The Best-Laid Plans

by Addison Albright

  How should he approach—he grimaced just thinking about it—the stab? Bringing the metal rod up from below had worked well last time. Seemed like that gave the target less opportunity to see it coming or to react in self-defense.

  But he’d have to make sure to be high enough that his hand and the stake easily cleared the side of the wagon. He’d have to jump up as he flung off the tarp, all in a single motion, while his knees and ankles were bound.

  This was assuming the man would alight from his seat on the bench on the same side that the voice had come from, the side where Marcelo’s feet were, the left side if facing forward. If so, then Marcelo was well positioned for that maneuver.

  Marcelo closed his eyes to concentrate, again practicing the mechanics of the actions in his mind. He’d have to aim for the neck, up and under the man’s chin. The softer parts of the driver’s torso would be protected by the side of the wagon. He had a much smaller target to aim for this time and no time at all to zero in with care.

  The wagon slowed and curved again, and something—bushes?—scraped along the side by Marcelo’s head as the wagon jarred to a stop. The man would have to alight on the other side, as Marcelo had hoped.

  Marcelo tensed, his left arm positioned ready to cast off the tarp, his body ready to spring into action. But the man didn’t get off the wagon. Thumping noises came from the front as if the driver had dragged something from the space under his seat and was now sorting through heavy objects in the footwell.

  Would he thump Marcelo from his seat? Should Marcelo jump up now and stab him in the back? No, he’d never be able to jam the stake through his target’s rib cage, and the softer bits that would be presented below might not immediately incapacitate the man.

  But would it even be his back? There was no way to tell which way the man was facing, or how he was positioned, and Marcelo had to react quickly once exposed.

  Of course, that was somewhat the situation even with the plan he’d worked out, but—

  The noises changed, and the wagon jerked as the man jumped down. Marcelo froze. Was the guy turning to check the horses first, or to address whatever his intentions were with the contents of the wagon?

  If Marcelo jumped up and the man was way over by the horses—

  But he wasn’t. His hand was fiddling with the corner of the tarp by Marcelo’s feet.

  Marcelo drew in a breath. This was better than he’d hoped. He steeled himself to act and fling off the head portion of the tarp as the man pulled back the part over his feet.

  In the dim light, he focused his vision on that hand. It was the man’s right hand—most likely his more dominant hand—going across his body to get a grip on the material. So he probably wasn’t holding a weapon, or if he was, it was in his left hand.

  Marcelo pictured where the man’s head would be relative to that hand, and as the man fisted the corner of tarpaulin and lifted…

  Marcelo sprang.

  Using his left arm, he flung the tarp clear, and with a rush of vitality that seemed to stem from the terror that had engulfed him, he vaulted to his feet and fixated on the man’s neck.

  The driver—the same man who’d approached Marcelo at the camp with the man Marcelo had killed—barely had time for his face to register surprise before Marcelo rammed the metal rod up under his chin and thrust it into his brain.

  Time seemed to pause as the man remained standing. The dagger he’d been holding in his left hand dropped with a soft thud to the ground, and the light of life faded from his eyes, then without further warning, he dropped into a heap, the tent stake still embedded under his chin.

  Nausea churned in Marcelo’s gut. His hands trembled, and he stared at his bloody hand that seemed to be floating in front of him. He sank in the wagon bed as his knees buckled, then sagged against the side, closed his eyes, and whimpered.

  He was alive. He’d survived. He’d done what he’d had to do to endure. Killed a man for the second time in the course of a single day. For only the second time in his entire life.

  Would Efren be proud or taken aback to find that his marriage choice had such ferocity in him? Sure, the ability to commit violent acts was a positive trait in a warrior, but perhaps a future king might not consider it to be suitable in a lover…a husband.

  But surely Efren would not prefer him to be dead than to be capable of defending himself. Would he?

  Marcelo shook off the negative thought. The dead man had been seemingly alone, but were others coming to meet him here? Was this a prearranged destination or simply a place that had appeared secluded enough for him to dispose of evidence that he’d participated in this heinous crime?

  He didn’t have time to dwell on anything but continued survival. One step at a time.

  Marcelo had been correct in thinking he’d been sharing the wagon bed with the man he’d killed at camp. On the other side of a small hay bale, that man’s vacant eyes stared blankly at the sky, while his mouth hung open, as if surprised by what he saw.

  A long leather sack lay near the dead man, and Marcelo pulled it to him. Inside he found a cache of weapons. Knives, daggers, and swords. Some loose, some in sheathes. He recognized the unique handle of Efren’s sword loose among them.

  He pulled it out and studied the sharp blade. Efren’s scabbard might still lie on the floor of their tent. Marcelo rooted through the pile and pulled out a knife with a matching handle.

  That knife made quick work of Marcelo’s remaining bindings. He rubbed his ankles where the rope had abraded his skin.

  His first instinct was to run. To get as far from this place as quickly as his legs could carry him. He lifted his head and listened. Birds chirped, and a mild breeze rustled the leaves of nearby trees. But no wagons rattled, and no horses clopped close by.

  Beyond killing Marcelo—the dagger the newly dead man had been holding made that objective obvious—what had the driver’s intentions been here? Marcelo lifted up to peer over the bench into the footwell. There lay a shovel and a scabbard with a broadsword and knife.

  Probably the man’s own arms, not worn because he’d had a part to play, and a farmer driving a wagon down the road wouldn’t have been wearing a soldier’s weaponry.

  The likely purpose of this detour off the road had been to get rid of the evidence—the bodies of Marcelo and the man killed at camp, and possibly the confiscated weapons, too. Those had probably been taken to hamper the pursuit rather than to boost their own stores.

  When the driver didn’t show up to wherever he was going next, others might come looking. The wagon tracks would make it obvious that they’d arrived, so Marcelo should make it look like the deed had been done so they wouldn’t think they needed to continue looking for him.

  Chapter 7: We Have to Find Him

  Efren

  Denis laid a hand on Efren’s shoulder. “We’ll check it out, sir. They probably buried the man that was killed at camp. They’ve got no reason to kill Prince Marcelo.” Denis gave Efren’s shoulder a squeeze. “Killing him would be a mission failure for Proye. They need him alive.”

  Efren tightened his fists and nodded. Denis was right. He had to be.

  At a trot, it didn’t take them long to arrive at the site Olin led them to. Efren sat rigid in his seat as they approached.

  Denis and Stevyn dismounted, and Efren sat quietly, letting them analyze the scene. He wanted to look away. To stare out over the field abloom with wildflowers and the trees beyond and magically make this nightmare disappear. Erase the past half a day—had it really been only that? But he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the grim task Denis and Stevyn had set for themselves.

  Stevyn climbed onto a back wheel and leaned over to get a closer look while Denis did the same at the front. They swapped places, then made another close inspection from the other side. When they were done looking inside the wagon, they studied the ground around it.

  “Sir?” Denis turned and peered at Efren.

  “Yes.” Efren’s voice sounded hollow.
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br />   “This wagon’s a decoy.”

  Efren blinked. “A decoy?”

  Denis approached the patch of turned earth.

  Efren took a closer look at the supposed grave. “That mound is too…loose.” Not to mention not as high as one would expect. It was probably loose to give the appearance of a burial mound. “I bet you can completely flatten it by just walking across it.”

  Which Denis promptly did, and his weight easily compressed the soil of the fake grave.

  Stevyn cleared his throat. “That wagon has not been used to transport a recently dead body unless it was well-wrapped in leakproof material. There’s enough dust settled to indicate nobody has been in the wagon bed or seat for days anyway, and the wheel tracks leading it here are about that old, too.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Efren said. “Did they expect us to take no more than a cursory look and jump to the conclusion this was the wagon Marcelo had been in so we would erroneously continue down this road? Or did they expect us to figure out the ruse and eliminate this path that they have indeed followed?”

  Denis rubbed his jaw and shook his head. “I don’t know. Thing is, the fake grave is fresh, and some horse tracks other than Olin’s leading here are, too. It’s looking more and more like…” He froze and his brows knit together. He closed his eyes for a moment, then stared up at Efren and let out a long breath.

  Stevyn cocked his head to the side and peered at Denis. Whatever it was, he hadn’t deduced it, either.

  “What is it?” Efren’s gut churned. Denis had figured something out, and clearly didn’t consider it to be good news. “Tell me.”

  With his voice a soft monotone, Denis asked, “Why did they take the dead man with them?”

  “Why—” Why not?

  A chill ran through Efren’s blood. Because it would add risk to the mission. They could have left the man on site—even buried him there—but they hadn’t. Taking that body meant it had to share the wagon with their captive. It would hamper them if they were planning a relay involving carriages, which would be a logical plan. They would have to stop and bury him along the way, chancing exposure while doing so.

  Proye wasn’t known for being sentimental about fallen soldiers, let alone agents on a secret mission. The single practical reason to take him would be to keep him from being identified. And Proye had no reason to hide the fact he was their man. The use of Knockout had told them it was a Proye mission.

  The light of realization lit Stevyn’s eyes as he also worked it out. “But…but why the fake grave here, then? And how did they get the Knockout?”

  “Because,” Denis said, “if we assume it’s the correct wagon and the dead man from camp without looking further, they’re golden. If we figure out it’s all fake and head off on another wild goose chase, they’re still fine. As long as we don’t think too hard about why they can’t have that body identified, they’re in the clear.”

  And the perpetrators didn’t want that body identified, because if it was, the finger would point to Gagel. King Deverick of Gagel knew of King Ulric of Proye’s connection to Sheburat’s prisoner as well as Efren did. Instead of setting up Zioneven by using Shalmo, Gagel was setting up Proye by using Knockout.

  Denis didn’t answer Stevyn’s second question. It could only be speculation, and it was easy enough to surmise considering Stevyn himself had collected dried samples of the toxin from a spill back at camp for Zioneven alchemists to analyze.

  Efren blinked and turned away from the sun, which shone way too brightly. He swallowed. “We have to find him. Quickly.”

  Because Gagel had no reason to keep Marcelo alive for any longer than it would take to safely dispose of his body. Gagel would need Marcelo to simply disappear, forever, while Proye denied involvement, and Sheburat and Zioneven insisted that all evidence pointed to them, despite their protestations.

  Marcelo’s death would be a mission failure if Proye was behind his capture, but it would be the mission for Gagel.

  * * * *

  Marcelo

  Marcelo stared at his bare feet, then glanced at the shovel and sighed. He peered over the side of the wagon. The dead driver’s footwear appeared relatively clean. No fresh blood or urine stains apparent anyway.

  With a heavy sigh, Marcelo pushed himself up. The rush of strength that had helped him to spring into action when his life had been in immediate danger had now deserted him. First things first…he climbed over the side of the wagon, wrinkled his nose, and liberated the footwear from the fallen man and slipped the leather boots onto his own feet.

  He peered around the bushes and bit his lip as he pondered the road. This side road wasn’t busy, but the main road might have traffic, and he didn’t know who might be looking for him. Friend or foe…or both.

  And he didn’t know for sure how much time he had before the driver was missed and others were sent looking for him, but he probably had as much time as it would have taken the driver to bury the bodies. As quickly as possible to throw them off track, he needed to make this site appear as if the driver had done his duty.

  There were no saddles on these horses, but though it had been years since he’d done so, he had ridden bareback before. Riding wasn’t a problem, not once he was astride the animal. And if he drew a horse to the side of the wagon, he could climb on and, after getting his bearings, head back toward the camp where allies might still be based.

  He still didn’t want to attempt to drive the wagon, and without it, he couldn’t retrieve all of the weapons, but he could return Efren’s. They might have sentimental value, plus wearing a proper sword he might at least appear to be someone a random outlaw or swindler should avoid.

  Marcelo buckled on the scabbard the driver no longer needed and held his chin high as he inserted Efren’s broadsword and knife into the proper slots. He grasped the broadsword’s handle and closed his eyes. How many times had Efren’s hand gripped the same to defend himself and his kingdom? Marcelo pulled back his shoulders. Someday he hoped to earn the right to wear his own set.

  He eyed the stake protruding from the driver’s throat. If he did encounter trouble along the way, he had no actual training in close or hand-to-hand combat. A stealth maneuver was still his best bet should he encounter trouble as he made his way to safety.

  But his empty stomach rebelled at the mere thought of pulling out the stake. Defending himself when his own life was in imminent danger was one thing. Even though this man was now dead, tugging out the stake against the serrations that were meant to help it stay in the ground seemed worse.

  He would hold that thought. He might have to do it, but it didn’t have to be his first task.

  A denser line of trees in the direction away from the road lured him. He was parched. The sun was overhead, so it was midday, and unless he’d been unconscious for an entire extra day, he must still be in Sheburat. He’d drunk nothing since last night, and that line of trees indicated a creek.

  It was. A sizeable creek at that. Marcelo drank his fill, relieved himself, then picked a few handfuls of berries he recognized to be safe and ate them.

  Marcelo circled a couple trees on his return, inspecting the base of the trunks, noting the moss. He’d read something once about how moss grew on the side never hit by direct sunlight.

  He gazed at the minor road that had led to this secluded spot and backtracked in his mind to the left turn that had put them on this track.

  The road they’d turned off—which, bumpy as it had felt to Marcelo tied up in the wagon bed—hadn’t actually been rough enough for him to consider it a country road. It had probably been that major east-west road their caravan had crossed a bit south of the camp.

  So he now knew where his captors had been heading. But why? He rubbed the back of his neck. In what way would kidnapping Marcelo advance their agenda?

  Ah. Marcelo bobbed his head as realization dawned. The agenda was the same as that which had prompted the action that had killed Marcela. A different substance was being us
ed to frame a different country, but the motive was unchanged.

  Considering the direction they’d been traveling, the size of this creek, and what he’d studied of the geography of Sheburat, he could be reasonably sure that following this creek would lead him directly back to the campground.

  If he took off now, would he be able to get far enough away that they wouldn’t catch him before he reached safety? Marcelo closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and emitted a very undignified frustrated growl. He would never be able to logically work his way out of this predicament when he had literally no training regarding military or any other kind of mission strategy.

  No matter what he did, most likely they would catch him if they knew he was alive, and they were actively pursuing him. All he knew for sure was that he didn’t want to put any private citizens in danger by seeking their assistance, so his best bet was still to make the site look like their mission had been successful then strike off on his own.

  At the wagon, he retrieved the shovel and eyed it balefully. Once again, he regretted his sheltered upbringing. Manual labor was utterly alien to him. But he’d seen laborers at work and understood the mechanics of how to dig a hole.

  A mere ten minutes into the task, Marcelo’s underused muscles ached. After thirty minutes, they burned. He tightened his fists on the handle and pushed the spade into the soil and pitched out another shovelful. Sweat dripped down his back, despite the cool breeze.

  It was hard to imagine people spending entire days doing work such as this. A few more scoops and he shook out his hands. They were as sore as the rest of his arms, not to mention his back. And blistered, no doubt soon to be bloody.

  Energy. He needed more food to fuel his labor. And water to replace what he was rapidly losing to sweat. The horses would need water, too.

  Marcelo detached them from the wagon and led them to the creek. They and he drank their fill, and Marcelo wolfed down as many berries as he could find in the near vicinity.