He had been wrong. Doubling back to the blacksmith now wouldn’t work unless he found a cloak or a different jerkin. Getting bloodstains out of the leather would be near impossible. His pants would pass normal scrutiny if he wore something else clean—or at least something not splattered in blood. He smiled at the orc and hurried away. He didn’t know where to, but he needed to hide and hoped something would present itself.
There was a narrower path nearby, or maybe it was just a space had little use by the occupants in the area. Morgan hurried on, thankful he only needed to rely on his sight and hearing. His sense of smell was overloaded by every kind of waste imaginable. It’s like a shit cake with unwashed icing, he thought and wished he hadn’t. He liked cake. The distant sound of soldiers approaching from another direction made him pause. If he stayed his course, he would be caught between the two patrols.
A little farther in the direction he was walking was the remains of a dwelling that had fallen in on itself. Slum. That was what a place like this was called, Morgan thought. He remembered hearing news of King Michael working toward cleaning up the slum outside Torfellon. How does one go about cleaning up something like this? If you’re a king, maybe just saying you will is all that matters.
Morgan hurried to survey what his hiding place would be if he could make it work. He lifted the wall made of thin-cut lumber. It was dry, old and crumbling in places from insect damage and rot. It rested on top of another wall that had fallen first, and that wall was also resting on something. The air smelled even worse, if that was possible, and likely due to his disturbing things. He dropped to his hands and knees and peered underneath the pile. A body lay there, along with some large stones. That answered a few questions.
Lying flat on the ground, Morgan wormed his way feet first under the collapsed walls and then close to the body, pulling the sling full of chains with him. Morgan gave the body a closer look. The ear on the side of the head facing him had been gnawed, but the distinguishing point was still present. In life, it had been an elf. Now, in death, it looked like the elf Queen Verlainia had drained to a husk. Except the queen’s work didn’t involve it being eaten and chewed on.
The guards who had been chasing him were close now. Judging by the conversations he overheard, they were yelling at the occupants around them to come out of their homes while they checked inside. Not all the guards thought this was a good idea, but only because they were worried they would have to check every shit pile with a doorway, one of them had said.
“If there be anyone inside come out now!” one guard yelled.
“I’m just an old hag with nothing to my name but this chair my arse is resting on. I’m not getting up.”
“You’ll get up and come out or we’ll drag you out by your hair.” Morgan recognized that voice as the one who would cut his feet off when they caught him.
“Eh, stick that rock you call a head in here and you’ll see there is only myself.”
There was silence for a breath, then a few grunts and the woman cursed the guards. Morgan smiled at her colorful rant and hoped he would remember it. Troll shit was his go-to curse. He had only heard his father swear once. It was when Morgan was younger, and it stuck with him. In his sixteen summers he had never heard of anyone seeing a troll, but thought smelling a troll had to be worse than seeing one.
“Nothing here,” a guard yelled.
“Ya see what I be telling you,” the old woman cackled.
“Shut yer maw, hag, and get out of my sight,” the nasty guard spat.
The other folk living nearby didn’t give the guards any reason to linger, and they moved on. It was full light beyond his hidey hole and Morgan faced a new dilemma. Some of the folk living around his hiding spot had seen him but didn’t tell the guards. Could he count on others to do the same? He couldn’t stay there much longer. The tiny denizens of the world under the rubble didn’t care about guards or slum folk. They feasted on the remains laying near him non-stop and would continue until nothing but bone remained.
Morgan would rather fight the guards than have fend off crawlies, not to mention the rodents who had grown accustomed to his presence and stared at him with little beady eyes in between bites. He imagined them breaking out in a squeaky song, thanking their god for providing not one but two feasts in just so many days. Sorry, my little friends, but you must find your next feast somewhere else, he thought and crawled out from under the rubble.
“Ye got any food in that bag o’ yours,” he heard the old woman ask. She stood back from the window in the shadows, but he could see her.
“No, sorry. Just some old chain,” he answered pulling the chain up over the lip of the sling so she could see. She looked ancient and filthy. Matted gray hair reached out in every direction like gnarly tree branches.
“Eh, that be my luck. I was hoping to swindle ya for a bite to eat for not tellin’ the guard where ya was hidin’.”
“I’m grateful for your silence regardless of your reasons. Can’t promise when, but I’ll do my best to get you some food.”
“And water. Not had a drink of clean water since the last rain.”
“Food and water it is,” Morgan said. “But first I have to get back across the bridge. Would you know another way?”
“Leave the city an’ go north followin’ the river. There be places ya can ford, but ya should find a long limb to test the waters in front of ya for pits or ya mie find yaself down under. It sha not so swift this late in spring as ta carry ya away.”
“That’s good to know. What’s your name? In case I can’t come back and have to send someone.”
“Erlaine.”
Morton angled his way north through the slum, knowing his path would intersect with the road. He wondered what lay north beyond Kor’Tarnaeil that would warrant a road. Supposed to be nothing but wildmen up there. In the distance, he heard drivers calling commands to their horses and the squeaking of wagons ambling on. That was a good sign, so he quickened his pace until he found himself between two shacks and the road a few paces away.
There was no sound of guards in the immediate area, so he risked a look in both directions. In the south toward the fortress, it was clear to a bend in the road, and after that he had no clue. To the north, not far ahead of him, was a line of wagons. The line was due to a trio of guards checking the wagons before they could pass. They weren’t looking his way, so he hurried to catch the last wagon.
“Wagon Master, where does this road lead?” Morgan asked, startling the driver.
“You’re not from the north, are you, son?” the wagon master asked, moving his wagon forward with the line.
“No, sir, I’m traveling ya know. To see what I can see,” he replied. “I came north with some friends and all found work but me.”
“Well, there is no work up this road. Least not the kind you’d be lookin’ for.”
The wagon stopped as the next wagon in line prepared for inspection. Morgan slipped under the wagon and waited. This wagon was much the same as the wagons his family had owned. There was a wooden box for supplies and tools on the side between the front and rear wheels. Hangers made of strips of heavy leather formed into loops were used to hold the long pry bars for lifting the wagon to change a wheel or to free it when stuck in deep, muddy ruts in the road. He heard the driver shift on the bench, turning to say something to him. He grunted after realizing Morgan was gone.
It soon became their turn. Morgan wrapped a leg over a prybar and pulled himself up by gripping the frame. Clamping his mouth shut and breathing through his nose, he squeezed the wooden cross-member until his fingers turned white.
“Move along,” a guard told the driver after flipping the canvas back and inspecting the cargo. A snap of the reins and clicking of the tongue by the driver spurred the horses on. It picked up speed and Morgan planned to hold on until he felt the wagon had traveled far enough he could let go and get to cover without detection. To his misfortune, the road became rougher, forcing him to relinquish his grip on th
e wagon frame.
Morgan closed his eyes and let go. When he opened them, he was staring at the blue sky, lying flat on his back in the middle of the road. Rolling toward the side of the road, he didn’t stop until in the grass greeted him. He startled when a hoof stomped the ground next to his head. His rolling over and over must have caused him not to hear the horse approach. He raised up on his elbows and saw the guards were otherwise occupied over a hundred paces away, then leaned his head back.
The rider wore heavy furs and a well-tarnished helm over his long gray hair. His beard was gray and trimmed neat. The animal was huge and black as night. It was of similar quality and breeding to Jarol’s. The horse snorted in Morgan’s face, letting him know its opinion of a man lying in the dirt on the side of road. “I can’t disagree with you,” Morgan said.
“Excuse me, who are you speaking to?”
“The horse. I believe it expressed its opinion of my situation.”
“Yes, he probably did. He is like that.”
“My name’s Morgan. I was wondering if you and this big fella here would give me a lift just a little ways west of here and across the river.”
“I’m Fredrik and there is a perfectly good bridge on ahead.”
“Yes, and there are perfectly good guards I’m hoping to avoid.”
“Criminal?” Fredrik asked, his tone even.
“What? No. Crimes have been committed against me. They brought me here against my will and the son of the Southern Clan chief is out to get me. I lost my father and brothers to goblins not even a moon ago. People who might help me are gone to war in the south and I need to get back there.” The man, Fredrik, gave him a hard look before coming to a decision.
“Come. Blackstar can easily carry us both. We will go west, as you wish, and you will tell me more.”
“Thank you. If you will take me to the blacksmith’s shop, after I check what funds the whore has left and allocate some for the old lady in the slum, I will pay you the rest.”
Morgan thought he saw the man smile, but it vanished just as quick. “You have an odd assortment of friends, young Morgan. I am in no need of your money. I think your story will be payment enough.”
Twenty-Seven
Alexis and Theralin had ridden through the night. They ate travel biscuits and dried meat in the saddle and only stopped once to water the horses at a small stream and relieve their swollen bladders. Alexis felt fatigue, but not nearly as much as Theralin. She knew they would catch up to Railia’s abductors, who had been pushing their mounts just as hard, but one mount bore the weight of two riders, so they would need time to rest or they’d risk losing the horse to fatigue and have to walk.
Theralin rode beside Alexis, head drooped, chin resting on her chest, sleeping. Alexis had dropped back to ride beside her when she noticed the captain had fallen asleep. A fall from a horse could kill or severely injure an unconscious rider. The quiet during their pursuit gave Alexis time to think about broaching the subject of Morgan with Theralin. Soon when Alexis herself might become the hunted. She had to find Morgan and they would escape to somewhere far away. There was no way she would allow him to be returned to Queen Verlainia.
She knew Theralin had laid claim to Morgan, in part to protect him from the queen and maybe more so to satiate her own base desires. She had failed on both accounts when Verlainia took him as her pet prisoner. Time passed and Theralin woke up. Alexis was about to broach the subject of Morgan with her when she heard something in the distance. The voice on the wind was faint, but she was sure it was a voice and not something borne of fatigue. She focused on the sound of their horses’ easy gait, hoping they were quiet enough they wouldn’t be heard. As they got closer, she made out two distinct voices arguing. Then a third person spoke and Alexis smiled.
“Voices,” she whispered. “We’ll tie the horses and approach on foot.”
“We should approach from different directions. I will call on the camp while you stay within the darkness. Bring your bow and be sure to use it if the opportunity arises.”
Alexis would bring her bow and every weapon she had with her. They would not get away from them this night. “Give me the count of fifty before you proceed so I can get in position.”
“Agreed. Let us end this here and now.”
The thrill of bringing the chase to an end invigorated Alexis. All her senses were alive, feeding her information on her targets and path ahead. She crept closer, wishing she could move faster, but the risk was too great. She was sure there were three but unsure who. Morgan and Railia and one other was her hope. Any other combination in her mind meant Morgan or Railia was dead and their body hidden back at the fortress. Another fifteen paces and light flickered in the distance. Alexis could hear all three voices easily now. She felt her heart would explode as sadness crushed it in its grip. None of the voices was Morgan’s.
Her arm blurred as she drew an arrow from the quiver and nocked it in her bow. Railia was alive and the other two were unknown to Alexis. They would die now and Morgan would be avenged. She found a clear view of the campsite three paces further to her right. An orc woman sat with Railia on one side of the fire and a smaller form stood across from them. They were clothed just as the assassins that attacked her and Morgan at the palace. The smaller figure was venting his anger at the orc for not letting him have his way with Railia. The orc bid him try anything and she would maim him and leave him behind.
A branch broke just as Alexis sighted her arrow on the short man. The orc dragged Railia around the fire and the three stood facing the sound. Theralin stopped where light and dark only marked her as a silhouette.
“Railia,” Theralin said.
“Theralin, is that you?” she answered. Theralin didn’t reply.
“You have made a grave mistake, assassins. One that will cost you your lives this night.”
“You think you can take it? Come and try,” the man said.
A bow string whooshed, and both assassins fled. Railia was pulled along by the orc. The arrow grazed the man’s ear with little effect. Running, he leaped onto his horse, only to see an arrow strike the horse’s neck. It jerked in surprise, then its front legs buckled, throwing the assassin over it. A third arrow hit him mid-flight, punching through his chest at an angle under his arm. He hit the ground wheezing, lungs punctured by the arrow shaft. His body spasmed, then stilled.
Theralin walked toward the fire. She stopped and held her hands over the flames, rubbing them together. The orc jerked Railia against her chest, holding her with one arm while the other pressed a knife to Railia’s throat. She was at least two heads taller and Railia’s head rested between her broad shoulders. Alexis nocked another arrow and drew, looking down the shaft at the orc’s head.
“Let her go and I will speak for you at your trial.”
“I’m taking her with me. If you try to stop me, she dies.”
“And so will you. I venture to say if you kill her, you will be dead before your knife leaves her body.”
Alexis listened for a moment, then concluded she wanted answers from this orc. She moved her point of aim and let the arrow fly. The arrow flew true, missing Railia’s face and entering the orc’s shoulder at the joint. The orc’s knife arm fell away. Theralin leaped over the small fire and tackled both Railia and her captor. Alexis walked into the camp, slinging her bow then drawing her sword. Theralin pulled a dagger from her belt and dropped, driving her knee into the orc’s near-useless arm.
The point of Alexis’s sword rested on the orc woman’s cheek and Theralin’s dagger pressed against her throat. The orc held Railia’s shirt knotted in her other hand. “Release her or we will release your soul into the beyond,” Alexis hissed.
When the orc opened her mouth to reply instead of letting go, it was already too late. Alexis drove her sword into the orc’s good arm. She wailed, trying to kick both elves without releasing her prisoner. Railia squirmed and pulled free. She stood behind Alexis. Enraged, the orc tried to rise and attack. Theralin sta
bbed her in the shoulder a hand’s breadth from the arrow and Alexis kicked her in the head, then brought the pommel of her sword down between the orc’s eyes. Her head hit the dirt and stilled.
Alexis wasted no time. She turned and faced Railia. “Where is Morgan?” Railia looked confused. “What happened to him?” Alexis asked, her tone insistent.
“I don’t know. He isn’t here. It was just the three of us.”
“They didn’t mention freeing him or killing him?” Theralin asked.
“No. They came for you, Alexis, but got me instead. Whomever they got their information from told them my room was yours.”
“It almost was. The steward offered it. He must have booked it in my name before asking me. I took the inside room to avoid having windows assassins could come through.”
“What’s happened to Morgan?” Railia asked, concerned.
“We don’t know. He somehow broke free of the chains and fled with them,” Theralin answered. “A chosen few know the chains are magical. In what way, I’m not sure. I know what little I do because of their value to our queen and my position as captain of her guard.”
“We thought whoever abducted you took Morgan. Your brother dislikes you both and it was thought he hired this done,” Alexis added.
“Railia isn’t the only one with an enemy. If these assassins were after you, this is twice someone has tried to have you abducted or killed, Alexis,” Theralin pointed out.
“Yes, he is determined. I will deal with him. My parents will be... upset and the court will be in an uproar. I may be banished over it, but I don’t care.”
“You know who it is?” Railia asked.
“My betrothed.” Alexis walked back to the unconscious orc. In a sudden movement, she swung her sword arm back and then forward in an underhand thrust. The blade entered under the orc’s chin and exited the top of her head. Just as quickly, she withdrew it and wiped it off on the orc’s shirt. Her companions stared open-mouthed. Alexis didn’t need the orc after all. She already had her answers.
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