Strength was a trait aplenty among the members of House Sonder, along with their impressive size. Robert was no exception to this rule; his muscles bulged against his tight-fitting woolen shirt. Few clothes properly fit him, even when he was young; this had been the case. At a time when the average man was only five feet Seven Inches, Robert towered over most at six feet four.
Robert the Strong, Robert the Bull. Many knew him from the moniker, earned after he tackled Aaron of Lestfield's horse out from under him during the Skirmish at Lestfield.
Edwin had run through an open field during his escape attempt, the perfect terrain for an archer. Blood had been found on a tree; the handprint was small, and it was clear enough to all in the part that it belonged to the lost Sonder heir.
Anna no longer joined the group. Robert wouldn't risk his wife, nor did he want her to see what he was going to do to these 'Poachers' when he found them.
The tracks stopped dead at the river; signs of a struggle were there. Broken branches, snapped twigs, smears in the mud that bordered the river from a tussle. Blots of blood were scattered about; the wound couldn't have been too bad if Edwin had made it this far. Since no arrow had been found, Robert had come to the belief that his son must not have pulled it out yet.
"Good lad," Robert mumbled to himself, ripping out an arrow was like uncorking a wine bottle. God forbid the arrow was barbed; it would devastate the muscles around the entry wound if forced out.
Fording the river had proven harder than expected. The Sonder River itself was calm, devoid of hidden currents, which was not the issue. Having never needed to learn, Robert had no swimming ability to speak of. If the six peasants had the ability, they failed to mention it to him, even Arnald, who had been the most useful of the bunch.
A mile downstream, a safe spot to ford had been found where a sand bank rose high enough to allow passage. Unfortunately, the men were still forced to wade through waist-high water, much to their dismay. With a quick command, the six serfs split up to comb through the new search area. The other six had been recalled to Robert, but it would still be some time before they arrived. Meanwhile, Robert knew he was burning time; the sun dictated that they had only half a day left to find Edwin before they had to return.
Arnald, as an avid tracker, had eyes that picked up on the most minute detail. Robert liked the man, he decided, despite the circumstances. "Tell me, Arnald, how is it you've become so good a tracker?" Robert asked to break the Tension.
Arnald stilled for a moment, and Robert could sense he was thinking of how to answer the question best.
"Be at ease, friend, I will not punish you for a bad answer," Robert assured the man.
The man brushed some of his thick, matted hair out of his eyes. "Hunting lord." His answer was short, so he didn't reveal too much. Robert could understand his apprehension; poaching meant death if caught.
"Your help is much appreciated. Should we find my son, rest assured, I will remember who it is I am indebted to."
Arnald nodded in response but otherwise continued combing through the woodland. Robert was no fool; the man was a poacher himself, but he was not vain either; he could overlook the legal transgression.
They were on the direct opposite side of the river from where they lost Edwins tracks when the search began anew. Arnald, having found another trail of blood, came across a man curled into a ball. Guts spilled out from his gutted stomach, blood trailing a few steps behind him. He was a rare sort in this land; he was much too fat or had been until having lost his organs. That wasn't what caught Roberts' eye; men died like him often enough in war that the sight was not a new one. Partially hidden under the man's thick thigh was half a sheath of plain brown leather empty of its contents.
"Poor sweet child." Robert was saddened that Edwin had been forced to use his blade. Dealing death at such a young age was never a good thing. Murder was never good for one's soul.
All things considered, Robert was happy to note that only Edwin's tracks led away; the other two remaining poachers must not have made it across the river alongside their friend.
Doubtful that the remaining poachers had given up, especially now that they had lost a comrade, Robert kept his Warhammer at the ready, its ability to break bones and maim undiminished from a decade at peace.
A stream divided a section of the forest, a tributary to the Sonder. No animals drinking from it or hovering nearby was a good sign; Edwin must have passed through recently.
With a pace, they quickly followed the trail. Through the length of the forest, searching the bushes, streams, overturned logs, or any other form of hiding spot. With the sun setting, they would need to find something soon.
"We are close, I can feel it," Roberts tried to encourage Arnald, but it was clear the tracker didn't have a care one way or the other.
Walking around two particularly thick trees, they came across a series of boulders. The grouping of rocks looked wildly out of place. So did the two corpses that lay in their shadow. One was nearly torn in two, and a red mane of hair matched the pool of drying blood. A clean sword slash had ended her quickly, her eyes still wide open in terror. The second corpse was less pretty (If that was possible). The man was tall, though not as tall as Robert, he noted. He was slumped against the largest of the boulders. From his left temple to the bottom right of the jaw, a slash was rent to face apart. Ragged strips of flesh clung desperately to what remained of his face. A dozen or so stab wounds had bleached his white wool shirt a deep crimson red.
"Still some warmth in them, lord," Arnald spoke; his fingers pressed against their skin.
"Good, I think I know where Edwin might be," Robert spoke his eyes falling on the imprints of horse hooves.