by Robert Evert
Magnus didn’t dare argue. He merely resigned himself to his new mission of roaming the crowded streets of Winros Minor and learning as much about Sir Edris as he could—his movements, what his plans were, the names of people with whom he interacted.
At first, what Magnus learned pleased Lord Fairhill. Sir David had ridden into town, had some sort of altercation with Sir Edris, and then challenged the famous knight to a duel. Lord Fairhill gave Magnus four gold pieces for that bit of information.
Then, an hour before the duel, Sir David had been found dead in his room—his throat slit ear to ear. That news didn’t please Lord Fairhill in the slightest. In fact, after hearing it, Lord Fairhill began drinking heavily, his mood turning sour. Since then, if Magnus mentioned returning to Eryn Mas, Lord Fairhill would grin menacingly and say with slurred speech, “You may certainly try.”
Sir Edris’s sudden disappearance was the worst of all. For a week, Lord Fairhill refused to leave his quarters at The Prairie Wind Inn. He made Magnus bring him food—and increasing quantities of wine. Lord Fairhill often paced his bedroom, a curved dagger in each hand. He hadn’t slept, or bathed, in days.
Then Lord Fairhill vanished as well. His things remained at The Prairie Wind, but he was nowhere to be seen. That was over a fortnight ago.
Magnus considered his lavish surroundings, wondering how long he should stay in Winros Minor, waiting for Lord Fairhill to materialize again. He felt like a prisoner. Sure, he could walk out anytime he liked. He could even take his horse and ride off in any direction he chose. Then again, there was something about his employer that scared the crap out of him. The lord knew things, things about his family and friends.
Magnus shuddered. No. He definitely wouldn’t make a run for it. Not yet. Not until he was absolutely sure Lord Fair—
The door crashed open. Magnus bounded to his feet.
Pale and hunched over, Lord Fairhill leaned against the doorway. He dripped blood. “Help me.”
Magnus stared at him, horrified.
“I said help me,” Lord Fairhill bellowed.
Magnus hurried over and draped one of the lord’s arms around his shoulder. He guided him to the chair in which he’d been sitting.
“By the gods!” Magnus said, seeing the gaping wound in Lord Fairhill’s thigh. “What hap—?”
With a bloody hand, Lord Fairhill grabbed Magnus’s neck and pulled him closer.
“This is what you’re going to do.” Gasping for air, Magnus tried to pull away, but couldn’t. The reek of alcohol on Lord Fairhill’s breath made his eyes water. “Go into the hallway and clean up the blood. There mustn’t be a trail. Do you understand me? There mustn’t be a trail.”
“The inn staff can get that,” Magnus wheezed. “Let me bring you to a doctor!”
Lord Fairhill slapped Magnus hard across the face, sending him staggering toward the still-open parlor door. Lord Fairhill pointed to the hallway. “Hide the trail. And if you get a doctor, or tell anybody about this, I’ll gut you like a pig.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Natalie sprang from her stool in the storage room of her shop, a dagger in each hand.
Was that a window sliding open?
No. Only the wind. It seemed to get louder in the middle of the night. She hadn’t slept soundly since she’d returned to Winros Minor.
Maybe she should go upstairs and check the windows again. She’d jammed bronze pieces between the windowpanes to prevent someone from jimmying them open. Then again, Brago was a trained killer. A few coins wouldn’t slow him down.
She had to stop thinking about him. She wasn’t going to live in fear, balking at every sound like a frantic little girl. Besides, it had only been three hours since she wounded him, and the first thing Brago would do was stop the bleeding. She was safe, at least until morning.
Natalie knew this was true. Sir Edris in his prime couldn’t fight with a leg as damaged as Brago’s. Still, her nerves were fraying. Hysteria was only a few sleepless nights away.
Damn it! How did he find her?
It didn’t matter. He had. Now she needed to watch every shadow. With five lanterns blazing about the cluttered room, she was determined not to have any shadows in which Brago could hide.
Natalie sat again and ripped the seam of one of her new dresses. Her plan was to create pockets through which she could grab knives strapped to her thighs. She’d have more of them next time. Two for throwing and two for slashing.
She considered wearing a short sword. She knew how to handle one well enough, and it’d give her a better reach than a knife. She needed all the advantages she could get. However, a lady wearing a sword would undoubtedly require an explanation.
Something rattled.
Damned wind…
A lock turned. Then the door flew open, a cold gale threatening to blow out Natalie’s lamps. Somebody entered the room. Before she could stop herself, Natalie leapt to her feet and heaved a dagger as hard as she could.
The blade grazed Reg’s armpit.
“Son of a bitch!” He clutched his side.
“Reg!” She rushed to him. “I’m so sorry! By the gods, I could’ve killed you! Is it bad? Are you hurt? What are you doing here?” She threw her arms around him. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
Reg examined his side. Blood pooled under his arm. “I’ll deal with this later.” He extricated himself from Natalie’s embrace. “Where’s Sir Edris? I have to see him.”
“He’s not here. He’s gone. He went with Sir Rowan somewhere. What’re you doing in Winros Minor? Here, let me bind that for you. Is it deep?”
She tried to examine his wound, but Reg went to the stairs and peered up to the living quarters.
“It’s fine. He’s not here? Where did he go?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He poked his head into the front room where all the merchandise was displayed.
“Reg?”
He glanced about the brightly lit room, holding his side. “You have to keep this to yourself.”
“Keep what to myself?”
“The king sent me to find Sir Edris. I have important news, Nat. It could change all the alliances throughout the entire continent. It could mean war!”
Natalie gasped. “War? With whom? You’re not going to go fight somewhere, are you?”
“War with everybody. The situation is that volatile.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Wincing, Reg leaned against the table, trying to breathe. “King Lionel is dead.”
“Gods! How? What happened? Was he assassinated? Should we get to Upper Angle? I could have a horse saddled and ready—”
“No. You’re safe.” Reg examined the hand that had been holding his side. It was covered with blood. “I think we better get this stitched up. Think you can do it?”
Natalie scoffed. “Believe me, I’ve been getting plenty of practice tending wounds with Sir Edris dueling and all.”
“Dueling! With whom? What happened?”
Natalie retrieved a small wooden box from a nearby drawer. “I suppose it wasn’t an actual duel. He was basically attacked by some knight named Sir David.”
“Sir Donald’s son? Why’d he attack Sir Edris?”
She riffled through the contents of the box, pulling out sterile needles and thread made from fish gut. “Sorry, I don’t have any of that smelly grease you always use. Sir Edris took it with him. Hold on. I have some brandy.”
Reg carefully pulled off his shirt and lay on the floor. “So what happened with Sir David? Were you there?”
Kneeling next to Reg, she poured some of the brandy over the wound. Then kissed him.
“Thanks for trusting me enough to do this.” She moved one of the lamps closer so she could see better. “It means a great deal to me.”
Reg took a long pull from the brandy bottle.
“I trust you with my life,” he said, though he appeared more than a little apprehensive. “Sure you’re up for this?”
“Of course!”
Reg took another drink. He nodded to her. “Okay. Go on. How does it look?”
Natalie cleaned the wound. It wasn’t bad. Ten stitches at the most, maybe fifteen. She pinched together the two flaps of skin as he sucked in air.
“Why weren’t you wearing your mail?” she asked. “I could’ve killed you!”
Reg’s body tensed as Natalie put in the first stitch. “Didn’t think I’d need it to see my future bride. Silly me.” He grunted through gritted teeth. “You never said why you were attempting to impale people coming into your shop.”
“Brago was here.” Reg sat up with a lurch. “Hey! Don’t move. Okay? Everything is fine. I stuck him better than I stuck you.”
Reg attempted to loosen his sword in its sheath. “We have to get you somewhere safe.”
Natalie eased him to the floor. “Not right now, we don’t. Lie still. I’ll be done in two minutes. Then we can go wherever you want.”
She added a couple more stitches. The wound would be fine. There’d be a thin scar, but the gash was straight and clean, and she had plenty of skin with which to work. However, he wouldn’t be moving his left arm without pain for a while. Thank the gods he fought mainly with his right.
“Tell me about Lionel,” she said, trying to get her mind off of Brago and almost murdering the man she loved. “Who killed him? He wasn’t assassinated, was he?”
Reg took several quick breaths. “No. Not assassinated. Goblins.”
“What? Where?”
“Up north. Hurry and finish.” He gave her a pained smile. “This is uncomfortable.”
Natalie resumed stitching his wound closed. “Go on.”
“He went up north and fought some goblins in the mountains.”
“I thought he went to some backwater town that declared itself its own kingdom.”
Reg grimaced, his face gleaming with sweat. “It’s a long story. He fought some goblins and got his head bashed in.”
“Well, I say good riddance. I hated living under his rule in Eryn Mas. The man detested women. He seemed to think we’re all witches.” She sat up. “There. How does that feel? Sorry again about not having the slimy medicine. Maybe you should teach me how to make it.”
“Can’t. It’s Sir Edris’s secret formula. Only he knows it.” Reg lifted his left arm carefully and then relaxed. He smiled at her as he lay on the floor. “I love you.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure you say that to all the women who stick you with a knife then sew you back together.”
“We have to find Sir Edris,” Reg said, the urgency returning to his voice. “Any ideas where he and Sir Rowan went? We don’t have much time.”
Natalie helped him to his feet.
“I don’t know. I’m guessing he didn’t go far. He was wounded.”
“Wounded!”
“Hey, be careful. I’ll charge you double if I have to stitch you up a second time.”
“Nat!”
“He’s fine. The wound was nothing more than a cut across his bicep. Yours is ten times worse. I’m guessing he’s fully healed by now.”
“Tell me exactly what happened. Are you sure it was Sir David?”
She guided Reg over to the table, still covered with her torn dress. “I’m positive. First, tell me why you’re here. What’s going on?”
Reg scanned the brightly lit room. “Natalie, this is big! I mean it. It’s for the ages. Literally. They’ll be singing songs about this one a thousand years from now.” He moved his left arm too quickly and cussed.
Natalie grew serious. “You’re not kidding, are you? What is it? Is this about Lionel’s death? Who’s his heir?”
“That’s the problem.” Reg took another drink and then offered the bottle to Natalie. Natalie shook her head. “He doesn’t have one. There are rumblings that there’s going to be a civil war.”
“That’s good, right? I mean, for King Michael and everybody else? Maybe some blood-letting among Lionel’s knights would decrease the size of his massive army. Maybe the tension between the realms would subside somewhat.”
“War is never good, Nat. It rarely stays contained to one realm. Other kingdoms get involved, then—”
“Okay, so war is bad. Is that what this is all about? That there might be a war, and Upper Angle will get pulled into it?”
“That and”—his voice turned conspiratorial—“there’s a rumor. Some of the lords in Lionel’s realm want to issue a series of quests.”
Natalie thought she understood. “And the winner becomes king?”
“Right.”
Natalie reached for the brandy. She took a drink as she pondered the possibilities.
“Okay. That’s civilized of them. I’ll give them that. But who cares? I mean, how could this be bad for Upper Angle or anybody else? Let them play their little games. It’ll take a year at least for them to figure out who wins.”
“It’s not necessarily bad.”
“Then what?”
“If they do have these quests, King Michael wants us to make sure the right lord wins—somebody who would be more conducive to an alliance with Upper Angle. We’ve also been instructed to use whatever resources we have to stop the anti-King Michael lords from becoming king. If we get caught, though—”
“There really would be a war.”
“Exactly. We’d be undertaking the quest completely on our own—it’s called being a rogue wolf. There’d be no help from King Michael or anybody associated with him. No rules of engagement. It’d be a free-for-all.”
Natalie took another drink. “You have to find Sir Edris.”
“You’re coming with me. If Brago’s around, you’re not leaving my sight.”
“I’ll get my horse.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Magnus stood in the corner of his parlor, horrified, as a pantsless Lord Fairhill sewed shut the gaping wound in his leg. Lord Fairhill remained stone-faced as the needle went back and forth through his bloody flesh and across the fist-sized gash.
“Oh, gods!” Magnus gasped. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
Lord Fairhill ignored the question. “Did you clean the trail of blood?”
“What?” Magnus hastily corrected himself. He’d learned the hard way not to make Lord Fairhill say things more than once. “Yes! Yes, I did, sir. Nobody will follow it here. I promise. It’s clean as a whistle, I can tell you. Though, honestly, I’m…I’m not sure what that means—‘clean as a whistle.’ It’s an odd expression, if you think about it. Why would whistles be clean? There’s spit all over them, if you get me. But yes, it’s…it’s clean. Real clean. Clean as a whistle!”
Lord Fairhill pinched the ends of the wound closer together as he continued to work the needle.
Magnus covered his mouth.
By the gods, this was crazy! Who the hell could sit half-naked in a chair and calmly sew himself up like that? And he wasn’t even flinching! And what happened to his leg? And why didn’t he call a doctor?
Lord Fairhill pulled the black thread taut, tied it off, then cut away the excess. “Did you clean the blood in the street?”
Magnus faltered. He hadn’t. He’d only cleaned the blood-splattered footprints leading through the inn’s lobby and up the stairs to his room; however, he had a feeling that wasn’t what the lord wanted to hear.
“Yes!” Magnus blurted out, still staring at the ugly black thread woven across the lord’s thigh. “As far as I could. For a block or so. I kicked dirt over it. I don’t think I missed much. But I’ll…I’ll go check!”
Magnus made for the door.
“No.” Lord Fairhill pressed Magnus’s pillow against his leg, soaking up the blood dribbling from the wound. Magnus wondered how he was going to explain the stains to the innkeeper. “This is what you’re going to do.” Lord Fairhill tore the pillowcase into strips and bound his wound. “You will go to my room at The Prairie Wind, get some fresh clothes, and bring them here. You will also engage the innkeeper in a casual conve
rsation, indicating that you believe I’m not feeling well, some sort of stomach ailment—”
“Stomach ailment,” Magnus repeated, feeling as though he were about to get sick himself. His face tingled with cold sweat.
“—and that I wish to be left alone for the next few days. Do you understand? They must not come into my room for any reason.”
“Yeah. I, I mean…yes, yes sir! You are not to be disturbed for any reason. Got it!”
“Splendid.” Lord Fairhill studied Magnus standing in the corner, his shaking hands still covering his mouth. He sweetened his tone. “I greatly appreciate your assistance in this matter, Magnus. You will be well-rewarded.”
Lord Fairhill smiled reassuringly, but in the flickering lamplight, he appeared ghoulish. Trembling, Magnus could only nod as he groped for the doorknob.
“And Magnus?”
Magnus stopped himself from sprinting out of the room. “Yes, sir?”
“I will be expecting you to return within the hour.” Lord Fairhill’s expression turned threatening. “I’ll be disappointed if you make me come looking for you. Extremely…disappointed.”
Magnus nearly peed himself.
“Of—of course. Of course, sir. I’ll be back lickety-split! I—I promise. Clothes…and, and…innkeeper. Not to be disturbed! Stomach ailment. Clean as a whistle!” Magnus turned and ran into the door as he opened it. Stumbling, he held his head. “Lickety-split!”
Half-walking, half-jogging, he hurried out of the parlor, down the stairs, and into the night, peering frantically behind him the entire way.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Natalie climbed into her worn saddle and waited for Reg to triple check his billet straps, her breath appearing in the pre-dawn darkness as gray vapor. Right as she was about to give him grief over being too cautious, another horse came barreling down the otherwise deserted street, its rider reining to a sudden stop as soon as he saw Natalie.