The Best-Laid Plans

by Addison Albright

  “We are on our return journey to Zioneven, and our camp was attacked in the night. Prince Marcelo has been abducted and we’re tracking his captors to recover him.” Efren paused for emphasis before making his plea. “We, and your own queen, would greatly appreciate your cooperation and any information you can provide that might lead to the recovery of her son.”

  The woman’s eyes widened as Efren spoke. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. Yes, there was a wagon traveling south this morning that caught my attention.”

  “In what way, ma’am?” Denis asked. “What was unusual about this wagon?”

  “Most of the traffic that comes by is regional farmers, and there’s more that I don’t personally know, but I recognize them as some that go by on occasion. Of course, there’s always some I don’t know at all—travelers like yourselves that were part of that group yesterday—so that’s not curious on its own.”

  “But…?” Denis prompted.

  “But, this wagon passed by heading north just last night about an hour after your group went by. Same wagon. Same horses, different driver. There might be a reasonable explanation, but that was curious.”

  Efren and Denis shared a glance. This was a promising lead.

  “Anything else about this particular wagon that seemed out of place?” Denis asked.

  The woman shrugged. “The tarp, maybe? The load wasn’t full, and it’s a sunny day. I guess it depends on what was under it.”

  Sunny and not at all windy. Still, there could be something legitimate that needed cover.

  Denis continued to question the woman. She had been up well before the sun, working in her kitchen that had a window overlooking the road. She’d noticed everyone and everything that had gone by during the plausible stretch of time for their target to have passed.

  Shortly before she’d arisen, she’d heard an unusual number of horses clopping by without the rattle of a wagon or carriage behind. And it was also possible there’d been foot traffic she hadn’t detected at all before entering her kitchen. But she was sure she’d been at work making bread and pastries before she’d heard any kind of horse-drawn conveyances.

  “Seven wagons and carts went by this morning before you knocked on my door,” she said. “I know four of them, and they’d never be part of something like this. All good hardworking men. Loyal men. They’d never harm our prince.”

  “And the other three?” Denis asked.

  “One I’ve seen pass by on occasion, but I can’t personally vouch for him. He had an open cart, though. Another I didn’t recognize at all, but it was a man and his wife, looked like, with their belongings in the back, like maybe they were moving.”

  “And the seventh is the one with the tarp, that you saw heading north last night?” Efren asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  She proceeded to describe it in impressive detail. Only that one wagon with two horses fit the bill as something that could be transporting a bound captive and/or a dead man.

  If the kidnappers had initially traveled south, and it only made sense that they would have, and that they would have stuck to this main road for faster travel during the first part of their journey while everyone left behind at the campground was still unconscious, then by process of elimination, that wagon had to be their target.

  * * * *

  Marcelo

  The driver’s words—“Don’t worry, ya mollycoddled worthless waste of space. Your ordeal will soon be over.”—in a different context, uttered with a less menacing tone, might have been reassuring. But instead, Marcelo’s body went rigid. He had never considered that one could be dizzy while lying prone, but indeed, that was how he felt.

  Marcelo closed his eyes and pictured Efren as he’d entered their bedchamber—was it really just two nights ago?—and the wide, reassuring grin he’d beamed at Marcelo. From their first glimpse of each other, Efren had been nothing but respectful and considerate.

  Since he’d been five years old, Efren had known he would someday have to marry Marcelo’s twin, Marcela—or should she die prematurely, he could choose from among Marcela’s younger siblings. It wasn’t a marriage he would have chosen for himself, and he could have approached it with a bitter attitude. But he hadn’t, and that spoke volumes about his character.

  A character that Marcelo had come, in short order, to admire. Perhaps the swiftness of Marcelo’s respect had to do with the fact that he’d had no choice in the matter of this marriage either and very much wanted his future to be a happy one. But the esteem in which he held Efren was deserving, nonetheless.

  What would Efren—calm, resourceful, and efficient Efren—do in this situation? Marcelo grimaced. What Efren wouldn’t do is faint to escape the terrible reality surrounding him. He would stay strong and work out a plan.

  Yes, a plan. Marcelo retrieved the stake from his trousers and set to work on the knots remaining at his knees and ankles. He felt more confident that he could at least defend himself with his hands free and his mind undistracted by that awful gag.

  He covered his mouth to quell the shaky laughter bubbling forth. He’d done it. Made so much progress. He, who no one from his family would suspect could cope in such a situation, had managed to partially free himself after being trussed up like the most dangerous of criminals, and was well on his way to completing the task.

  And he’d killed a man. He’d likely never be able to scrub the memory of that awful moment from his mind. Would he have to do it again?

  The driver’s words ran through Marcelo’s mind again, and his gut twisted with the realization he likely would have to at least attempt to kill this man. Kill or be killed.

  But for now, he was alive, and if not precisely free yet, he was decidedly less restricted and in a far better position than he’d been upon waking.

  Horrifying as was the prospect of killing again, he wasn’t going to go down meekly, accepting whatever fate this man dealt.

  Marcelo wasn’t ready to die yet. He held his hands together against his chest to calm himself. A corner of his mind acknowledged that if Efren was still alive, Marcelo didn’t want him to have to live with the guilty feelings he’d likely harbor if Marcelo came to such a demise. Nor did he want his mother to feel the pain of losing another of her children.

  With the minimal gray light under the tarp, he made little to no progress with the difficult knots, despite the better leverage he had compared to when he’d worked on his wrist bindings. He went back and forth, trying both the remaining bonds. They seemed tighter than those at his wrists had been. Perhaps different people had tied them?

  How soon was the “soon” of the looming fate the driver had promised…threatened? Perspiration dripped into Marcelo’s eyes and he wiped it away with as little disturbance to the tarp as possible.

  He wiggled the stake while pressing hard, but to no avail. Maybe there were tools of some kind in the wagon he could use. Except he couldn’t risk too much movement to give away the fact he was partially loose.

  The element of surprise was the solitary thing in his favor. When the tarp was eventually pulled back, the driver would have to be completely unsuspecting, or Marcelo had no hope at all.

  Marcelo swayed as the wagon turned to the left. He fought to keep his breathing steady as panic swept through him. Were they close to their final destination? Or at least the final destination his captor—captors?—intended for him?

  Time was running out.

  Marcelo set his jaw. He could do this. His future held so much hope, now, he couldn’t go down without fighting for it. Fighting for a chance to win Efren’s heart…and respect.

  If he died…well…at least he had truly lived these past couple days before his time ended. No—Marcelo shook his head—he wasn’t going to let stoical thoughts like that diminish his determination.

  He would do this. He would survive.

  Rather than persisting with the futile efforts regarding the remaining bindings, he needed to figure a plan to work around them. Running barefooted was neve
r going to keep him ahead of anyone trying to recapture him, anyway, because the boorish driver had been right when he’d said Marcelo was “mollycoddled.” Certainly, he’d been pampered. His unprotected feet were not used to rough terrain.

  Marcelo’s one real option to emerge the victor was to attack first, and to do it suddenly and swiftly. With even a split second of preparedness, a trained warrior would defeat him.

  Should he wait until his abductor pulled back the tarp, then strike? No. While that might work, he couldn’t guarantee that the man wouldn’t be too far away for Marcelo to strike without him having time to defend himself.

  What if the driver went to the rear and yanked off the tarp? Marcelo would have to leap across the dead man and whatever else lay there. He could never do it in time. Especially with his knees and ankles still bound.

  Marcelo’s chest tightened. Did his would-be killer need to pull back the tarp at all to kill him? Or to incapacitate him before removing the tarp to finish the deed? The man could easily wallop him with a heavy tool, or stab through the tarp with a dagger or knife.

  No, he couldn’t wait to see what might or might not happen. He would have to be ready to fling back the tarp and leap when the man approached the wagon’s side.

  Marcelo brushed his flyaway hair out of his face. For that matter, did he need to wait for the driver to stop the wagon? Surely that would be the ultimate surprise attack and might be his best bet if there was more than one man up there.

  He pressed his lips together, picturing how that might play out, then sighed with a hard swallow. No. He had no training on how to drive a horse-drawn wagon.

  He’d seen plenty drive by, but he knew nothing about the subtle movements or twitches or pulls that must be made to the reins to direct the horses. And what would he do if the driver dropped those reins during the scuffle? What if the horses took off running in response to the skirmish behind them?

  Stealth in making his eventual escape might be as important as swiftness during his attack. Marcelo didn’t know who might be out there looking for him. Friend or foe?

  If this man didn’t show up wherever he was meant to go by an appointed time, would there be a band of his compatriots sent to discover why and to recover Marcelo?

  On the other hand, what if their ultimate destination was not secluded? What if the driver’s compatriots were waiting for them to arrive?

  Killing just the driver would do him no good in that scenario. In fact, it might cause the others to dispatch Marcelo with less…consideration…than they might otherwise have used.

  Perhaps he should take his chances with killing the man here on the road. Maybe—

  The wagon bumped violently as it was driven off the left side of the road. Marcelo’s head thumped into a hard, wooden surface as he was thrown against the front side of the wagon bed.

  His lips quivered. The decision regarding the timing of his attack was being taken out of his hands.

  Chapter 6: Where Is He?

  Efren

  Efren raked stiff fingers through his hair as Denis spoke with the man who’d been riding toward them while their small band traveled west toward Proye. The man raised his brows as Denis questioned him, obviously unused to being interrogated on the road.

  But though the stranger seemed attentive and curious, he exhibited no signs that he was holding back or being outright dishonest, and he shook his head in reply to each of Denis’s questions. No, he hadn’t seen the wagon Denis described, nor had he seen those horses.

  Neither had residents living along this road that they’d questioned so far. Unlike that woman on the north-south road, none could claim that they’d been particularly attentive to the traffic, so they couldn’t positively say it hadn’t gone by, only that they hadn’t noticed.

  Others they’d met on this road had been short-distance local traffic, so the fact they’d not seen it was unsurprising. This man, though, had been on horseback on this road since dawn.

  “What do you think?” Efren managed to choke out the words around the lump in his throat once Denis was done questioning the traveler.

  “Nothing definitive.” Denis wore a pained expression, and Efren’s face heated. Clearly Efren wasn’t doing a good job of hiding his rising alarm—his trepidation that was unrelated to any anxiety he might feel regarding potential political ramifications between Zioneven and Sheburat at his having lost Sheburat’s lone prince after so short a time under his protection.

  Efren pushed down the distress that seemed like it should be excessive for a relationship that had existed for merely a few short days. But Marcelo’s demure determination tugged at Efren’s heartstrings like no other had done.

  Efren gave a tight nod. “Yes. There are several possibilities. Where do you think the odds lie? I’m…” He shook his head. “I can’t rely on my own judgment for this.”

  He didn’t need to explain. Those who knew him had no doubt seen his growing enchantment with his new husband. His feelings interfered with his reasoning in any situation regarding Marcelo. But, even when Efren did have confidence in his own thoughts, he knew enough to listen to the assessment of one who had vastly more experience than he.

  Denis cleared his throat. “Nothing stands out as being most likely, I’m afraid, sir. One possibility is they changed conveyances. Maybe the carriage he spoke of. Another is that they’ve moved onto minor country roads. It’s likely they’ve been planning this for months, only with a recent change of target, so it makes sense they would have researched paths or had a relay set up to minimize their exposure.”

  “And we’ve already covered those bases,” Efren said. While Denis, Efren, and a few remaining men questioned people along the road, Denis had sent a couple men hurrying forward to check any transport with cover, whether it be a tarp-covered wagon or a carriage, and dispatched others down side roads. “Should we carry on questioning, or…” Or what? Until reinforcements arrived from Sheburat castle, they didn’t have the manpower to fully investigate all the side roads.

  “I’m leaning toward side roads,” Denis said. “Those that might lead to alternative through roads. It’s a better chance for them to evade pursuit.”

  “I’m inclined to agree.”

  Denis gestured to the other men in their party to come forward for instruction.

  Efren stared out over the adjacent meadow and breathed in the fresh, fragrant air. Wild strawberries were growing close by, and he closed his eyes and thought of Marcelo’s fine strawberry-blond hair spilling over a snowy white pillow on their wedding night. How lovely and innocent Marcelo had been. And trusting.

  Efren flinched. It had been a misplaced trust, apparently. He’d let down Marcelo. They should have considered the potential of danger from Proye. They could have been prepared for the use of Knockout if they’d considered it a possibility.

  How terrified Marcelo must be, wondering what would become of him, wondering if Efren would find him in time. Wondering, perhaps, if Efren was even alive. From what they’d learned, he was likely tied up in the bed of a wagon, under a tarp, probably sharing that space with the body of the man he’d killed. He sure wasn’t enjoying the scents of a meadow right now.

  The sole thing keeping Efren from total despair was the knowledge that Proye would need to keep him alive, and hopefully relatively unharmed, to use as a bargaining chip to get back King Ulric’s lover.

  Still, Marcelo must be petrified. He was so…innocent.

  As one of their party galloped off under Denis’s orders to call back their forward riders who would have caught up with a slower-moving conveyance by now, another—Olin, a new and inexperienced but eager recruit, who’d been sent down a side road—raced toward them from the direction they’d come.

  Denis moved his horse back beside Efren’s as Olin approached. “What have you found?” Denis asked. He didn’t have to ask if Olin had found something; that much was written on the young man’s face.

  “A wagon, sir, matching the description. Tarp in it match
es, too.”

  “Abandoned?” Efren asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Olin’s brows squeezed together, and he darted a glance at Denis.

  “You found something else?” Efren prodded. His voice sounded like his meal had coagulated in his throat as he fought to keep his chin from trembling. Olin had found something he was reluctant to admit.

  “Say it,” Denis said.

  “I followed wagon tracks that went off the road, behind some brush…”

  “And?”

  Olin cleared his throat. “It’s empty—the wagon is—other than that tarp. And…well…there’s a grave-sized space of turned earth nearby.”

  Efren slumped and lowered his head, chin to chest.

  * * * *

  Marcelo

  Marcelo pressed a hand against his churning stomach and tightened his grip on the stake with the other. Above all else, the one thing he couldn’t do was drop it. Using his left hand to feel his way, he repositioned his weapon for maximum control.

  There was no point in slipping it up his sleeve as he’d done back at camp. The instant the man saw Marcelo was loose had to be the same instant the stake was driven into him.

  The question was, how to do it? Marcelo rotated his head to check the edges of the tarp. Its edges were tucked down, but it was tied only at the corners, and loosely at that. With Marcelo assumed to be completely trussed up, he supposed his abductors hadn’t considered more to be necessary, and perhaps quick access was potentially useful to the driver.

  He unobtrusively released the half-knot from the D-ring near his head. There was nothing he could do about the one at his feet, but the tarp was oversized enough he could make it work. He would need to use his left arm and hand to push the tarp out of his way as completely as possible, but he didn’t want to grip the edge in readiness lest his hand be spotted. He drew up his legs, the better to spring up without entangling in the tarp.

  Marcelo strove to keep his breath steady as he pictured the action in his mind several times, practicing academically what he couldn’t physically rehearse as the wagon bumped violently, clearly off the road. Moments…he might have no more than a few moments.