Gamble King Chapter 40. Escape . Part II and Final

Max woke up with jerky in his mouth.

The taste hit him first: salt and smoke and something gamey he couldn't identify. Then the cave. Warm stone at his back. Bro's faint glow painting shadows on the walls.

He gasped, sitting up so fast the jerky fell from his lips.

Tarak scrambled backward, favoring his wounded leg as he moved. The spear came up, tip pointed at Max's chest. The kid's eyes were wide.

"Sorry," Max said, hands up. His heart was hammering. He could still feel the arrows punching through him. "I just remembered something."

Tarak stared at him for another few seconds, then slowly lowered the spear. He looked at Max the way you'd look at someone who'd just started speaking in tongues. One eyebrow went up. "You remember something and jump like bear is eating you?"

"Something like that."

"Hmm." Tarak settled back down, but he kept the spear close. He picked up his piece of dried meat and bit into it, chewing slowly while watching Max. After a moment, he said through a mouthful of jerky, "You are strange, Harek."

"Yeah, so I've been told."

Max stood up and walked to the cave entrance. His legs didn't hurt. His shoulder was fine. No arrows. No blood. Just the memory of dying, fresh and sharp and entirely useless for anything except keeping him awake at night for the rest of the day. Not that he'd sleep much today. Assuming this would be the last today.

He'd thought about going back further. Two days, maybe three. Get ahead of this whole mess before it started. But that would put them back in Wendigo territory, and Max had no idea when that thing had started tracking them. Could have been following them for a week. Could have picked up their scent the moment they entered the northern woods.

And even if they avoided it somehow, Tarak had said the White Hands were expanding. New villages. New territory. Which meant Max would have run into them eventually anyway, just with less information and probably fewer arrows.

At least now he knew where the ambush was.

Small mercies.

"Finish your jerky," Max said. "Then we go down."

Tarak picked up his own piece of dried meat and bit into it, chewing slowly while he watched Max with that same weird expression. Suspicious, maybe. Or concerned. Hard to tell.

A few minutes passed in silence. Max started gathering his things, checking the straps on his pack. Tarak ate, methodical and unhurried despite everything.

"I am ready," Tarak said. He was standing now, weight on his good leg, spear serving double duty as a walking stick.

Max crouched down. "Come on."

Tarak didn't argue. He climbed onto Max's back, arms settling around his shoulders, careful not to squeeze too tight. His spear he held in one hand, the shaft resting against Max's arm.

The descent was easier this time. Max knew exactly where the loose stone was—about fifteen feet down, slightly to the left of a crack in the rock face. He avoided it, placing his foot two inches to the right instead. Tarak's arms stayed loose around his neck. No strangling. No panic. Just quiet breathing and the occasional shift of weight as Max found new handholds.

They reached the bottom.

Max set the kid down and stood there, hands on his knees, pulling in air. His lungs burned, but not like before. Not like when he'd been sprinting with arrows in his back. This was just exertion. Normal, regular, you-just-climbed-down-a-cliff-with-a-teenager-on-your-back exertion.

He straightened up after a moment, breathing evening out.

"Where?" Max asked.

Tarak pointed east, toward where the sun would eventually rise. "Through the trees. My village is—"

"No."

The kid's hand dropped. "What no?"

"We'll be ambushed." Max bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. "The road to your village. The White Hands know it. They'll be waiting."

"There are many roads. Shortcuts." Tarak shifted his weight, wincing slightly. "We can—"

"They know those too." Max straightened up. "These are their lands too. They'll have people watching every approach they think we might take."

Tarak was quiet for a moment. His jaw worked like he was chewing on the idea, testing it. "You think they plan for us."

"I think they're not stupid." Max looked around, trying to orient himself in the growing light. "They used a Blindrage yesterday. That's organized and tactical. They're not just raiding parties throwing spears at whatever moves."

"Yesterday?" Tarak's brow furrowed. "We did not see White Hands yesterday. We were in cave."

Max waved that off. "Figure of speech. Point is, they'll have the main routes covered. Probably the side routes too."

It made sense now that he was saying it out loud. Made so much sense he wanted to kick himself for not thinking of it the first time around. The horn he'd heard hadn't been a hunting call. It had been coordination. Prey spotted. Moving east. Get into position.

And they'd gotten into position perfectly.

"Harek is wise," Tarak said quietly.

"Yeah, well." Max rolled his shoulders, working out the tension from the climb. "Wisdom doesn't count for much if you're dead."

"Then we find different path."

"Right." Max took a breath. "If you were a White Hand—"

"I am not a White Hand!" Tarak shouted, expression sharp.

"I know, I know. Relax." Max held up his hands. "I'm not saying you are. This is hypothetical."

"What does that mean?"

"It means—" Max started, then caught himself. They were wasting time. "Forget it. Just tell me where to go if someone knows all the roads to your village. Where's the path they wouldn't expect?"

Tarak thought about that, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. His fingers drummed against the spear shaft. "There is... one place."

"Where?"

"The Witch's Forest."

"Oh yeah. Of course."

Fuuuuuck.

The Witch's Forest. Max knew it from the map, from the skull drawn in the margin and the words AVOID IF POSSIBLE written underneath in what he'd really, really hoped was just red ink. The squires had talked about it sometimes, late at night when someone was trying to win the scared-shitless competition. Stories about people who went in and came out wrong. Or came out scattered across territories they couldn't have reached. Or didn't come out at all.

There were shelters in there, supposedly. Old sanctuaries from before whatever lived there had decided to make it home. You could use them if you were fast and lucky and willing to risk whatever came with the territory.

Blair Witch type of territory.

Max could try another route. Circle north, maybe south. Find a different approach entirely.

But the White Hands would have thought of that too. They'd have people stationed everywhere that mattered. The ambush at the rocks hadn't been random. It had been part of a network.

"The Witch's Forest," Max said again. His breath was coming easier now, settling back to normal. "That's really our best option?"

Tarak shifted his weight again, grimacing. "Is worst option. But White Hands will not follow there."

"Why not?"

"Because they are not stupid," Tarak said, throwing Max's own words back at him. There was almost a smile on his face. Almost.

Max couldn't help it. He laughed. Just a short bark of sound, but it felt good. "Fair point."

"My mother says the witch takes one person each season," Tarak continued. "As tribute. For passing through her lands."

"One person per season. That's the price?"

"Yes."

"And how many seasons has your tribe been paying this tribute?"

Tarak frowned. "We do not pay. We do not go there."

"Right. So we don't actually know if that's true."

"The stories—"

"Are stories." Max looked toward the northwest, where the tree line grew denser and darker. "Might be true. Might not be. But I know for sure there are White Hands waiting on the other routes. So."

Tarak was quiet for a moment. Then: "You are strange kind of wise, Harek."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Max held out his hand. "Come on. Get on my back. That leg's not getting better standing around talking about witches."

The kid climbed on, settling himself more carefully this time. His arms looped around Max's neck, loose but secure.

"Which direction?" Max asked.

Tarak pointed northwest.

Max started walking.

The trees grew thicker as they moved northwest, sunlight filtering through the canopy in scattered patches. Max's boots found purchase on roots and rocks, his breathing steady despite the weight on his back. Tarak was lighter than he looked, or maybe Max was just getting used to it. Either way, his legs kept moving.

After maybe an hour, Max stopped.

"Bro," he said, looking up at the spider perched on his shoulder. "Go up. High as you can. Look around for White Hands."

Bro tilted his body, which Max had learned was the spider equivalent of a head tilt.

"If you see them, glow once. If you don't, glow twice. Got it?"

Bro's abdomen pulsed with light. Acknowledgment, probably.

Then little wings sprouted from his sides.

Tarak jerked backward so hard he nearly fell off Max's back. "What—what kind of spider is this?"

Max steadied him, chuckling. "The kind that understands human, breathes fire, and flies. This is Bro. He's one of a kind."

Bro glowed, a satisfied little pulse of orange light.

"One of a kind," Tarak repeated, watching as Bro launched himself into the air. The wings were translucent, almost crystalline, catching the light as he rose through the trees. "You are strange, Harek. And your companions are stranger."

"Yeah, well. Strange keeps you alive sometimes."

Max started walking again, adjusting Tarak's weight as they moved. His mind was already working through the problem. He should have done this the first time. Sent Bro up to scout. But he hadn't really understood the scope of what they were dealing with back then. A few White Hands, maybe. A hunting party.

But warriors with coordinated tactics was something else entirely.

"Hey," Max said after a few minutes. "Your people. They're not worried you haven't come back yet?"

"Worried, yes. But I told them I would return when I ready."

"You're just a kid wandering around out here by yourself. That's gotta—"

"I am not kid." Tarak's voice went tight. "I have wife."

Max stopped walking. "The fuck?"

"In our culture, you are not child after twelve winters. You are promised to woman after fifteen winters. I united with mine four moons back."

"Four moons," Max said slowly. "So... four months?"

"Yes. Four moons is four months."

Max started walking again because standing still wasn't going to make this conversation any less weird. "That's strange."

"Is culture."

"Yeah, no, I get that. It's just—different where I'm from."

"Where are you from? Is not Frosthold?"

Max opened his mouth, then closed it. How exactly did you explain Earth to someone who thought spiders with wings were the weird thing in this conversation? "Yeah. Yeah, Frosthold."

Tarak seemed to accept that.

They walked in silence for a while, Max's boots crunching on fallen leaves and pine needles. The place smelled like sap and damp earth. Birds called overhead, oblivious to the fact that somewhere behind them, armed warriors were probably fanning out to murder them.

"Why are they so serious about getting us?" Max asked finally. "I mean, I get that we're in their territory, but this seems like a lot of effort."

"You shot one of them yesterday."

Max frowned. "What? No, I—" Then he remembered. "Oh. Right."

"They hardly forgive."

"Ah. So it's my fault then."

Tarak was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "No. Is my fault."

"How do you figure?"

"I am chief's nephew."

Max's steps slowed. "Wait, what?"

"Repeat," Tarak said.

"You're the chief's nephew. The chief of your village."

"Yes."

"And the White Hands know that."

"Yes."

Max stopped walking entirely this time. "So that's why they're after us."

Tarak didn't answer immediately. His arms tightened slightly around Max's neck, then loosened again. "I would understand if you wanted to leave me here. You have helped enough already. You are risking your life. Life is important. Only one we have."

Max shifted Tarak's weight, balancing him better against his back. "I'm not leaving you here."

"Harek—"

"I already committed. Can't exactly un-commit now, can I?" Max started walking again, his pace steady. "But you owe me. When we get to your village, you're making me a feast, giving me new arrows, new gears and maybe a magical artifact or two of possible. Deal?"

He felt Tarak's breath against the back of his neck as the kid exhaled. "I promise."

"Good. I'm thinking roasted something. Maybe that jerky but, like, fresher. And—"

Wings buzzed near his ear. Bro landed on Max's shoulder, his small legs gripping the fabric of Max's coat.

"Report," Max said. "Once for yes, twice for no. You see White Hands?"

Bro glowed once.

Max's jaw tightened. "Alright. How many?" He started counting. "Five?"

Bro glowed twice. Negation.

"Ten?"

Twice again.

"Fifteen?"

Bro glowed once.

Fifteen warriors spread out behind them, coordinated enough to stay quiet, disciplined enough to hold position until their target walked into the trap. There was no horn this time. Which meant they hadn't been spotted yet.

"We need to move faster," Max said, picking up his pace. Tarak bounced slightly against his back, wincing as his injured leg shifted.

"White Hands?" he asked quietly.

"Fifteen of them. Behind us."

"Fifteen." Tarak's voice was flat. "That is war party. Not hunting party."

"Yeah, I'm starting to get that." Max's mind raced as he walked.

They really, really wanted Tarak dead.

Or captured. Max wasn't sure which was worse. And since he was clearly from Frosthold himself, and Frosthold was their enemies, they'd want Max dead, too.

"How much further to the Witch's Forest?" he asked.

Tarak looked around, using the sun's position to orient himself. "Two hours. Maybe less if we move fast."

"Then we move fast."

Max lengthened his stride, his boots eating up the ground. Bro stayed perched on his shoulder, a warm weight that somehow felt reassuring.

Ahead of them, a forest with a witch who supposedly took one person per season as tribute.

"Great choices all around," Max muttered.

"What?" Tarak asked.

"Nothing. Just talking to myself."

"That is also strange."

"Add it to the list."

The trees thinned ahead of them.

Max slowed his pace, feet crunching softer in the snow as the canopy above grew patchy. Light broke through in wider shafts now, painting the ground in stripes of white and shadow. He could see the edge of their cover maybe thirty yards ahead, where the forest they'd been traveling through ended and open ground began before the darker tree line of the Witch's Forest rose up like a wall in the distance.

"There," Tarak said quietly, pointing.

The Witch's Forest looked exactly like the kind of place that deserved skull drawings on maps. Even from here, Max could see the trees were different—taller, older, their branches twisted in ways that seemed deliberate. The tree line sat maybe a third of a mile away across open ground, a dark barrier rising against the gray sky.

Max checked his map mentally. There were safe zones marked inside. He knew where to go once they got in. The problem was getting there.

"Long stretch," Max said, studying the distance. Five hundred meters of open ground, maybe more. Snow-covered and flat, broken only by scattered rocks and the occasional dead tree jutting up like a broken tooth. No real cover. Nothing that would hide them or break line of sight.

"Yes," Tarak agreed.

It wouldn't have been a problem normally. Five hundred meters. Max could cover that in maybe two minutes at a decent run, even with Tarak on his back. The White Hands were still behind them.

Then Max heard it.

A caw. Sharp and distinct, cutting through the quiet.

He looked up.

A raven circled above the tree line ahead, black against the gray sky. It wheeled in lazy loops, staying right at the boundary between the two forests. Watching.

"Shit," Max muttered, a bad feeling settling in his stomach.

"Hunter raven," Tarak whispered. His arms tightened around Max's neck. "White Hands use them. They speak. They tell their masters what they see."

Max tracked the bird's flight path. It wasn't random. The raven was patrolling, covering the exact stretch they'd need to cross. Smart. Leave a watcher at the most obvious route while the party followed at a distance.

"How long has it been up there?"

"I heard it calling when we were deeper in the trees. Maybe half an hour."

Half an hour of circling, waiting for them to show themselves. Max felt a spike of irritation cut through his tension.

"Bro," he said.

The spider shifted on his shoulder, legs adjusting their grip.

"See that bird?"

Bro's body tilted up, tracking the raven's flight.

"Kill it."

Bro launched off Max's shoulder before the words finished leaving his mouth. Wings materialized mid-leap, catching air with a sound like paper tearing. He climbed fast, his small body spiraling upward through the scattered beams of sunlight.

The raven noticed immediately. Its lazy circles tightened. It cawed again, louder this time—an alarm, probably. Reporting that something was coming.

Bro closed the distance in seconds. His wings folded and he became a missile, orange light building in his abdomen like a furnace stoking itself. The raven tried to bank, to dive, but Bro was faster.

Fire erupted.

A thin stream of flame caught the raven mid-turn, engulfing its wing. The bird shrieked—a sound Max didn't know ravens could make—and tumbled sideways in the air. Bro hit it a second later, legs wrapping around its body, mandibles digging in. More fire. The raven's shrieks cut off.

They both fell.

The raven hit the snow maybe two hundred meters out with a distant thump, smoke rising from its charred feathers. Bro fluttered away, wings carrying him in a wide arc back toward Max.

"Good work," Max said as Bro landed on his shoulder again.

Then the horn sounded.

Deep and resonant, cutting through the forest from behind them. Not close, but not far enough either. Max's stomach dropped. The raven must have gotten a message out before Bro reached it. Or the White Hands had heard the shrieks. Either way, they knew.

"They are coming," Tarak said unnecessarily.

"Yeah." Max shifted the kid's weight, adjusting his grip. "Change of plans."

He reached inside himself, found the well of Fanga he'd been saving, and used it.

The effect was immediate. His heartbeat spiked, jumping from sixty to a hundred and twenty in the space of a breath. Heat flooded his muscles, his veins. The world sharpened—colors brighter, sounds clearer, the smell of pine and snow and smoke from the dead raven hitting his nose all at once. His legs thrummed with energy, demanding movement.

Tarak gasped. "You can use Fanga?"

"Hold on tight," Max said. "Things are about to get fast."

"How much—"

"Just hold on."

Max exploded forward.

The trees blurred past as he sprinted toward the open ground. His boots barely touched the snow before pushing off again, each stride eating up distance. The weight on his back felt lighter now, almost negligible. Tarak's arms locked around Max's neck, his breathing quick and shallow against Max's ear.

They burst out of the tree line.

Five hundred meters of exposure stretched ahead. Max angled left immediately, then right, zigzagging across the open ground. His heart hammered against his ribs, fast enough that he could feel it in his throat. The Fanga burned through him, turning his body into something more than it was—faster, stronger, sustainable only because he'd been careful not to use it until now.

Behind them, deeper in the forest they'd just left, something howled.

Blindrage.

The sound was followed by another, then another. Three of them at least, maybe more. And beneath the howls, Max heard voices. Men shouting. Coordinating. They'd closed the distance faster than he'd expected.

He pushed harder, his legs pumping. A quarter mile to the tree line.

An arrow hissed past his left shoulder.

"Stay down!" Max shouted at Tarak.

Another arrow. This one closer, close enough that Max felt the air displacement as it passed. The kid had gone rigid on his back, arms trembling but holding firm.

"The bark on your back," Max said, words coming out clipped between breaths. "I will stop most arrows!"

He'd done it while they walked, using strips of leather to secure a curved piece of thick bark across Tarak's back and shoulders. Makeshift armor. Better than nothing.

"Harek—"

"I know. Just hold on."

Max kept the zigzag pattern going. Left, right, forward, left again. Never straight. Never predictable. The distance to the Witch's Forest tree line shrunk with each stride, but it felt endless. About two-tenths of a mile. The snow was deeper here in the open, less packed down. Each step required more effort, more energy.

The howls were getting closer. Max risked a glance back and immediately regretted it. The Blindrages had burst from the tree line behind them—massive shapes moving on all six, white fur streaked with gray. Three of them, and riders on their backs, leaning forward, gripping thick leather harnesses. And behind the mounted Blindrages, warriors on foot. At least five more that Max could see, all of them running, all of them armed.

The distance between them was maybe a hundred and sixty yards. Shrinking.

He faced forward and pushed everything he had into his legs.

About a sixth of a mile to safety.

Another arrow. It hit the bark on Tarak's back with a solid thunk and bounced away. The kid jerked but didn't cry out.

Max's heart was a drum, each beat so hard it felt like it might crack his sternum. His lungs burned. The Fanga was eating through his reserves fast, faster than he'd planned, but there was no choice now. The Blindrages were closing. He could hear their breathing, the wet snarl of their panting, the sound of their claws tearing through snow and the grunts of their riders urging them forward.

Even with Fanga, they were faster.

Two hundred meters.

The tree line of the Witch's Forest looked closer now but still too far. Max cut right, dodging around one of the dead trees jutting from the snow. An arrow struck it a second later, the impact sending chips of frozen wood flying.

"How far?" Tarak gasped.

"Keep your head down!"

About a hundred and sixty yards.

The Blindrages were gaining. Max could hear individual sounds now—the wet snap of their jaws, the scrape of claws on ice beneath the snow, the rhythmic thunder of their paws, the creaking of leather as riders shifted their weight. The warriors behind them were shouting, coordinating their shots. Another arrow whistled past, missing by inches.

Max's vision started to tunnel at the edges. Too much Fanga. Too much exertion. He gasped air, forcing oxygen into his lungs, trying to steady the racing locomotive of his heart.

About a hundred and ten yards.

The Blindrages howled, close enough now that Max could hear the individual syllables of their rage. He pushed harder. His muscles screamed. His heart was going so fast he couldn't count the beats anymore, just a constant vibration in his chest.

Eighty yards.

An arrow hit the snow to his left. Another to his right. They were bracketing him, narrowing the pattern. Max cut left hard, then immediately right. Tarak's weight shifted with the movement, the kid adjusting instinctively to stay balanced.

Fifty-five yards.

The Blindrages were right behind them now. Max could smell them—wet fur and meat and something acrid. Twenty feet back. Maybe fifteen. He could hear the snap of their jaws as they reached, trying to close those final few feet, and the riders shouting commands in a language Max didn't understand.

"Harek!" Tarak's voice cracked.

"Almost there!"

Twenty-seven yards.

Max's foot caught on something hidden beneath the snow—a rock, maybe—and he stumbled. For one terrible second, he thought they were going down. His other leg caught his weight and he kept moving, but the stumble cost him. The Blindrages were ten feet back now.

Eleven yards to the tree line.

Max pulled everything he had left. His heart felt like it might explode. His lungs were shredded cloth. The world had gone soft at the edges, dark spots dancing in his vision.

Five yards.

The nearest Blindrage lunged. Max felt the displacement of air as jaws snapped shut where his leg had been a fraction of a second before.

He hit the tree line at full sprint.

The massive trunks rose around them and Max dove between two of them, his shoulder scraping bark as he passed. Behind him, he heard the thunder of the Blindrages reaching the forest edge.

Then silence.

Not complete silence. Max could hear his own ragged breathing, Tarak's gasps against his ear, the pounding of his heart. But the Blindrages had gone quiet. No more howling. No more thunder of paws.

He spun around, keeping low.

The Blindrages had stopped. All three of them stood at the very edge of the tree line, their massive bodies rigid, paws planted in the snow. Their riders stared into the forest but they didn't cross. They were struggling to control their beasts—one had been thrown forward over his mount's head when it stopped, hitting the snow in a tumble. He scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off.

The other riders were yanking on their reins, shouting, trying to force their mounts forward. The Blindrages wouldn't budge. One of them took a step backward, away from the tree line.

The warriors on foot had caught up. They stopped behind the mounted riders, chests heaving, weapons drawn. They stared at the forest. At Max.

One of the riders dismounted. A woman, tall, with white paint across her face in geometric patterns. She took two steps toward the tree line, then stopped. She didn't cross.

Max's hand went to his belt, fingers closing around the handle of his dagger. The rider who'd been thrown was closer than the others, maybe ten feet from where Max crouched. The man was brushing snow from his furs, muttering what sounded like curses.

Max moved.

He closed the distance in three strides, grabbed the man by the collar of his coat, and yanked him backward into the forest. The man yelped. Max spun him around and pressed the dagger to his throat.

"Nobody follows," Max said loudly.

The warriors froze. The woman with the face paint took another step forward, then stopped again at the tree line. Her hand was on her sword but she didn't draw it.

The man in Max's grip was breathing fast, shallow breaths that moved the blade against his skin. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't, please—"

"Quiet," Max said.

"You don't understand," the man continued, his voice rising. "You can't—we can't go in there. We won't. But you—" His words tumbled over each other, panic making them incoherent. "The forest doesn't care. It doesn't—you brought the boy in there and it won't—"

"I said quiet."

One of the warriors nocked an arrow. Max shifted, putting the hostage between himself and the archer.

"Bro," Max called.

The spider appeared above them, dropping from a branch with his wings spread. Orange light flickered in his abdomen.

"Light them up."

Bro dove.

Fire erupted from his body, a stream of flame that arced toward the White Hands warriors. They scattered, shouting, diving into the snow. The woman with the face paint rolled left, came up in a crouch. She was yelling orders but her warriors were already retreating, backing away from the tree line.

The Blindrages turned and bolted, their riders clinging to their backs as the massive beasts thundered away across the open ground.

Bro circled back, wings carrying him in lazy loops above Max's head. The warriors on foot were regrouping maybe fifty meters back, forming a line. The woman stood at their center, still staring at the forest. At Max.

"You'll die in there, son of Frosthold," she called. Her voice carried across the distance, clear and cold. "The forest takes everyone."

Max didn't answer. He dragged his hostage backward, deeper into the trees. The man stumbled, his breathing still quick and panicked.

"Please," the man whispered. "Please, you have to let me go. I can't—I won't go deeper. The forest—"

"Keep walking."

The man's legs barely worked. Max half-dragged him between the massive trunks, keeping the dagger pressed to his throat. Tarak clung to Max's back, silent now, his breathing steadier.

Behind them, the White Hands warriors didn't follow. Max could see them through the gaps in the trees, standing at the edge, watching. Waiting.

The woman raised her hand. A signal. The warriors lowered their weapons.

Max pulled the hostage deeper into the Witch's Forest. The trees closed around them, massive and ancient, their branches forming a canopy that blocked out most of the gray sky. The snow here was undisturbed, pristine. There were no tracks. No signs of life.