Wil watched horrified for an instant, then turned and leaped over the ditch, running back the way he had come. He just managed to clamber over a hedge when someone shouted: “The boy!” And another: “The sword!” They were in pursuit and Wil bolted as fast as he could. He ran around the back of a farmer’s dilapidated shanty and tripped over a wooden bucket. Wil fell to the ground and he lost the dice set he’d been carrying in one hand, but he somehow managed to keep a grip on the sword.
“Stay still you little runt!” It was Jonathon Claypool. The trapper dove, tackling the frightened boy from behind. “You dirty little beggar. Give me the sword!”
Wil fought for breath as Claypool dug his knees into his lower back and punched at the back of his head.
“I want that sword. Give it to me!” Claypool grabbed Wil by the shoulders and rolled him over, twisting him painfully onto his back. With a flash of white light the sword came up, and before Wil knew what was happening, he felt the edge of the blade cut through flesh and bone, severing the trapper’s right hand.
Instinctively, Claypool looked down at where his hand used to be. He stared for a moment in shock – eyes wide, mouth slack. Then he screamed so loud Wil’s ears hurt. Horrified, he kicked out from beneath the wailing man and ran for home.
His tattered shirt and hair were wet with Claypool’s blood.
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