Furley clambered up the hill in the dark, desperate to get away. He could barely see anything in the darkness, and he saw no pathway or footholds in front of him. In fact, he saw nothing. All he knew was that he had to get away, and as the earth underneath him kept dislodging under his boot and rolling away down the hill, he knew they would track him easily.
"Ha'way, boss! Whas' gannin' on? Have we been foond 'er what?" came a voice from below him.
"Search round, lads!" a voice commanded, likely the boss as he didn't even acknowledge his dimwitted counterpart.
But where is the bloodhound?
Furley couldn't help but feel like the one he ought to be nervous of was somewhere about him, skulking around. The pitch black suited him well for he could more easily hide in it, and the fools at the bottom of the hill were still ruining their night vision with the torches.
But the hound would be cleverer than that.
The hill had become much steeper, and as he inched and crawled his way up, he felt it flatten out, and the grass beneath him gave way to stone, grit and gravel. It seemed he had hit a pathway of sorts, or at least a ledge, and as he did, he scrambled onto it.
Rolling over onto his backside to perch, he winced in cramped pain, and began to rub his legs. As he did, bits of wet, clumpy mud fell off his clothes and smeared his hands, and he grunted a little before clambering to his feet.
Peering over the ledge, he looked over and saw two torches at the base of the hill, moving around erratically, looking for him like a needle in a haystack. Scanning as best he could, he looked for any signs of other movement that he could see, to try and work out where the other two were.
And a whistle came from behind him, a little further down the hill.
"Ay, boss! Hunter's found somethin'!" he heard from below, the voice carrying on the wind. It wasn't that which bothered him, though. It was the gentle crunch of debris under boot from close by that did.
Turning to where he heard the noise, he saw a figure in front of him, grinning as it approached.
"Got you, ya filthy little townie!" the man said, a thick wooden club in hand. The man towered in front of him, licking his lips as he bore down upon Furley. However, he was taken aback a little when Furley grinned back, drawing his sword.
Huh, Furley thought. This can't be the bloodhound. the man had practically flinched at him. He didn't think one so sure of themselves would have done so.
"I'm going to smash yer 'ead in!" the man growled at him.
"I'm sure you will. You'll have to catch me first" Furley chuckled, before kicking dirt at the man and running in the other direction, up the pathway.
Pacing as fast as he could, he found an eroded stairway, and began to ascend to where he found himself upon another platform, this one more closed off on one side, with another pathway upward across the other part.
As he stood there, he suddenly felt cold and chilled. The hulking tower of a man wasn't far behind, but it wasn't him that bothered Furley. It was the hooded figure, slender and still, staring at him from the other side of the ledge, blocking his way further up.
Instantly, he felt unnerved at the man who stared at him, cool and composed.
"Are you the bloodhound?" Furley asked, nervous.
"If that's what you wish to call me" the man answered, flat and without emotion.
"Who are you?" Furley asked, feeling the familiar anger start simmering below his surface. The same feeling that rose during confrontation.
"That's of no consequence to you" he answered.
"You bet your arse it'll be of consequence" Furley growled.
"Ah, a threat. How quaint" the man grinned back. "That means you have something to lose here. You aren't sure of yourself, are you?" he smiled again. "Those who threaten are far easier to kill"
Anger flashed across Furley's eyes, and his blade twitched in his hand. "Common looters like you are easy enough to take on" he smiled back, that familiar feeling of dark pleasure taking over him before he engaged in a fight.
"Heaven knows who murdered enough of us common looters in the Chetwood, Furley Brushwood, son of Rastrick" he retorted, flatly.
Shock smacked across Furley's face, and for a moment he froze. "How do you know my name?!" he demanded. "Who the hell are you! And what the hell are you doing with Company boxes!"
The bloodhound tutted. "So many questions" he chuckled, almost maliciously. Was there a hint of anger there? Who was this man?
No sooner had he said it than he lunged at Furley, and he was only just able to twist out of the way in time. The man slashed at him fiercely, then turned after him and began reigning blows down.
Most of them missed, for it was still dark and they only had the reflection of the moonlight. Often, their blades were only visible when they glinted as they twirled, and for the most part they both stayed out of range unless they aimed an attack at the other. It was a strange dance of sorts, moving in and away again, then deflecting as best they could when the other's blade danced too close.
Furley could hear more footsteps approaching now, and he knew that he couldn't keep this up for long. He had to leave, and fast. But he couldn't seem to get away from the bloodhound, who cornered him and almost seemed to be playing for time.
Knowing he had to react, he leapt forward, swung his blade but then brought his fist round as he feinted and the blow cracked into the bloodhound's jaw, sending him flying backwards.
Furley stood over him, the fire rising, willing him to lift his weapon high and thrust it into the bloodhound's chest, almost like a voice in his head. Kill him, now. He'll come for you. He'll try and kill you if you don't. End his pathetic life. He's got the Company boxes. Kill him now.
All the familiar thoughts flashed through his mind, and he felt his anger seething beneath him once again, and his whole mind was once again alight and his cheeks burned hot. But then he saw her face, smiling at him with those eyes. Saw the familiar rags, and that one expression she reserved only for him.
And just like that, his anger dissipated and the flame within him died down, and he felt cool and calm again.
"Who are you? How do you know my name?" he asked, calmly, to which the man didn't answer.
Except for a hot, flash of pain in his leg that almost made him cry out. It had merely scratched him, but a blade had bit into his thigh. It was a shallow cut, but it stung and he stumbled back, but kept his feet.
A sharp kick of his boot into the bloodhound's chest sorted the man, and rendered him immobile. Grunting, Furley huffed in pain, and as the voices came for him from below, he slipped away further up the stairway and away from his pursuers.
Limping away, he thought of one thing, and that was finding shelter and safety before daylight crept over the horizon. But he couldn't shake the thought of the man knowing who he was. How had he known who he was? Curiosity fought his desire to press onward away from Bree and further along his journey, and as it did, he suddenly found his next steps becoming far less clear to him.
