The Best-Laid Plans

by Addison Albright

“I think so, sir,” Stevyn replied. “We noticed that two of your tent stakes had been pulled up. Markings on the ground in there indicate he worked them out from inside the tent.”

  “Two? Where’s the other one?”

  “We haven’t found the second one,” Denis replied.

  Efren nodded thoughtfully. “Good for you, Marcelo. Good for you.”

  “I have a theory.” Ever pragmatic, Denis steered the conversation on to practical matters. “We know that Sheburat caught a Proye spy three weeks ago, and is holding him in their dungeons. Not just any spy, but a noble.”

  “Yes.” Efren nodded as the puzzle pieces fell into place. They’d been so focused on defending themselves from further treachery from Gagel, they hadn’t even considered the potential of threat from Proye. “And not just any noble, but King Ulric’s lover. And he wants him released.”

  “And Queen Giselle’s son would make a reasonable trade for his release.” Stevyn put to words what Efren already knew.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Denis said.

  Efren blinked a few times to clear the threatening tears, then entered his tent. He couldn’t stand motionless, talking. Proye’s plan would require Marcelo to be kept alive, but that didn’t remove all danger, especially if Marcelo had killed one of their men. Efren had to do something. “We need to act quickly. Better to catch up to them before they reach their castle. Before they…” he trailed off, unwilling to say the words “…hurt him.”

  Cooler heads would likely prevail over retaliation for the death of their man here, because self-defense would be an assumed risk of the mission, but certainly the threat of harm might accompany their trade offer, or as tit for tat if King Ulric’s lover has been harmed. Instead, he slipped on his tunic, wiping his eyes in the process.

  “Right,” Denis said. “I wanted to speak with you before sending anyone out, but what I’d like to do is this. First, we are only a single day’s caravan travel from Sheburat Castle. We could get a rider there quickly, requesting reinforcements.”

  “Good.” Efren picked up his empty scabbard. “Our weapons?”

  “We’ve got some, but many are gone,” Denis replied. “They took what they found. But no one was killed or even injured, which is consistent with the theory that this is Proye looking for leverage for the release of Sheburat’s prisoner without wanting to start a war with either of us.”

  “On the subject of Knockout,” Stevyn said. “It looks like some of their solution spilled not far from that bloody patch. We could collect grass and soil samples for our alchemists to work with.”

  “Excellent.” While it was commonly known that Knockout was employed by adding a crystalline substance to a cup with a little water, the formula was well-guarded, and Zioneven agents had yet to come across a discarded cup to analyze, let alone a packet of unused crystals. “Make sure that’s done.” Efren turned to Denis. “What else do you recommend?”

  Denis continued. “I would like to have our people who haven’t the skills to help in the search continue the journey home where they’ll be safe from further threat. Some of the reinforcements from Sheburat can catch up to them to escort them. And of course, we’ll send a contingent to Proye to attempt to recover Prince Marcelo before they reach Proye Castle.”

  “Good. Make it happen.”

  “Yes, sir,” Denis replied. “Are we dismissed?”

  “Yes.” Efren looked outside the tent and glanced at the sun, thankfully not yet very high in the sky. But the effects of Knockout could last anywhere from one to several hours. “Wait. One more question. What time of night was the attack?”

  “Just past midway through the last shift, sir,” Denis said. “They have two hours or so head start.”

  Efren nodded. “You’re both dismissed. Get things arranged quickly. We need to move out.”

  The good thing was, the attackers had taken some of that time to gather as many weapons as they could easily find, and they would have slower traveling with a prisoner and the dead body they’d removed.

  Efren closed his eyes, shivered, and mentally pushed down the more negative possibility—two dead bodies, if their plan had failed as miserably as Gagel’s bid to frame Zioneven with an attempt on Princess Marcela’s life.

  Efren sprang into action. For speed, the searchers would travel light. He would commandeer one of the small, lighter-weight tents and bedrolls that could easily be carried on a horse, and fill a small pack with a change of clothing, a minimum of personal items, and food for himself and Marcelo. And he would find Marcelo. Everything else could stay with the caravan.

  He collected a few items from the tent, then strode to the wagon he knew contained their supplies. Dru leaned against it, offering comfort to Erich, Marcelo’s longtime personal servant. Apparently, the news of Marcelo’s kidnapping had already spread.

  Erich looked up at Efren’s approach. The older man’s eyes reflected a level of grief that said much about Marcelo’s treatment of him.

  Efren placed a hand on Erich’s shoulder. “I will find him,” he said with a confidence he wasn’t entirely sure he felt.

  Erich’s jaw quivered as he pulled himself together. When he was able to fully straighten, he said, “Thank you, sir. Prince Marcelo has always been such a kind-hearted young man. I dread the thought of him coming to harm. He’s done nothing to deserve…” His voice trailed off with a whimper.

  “We have reason to believe he is alive.” Although not necessarily unharmed.

  With a nod, Erich said, “He’s tougher than you might have learned during your short acquaintance. He has an inner strength…a determination.”

  “Yes. I have noticed signs of that. It bolsters my confidence that our mission to recover him will succeed.”

  “If there’s anything I can do…”

  “There is.” Efren was desperate to get on the road, and with Erich and Dru’s help, he was able to quickly gather the bare necessities.

  * * * *

  Marcelo

  Every muscle in Marcelo’s body shrieked in protest as he jarred to consciousness. If he was indeed awake. Noises assaulting his senses were muffled, and it was dark. But certainly, such pain didn’t exist while asleep or unconscious or…dead, did it?

  He grimaced and arched as he struggled to get his whirling thoughts under control. He strained but couldn’t move. Not appreciably. He couldn’t think beyond the agony ripping through his limbs and face as his body continued to bounce about on a hard surface.

  His wrists were tied behind him. That much he could ascertain. He was bound at the ankles and knees as well. The gag cutting across his mouth was painfully tight.

  He could do no more than whimper, and he could only suspect he was doing that rather than confirm it because the rumbling vibrations of the surface upon which he lay obfuscated the sound.

  Marcelo drew in heaving rattling breaths of foul and musty air through his nose as painful minutes ticked by and his memories fought to the surface of his mind. He trembled at the recollection of Efren lying so still and prone on the ground outside their tent. Then winced, thinking of the awful mix of squish and crunch as he’d driven that serrated spike into one of the camp’s attackers, and the spurt of heated blood on his hand. At least the man had been too shocked to scream before swiftly expiring.

  What had happened to Efren and the others? Were they dead or alive? Apparently, the toxin didn’t kill, but that didn’t mean the attackers hadn’t made the rounds to easily slit everyone’s throat after incapacitating them.

  And why hadn’t they killed him? Did Marcelo’s captors plan to do so? He choked back a cry threatening to burst forth.

  Curse his lack of political savvy. Though if he’d learned anything, it was not to trust appearances. The fact that he was still alive might mean they needed it to only look as if he’d been kidnapped. It didn’t necessarily mean they intended to return him.

  Marcelo blinked away unshed tears…or more likely, soon-to-be-shed tears. Wouldn’t merely taking his body aw
ay have accomplished the same thing if the ultimate goal was to kill him? Perhaps he was to be left alive only until they reached a place where they could safely dispose of his body.

  Would it lessen the repercussions if their plan went awry and forces from Zioneven or Sheburat discovered them before reaching their destination, and Marcelo was recovered alive rather than dead?

  That might be a motive to keep him alive short-term. Or maybe he needed to be seen alive or forced to pen a note that would bear his handwriting to support the kidnapping ruse. If it was a ruse.

  A bead of sweat dripped from above his lip, slowly meandering toward his ear.

  For all he knew, everyone in the camp had been killed, and it could be days before his allies realized one person—at least—was unaccounted for. The one thing he knew for sure was that he had to do everything he could to help himself.

  There was no acceptable reason for him to be tied up in the bed of a wagon. He’d figured out that was where he must be, with a tarp thrown over him, dimming the daylight, and—judging by the pervading odor of urine and feces, and the buzzing of flies—possibly the dead body of the man he’d killed back at camp.

  He lay crossways on the wagon bed with the front wall to one side and a small bale of hay to the other. He flinched as the wagon lurched and something dug into his leg.

  Marcelo twisted his hands, trying to manipulate his bindings, but there was no play in the rope. He fisted and extended his hands. At least he could feel them.

  He grimaced and curled more tightly into a ball when the wagon jolted over a rough patch, and pain seared through the hip upon which he was lying. What was beneath him, digging so relentlessly into his hip and thigh?

  Shifting didn’t get him off the thing, which seemed to be—no, it was inside his trousers. A spark of hope skittered through his veins.

  The camp’s invaders had underestimated him…again. His kidnappers hadn’t noticed the second tent stake he’d secured inside his trousers. They probably hadn’t even thought to look for additional weapons.

  Or perhaps they’d searched where traditional weapons would likely be stashed, like in an ankle sheath that might be inside his trousers, but far lower than where he’d secured the spike. A typical sword and knife scabbard would have been visible atop his clothing.

  He squeezed closed his eyes, striving for calm while he considered his options. The tent stakes had a serrated edge to keep them from pulling out of the ground when a stiff wind blew against the tent.

  Perhaps he could use those jagged, saw-like edges to cut through the rope securing him. They weren’t overly sharp, but with a little time he might be able to make it work.

  But how much time did he have? And if he freed himself, then what? Marcelo shivered. Best to deal with one concern at a time.

  He shifted his weight, twisting his trousers to reposition the stake closer to his hands. He strained his arms, stretching to manipulate his hands closer to where the spike hooked at his waist.

  There…there…he could just brush his fingertips across it. He shifted again, angling the stake enough to manipulate it with his fingers and draw it to where he could grasp it.

  He relaxed to the extent that his bindings allowed, with his fingers wrapped protectively around the metal that might save his life. He ran his fingertips over the serrated metal, and his heart sank at the dullness of the edges.

  Even with hours to work—hours that he couldn’t count on having—it was unlikely that sawing at the rope would yield positive results. Marcelo worked his fingers down the length of the stake. Down to the point.

  The not-particularly-sharp point. After all, its purpose was to be easily driven into the ground without being casually dangerous. Obviously, with intent and determination, it could be lethal, but it hadn’t been designed with that use in mind.

  But the stake did taper to a fairly narrow point even if not dagger-sharp. It might still be useful to work into and loosen the knots.

  He manipulated the stake around to dig at the bulge of rope at his wrists. Between the continued rough vibrations and bounces of the moving wagon and not being able to see what he was doing, his progress was slow…but not nonexistent.

  A sense of calm permeated him as each prod of the stake progressed deeper into the loops. He wiggled the rod once it was deep enough to make a difference until it was fully seated.

  With a few good twists, it loosened to the point he could pick at it with his fingers. A few more minutes and another layer of knot later, and his hands were free.

  He clawed at the thick strip of cloth stretching across his mouth, holding it painfully and grotesquely open. But of course, yanking at the gag did no good. In a more rational frame of mind he wouldn’t have expected it to.

  He tried working his jaw and shifting the gag to a looser position. His eyes watered, but whoever’d fastened it had known what he was doing. There was no looser position.

  He drew in a few deep breaths of the fetid air and forced himself to calm down. Keeping his wits about him had gotten his hands free, so it could see him through the removal of the rest of his bindings, too.

  Marcelo closed his eyes and pictured Efren, always composed. At least in the few days Marcelo had known him, he’d seemed unperturbable. That demeanor appeared natural on Efren, and such a bearing would have helped make him an effective leader. Whether it was a political decision to be made or an immediate action to be taken, a cool head could be better trusted to make the right move.

  Prior to this event, the one time in his life that Marcelo had faced any kind of serious concern, he’d fainted dead away. Never again.

  He shuddered as he took another lungful of putrid air, then fingered the knot at the back of his neck. It seemed tighter than what he’d dealt with in the rope.

  But, unlike the rope, now that his hands were free, maybe he could rip the material. He could squeeze the stake underneath and push it out through the fabric, rending it.

  That turned out to be easier said—or rather thought—than done. The fabric was so tight, it was nigh on impossible to wedge anything with the thickness of the stake between it and his skin, and he’d likely have bruises on his cheeks from the attempt. There was the gap where it cut across his mouth, but he’d hoped to avoid the risk of breaking a tooth or poking the thing out his cheek while levering the metal rod.

  He’d rather leave a gash on the outside of his cheek, if it came to that. He pressed harder, and his eyes watered, though his face was numb enough he barely felt the pain the self-inflicted damage should have wrought as he dug the dull point into his flesh, then angled the rod to drive it through the fabric.

  Marcelo felt rather than heard the material tear, and the stake ripped through the edge with force. He stilled and held his breath after his forearm discernably disturbed the tarp covering him. Would the driver have noticed? Was there more than one person up on the bench with one keeping a closer eye on the back of the wagon than on the road ahead?

  A few anxious moments passed before Marcelo untensed. Maybe there was only a single driver? Certainly there’d been more men at the campsite, but it made sense that they would have split up. Perhaps a single driver of the wagon would be less conspicuous? He wasn’t well-traveled enough to know.

  What he did know of the geography, was that they’d been still in Sheburat territory at that campsite, approaching the “corner” created by a curious intersection of two rivers, where four kingdoms met at a point.

  From the campsite, they’d still had several days to go before reaching that point—and the Zioneven border to the north. Tracking back to a crossroads they’d passed an hour before camping, Gagel was a day’s journey to the east, and Proye the same to the west. If he could determine which way the wagon was traveling, he would at least know who was behind his capture.

  Of course, journey times were relative to the method of travel. But those were the times it would take a horse-drawn wagon, or a caravan of travelers that included supply wagons, which was the only tou
ring experience with which he was familiar. Less-encumbered persons could surely travel faster.

  He was likely still in Sheburat, and his captors would want to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Which meant the wagon would travel at a “normal” pace, whatever that meant, especially when passing by a settlement or fellow travelers.

  For whatever reason, Marcelo’s movement of the tarp hadn’t been noticed. Or at least not acknowledged. He carefully tucked the stake into his trousers for safekeeping while he worked at the frayed edges of the small rip, pulling and lengthening it, bit by bit, until finally enough had torn for Marcelo to get a good grip and quickly work the rend through all the layers of the bunched material.

  Marcelo crumpled in on himself with relief as he pulled the offensive material from his face and pushed it away with pathetic twitchy slaps. He opened and closed his mouth, loosening and relaxing his overstrained jaw muscles, then shifted his weight in a futile attempt to get more comfortable.

  “Don’t move,” a stern voice muttered, punctuated by a heavy swat through the tarp. That was followed by more indistinct mumbling that seemed to come from the same source, then a snicker that sent a shiver down Marcelo’s spine. “Don’t worry, ya mollycoddled worthless waste of space. Your ordeal will soon be over.”

  Chapter 5: Searching

  Efren

  “What’s this about?” The woman rested one hand on her hip and rubbed the other forearm across her brow as she narrowed her eyes and assessed Denis, who had introduced himself and asked her if she’d noticed anything unusual pass by on the road this morning. She moved her gaze to Efren and the others who hung back by the road. “You’re from Zioneven. I saw your caravan heading north yesterday.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Efren replied. She wasn’t going to be forthcoming without further explanation, and moreover, a reason to assist foreigners she was old enough to remember as Sheburat’s enemy not quite two decades past, so he added, “I’m Crown Prince Efren. You might have heard about my wedding at Sheburat Castle two days ago.”

  That got her attention. She straightened but remained silent…waiting.