Free The Seven Swords by Nils Johnson-Shelton Page B

“We follow him.”
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    A short while later, the three found themselves hiding at the edge of a big bowl in the earth. Below was a camp with a single tepee-like tent, its flap thrown wide; a big stone fire pit; and lots of stacks of chopped wood. Bleached animal skulls of varying sizes were arranged all over the place. A little log storehouse at the far end of the bowl stood high off the ground on six tall posts.
    The stag hung upside down from a spit. It looked strangely calm considering the trapper was not more than a dozen paces away sharpening some tools on a stone.
    The most remarkable thing about the camp, though, was a gnarled beech tree at its center. It was only about forty feet high, but it had a huge, elephantine trunk and tons of crooked branches. Clearly, it was super old. Its leaves had turned to pale copper for the fall—or perhaps they were always this way, forever old, withering, and fragile.
    Erik pointed his chin at it. Sticking out of the trunk on the side closest to them was a completely unremarkable-looking sword.
    â€œThere it is,” Erik said with equal measures of awe and disbelief. “There’s Gram.”
    â€œHow the heck are we going to get it without that guy noticing?” Kay wondered.
    â€œI don’t know,” Artie answered.
    â€œWe could wait for him to go to sleep,” Erik suggested.
    They watched as the trapper slid a long knife with a white bone handle over the sharpening stone.
    â€œIt doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon,” Artie observed. “I think he’s about to slaughter that deer.”
    Erik eyed Gram. “You sure I’m going to be able to pull that thing out?”
    â€œSure I’m sure,” Artie said, trying to sound positive.
    The woodsman stopped sharpening and cocked an ear in their direction, and they scootched out of sight, but as Erik slid back, he snapped a twig. They held their breaths and waited. Artie and Kay each had their weapons drawn fast in front of their faces.
    They lay there frozen for several minutes. Finally Artie inched back to the edge of the camp and peeked in.
    The man was gone.
    The knife lay on a stump next to the sharpening stone. The beech tree, Barnstokk, shed a few of its copper leaves.
    Erik slid next to Artie, and again his eyes locked on the sword. They became freakishly wide and bloodshot. Artie put his hand on Erik’s arm. Erik was beginning to shake furiously.
    For some reason the sight of Erik’s sword was sending him into a rage.
    Before Artie could do anything, Erik stood and ran into the camp, making a beeline for Gram.
    Kay yelped, “Fudge,” as she jumped to her feet and followed, Artie right on her heels.
    They dropped into the camp and Erik was almost to the deer when a pile of leaves exploded in front of him. The trapper had been hiding in a little trench in the ground, and now he was blocking their path to the tree.
    Erik swung his war hammer at the stout man’s head, but the trapper caught it with one hand and kicked something on the ground, and all of a sudden the three knights were whisked into the air in a jumble. Cleomede sliced deep into Artie’s calf, which healed quickly thanks to the scabbard strapped to his back.
    When the dust settled, they found themselves in a rope net about fifteen feet above the ground. Artie and Kay were ready to cut it to pieces when the trapper pulled hard on another line, cinching the webbing so tight around them that they could barely move.
    â€œErik!” Kay scolded, her arm twisted behind her uncomfortably. “That was so not cool!”
    Erik, still coming down from his rage, just moaned.
    Artie remained silent and eyed the woodsman intently.
    The man was a shade over five feet tall with bright blue eyes and leathery skin. He had a beard that was more like a bird’s nest, what with all the twigs and leaves in it. His expression was one of simple curiosity. He looked