Crouched in the shadows, Kyri tucked in against Morgan’s body, her wings folded tightly while they watched the growing crowd from behind a stack of barrels.
Some of their people and some of the rebels were among that throng, their only purpose to get in the way of pursuit, if needed.
The execution had a weird, almost festive air, with folk drawing out little cooking braziers to roast sausages, or making meals of ham, cooked eggs, cheese, wine and bread. They chattered and laughed.
For many of them it was a mandatory day off, as they were required by Haerold to attend, so they were making a holiday of it.
Children chased each other as young men and women flirted, while the noose hung loosely from its scaffold across the square, blowing lightly in the breeze.
All of them were seemingly oblivious to the archers on the walls, or at least they were doing a good job of appearing to ignore them.
Trumpets blared as the designated hour drew near, announcing the arrival of the titular King and Queen.
It was also the signal for the rebels outside the city to make their move beyond the walls.
Attacks against each gate would occur almost simultaneously, as if trying to break through for a rescue. As soon as pursuit was apparent, though, they were to peel off, riding hell bent away. Drawing the defenders after them, at least for a time.
Hopefully, enough time.
A procession moved out of the castle.
‘King’ Haerold led out his Queen, the dark and lovely wizard with the long dark-red hair who’d sat on Gwenifer’s throne. Morgan watched her narrowly. Her jewel encrusted bauble dangled from her throat, her fingers curled around it.
That concerned him. He feared what she might see with it.
And when.
With everyone’s eyes on the procession and the crowd rising to its feet out of respect, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
Taking a breath, Morgan dropped a light kiss on Kyri’s cheek. “Off you go and be careful.”
Kyri turned and gave him a quick kiss. “You, too.”
Then she stood, keeping her sword held close by her leg and beneath her cloak, walking out of the alleyway and into the thick crowd.
Morgan watched her disappear among them, apprehension curling through him, especially once she was out of sight. The true tension built now that she was out there alone where he couldn’t reach her.
His own turn in the square had to wait until very nearly the last minute. Too soon and someone would notice, too late and it would be ineffectual. It had taken several tries to get the timing right. Even so, a great many things could go wrong. And if they did, Kyri was to wait until he joined her and then they would both walk away.
However much both of them hated the idea.
Others followed behind Haerold, his own retinue, a few dignitaries and an Ambassador, Haerold’s lean and hungry face eying each narrowly as they found their seats behind him.
Kyri found a spot near a young couple trying to control two young children. She made faces at the baby to keep her entertained, leaving the three-year-old to his parents, the harassed young mother giving her a grateful look.
Smiling, she nodded, watching those on the dais set above the crowd from the corner of her eye. Many creatures could sense when someone stared at them directly.
So could wizards.
Haerold she’d seen only once or twice and that at a distance, to her relief. She’d never liked the way he looked at her.
The man bore little resemblance to Oryan save in coloring and his longish face. For all that he was the younger of the two brothers Haerold had always appeared older.
The wizard next to him was oddly compelling in a cold way. Her hair a deep red, she was tall and full-bodied. Kyri couldn’t understand for the life of her why the woman reminded her of a tick or a leach bloated and filled to bursting. It chilled her even to think it.
No Hunters were here that Kyri could see.
Certainly there were none between her and where she needed to go. Had their diversions worked? Or were they tucked away waiting for the next move?
In the distance there were shouts and she saw Haerold glanced irritably over his shoulder at the distraction from his spectacle.
Raising his hood, Morgan moved out of the alley at the sound, snatching up a burning twig from one of the little braziers as he passed with a nod of thanks to the man cooking.
From one of his pockets Morgan took a small metal ball – two more resided in other pockets – filled with paraffin and flammable oil.
Standing, the trumpeters blew a fanfare.
Everyone’s eyes were drawn above as Haerold slowly rose to his feet.
Obediently, the crowd grew silent, save for little rustlings here and there. Parents scurried to gather up their children.
Morgan lit the paraffin-soaked wick, flipped open the little catch that opened small holes at the top and tossed it beneath Haerold’s platform as the ‘King’ began his speech.
The ball tumbled, spraying flammable oil and wax. When it came to rest in the wood shavings left from the construction of the platform, the wick ignited the oil and the paraffin.
The shavings smoldered.
“We’ve discovered a traitor to our crown in our midst,” Haerold announced, his voice echoing over the square.
Looking up as he lit the next ball, Morgan discovered that Haerold had made himself a new crown, far more elaborate one than the simple one Oryan had worn.
At the rate Haerold was spending he would bankrupt the treasury in a year.
Morgan rolled the next fire-ball beneath the platform.
He drew out the third, lit it and threw it lightly beneath the dais.
They were small, it would take a few moments for the fire to take hold.
He ambled slowly away, glancing up at the stage as if he wanted a better view, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Kyri.
He couldn’t see her.
Small as she was, she had be dwarfed by the crowd.
“Philip, Duke of Dorset,” Haerold continued, “has been discovered to be in league with the forces of the renegade known as Oryan, once King. Having been duly tried and found guilty, Philip of Dorset has been sentenced to hang until dead, at which point he will be drawn and quartered and his head displayed on a pike above the castle gate as a warning to others.”
It was butchery, unnecessary butchery, Morgan thought, his jaw tightening.
Even under the worst of circumstances it was a far worse punishment than almost any man deserved.
No one had yet noticed the smoke filling up the area below the platform, or the small flickers of flame. That was all to the good.
Haerold helped that cause inadvertently by crying out, “Bring out the prisoner.”
Everyone’s eyes turned to the castle gate.
A tumbrel rumbled out, Philip standing in it unsteadily. His eyes looked dazed. He was battered, bruised and dressed in rags.
“Philip of Dorset,” a crier called, taking up the charges.
The ‘King’ apparently, wouldn’t deign to address the prisoner. They hadn’t been friends anyway.
His thin brown hair blowing in the growing breeze – a breeze for which Morgan was thankful – Philip’s head turned like a rusty wheel and looked in the direction of the voice.
Kyri looked up at Philip, her heart aching.
She’d seen him a time or two at Court and once or twice since he’d loaned Oryan his summer house for those few days.
The man she’d know then had been tall and lanky, but hale and fit for a man of middle years.
Standing in the makeshift dock, the man looked at least ten or more years older.
His brown hair wasn’t grayed so much as washed out. His face was colorless and this close, Kyri could see bruises on it, but it was the stunned look in his eyes that hurt her heart the most.
Reading the charges, hearing them, brought no reaction from him.
“Prisoner. Do you understand these cha
rges as they’ve been set out before you?”
Slowly, Philip nodded as the words slowly penetrated, resigned now to his fate.
“For these crimes your lands are forfeit to the Crown, as are all your kin, kith and kind, all tithes, rents, titles and properties, all vassals and servants. You have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead, then drawn and quartered, your head to be mounted on these walls….”
The crier repeated the King’s statement as a look of horror washed slowly over Philip’s face, but Philip said nothing.
Two men dragged him from the tumbrel, up the steps of the platform, one of them fastening the hempen rope around his neck.
Kyri’s heart was in her throat as both men stepped back. The executioner turned.
“Fire!” someone shouted.
All heads turned as smoke billowed across the square.
Someone screamed.
Others fled, understanding instantly what was about to happen.
Taking three running steps, Kyri whipped off the cloak she wore as she ran, her wings unfolding to spread for two great beats, all that was needed to lift her to the platform.
As many times as he’d seen her do it, Morgan still loved to watch her.
It was a beautiful sight.
Her sword, honed to razor sharpness, slashed across the rope. Philip staggered and nearly fell into her arms, but she’d braced herself for his weight.
Kyri shook Philip hard, looking into his dazed brown eyes, her heart wrenching to see the look in them.
“Philip, look at me. You have to help me. If you want to live, hold on.”
Fighting to focus, Philip looked into the beautiful aquamarine eyes of Kyriay, Queen of the Fairy, as her wings open around them. Sunlight glowed through them.
Hope, once so distant, flared as she wrapped her arms around his waist.
Nodding, he clutched at her.
Confused, blinded by the smoke, the archers above opened fire on those below and the crowd panicked.
They fled, running in all directions, Morgan with them, as the viewing stand went up in flames.
On the opposite platform there were outcries and indignation, as those there looked around below them and the flames grew with a roar.
Then they ran.
In the square below there were soft cries of wonder as those who didn’t look to the flames beneath one dais but instead watched the prisoner.
Gossamer wings unfolded, opened, glittering through the thick smoke.
Kyri enfolded Philip in her arms and launched herself from the platform, her wings spread wide to glide, gaining speed before swooping low over the heads of the crowd and then they beat, hard, in long powerful strokes.
Now there was shouting, the loud and angry kind that led to arrows.
Philip’s pain beat at her. He’d been tortured, even without trying to Heal him Kyri knew that. It was agony for him to have her carry him like this. Her arm burned across his flogged back, ground on cracked ribs, pressed against bruises and contusions.
How could one thinking being do such a thing to another?
Difficult as it was for her to do so, she tried to give him some aid while they flew – if nothing else something to ease his pain.
She saw the horses waiting below, Galan and the others ready to assist.
There wasn’t much time.
A half dozen people were there to take Philip as she landed.
Folding her wings, she said to Galan, “Take the wounds across his back, I’ll care for the ribs, that will get him well enough to travel.”
Her hands floating above Philip’s semi-conscious form, she found internal bruising as well. She gave that a cursory touch, enough to ease it, then took to the ribs to bind bone together again.
All she could think of in the back of her mind was Morgan.
The lack of news was worrying. Oryan paced. This was the hardest part of being King, waiting and wondering, knowing you’d sent people into danger – people you cared for and respected, not knowing how it had ended.
Yet.
Nor was he the only one. It seemed the whole encampment held their collective breaths, everyone waiting. Few moved about, everyone seemed to be watching his tent.
Jordan fidgeted, unable to sit still, frightened for his father. Oryan laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder in comfort.
Even Geoffrey seemed restless, polishing the few items of gold and silver they’d rescued from Gwenifer’s estate again and again.
The thought brought Oryan a pang, but not the piercing sense of loss it once had. Oryan was too worried for Morgan, Kyri, Galan, Philip and the others who’d gone with them on the rescue.
Only phlegmatic Dorien seemed undisturbed. Unusually somber for a Fairy, the usual light of mischief and glint in his eyes was missing for the moment. His eyes were unfocused, dreamy, listening to voices only he and Kyri could hear.
“They have him,” Dorien said, suddenly, his head turning a little. “Alive, but not well…Kyri works on him…”
His mobile fine-boned face suddenly shadowed…as his head tilted another way…
“Galan helps….”
An odd echo of Galan’s voice rang out, in worry and fear. “Kyri…”
For a moment Dorien’s eyes fluttered. “She’s gone after Morgan. Morgan hasn’t left the city. The others come…”
A trickle of fear moved through Oryan…
Kyri wouldn’t have left Morgan behind.
Silence stretched…
Dorien’s eyes when he opened them again were worried.
“The Hunters are after him…after them…”
It was a long time before Dorien spoke again.
Chapter Twenty
Morgan darted through and between the maze of buildings, keeping to the alleys as the streets were far too dangerous for someone as recognizable as he was. He hoped no one had been too seriously hurt in the panic in the square, trying side doors here and there as he dared. He needed to get up to the roofs.
Then he heard the sound he’d dreaded.
A howling, almost a baying. The sound of wolves on the hunt… or Hunters.
He’d hoped the smoke, paraffin and oil might cover his scent, but like the moat, apparently they hadn’t.
Bracing himself, he threw his shoulder against a door and then again.
The thin lock sprang, the door flying open.
Racing inside, Morgan grabbed a chair to prop beneath the knob to slow the Hunters down and ran for the stairs, swinging around at the top, sprinting for the door to the attic.
With nothing here to use to brace it he closed the door behind him. The Hunters bayed and howled in the street below. It was very likely they were angry at him, first for drawing them off and now because they’d likely realized he’d killed a few of them on the rooftops.
That sound grew closer.
This house didn’t have an opening into the attic, just windows that opened outward.
Praying they’d been recently oiled, he chose the one farthest from the street and swung it open.
It creaked. Loudly.
Luck was clearly not with him.
With no choice, he swung out and up, leaping across to the next roof.
On the street below there was a yelp.
“Morgan!” a voice howled, a roar of recognition and rage from one of the Hunters.
Morgan glanced down to the Hunter looking up from the street below.
The sound of wood splintering alerted him, that and more growling and snarling in the nearby alleys.
Stopping wasn’t an option.
Morgan ran, swearing lightly, scanning the rooftops for the most likely route out. It would’ve been better if this had been night, but it wasn’t.
Another howling cry went up.
He jumped, skittering across slate tiles, sending some crashing to the street below.
Running with a drawn sword wasn’t a great option, but better than running without one, as they were likely to be circling, trying to spot him and
surround him, to cut him off, trying to hunt him down.
Morgan’s heart pounded, all senses alert.
He saw the Hunter seconds before it saw him and shifted his direction, took a wild leap and a tumbling roll.
He came up on his feet lucky he hadn’t killed himself with his own sword. Even then, he turned and spun as the pursuing Hunter leaped. Morgan rammed his sword deep into it.
Snapping and snarling, claws scrabbling, it tried to kill him even as he drove his blade deeper and then they were at the edge of the roof.
Morgan shoved hard, throwing himself backward at the same moment.
The thing dropped off his sword and down into the alley.
Warm blood, his own, ran down his arm and there was a burning in his shoulder.
Not good.
Turning, he sprinted across the roof and leaped, catching the sloped edge of the next roof and inching across it.
A howling behind him warned of another Hunter.
A burst of pigeons two buildings to his left warned of a second.
This wasn’t looking good.
Movement where there should be none showed they were either circling him or herding him. It wasn’t a good sign. Either way, it was starting to look as if he had gambled and lost.
A Hunter leaped out at him, catching him hard in the ribs. Rolling with the leap across a roof, Morgan spun it off, the thing’s claws scraping across his belly and ribs.
But he was free. He slashed to drive it off and jumped for the next roof.
It gave chase and he darted around a corner.
More blood flowed.
A surge of weakness went through him. Morgan’s muscles shivered with shock and loss of blood.
Overrunning, one Hunter slammed into another, both snarling and snapping at each other in a moment of bloodlust.
Morgan saw a glimmer in the sky where none should be and – given the reception party that was likely waiting ahead and the closing ring around him – he would’ve called Kyri off if he could have.
If she would’ve listened.
And if she hadn’t been moving so fast.
Song of the Fairy Queen Page 17