A/N~ Hello everyone! I have branched out from my Harry Potterness and have started trying to get all of my readers to read the RANGER'S APPRENTICE SERIES. If you've read them, great! If not…DO IT! I hope those of you who have read the sixth book will enjoy, and appreciate the effort that went in to this one shot! Love to you all!
The Return to Picta
He ran through the knotted tangles of Grimsdell Wood, the eerie voices of the spirits echoing behind him. He knew it had been a bad choice to ally with Sir Keren. These Araluens were strange people. He had though immediately that he was going to die, but when the young man let him go he didn't object. The Scotti's short legs weren't doing him much good. All of his options were gone. His bodyguard was dead and his army had left considering he had not returned when he said he would.
How would he explain all of this? The dark apparition? The eerie voices? He knew a lost case when he saw one. He could always beg for mercy. However, mercy was not the Scotti way. He would be ripped of his status and thrown into the deepest pit of humiliation. He could see the herald shouting it now, "THE GENERAL, DISGRACED!" Shadows were ubiquitous in the woods around him. The un-nerving noises of the forest were ever present in his ears. As he ran the air grew bitterly cold and droplets of frozen slush hit his forehead. This was misery, and none like he had ever felt in war prior to this moment. He fell, tumbling down into the gulley ahead of him. An unsuspecting hedgehog breathed no more as the heavy set Scotti landed on it. "Now you've gotten into a fix." He thought to himself.
There was a rock just above his head. If he could reach it, he could get out. Straining his stunted limb, he tried desperately to reach it. Finally, he was able to grasp it and hoist himself up onto the other side of the gulley. He crawled a little further and leaned up against a large rock.
Short of breath and fatigued, he felt like he couldn't continue. Yet, he urged himself on, each painful step bringing him closer to humiliation. He climbed up onto a rocky ridge near Picta. He knew this road very well. Home was near.
Just a few miles away from the city of Picta, the General felt a wave of relief wash over him. He could see the towering walls of his city. The Scotti flag flying high. He heard a twig snap and a click from behind him. He turned, but it was to late. The last the General witnessed was a dull purple cloak billowing in the wind, and a crossbow bolt piercing his chest.
The next day it was proclaimed to Picta that General MacHaddish was dead, with a Genovesan Assassin's crossbow bolt buried deep in his chest. He had never returned to Picta.