The Lioness

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Sir Chance Garoll looked ahead at his fellow Knights, five in all, and he the sixth. He looked behind him and sighted down the wide road, flattened earth, dun and sun dappled, straight as a shaft through the woodland. The overarching trees gave him the uncomfortable feeling of riding through a tunnel, one closing behind, opening ahead.

One of his fellows hawked and spat then looked over his shoulder at Chance. “Headsman,” he called, “keep up!”

Headsman. The others laughed, one pulled hard on the reins, making his broad-shouldered mount snort and curvet. “What’s the count, Chance?”

Sir Chance—Headsman Chance—hefted the sack hung from his saddle’s pommel. Blood dripped, staining the ground. When he closed his eyes, Chance could see the killing ground, the sunny green swale in the forest where he and his companions had fallen upon a den of elf highwaymen. The Knights had run through the hapless robbers like death’s own horsemen, swords flashing in whistling descent to swipe off heads.

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