Keneally handed over the bag, and Phelan took it gingerly.
"There's two sealed jars in here. Five times as much as I used on that old stump. Do not let them combine or touch water until you are certain. And, if you can find a way to be long gone when the powders touch the spring, I recommend you do it."
The old man smirked at him, but the dark stare bore into Phelan, making it very clear he wasn't joking. This was a last resort. And, if he couldn't figure out a way to set it up from a distance, it might be Phelan's last mission.
-1-
Baymore, Marnak
THE tavern wasn't the worst Phelan had ever been in. Clean for the most part and the ale didn't taste like a dead rat had been floating in it. He'd even earned a coin or two as he played his lute by the hearth.
The city of Baymore was the last bastion of civilization before the no man's land of Wallen Forest separating Marnak and the Thousand Tribes land. The city itself bustled with the transitory activity of people passing through on their way from one place to another. And the tavern followed suit. The door never stayed closed long. People stopping in for a drink or heading out into the night to find their beds. Or more exciting entertainment than a halfway decent bard and mediocre ale. No one paid any attention to the comings and goings, and that made it a perfect place to meet his targets.
If they ever showed. Since Phelan's arrival in the kingdom, things had gotten very, very tense in Marnak, very quickly. The Warlord had started gathering his forces along the southern border Marnak shared with Galwei, and it was making Phelan extremely wary of the entire situation. Especially after the messenger he'd sent to Caerwyn had returned, unable to get through the blockade.
A trickle of concern for his brothers made him uneasy, but as long as Tresk's army stayed on the Marnak side of the border, his family was safe.
Forcing himself not to squirm on the hard stool, he instead took a moment to flex his fingers and ease the ache. Phelan was more used to the hilt of a sword in his hand than the neck of a lute. But, today, he was a bard, not one of the infamous Hounds of Alwyn.
He'd shorn his pale blond hair and tried not to mourn the loss of the traditional braids he'd worn since he was a teenager. A frilly white shirt and pants with more buttons than necessary had replaced his usual fighting leathers, and his blade was buried deep in the middle of his pack. It left him feeling vulnerable and exposed. But, considering the number of ballads and stories that circulated about Phelan and his brothers, he had to do everything possible to disguise himself.
Thinking of the irritating songs, he slipped into the first verse of The Ballad of Alwyn's Hounds with a sneer. His soft, mocking lilt twisted it into a parody of the usual earnest heroic ballad. The dozen or so patrons listening to him didn't seem to notice, though, and sang along enthusiastically.
He made it through the second verse before the door opened yet again. Phelan fumbled the chorus when a woman with flame red hair walked in, stuttering over the words while he watched her, unable to tear his eyes away.
The bright tresses were barely contained in the plait that fell halfway down her back. Pale eyes surveyed the room with cool, experienced assessment. He couldn't tell if they were green or blue. And he really wanted to find out.
It was the fighting leathers, molded to tempting curves, that truly caught his attention, though. Her hand rested on her hip and Phelan had no doubt she was used to wearing a sword as well. It made him wonder why she'd left it behind.
The man next to her looked too much like her to be anything but her brother. The red of his hair darkened to a deep auburn and he stood several inches taller. His sword was still at his side, however.
Which meant they were most likely the people he was here to meet. A second pair of red-haired twins seemed unlikely.
Behind them, three dark-haired men who rivaled Phelan for sheer size loomed in the doorway, glaring at anyone who had dared to look in their direction.
Phelan finished the song, then swung into Temptress of the Dowling Moor. He tracked their progress through the tavern, though, watching as they had a quiet word with the landlord who led them to a table tucked away in the back corner. The position gave them privacy from the rest of the room while letting them see everyone coming and going.
When Phelan got to the verse about crimson tresses and fiery passion, the woman turned her pale glare on him. He flashed a grin and sang the chorus a little louder. It skirted the edges of bawdy with well-placed innuendos, and Phelan let his voice dip in and out of the words to make the song all the more suggestive. He found himself absurdly disappointed when she turned her head away and spoke quietly with the men at her table instead of continuing to glare.
When the last note died away, Phelan played up the hoarseness of his voice and announced the need for a break and a drink. Few patrons seemed to notice he'd stopped playing and no one paid him any mind when he made his way through the room. Once he had a tankard in hand, Phelan moseyed through the crowd, meandering casually toward the back corner.
Eventually, he dropped into the empty seat between one of the bruisers and the woman who'd had his attention since she walked in the door. Inhaling deeply, Phelan allowed the enhanced senses of his other form to note the unique scents around him. He'd be able to track any of them from a distance, if this meeting didn't go well.
He saved the woman for last, savoring the scent of metal and roses filling his nose. A surprising combination that was as distinct as she was.
She turned to scowl at him, eyes sparking with irritation.
"Grey," he murmured, interrupting whatever she was going to say with his observation.
"What?" Her scowl shifted into a flat line of confusion.
"Your eyes. When you walked in, I noticed how pale they were, but I wasn't sure if they were blue or green. They are lovely and intriguing grey."
Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Outrage and bewilderment mingled in the wide, stormy eyes that fascinated him.
He lifted his tankard in silent salute before sipping at the mediocre brew.
"I think you're at the wrong table," Bruiser Number One growled at him. "Maybe you should find someplace else to sit."
"I like this table just fine."
"I said you should leave."
The big guy punctuated his snarl with a hard poke to Phelan's chest.
Still gripping his tankard, Phelan reached up with his free hand and grabbed the bruiser's wrist. A tug and harsh twist had the man face down on the table and crying out into the splintered wood.
"And I said I'm happy here."
Phelan kept his voice light, but let an edge of ruthlessness grate through.
Bruisers Two and Three were on their feet and the woman next to him was reaching for something concealed, and, no doubt, sharp. Phelan was really regretting the lack of his sword.
"Enough," the brother said quietly, taking a sip from his own tankard. "I think perhaps there's been a... misunderstanding."
Everyone stilled and looked at him like he'd lost his mind, but he just shrugged and took another drink before grimacing down at the contents of his mug.
Magnanimously, Phelan let go of Bruiser Number One and leaned back against the wall.
The brother nodded slightly and asked, "Did you perhaps have something to say, stranger?"
Phelan rolled his eyes and bit back his amusement at the quaint notion of secret watchwords. Like Tresk and Hafgan couldn't torture it out of someone in under fifteen minutes. If they cared enough about this tiny band of brigands buzzing along their border to bother with them.
"Baymore is delightful this time of year," Phelan recited flatly. "Unlike the gloom of the capital."
Everyone around him relaxed, and Phelan wanted to lecture them on proper security measures to keep clandestine activities secret. Since he was, in fact, attempting to infiltrate this particular group for his own purposes, he pinched his lips and kept his mouth shut.
The brother leaned forward eage
rly.
"What news?"
"Not so fast. First, I prefer to know who I'm working with." Phelan turned so his attention was mostly on the woman next to him and flashed his most charming smile.
"My name's Finn. And you are?"
He held out his hand, palm up. Instead of placing her fingers on it and introducing herself, she stared at it like he was handing her a dead animal.
Her brother chuckled, breaking the tension.
"I'm Arun. This is my sister, Selena. These are our friends," he paused to wave at Bruisers One, Two and Three before introducing them in turn, "Nis, Chel and Anes."
No one seemed interested in shaking his hand, so Phelan let it drop back to the table.
"Good. Second, my cut is fifteen percent."
That got a reaction and Phelan relaxed. Leaning his back against the wall behind him, he enjoyed the eruption of outrage.
"That's ridiculous."
"Can't be serious."
"Information alone isn't worth that. We're taking all the risks."
Phelan leaned forward again. "Ah, about that. It's not that you're not trustworthy, mind. It's just that I've been burned before. I'll be going along with you on this little jaunt. Just to make sure there's no confusion in counting, you understand."
Nis bristled, but Arun stopped him with a wave.
"We usually work alone."
"So I've heard. But you can't work if you don't know where the caravan will be. Or when it will be there."
Arun exchanged a long look with his sister before nodding. "Fine, the more, the merrier, I suppose. And where will it be?"
Even if the quick way he gave in hadn't been suspicious, Phelan still would have hedged his bets.
"Let's say we'll meet up on the North Road, in the woods near the Galle Pass at dusk in two days. I'll give more specific directions then."
He stood up before another round of protests could gain steam, tipping back the dregs of his tankard.
"Guess I'll be getting back to singing. Pleasure to meet you all. See you in a few days." Phelan winked in Selena's direction then headed back for his lute and uncomfortable stool.
*******
Selena waited until the bard was halfway across the tavern before she turned to her brother.
"I don't like this," Selena hissed at Arun. "I don't trust him."
Her hand itched, wishing for the sword she'd left at the outpost. Unfortunately, experience had taught her these taverns always had at least one drunk who took her carrying a sword as an affront to his manhood. It usually ended up with her proving she knew how to use it.
"I don't trust him, either," Arun said with a grimace. "But we need to see what those caravans are transporting. One of them must have what we're looking for. This is the closest we've come to anyone knowing the route ahead of time."
She glanced over to where Finn held court at the front of the room. Both serving wenches fussed and giggled as he graced them with his attention. He bestowed outrageous compliments and leering smiles in between exaggerated stories of his daring adventures.
Except, something about him made her think he was more than what he seemed. More than what he wanted everyone to believe him to be. While his attention was occupied with the flirting, his eyes took note of every movement and sound in the room. The man didn't look like any bard she'd ever seen. The wide shoulders and broad chest didn't come from playing a lute. He was built like a warrior. One used to swinging a sword. If it wasn't for his arrogance and obvious greed, Selena might even consider recruiting him.
In another life, Selena might have been drawn to the strong jaw and deep blue eyes. She might have been smitten by his confidence and his flirtatiousness. To the carefree air and the brazen charm.
But that was a life where she'd believed in happy-ever-afters. Where she'd believed life was fair.
She'd left that life behind a long time ago.
When Finn's assessing gaze swept their dark corner, he raised an eyebrow at her open staring.
Selena resisted the urge to look away and held his eyes for a long moment before turning back to her brother.
"His fortuitous knowledge only makes me more suspicious. Not one of our leads has panned out. None of our contacts have been able to worm the information out of the capital. Not even Lilah has been able to ferret out a source willing to risk selling that information. This..." Selena struggled for the right word, but it took a few tries to find a polite one. "This stranger just shows up, out of the blue, and knows where a caravan full of army payroll is going to pass."
"I agree with Selena," Nis grumbled, rubbing at his wrist with a determined glare.
Selena glanced over again only to find that intense blue gaze still watching her from across the room. As soon as their eyes collided, Finn's smile widened and he winked at her.
Selena glared at him, refusing to be flustered or embarrassed by his ridiculous flirting. She didn't look away until he dropped his eyes to answer a song request from a very drunk patron.
"I don't like this," Selena repeated to her brother. "I don't like him. And I don't like the idea of letting him come along when we go after the caravan."
"I know," Arun said, tugging his hand through his hair in frustration. "I feel the same way. But without him, there isn't a mission at all. We need what he knows. This is the closest we've been in months."
Nis leaned forward, hands pressing against each other until every finger made a popping sound. "I could get the information out of him."
Arun patted Nis on the shoulder but shook his head.
"Lilah vouched for him," Arun reminded him. "If we rough him up it might strain our relationship with the best source of information we have. We need to let him call the shots on this one, whether we like it or not."
Arun looked to Selena, determined gaze and tight expression speaking volumes.
Unfortunately, he was right. Lilah had as much invested in their mission as they did. Their regular informant had started this journey with them a long time ago. Even if she'd chosen a different path once they'd gained their freedom, she was still the only one they could truly trust. If others lost faith in Lilah because of them, they'd all fail.
Selena and Arun hadn't intended to create a family when they'd first begun their quest to quietly take back Marnak from the destructive grasp of the Warlord and Hafgan. Their quest to save as many people as possible from the greed and corruption of the men who were supposed to lead and protect the kingdom.
Somehow, though, they'd gathered a band of disparate individuals to their cause. And it grew into a close-knit clan tied together, not only by their common purpose, but also by shared love and affection. Protecting that had become as important to Selena as destroying Tresk.
Trusting Finn meant putting them at risk for the sake of the mission. But the mission was what brought them together. Getting to the caravan meant possibly saving more lives from the devastation they'd all suffered. She knew what most of the group back at the outpost would choose if they were here.
"Fine," Selena said with a reluctant nod. She didn't like it. But she didn't have to. She'd make sure she kept her eye on their new ally until they had what they needed.
Wishing she'd allowed herself to indulge, just this once, Selena lifted her own tankard, disappointingly filled only with water. She tilted her head back, gaze sliding unintentionally toward Finn. Who, once again, stared straight at her as he sang about unrequited love with a smirk.
Selena looked away and set the mug down a little more firmly than she'd intended. The sooner they ambushed the caravan and got what they needed, the sooner she could send the arrogant bard packing.
-2-
PHELAN sprawled belly down on the ground behind a shield of scraggly bushes and wished he had his traditional white fighting leathers. The mismatched armor he wore was decent but he hadn't had time to break it in and it pinched in uncomfortable places.
The small train of wagons and carriage
s rolling into view below distracted him from the discomfort, though. They called it the North Road, but this stretch of it was little more than a rutted trail meandering through the northern forest of Marnak. The small wooded rise on this side of the road gave the handful of Arun's brigands cover and high-ground for the coming attack.
The opposite side of the track was flatter, but the forest growth was thicker there, concealing the group Selena would lead in the ambush. While he waited for the signal to attack, Phelan counted guards as they marched past, mentally comparing it to the numbers of the small band lying in wait for them. The twins' little group was outnumbered, and the fight would be tight, but Phelan felt like they might have a chance.
By the time the third cart rolled by, Phelan felt an itch at the back of his neck. Like the hackles of his other form would be rising right now, if he let it out. Instincts telling him something was wrong.
At first glance, everything looked exactly as he expected it to. Carriages at front and back of the caravan to serve as front and rear guard to the handful of wagons in between. A moderate amount of guards riding and walking alongside the train. Enough to protect valuable cargo. Not so many as to draw undue attention.
But something was off, and Phelan inched closer to get a better look. The first carriage had the most guards, though it was too small to hold much more than a couple of people inside. The carts trailing behind were filled with chests and trunks, but the wheels barely sank into the soft ground of the road as they rolled by. There was no way they held enough coins and rationed provisions to make up the payroll for the army outposts stationed along the border. The small carriage bringing up the rear, identical to the first, seemed equally unlikely to be their target.
Scooting backward, Phelan kept his body low and made his way across the ridge, over to Arun.
"Something's wrong," he whispered, dropping to the ground next Arun. "Those wagons aren't heavy enough to be carrying payroll."
"Oh?" Arun raised an eyebrow but didn't look curious or concerned.
By Blood Betrayed (The Lost Shrines Book 3) Page 2