My Novel In Progress.. First look EXCLUSIVE on www.xomba.com
NOTICE! Please pardon my VERY creative punctuation :)

The sound of a song being whistled echoed through the great forest that encompassed nearly the entire length of a well maintained trade road. To one moderately traveled, it would be recognized as one of many raucous tavern side diddies sung across the berth of the Northern Reaches, never mind the lack of words.

A late season merchant's wagon galloped due north along the eastern lane. This Hebron trader risked running snow blind if he was importing anything farther than a months gallop at his current speed. At least they never worried about brigands. Besides, the extra coin from late season produce and other specialized items would be pure gold with the current market, he wagered. Nothing really to worry about since the cart was led by four shaggy draft horses.

The Merchant didn't wave to or hear the whistler who deftly guided an ebony Walker stallion to the side, neither losing their rhythm. Both travelers continued along their paths as they were. Weather besides northern snows, was mostly calm year round. The Middle Kingdoms didn't get the brunt of the wests' monsoons that would come after the snow's of the north.

Now, stallions can be an usually unwieldy lot, especially black ones. Something about the breeding of big black quarter horses seemed to lend a fierceness, usually culled with gelding. The whistler had no need of any gelding, much less for a steed. Whistler seemed clothed only in a giant brown cloak, covering any distinguishable markings but the jolly song upon his lips. The steed, while not the size of a usual warhorse, was well muscled and could outrun what he thought to be giant brutes any day. No one would suppose either a warrior or an easy target.

No sooner had they passed well within ear shot of each other's help, a crossbow bolt thudded into the ebony stallion's neck, just above the right shoulder. The horse's screams of painful rage immediately stopped the song. Nearly any other steed would have dropped face first into the baked track, usually breaking their front legs and or neck, and their rider's as well. It took a few split seconds for the whistler to leap, relieving a partner of lethal inertia. Rather than plummeting into the ground, the stallion slowed as much as he could, falling onto his left side, eyes rolling wildly.

Bandits rushed from the dense forest on all sides. Trained ears steered the leaping cloaked figure westerly, towards the sound of a cranking crossbow. Five of them: All so close. The closest rushing bandit was cut down from sternum to shoulder and slumped back into the brush. The tears from whistlers eyes didn't reach the ground in the time it took to avenge the steed, with a length of steel blurring through the sniper's neck. Three left.

The next closet blitzing assasin felt a wrist shatter, as he thrust a blade towards whistler's back. Before he could scream, a pommel slammed against the back of his head. The only thing the rushing bandit hit, was the ground. His rushing partner, 2 steps behind him fared, wasn't as lucky. A blindingly fast, flying knee, pushed the majority of his facial structure a few inches out of place.

The final standing assailant, taking aim with a short blowgun, stepped back withing lunging range of the horse. Giant white teeth tore into calf muscle as the whistler landed in the dirt, a foul smelling dart whizzing by the whistler's face. Screaming defiance at the steed for his maimed leg, the scum tried to crawl forth. Before he could thrust a blade into the stallion, a small screaming ball seemed to shoot from the Whistler's hand "Your lives' for my steed's" was the last thing he heard.

Weeping in painful rage, the whistler knelt immediately to the steed, sobbing a soft song to the animal, stroking its neck. Composing themselves, the whistler sang deeply, reaching into the earth and heavens, pleading with an Ancient Song. Green light surrounded the whistler's hands, streaks of blue light flashing out to the bodies of the would be murderers. Whistler's hands probed and caressed the wound as the bolt slid from the horses neck and blood gushed momentarily. The wound began to knit together under the grace of the healing lights.

The whistler sat soothing the stallion, lending strength to the animal for an hour or so before they stood. Sauntering down the path once more, the whistler patted the stallion's neck fondly, and started whistling a joyous tune.

Mr. X