Free The Rogue Knight by Vaughn Heppner

DOGS barked in confusion, splashing in circles. They were simple brutes, dangerous only on level ground and in a big pack.
    For time on end, ever since he’d left his mother, Sloat had used the bogs as his source of refuge. As strong and deadly as MAN ON HORSE was, he was also a fool. In the bogs, MAN ON HORSE was blind and slow, a cretin.
    If Old Sloat could be said to chuckle, to know amusement, he knew it now. As the MAN ON HORSE neared, Sloat submerged and waded into deeper water. The deeper water was cold, however. It reminded him of the cold mountain stream. He hated being cold. Crossing the icy stream, Old Sloat lost his amusement as his monstrous belly rumbled. He wanted the rest of the truffles. Yes, truffles. To get the truffles he’d have to cross the stream again. In order to do that, he’d use a ford. To reach the ford he’d have to leave the bog.
    No matter. MAN ON HORSE would flounder here for a long time. He knew their habits: Dangerous and stubborn, but quite stupid. Still, he hated MAN ON HORSE for his ability to scare him and drive him from the things he loved, like truffles and rutting.
    Old Sloat surfaced, back-tracking the way he’d come. He would leave the swamp while his enemies forged through it.
    As Old Sloat plowed through slime, his short legs producing sucking sounds. It was then he heard a MAN swearing. Old Sloat’s murderous rage blazed. The others were far distant. The MAN pulled one of his legs out of the slime and splashed into a puddle. He held a club, but no knife or spear.
    Old Sloat’s knife-cut burned anew. He’d killed a huge brute of a DOG earlier today, but a horrible MAN AFOOT had given him a wound.
    Old Sloat grunted, his eyes fiery. He charged out of the reeds and at the wide-eyed MAN. The MAN screamed, flailing with his club, trying to dodge. The slime held him tight. With his vast weight, Old Sloat knocked the MAN backward. Then he trampled the MAN, letting his feet crush and pound the prone enemy. Old Sloat spun around. The MAN gurgled, and slowly turned his head to look at Sloat in terror. Sloat grunted once more, then he trampled the MAN again, this time staying atop him until the hated MAN squirmed no more.
    Only then did Old Sloat continue out of the bog. He’d circle, reach the ford and then go back to the truffles. Yes, truffles, truffles, truffles. How he loved them. He loved them to the same degree that he hated MAN.
    ***
    The sun sank into the horizon. The peals from within the bog had stopped some time ago. Sir Philip had taken them into a clearing, dismounted and declared that they’d wait here. Now he turned to Harold Watchman and gave him a signal.
    Cord, who petted Sebald, noticed Harold striding toward him. He leaped to his feet and put his hand to his knife-hilt.
    Harold paused as Sir Philip and Sir Walter moved up.
    “Keep away from me,” Cord warned the watchman.
    “What’s this?” Philip demanded. “Are you holding up justice?”
    Cord licked his lips.
    “The sun sets,” Philip said. “So as the Baron said, it’s time to chop off your right hand.”
    Cord couldn’t believe this was happening. He couldn’t quite yet draw his knife. To do that…. Philip might kill him for it.
    “You can’t chop off his hand here,” Richard said, striding up.
    “Why not?” Philip asked.
    Richard groped for words. He said suddenly, “You don’t have any tar to smear on the wound. He’ll bleed to death.”
    “Nonsense,” Philip said. “You’ll tie a tight thong on his forearm. That’ll keep him from bleeding to death.”
    Cord began to shake. His stomach roiled so he almost puked.
    Sir Philip motioned to Harold Watchmen. The burly peasant took another step closer to Cord.
    Cord, light-headed and dizzy, drew his knife. “Stay back!” he warned. Sebald had risen and taken his place beside him.
    “Are you threatening us?” Sir Philip asked in a judicious tone.
    Cord took a step back, his knife before him. Sir Philip had always hated him. He