She heard what sounded like the fluttering of bird wings. When she looked up again, she saw more of those spider-things—dozens, maybe hundreds of them—leaping from the walls and scuttling toward her.
Okay, this had stopped being amusing about two spiders ago. Where in the Seven Hells was her blue line?
As the ice-spiders neared, they leaped with surprising speed. Spinning, she cut three more in half mid-flight, then another three in the next wave.
This was becoming more than a nuisance. Her blue line had better appear soo—
Something massive landed on the valley floor a dozen or so yards away and began moving toward her. It was hard to make out what it was through the flurry of the spiders, but somehow, she doubted it was a pretty, white unicorn.
She kept moving, slicing at the ice-spiders, and tried not to be an easy target.
Another landed on her back, a wet and heavy mass. She grabbed the corner of her cloak and whirled it over her head, flinging the creature off and batting two others out of the air.
Ahead, the thing that wasn’t a unicorn neared. Willow sighed when she got a good look at it. Of course.
It was an ice-spider. The mother of all ice-spiders. It stood slightly taller than Willow herself, clambering on eight icy limbs, each bristling with icy hairs. Its fangs were as long as the knife Willow had used to kill the two Runjuns.
But hey, look at the bright side. At least there was no venom dripping from them.
It tentatively extended a leg toward her. She not-so-tentatively hacked it off at the joint.
The Mother of All Ice-Spiders retracted its wounded leg, screeching in a pitch so high it hurt Willow’s teeth. It scuttled sideways, and cunning showed in its eyes, which glistened like multifaceted frozen puddles.
Willow turned and dove away from the Mother of All Ice-Spiders at an angle, evading some of its frigid little friends as she did. She came out of the roll, her rapier whistling, slaying six more of the little monsters.
She turned to confront the Mother, and as she did, she caught sight of a blue glow just over the horizon … to the north, if she had her bearings correct.
That wasn’t how it was supposed to work. There was supposed to be a blue line extending from where she stood that led to the King. Why had it changed?
Screw it. The information she had was sufficient. The King was to the north, and she had been ordered south. Terrific.
The Mother of All Ice-Spiders reared up on its hind legs. Willow saw the circular mouth on its white belly, a mouth lined with gnashing triangular teeth.
Willow indulged herself in the ironic gesture of saluting the Mother with her rapier, and then she touched the glyph …
… and was back in the forest. All was still except for the crackling of the fire and Marcus’s occasional snores.
In front of her, the severed limb of the Mother of All Ice-Spiders slowly melted and was absorbed into the leaf-lined ground.
Lovely. After all that, all she knew was that maybe the King was to the north. Worse, the next time she returned to the Other Place, she knew the Mother would still be there, and would go on being there until Willow finally killed it.
For now, Willow methodically cleaned the wound where the first ice-spider had bitten her. There was some mild swelling, but not as bad as she’d feared. The little ones were venomous, it seemed, but no more than normal spiders. Of course, it made her wonder about how that kind of venom scaled …
She shook that thought off. She had to figure out what to do next. Should she continue south as instructed, or head north, where she might be able to locate her lost sovereign?
She briefly considered sending Marcus north with a letter, but she wasn’t sure he could ride on his own without falling into the sea, let alone deliver her missive to the right recipients and thus avoid spilling the Chancellor’s secrets.
Head north to do what the Chancellor needed, or head south to do what he had ordered?
She reflected on the extensive damage he had inflicted on her office during his tantrum. The desk had been over 200 years old, and had once belonged to her predecessor Captain Plantagenet, and to his predecessor in turn. The window he had shattered alone cost more than half a year’s wages.
Screw him; she’d head south.
Chapter 11
The biggest attraction in Venucha was leaving town. The circus was shutting down. For hours, Willow and Marcus had ridden past haulmen leading mules north laden with gear and supply. Each mule wore a caparison bearing the words “The Venucha Players” in ornate golden script.
The haulmen had that weary, resigned look common to most laborers. They trudged step after step, gently whacking their recalcitrant mules with sticks to keep them clopping forward.
Willow showed a few of the haulmen a painting she had of the King. It was obvious that they recognized him, but they refused to talk with her. Nothing short of forceful coercion would get them to talk, and she wouldn’t resort to that.
At least, not yet.
So she let them pass, realizing the King wasn’t in Venucha, nor in Cerendahl, nor in any place in between. Somehow, she had missed him and was riding in the wrong direction.
It was dusk when Willow and Marcus rode into Venucha proper.
Venucha was largely empty when they arrived, but some of the Players were still striking their tents. She asked for the owner and eventually found her way to a young woman named Maria, who was quite possibly the ugliest person Willow had ever seen.
Maria’s face was a map of scar tissue. An ancient scar occupied the socket that should have held her left eye, and her nose ended in pink, burned tissue just past where the boney base protruded from her skull. Nevertheless, she carried herself with an unexpected dignity that was incongruous on the fairground, and she wore a stunning dark green dress that shimmered in the torchlight of the camp. Surprisingly, she wore a rapier strapped to her hip by a wide leather belt. Unlike Marcus, she wore it correctly.
Willow noticed Maria’s quick glance at her elven ears, but the woman made no comment. Indeed, she barely spoke at all. Her words were almost inaudible, and she answered questions as though each word cost a miser’s fortune.
So after Willow showed Maria the King’s portrait, she was surprised when the scarred woman muttered, “He looks so … so old in this picture.”
“Excuse me?” Willow said.
Maria shook her head resolutely. She met Willow’s gaze and begged, “Please, don’t hurt him.”
“I don’t want to hurt him,” Willow said. “I just need to find him.”
“Find him? Why?”
“That’s not your concern. However, be assured that I seek to serve his best interests.” Or at least, she hoped she did.
“Who …?” Maria started. “Who is he?”
“You tell me,” Willow said, an eyebrow arched.
Maria looked at her feet and mumbled something.
“What was that?” Willow said.
Maria’s single good eye crept up like a whipped hound afraid of another lashing. She had trouble meeting Willow’s gaze.
“I said, he’s no one,” Maria said with surprising force. She uncrossed her arms and let her right hand dangle by her sheathed rapier. “Leave him alone.”
One of the haulmen who had been working a wooden sign free from the ground turned when Maria raised her voice. He stooped to pick up a mallet and approached. He seemed strong enough to do harm with the mallet, but he kept it at his side. So long as it remained at his side, Willow had no problem with him.
“He’s a coward and a cad,” another woman called from the opening of an adjacent tent. She and a man, presumably her husband, had been packing their supplies, but had halted when Willow arrived.
The woman was dressed provocatively in a beaded top that revealed more skin than it covered and a long, wrap-around skirt that emphasized the curve of her hips. Her husband was dressed less ostentatiously, and Willow’s eyes were immediately drawn to the rapier on his belt.
&nb
sp; It seemed that everyone loved rapiers in this circus. Curious.
“You are talking about D’Arbignal, are you not, Cyclops?” the woman said, her eyes gleaming with malice. “The Greatest Swordsman in the World?” Her husband winced and lowered his eyes to the ground.
“Be quiet, Conchinara,” Maria said with surprising authority in her voice, “or find yourself another employer.”
Conchinara bridled at the threat, but did not reply.
“D’Arbignal?” Willow asked, trying to will them speak. “Who is D’Arbignal?”
“Nobody,” Maria said. “Now if you don’t mind, we have work to do.”
The haulman with the mallet placed a protective hand on Maria’s shoulder. She glanced to see who it was and her face warmed. She put her hand over his.
Interesting. Perhaps his eyesight was poor.
Maria walked off, pausing only to level a menacing stare at Conchinara. The haulman stared at Willow with what he probably thought was his Dangerous Look, but he was strictly an amateur. He didn’t know what dangerous was.
“Not a word,” Maria said, looking back at Conchinara.
“Who is D’Arbignal?” Willow asked again.
The haulman shook his head contemptuously at Willow, and then turned to follow Maria.
“He’s nobody,” Conchinara spat, glancing at her husband with barely-concealed contempt. “You can keep him, his lies, his gems, and that ridiculous plumed hat! I’ll say no more.”
Plumed hat? Willow felt a sinking sensation in her abdomen. Where had she seen a plumed hat?
Then it came to her. The stranger in the woods! She knew that she had seen him somewhere before!
Could that odd man somehow have been the King? If so, she hadn’t just failed in her mission: she had botched it with spectacular incompetence.
She wanted to sprint across the field and leap onto her horse. Instead, she kept her face impassive as she walked the fifty feet or so to where Marcus was watching over their horses.
Plumed hat? She’d been within feet of him. Hell, she had drawn her rapier on him: a hanging offense!
That is, if this “D'Arbignal” was really King Eric.
It made sense, though. Whatever his sources, the Chancellor had specific information about the King’s location, and he had sent her here. The women in the circus had recognized the King’s portrait … and mentioned an unusual plumed hat. The man in the forest had been roughly where the Chancellor had sent her, and he had the hat. That tied him to the man the people identified as the man in the portrait.
It made perfect sense … and it made no sense at all.
Chapter 12
Willow checked the fitting on Marcus’s saddle, tightening the cinch, and then tightening it again. He looked down at her with an expression reflecting something between confusion and mild amusement.
“It’s very important, Marcus,” she repeated, possibly for the tenth time. She needed to be sure he understood.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “I won't forget.”
“Remember, you are to hand the letter only to the Chancellor himself. No other!”
“I know!” He was getting petulant now. Haranguing him further would serve little purpose.
Sending Marcus back to Bryanae had been a difficult decision. Riding on to Cerendahl would fulfill the letter of her orders, not the spirit. She hoped that by informing the Chancellor, she could do both.
There were too many risks for her liking. Marcus was, to put it simply, dumb as a bag of rocks. She imagined the letter being stolen by a pickpocket. Or Marcus trading it for magic beans.
“Put the letter inside your trousers,” she said.
He straightened his shoulders and raised his nose.
“Look, that’s getting a little—”
“Marcus,” she said, exasperated, “just do it.”
He blushed, but sighed and relented. He undid the ties of his breeches, and, with a furtive glance at her, slid the rolled letter down toward his left leg.
He re-tied his breeches. “There, I —”
She whacked the horse’s thigh and sent it off. She watched as Marcus wavered briefly in the saddle, then recovered and leaned forward.
At least he knew how to ride. That’s what she kept telling herself. At least he knew how to ride.
Chapter 13
She rode through the night, continuing on through the next day and into the next night. Her eyes were heavy and her limbs felt leaden, yet she kept riding. Her joints had begun to ache, and her fingers hurt. She rode on despite all this, but her alertness began to suffer.
When the girl dressed in rags ran out of the trees and in front of her horse, Willow was slow to react. The girl flinched, holding her arms up in front of her face, as though they could somehow protect them.
“Whoa!” shouted Willow, pulling in on the reins.
Fortunately for the girl, Willow rode a very well trained horse. It planted its hooves, which continued to slide along the dirt while its front feet cantered, and the horse’s hindquarters slid onto the dirt.
Willow leaped from her horse, her rapier already drawn. She glanced around to see if the girl had any company—she didn’t—and advanced on her.
The girl was perhaps ten to twelve years old. Her chubby face was obscured by mud or soot. Her blouse was dirty, too, and torn. She backpedaled as Willow approach.
“Why did you jump in front of my horse?” Willow demanded. Again, she glanced around her, expecting an ambush.
The girl shook her head, her eyes wide as coins.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said, her voice shaking. “I was hiding from them and then I heard you coming. I wanted to warn you!”
Willow looked around yet again. The two of them were alone on the dark wooded road. “Warn me about what?”
The girl pointed in the direction Willow had been headed. The back of her blouse was torn, too.
“Men,” she said. “Three of them. With swords!”
Lots of men carried swords. Willow controlled her temper. She didn’t have time for this.
“What are they doing?” Willow said.
“Robbing,” the girl said. “Stealing. Raping.”
She cast her eyes downward at the last one, her hands at her sides.
“Thanks,” Willow said, heading back to her horse. “I’ll stay alert.”
“Wait!” cried the girl. When Willow looked back at her, she said, “Are you going to Cerendahl?”
Here it comes, Willow thought.
“What if I were?”
“Could you …? Could you escort me there? You know, protect me if they try to get me again?”
Willow considered the possibilities: she was lying or she was telling the truth. There were men lying in wait, or there were not. She was trying to help Willow or she was trying to trap her.
Willow mounted her horse.
“But—” the girl started, but Willow interrupted her.
“Get on the horse behind me,” she said reaching down to the girl. “I intend to ride fast, so you are to keep both arms around me at all times. Do you understand?”
The girl stared up at her for a moment, a blank look on her face.
“Do you understand?” Willow repeated.
“Y-yes!” said the girl, and took Willow’s hand.
Willow leaned to her right to offset the girl’s weight, and pull her up. The girl was overweight and had to scramble a bit, but her horse was disciplined and remained still.
When the girl was on the horse, Willow started off at a canter.
“Both hands around my waist at all times,” she said. “If you fall off, I keep riding without you.”
The girl slipped her arms around Willow’s stomach. The girl may have been chubby, but she had some muscle in those arms. A farm girl, perhaps?
“My name is Tricia,” the girl said.
“I don’t care,” Willow said. “Just keep your arms around me, and warn me when we’re getting close to where the highwaymen are lurking.”
Chapter 14
Tricia made a handful of attempts at starting a conversation, but Willow told her to shut up each time. The girl’s arms were secure around her waist as instructed, so Willow increased the horse’s pace.
Willow’s gaze swept the sides of the road, looking for signs of an ambush. The girl had said she would warn her when they were near the highwaymen, but it never hurt to be cautious. The girl could be lying, of course, or the men may simply have moved.
After about an hour or so, the girl put her mouth to Willow’s ear.
“Thank you so much for protecting me,” she said. The tone of her voice had changed. It was softer now, almost a purr.
“Shut up,” Willow said, “and stay alert.”
“Is there some way I could express my gratitude?” the girl’s hand moved to the underside of Willow’s breast.
What in the Seven Hells—?
“Keep your hands around my waist,” Willow said, immediately suspicious and also somewhat revolted. The boots Willow wore were older than this child.
“It’s all right,” the girl said, keeping her hand where it was. “I can tell you like women. Don’t worry; I do this for a living. I don’t mind.”
Willow grabbed her hand and put it back around her waist.
“First,” Willow said, “I don’t ‘like’ women. Second, you’re not a woman; you’re a girl. Third, whoring may be your line of work, but soldiering is mine; even if I were so inclined, I don’t have time to stop for such frivolities.”
“Fourth, and most important,” Willow said, “shut up.”
A masked horseman trotted across the road ahead of her. Willow reined in her horse.
“That’s them,” the girl said.
Willow rolled her eyes. She had figured that out all on her own. The girl’s ‘help’ had been useless.
There wasn’t any point in turning around. First, she needed to get to Cerendahl, and second, there were other bandits blocking her retreat as well. Indeed, she heard the clopping of hooves behind her.
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