The Best-Laid Plans

by Addison Albright

  As Efren’s sword arm dropped, followed swiftly by his eyes rolling back in his head and his body slumping in a boneless crumple, a corner of his brain recognized how fittingly it was named, and hoped that enough of it had entered the tent through the briefly opened flap that Marcelo would succumb before Proye agents executed whatever they had planned. They’d been married for less than two days, and already he’d failed his innocent, young husband.

  * * * *

  Marcelo

  The dull thud of something heavy dropping to the ground pulled Marcelo from his dream with a shudder, as if he’d fallen. He rubbed his arms to ward off the cold, and sat.

  Efren no longer lay next to him. Marcelo blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He shook his head, trying to clear a persistent sluggishness from his mind, and a threadlike hint of a something malodorous from his sinuses. People continued to scurry about outside the tent. A shiver not caused by the chilly air ran up his spine.

  He didn’t know the precise time, but it was too dark for the caravan to be readying for the new day’s travel. Traveling in such conditions would be dangerous, and a difference in customs wouldn’t explain discounting such a pointless risk.

  A scraping, dragging noise from the entrance to the tent caught Marcelo’s attention, and he turned in time to see the bottom of someone’s feet disappearing under the entry flap before it dropped back into place.

  For a brief moment, he doubted his vision. It didn’t make sense. None of this did.

  Marcelo clapped a hand over his mouth to repress his instinctive cry for Efren as his mind flooded with visions of his mother offering additional guards for their travel after learning of Gagel’s duplicity, and Efren’s repeated consultations with his security captain. What he’d seen made more sense in that light, and the last thing he wanted to do was to call attention to himself.

  Marcelo shifted to his knees as his heart leapt into his throat. Whose feet were those? Efren’s? Was Efren—?

  No. Marcelo shook off that horrific thought. Maybe he was being naïve, but he couldn’t face such a possibility.

  But what could he do that might help Efren? A knot tightened in his gut, and he was never so sorry for his pampered upbringing. Because there was precious little he could do.

  He swiveled his head as he searched fruitlessly through the darkness for something—anything—he could use. A cup? Worthless. The water pitcher? Those sad offerings were the most he had at his disposal.

  Icy fingers tightened around Marcelo’s heart at the sight of Efren’s empty scabbard. His fears were confirmed, and there was nothing he could think to do to protect himself as the noises outside mounted, let alone something to help Efren.

  A tear trickled down his cheek. He and his shortcomings had let down Efren before their promising life together had truly begun.

  With a shaky hand, Marcelo reached for the tray that still held their clothing. Whatever he was about to face, he would do it with his trousers on. Efren’s clothing was still there, so he hadn’t allowed himself that dignity, but for Efren, time would have been of the essence.

  Marcelo blew out a shuddering breath. He was too worthless for it to matter if he rushed out of the tent. He didn’t even know which would be the wiser move—to go out and face their enemy, or to stay in the tent and meekly await his fate?

  His mind whirled, and he continued to scan the darkness as he pulled on his trousers and a tunic. Then his gaze lit on a corner of the small tent, where the thick, sturdy linen material was pulled taut.

  A tent stake? That could make a good weapon. Maybe. The forged steel was hard and sharp. Not honed like a blade, but he’d been able to pound them into the hard earth with minimal effort. The stakes didn’t have a proper handgrip, but he could probably clasp one well enough to wield it like a dagger. Not that he knew how to correctly handle any kind of knife in hand-to-hand combat, but trying would be better than doing nothing.

  Marcelo gnawed his lip. Problem was, the tent stakes were on the outside of the walls. He cast a nervous glance at the entry as a heavy tread of footsteps passed, then scurried to one of the pinning points. He wobbled and dropped to the ground. He closed his eyes and the tautly pulled, treated tent fabric scraped across the top of his hand as he worked it beneath.

  He patted the ground and shifted his hand back and forth until he felt the curved hook at the top of the spike. He used his fingers to dig around the exposed metal, then pried a finger underneath the hook and jerked his hand, attempting to sway the stake from side to side.

  It barely budged in the hard ground. He tried simply pulling upward but had no leverage.

  He withdrew his arm and suppressed a threatening whimper. Efren wouldn’t whine in the face of a setback. No, Marcelo could only imagine Efren maintaining an authoritative and calm demeanor as he figured out an alternative plan—Marcelo let out an unsteady breath—or died trying.

  Marcelo wrapped his arms around his torso and stared despondently at a tent pole. He quickly eliminated it as a possible weapon. It would be immediately obvious from outside if he removed it, and he could never hope to use it against an experienced warrior. He couldn’t conceal it, and they would easily grab something so long from him and likely turn it against him.

  He could try another tent stake. That was his best shot as a weapon, and some had gone in easier than others when he’d helped to erect the structure. He lay by another pinning point and again wriggled his arm under the wall.

  Marcelo froze as another set of footsteps crossed by on the front side of the tent. He paused for a few rattling breaths, then maneuvered so he could bend his elbow, helping with leverage. After digging around the hook, he worked his other arm under the wall and rocked the stake with both hands. Nothing.

  He concentrated all his strength into twisting and wobbling the serrated spike to loosen its grip from the hardened earth. Finally, it gave. Just a touch at first, but the difference was discernable. And motivating.

  A second finger fit under the hook now, and Marcelo took full advantage of the added force that provided him. He jerked back and forth with all his might until it came loose enough to manipulate up and out of the ground.

  With this spike, he should be able to get a second one much easier. He could use it to dig and expose the hook, then use it as a lever.

  There were multiple pinning points. Marcelo’s heart raced as he crawled past a couple before lying back down. Hopefully that would keep the resulting looseness of the tent from becoming too obvious and drawing unwanted attention before he was ready. As expected, using the first spike as a tool, this one came up much easier.

  Marcelo stood and practiced manipulating one of the spikes until he could hide most it up the sleeve of his tunic while still keeping his fingers loose around the sharper end. He let it drop and got a tighter grip around the hooked end and swiftly swung it in an upward stabbing motion.

  He could only manage that with his right, dominant hand, though, and the more he ran potential scenarios through his mind, the less he felt he would get a second chance even if successful with his first attempt. Still, there was no point in leaving the second stake behind. He slipped it inside his trousers, hooking it securely with the binding at his waist.

  Marcelo lay flat before the tent flap so the movement would hopefully go unnoticed, and shifted it just enough to peer through a narrow crack. Efren lay face up on the ground, his arms stretched over his head where they’d apparently been dropped after pulling him clear of the tent’s opening. Unmoving. But was he breathing? Marcelo squinted as if that would help him see clearer in the dim moonlight.

  A man walked past, sword drawn and with some kind of material or mask covering his nose and mouth. Another man approached from the opposite direction, his face likewise covered. Those facial coverings had to be significant. Could it explain the number of bodies littering the ground despite the lack of combat noises? Was there something in the air that rendered peopled who inhaled enough of it unconscious…or dead?

/>   While erecting the tent, Dru had stressed the importance of leaving no gap at the bottom and had explained that the fabric had a special treatment, and there were magnetic inserts around the flap to hold it tightly closed. He’d mentioned a chemical weapon employed by the neighboring kingdom of Proye and stated that use of the treated tents was standard procedure even during times of peace.

  That would explain the trace of odor Marcelo had noticed after the flap had briefly opened when Efren exited, and his resulting dizziness. It was the only explanation Marcelo could think of, but he didn’t know what intelligence he was missing to connect all the dots.

  His suspicion was confirmed when one of the men placed a cup he’d been holding on the ground a short distance from the tent. In the dimness, Marcelo could just make out that the cup had some kind of vapor floating up from it, then he let the heavy flap fall into place.

  The fumes dispersing upward in the breeze might explain why the temporary gap hadn’t let in enough of the fumes to affect him. He wobbled now, and he’d been experiencing a persistent though mild lethargy since awakening, but he hadn’t received a strong enough dose of the toxin to render him unconscious.

  Would material from his cotton nightshirt be good enough to protect him from it? The weave wasn’t particularly tight, not like the tent’s coated material or whatever those men were using for masks, but perhaps it would buy him a little extra time.

  He inched back from the flap, and as silently as he could, tore a wide strip from the hem of his nightshirt. He doubled it, covered his nose and mouth, and tied it at the back of his neck.

  With the fabric in place, he readied the steel spike in his right hand so it would initially be out of sight, held a deep breath through the filter of his makeshift mask, and slipped out the flap.

  The two men Marcelo had seen had their backs to him. He knelt soundlessly beside Efren and pushed down the fear trying to choke him. Marcelo would not abandon Efren to save himself, not if Efren was still alive.

  Instinctively, Marcelo ran a hand through Efren’s hair as if to offer comfort. Efren’s eyes remained closed. Not a twitch of an eyelid or any facial muscles in response to Marcelo’s touch. At least, none that Marcelo could discern in the eerie shadows cast by the moonlight. If Efren was alive, this was no normal sleep. Marcelo shivered.

  Was Efren’s chest moving? The light was too dim to tell. Marcelo lifted his right hand to check, then stilled it, because those fingers were holding the spike he was hiding up his sleeve. How else did one test for life?

  Marcelo expelled the breath he’d been holding and pulled in a fresh lungful. Actually, not so “fresh,” as that fetid pong he’d discerned earlier tinged the air, so his improvised mask wasn’t going to be entirely effective. He swayed from the effect of the toxin.

  After giving one last comb through Efren’s hair, a touch that he dreaded might have to last a lifetime—possibly a very short lifetime—Marcelo crawled to the noxious cup. With his hand wavering, he upended it.

  The spilled brew sizzled and popped alarmingly as it reacted with the grass or the ground. Marcelo stiffened and lurched to his feet as the men turned, and one snorted and nudged the other.

  Because of the lighter color of their masks making them stand out in the moonlight, he could see the spread of their lower faces, which might typically indicate smiles, but in this case, no doubt hid sneers. They didn’t draw weapons, which was insulting, despite Marcelo’s wobbling body, but walked toward him as if he posed no threat at all. Like he was a joke.

  Which was likely a fair assessment. His chin trembled, but despite his fear, his nostrils flared as anger surged in his core at the affront. Marcelo didn’t have the strength left to approach them. Instead, he focused on his right hand, channeling every drop of vigor left in his body to that arm.

  Marcelo felt rooted to the spot. Efren was probably dead, and he was probably about to die, too, but he would take at least one of these murdering pieces of human filth with him. Or die trying. At least he would go out in a way that would’ve made Efren proud.

  The men didn’t speak as they drew nearer. Marcelo concentrated on the one who appeared more relaxed, more secure in his assessment that Marcelo presented zero risk.

  Marcelo locked his gaze with that man’s so as not to draw their attention to his clammy hand, cradling a spike designed to be hammered into hard earth, not a human body.

  Since it was pointed, but not sharp as a knife, Marcelo would have to use all his concentrated might to plunge it into the man. Below the ribs, a corner of his fuzzy brain whispered, because he’d never have the strength to push it through the man’s ribs.

  If nothing else, he’d at least have the element of surprise. They didn’t expect him to do anything but beg for mercy as he crumbled in shaky fear at their feet. Even as they stopped directly in front of him, they appeared to have no inkling of his intent.

  Marcelo’s legs trembled, but he kept his right arm steady as he loosened his grip and let the spike drop down, tightening his hold again with perfect timing. In his final seconds of consciousness, he thought of Efren lying prone a few steps away.

  This is for you, my dearest.

  And with single-minded determination, he thrust the spike upward and under the ribs of the smirking man, pushing with every fiber of his being to drive it up and into his enemy’s heart.

  The momentary shock in the man’s eyes before he dropped brought some peace to Marcelo before he slumped, reaching his bloodied hand toward Efren as he fell.

  Chapter 4: Good for You, Marcelo

  Efren

  “Sir!” A warm hand shook Efren’s shoulder. “Sir!”

  Noises from all directions assaulted Efren’s muddled mind. Nausea churned in his belly, and a dread he couldn’t quite specify permeated every fiber of his aching body.

  He cracked open his eyes and squinted into Jeremy Cook’s concerned face before throwing an arm across his eyes to block the sun.

  “He’s awake,” Jeremy shouted. To whom, Efren wasn’t sure.

  Something had happened. That much was obvious, but what had happened seemed wrapped in cobwebs, just out of reach. As if, maybe, Efren didn’t want to know. He pushed up onto his elbows.

  “Hold on, sir.” Jeremy used the assertive tone that made him an effective assistant, but that he’d never before directed at Efren. “Did you hit your head when you fell? Do you feel injured anywhere?”

  “I fell?” From what? A horse? That was about how he felt. But no, surely he’d never drink enough spirits to feel compelled to go horseback riding naked. And he was indeed naked.

  “It was Knockout, sir.” Jeremy placed an insistent hand on Efren’s chest and cast a worried gaze at his belly. Apparently, Jeremy wouldn’t be satisfied until his questions had been fully answered.

  “Knockout? Proye attacked us? What are our casualties?” There was something else needling at the back of his brain. Something he should know, and something he should ask, but his memory was still muddled.

  “Yes, sir, it was Knockout. Your thoughts should clear within a minute, but please, sir, can you tell me if you are injured?”

  “No, I don’t think I’m injured.” Overall achy, but no sharp or acute pain anywhere. Efren stilled as the remaining fog blew out of his brain. He sat and looked around the camp. His people were up or in the process of being brought around from the Knockout’s effects. But—

  “Where is Marcelo? Is he still out?”

  Marcelo had been sleeping when Efren exited the tent. He remembered that, now. He hadn’t gotten far. In fact—he ran a hand up his back—yes, those were scrapes. They’d probably dragged him to pull him out of the entry.

  Denis Byrd came around the side of the tent at the same time Stevyn, one of the guards, exited it. Stevyn wordlessly handed Efren his trousers.

  Efren stood and looked down as he pulled them on. A dried bloody handprint on his belly taunted him. He squared his shoulders and turned to Denis. “Is Marcelo alive?” Efren’s voice
cracked. “Where is he?” Because obviously there was a reason no one had answered his question. If all was well, they would have jumped to reassure him.

  Denis drew in a deep breath as if to work up the grit to say it. He cleared his throat. “He’s missing, sir.”

  “Missing?” Efren pushed down the alarm rising in his chest. He wouldn’t be of any use to anybody if he panicked. “What do we know? Any reason to suspect he isn’t alive?” Other than the significance of that handprint?

  “Actually, sir,” Denis replied. “I think there’s good reason to believe he is alive.”

  Efren just stood and breathed for a few beats as relief warmed his chilled blood. “Good. Tell me what you’ve found.”

  Denis nodded to Stevyn. “Did you find any additional clues inside the tent?”

  “Yes, sir.” Stevyn stood straighter and turned to Efren. “The smaller nightshirt, Prince Marcelo’s, has a wide strip torn out at the hem.” He bounced his gaze to Denis, then back to Efren. “I think he might have figured out what was going on and made himself a mask.”

  “Smart thinking.” Denis widened his eyes a bit as if taken aback by that. But Efren wasn’t surprised. He’d already figured that “unknowledgeable” and “inexperienced” didn’t equate to “dimwitted” in Marcelo’s case. And certainly not “undetermined.” Even so, the loose weave of that cotton material might have bought him a little time, but it wouldn’t have kept out enough of the toxin for long.

  “Whose blood do you think I’m wearing here?” Efren asked. “Do you think Marcelo’s been injured?”

  “I don’t think it’s Prince Marcelo’s blood.” Efren followed Denis’ gaze toward a spot on the ground, where a sizeable pool of blood had seeped into the earth. A gory tent stake lay in the middle of the mucky wet patch. “Although that’s likely his handprint.”

  “You think he stabbed one of them with a tent stake?” It made sense. The attackers would have used real weapons if they’d wanted to kill. Unless, they’d turned Marcelo’s makeshift weapon against him.