesty, are you there?" Lansky moved up the steps, his horse's hooves clopping on the stone as he passed under the pillared arch shading the porch. Tentatively he knocked on the red oak door. "Hello?"

No answer was forthcoming.

Worriedly he turned and descended the porch, striding along the wall. He believed there was a side door, somewhere in that direction. Gazing up at the empty, curtained windows, he failed to notice the Y-shaped twig buried in the ground, or the vine-like tripwire that extended across his path.

"Anyone there?"

His boot released the trigger, and with a very soft, faint twang, the rope snapped free of the twig, a rapid, trembling signal sent skittering along it. In seconds the twitching motion was out of sight.

Unaware of what he had just done, Lansky shook his head, eyeing the facade of the lodge with distrust and doubt. Turning back, he saw his horse had followed him, since he had not bothered to hitch him. Taking the reins again, he returned to the door and knocked once more. "Prince Wendell?"

Again, no answer.

Viscount Lansky plastered his gloved hand to his mouth and slid it down his chin in worry and grim certainty. It was as he had feared. The Prince was not here, hadn't been in months. No one had. And if the claim that he was here had been false, then everything in the letter had been a lie. The Queen had struck...and Wendell could be anywhere. Unknowingly approaching danger, or already trapped by it. He could already be too late.

No. He mustn't think that. There was still time.

Hurriedly Lansky used the step to remount his horse and kicked the stallion's sides firmly. At once he leaped into motion, sides heaving and sweat plastering his mane, as he had not yet recovered from the last run. But there was no time to spare for rest.

Once again he bore a message of warning, this time for the Council. The Queen was playing them for fools a second time, and they must act quickly to counter her schemes.

As the distraught rider galloped away from the shadowy, ancient hunting lodge, the whirring, quivering strand of rope bounced and shook, its telltale signal dancing through grassy clearings, across mossy stones, under brush and between tree trunks, splashing along the surfaces of streams, heading ever nearer to the Huntsman's hidden lair.

The wind whined past Lansky's face, causing his eyes to tear, and he rubbed irritably to clear his vision. He simply must return to the palace as quickly as possible. The fate of the entire Nine Kingdoms and his prince's life depended on it! Kicking the horse's sides furiously, he leaned forward and rose up in the saddle, not even paying attention to the forest anymore, so intent was he on achieving his goal.

And that was his fatal mistake.

As he rounded the familiar bend in the road where he had halted earlier, a sense of being watched entered his consciousness, and then a deep ripple of fear coursed along his back. He tried to gallop faster still. And then a swift rustling in the underbrush drew his attention. But before he could even begin to turn, or think to duck, a distant silhouette arose within the shadowed trunks and lifted a crossbow.

Pain blossomed in his chest, an agony of numbness that spread throughout his body, and he screamed. His suddenly nerveless fingers lost their hold on the reins, and with a strange, slow tumble he whirled from the horse's back, cloak flaring wide as he fell.

With an odd sense of detachment he watched the horse gallop on riderless, not even realizing he had fallen, watched the ground rush up toward him. And then he struck, and suddenly pain returned, and he groaned as he rolled over and over until he came to a stop, sprawled on the bare dirt of the roadway.

He knew he was dying. His breath was shallow, weak, rasping, and the arrow spearing upward from his heart, surrounded by upwelling blood, clinched it. His eyes unfocused as he realized, belatedly, that he had been too inattentive. And now he had failed. No one was left to save Wendell, or the Kingdoms, unless the Council could become more than a bunch of squabbling fools, and even if that occurred, it would be too late.

The Queen had won and he had failed.

A tear appeared in his eye as his expression froze in a mask of defeat and horror...

Blocking out the afternoon sunlight winking through the leaves above, the Huntsman strode to the viscount's fallen body. He gazed down impassively at the stricken man's face, then leaned down and casually plucked out the bolt from his heart. Rising upright once more, he tapped the silvery shaft against his palm thoughtfully, looking around the forest, which with the fading of the horse's hoofbeats had become deathly quiet.

One job performed for his Queen, his mistress. And now only one remained.