Realizing he was stalling, Mark forced himself onward. As he neared the bustle of activity at the mines, a foreman spotted his approach and yelled for him to halt.
“Not from around here,” said the foreman as he neared. He wore furs that were hopelessly dirty, and giant calluses covered his hands. “You dress too well and too lightly.”
“I’m warm enough,” said Mark. He offered a hand. “Mark Tullen, lord of Riverrun. I’m here to speak with your lord.”
The foreman grunted.
“You’re in luck. Arthur and the boy are further in. We might have hit a new vein, and he wants to take a look.”
Mark tried to hide his reaction at hearing about “the boy,” but felt he did a miserable job. The foreman raised an eyebrow but refused to comment. Mark mentally cursed himself. If he couldn’t hide his emotions from a lowly foreman, what hope did he have with someone as observant as Arthur?
“Please,” he said, deciding to get it over with. “Can you take me to him? I come with urgent business from Alyssa Gemcroft.”
The foreman snapped to attention. If there was anyone more powerful than Arthur in the village, it was Alyssa. Her mines gave them work, wealth, and the means to survive on the harsh land. Without them Tyneham would become a ghost town.
“Follow me,” said the foreman.
They walked along a path pounded flat by half a century of carts, feet, and wheelbarrows. A few of the men glanced up, but most ignored them, or did their best to look busy. Mark saw several women wandering about with food and water for the men. A few carried needles and cloth to wrap, stitch, and bandage the day’s toll of blisters and cuts. He saw at least four main entrances to the lower slopes of the mountain. The foreman took him to the largest, where a crowd had gathered.
The two stopped and listened, for a man had come from inside the mine. A young boy stood at his side, his red hair covered with dirt. Mark knew them both.
“I’ve looked it over,” said Arthur as he pulled off a pair of gloves and tossed them aside. “It’s a new vein, all right, the richest we’ve found in ten years. We’ll shift men from mines three and four to help drain the rest of the water, and I’ll send word for more oxen. Hard work is ahead, but tonight we’ll share a glass to celebrate!”
The crowd cheered and smiled, even the foreman beside Mark clapping in excitement. Mark kept his arms crossed and watched Nathaniel. He stood beside Arthur, his face passive and his eyes to the ground. Such good behavior from someone barely five … it struck Mark as worrisome. Even when the cheering began, Nathaniel only looked around once, and after a few seconds’ delay clapped twice.
Mark waited as the rest of the men resumed their duties, cheerfully delving back into the mines or pushing their carts for the smelters and their mills. Arthur saw Mark through the crowd, nodded once, and then approached.
“Lord Tullen, I was not expecting such a pleasant surprise,” he said, but the tone of his voice didn’t match the honeyed words.
Mark withdrew the letter and handed it over.
“I’ve come for Nathaniel,” he said. “Alyssa wishes his safe return, for she misses him terribly. I must say, I was surprised to find him here instead of with Lord Gandrem.”
A smile pulled at the sides of Arthur’s lips. He had a long, oval face, and gray hair trimmed extremely short. Mark had never seen a more smug, self-satisfied grin.
“I often talked with Alyssa about bringing Nathaniel here to learn the duties involved in running the mines,” he said. “At my last visit I mentioned doing so should the weather break.”
“Her letter doesn’t say that.”
“Given how great her duties are, I am not surprised such a casual comment by myself went unremembered.”
Mark didn’t believe it for a second, but he tried to act like he did.
“Either way, she wishes him back,” he insisted. “So come, Nathaniel. Let us return to your mother.”
“You can’t take him,” said Arthur. When Mark’s eyes flared, the grin on Arthur’s face only grew. “Not by yourself. You would bring a son of the Trifect along the northern road unprotected? He is far too precious a target for ransom. Let me send some of my men with you as escort.”
Mark looked away and muttered. Arthur was testing him, testing his reactions, and he’d given away his thoughts plain as day. As he looked about, he saw two wagons loading up not far to the south.
“Where are they headed?” he asked.
“They?” asked Arthur. He followed his gaze, and then answered far too quickly, “I’m not sure, but they are of no matter to you. Let me get my men.”
“Veldaren,” said Nathaniel before Arthur could leave. “Every week they bring gold for Veldaren.”
Mark shot the boy a wink, not caring that Arthur saw.
“Then I will ride with them,” he said. “Surely we will be safe amid a well-guarded caravan.”
Arthur’s grin faded.
“Very well. They will slow you down, so make sure Alyssa knows the reason for your delay falls upon you, and not myself. I’ll tell the men you’ll be joining them. Nathaniel, go to the castle and pack your things. Hurry now! Do not keep Lord Tullen waiting.”
Nathaniel bowed to both and then ran off. Mark watched him go.
“Not a smart child, but at least he is obedient,” Arthur said, walking away.
Nathaniel rode in one of the two wagons while Mark trotted beside them on his horse. He’d purchased supplies from the tavern, not wishing to be a burden on the caravan. Though he’d stayed out of their way as best he could, he made sure to sneak a glance at the cargo—crates of newly minted gold coins, all stamped with the symbol of the Gemcroft family. Each wagon had a single crate.
“Why just one crate per wagon?” he asked the leader of the caravan, a fat man named Dave. “Seems wasteful.”
“Each wagon has its own driver, own guards, own cargo,” Dave answered. “Makes it harder for someone to get to plotting. That, and we’ll fill both wagons on the way back with supplies. You should see how many tools we run through. I swear, for every pound of gold we dig we break two pounds of iron.”
Come nightfall they set up camp. Several of the guards had slept during their day ride, and so they wandered about, eating, drinking, and watching the roads. Mark took the time to find Nathaniel. The boy ate by himself, huddled in a blanket with his back to a fire.
“Cold?” Mark asked as he sat down beside him.
Nathaniel shook his head.
“I can’t be cold,” he said. “Arthur says that makes me look weak.”
Mark chuckled. “Even the greatest of leaders needs to wear boots in the snow. You’re allowed to be human, Nathaniel.”
The boy pulled the blanket tighter about him. He looked so similar to his mother, the same soft features, stubby nose, and startling red hair. He glanced back at Mark, and then a smile crept across his trembling lips.
“Maybe … maybe I’m a little cold.”
Mark laughed.
“Take this then,” he said, wrapping his own blanket around the boy. “This should help. From here on out, anything Arthur told you, you check with me, all right?”
“Why?” Nathaniel asked, suddenly looking worried. “Does Arthur lie?”
“No, no,” Mark said, quicker than he meant to. “He just … has a peculiar way of looking at the world. He doesn’t think people get cold, remember? I’d love to see him wander in his skivvies during a snowstorm. I bet he’d look like a blue ogre when he came back inside. What do you think? Or maybe a blue orc. Nah. He’s too skinny to be an orc.”
He yammered on, telling jokes both humorous and terrible. It didn’t matter. He watched Nathaniel slowly warm to him, and it relieved Mark tremendously. He’d been worried that Arthur’s words had wrapped a spell about the boy, turning him into some mindless stooge believing his every word. But Nathaniel was still a five-year-old boy, and given the chance he wanted to laugh and joke as much as any other kid his age. Mark knew he might not be the most charming di
nner guest, but at least he knew how to make a kid laugh.
Mark let Nathaniel keep his blanket, instead borrowing another from the wagons. They slept beside the fire.
Come the next morning Mark awoke with a chill having seeped deep into his bones. When he stirred he saw a thin layer of snow atop the world, including his blanket.
“About time,” said Dave, who was busy untethering their oxen. “You sleep like the dead, Mark.”
“Better to sleep like them than to be them,” he said, shaking off his blanket and looking for a fire.
“No fire,” said Dave. “We need to save the wood in case the snow picks up. Move about. Help us pack. You’ll warm up soon enough.”
He found Nathaniel sitting in one of the wagons, half-buried in blankets.
“I hate winter,” he said when he saw Mark.
“I hear you,” Mark said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Just try to endure. We’ll be home with your mother soon enough.”
The snowflakes were light as they traveled, just a slight nuisance that wetted their skin and occasionally stung their eyes. By midday the snow had thickened, and at last Dave called a halt.
“The wagons might get stuck if it continues,” Mark told him.
“Better stuck on the road than in a ditch,” Dave shot back.
They used the wagons to block the wind, shoveled snow until they found cold, dry ground, and then built a fire. They gathered around it, their own bodies sheltering the fire from the wind that sneaked in.
“Come morning we’ll dig out and then continue,” Dave said as they huddled there. “Run this route plenty of times, and I have a feeling for how the weather works. We’ll have clear sky tomorrow. Assuming we don’t break a wheel, we should reach Felwood in a—”
He stopped, for amid the howling of the wind he heard something strange.
“Horses,” said Dave.
“Who would ride in this weather?” asked one of the guards.
Mark drew his sword and stood, and the rest did likewise. There were only four guards per wagon, and the eight hurried to the opening between them.
“It might be a messenger meant to reach us,” said Dave, just before a crossbow bolt pierced his arm.
“Shit,” he cried, snapping the shaft in half and tossing it. “Stay down, all of you!”
Horses thundered by on either side, and as they passed the gap, many of the riders fired crossbows. Mark dove into one of the wagons as the bolts flew, dragging Nathaniel with him. The horses turned around, and at their return charge he heard the sound of steel hitting steel.
“Stay down,” Mark said to Nathaniel. The boy sat huddled in blankets beside the crate of gold. His eyes were wide, rimmed with tears that refused to fall in the chill air.
“I’m scared,” Nathaniel said, and his whole body shook.
“I am too,” Mark said as bolts tore through the fabric of the covering, thankfully missing them. He kept his sword facing the back of the wagon and listened. He heard screams, plus Dave hollering like a madman. From where he crouched he could only see a small portion of the combat. The guards had cut down two of the riders, but the rest continued their charge, hacking as they passed or firing more crossbow bolts.
Then he heard Dave cry something that made no sense, but at the same time was certain to be true.
“Lord Hadfield? But why?”
He died soon after, or at least his orders stopped. The cries of pain lessened. Swords struck rarely, then stopped altogether. Mark pushed Nathaniel farther into the wagon and tried to shrink down. He might be able to surprise one or two of them if they didn’t realize he was inside…
A man rode up behind the wagon, a crossbow in hand. Mark lunged at him, extending his arm as far as it could go. His sword pierced the man’s breast, punching through his leather armor. As he bled out, the crossbow fired harmlessly into the air. Mark retreated into the wagon, his blood running cold. He recognized the symbol on that armor. They were Arthur’s men, all right. But why? Why would he ambush his own wagons?
He glanced back at Nathaniel and decided he already knew the reason.
“Mark?” he heard Arthur call out. “Is that you in there, Mark?”
“Just keeping warm,” Mark shouted back. “What’d your men do to deserve this?”
“Deserve? Nothing. They died in my service, as all men should for their masters. Where is the child? I don’t want him to witness your execution.”
Mark clutched his sword tighter. Behind him he heard Nathaniel whimper.
“You’ll protect him?” Mark asked.
“As if he were my own son.”
Or at least until you have a son of your own, thought Mark. At least until you’ve consummated your marriage to Alyssa, you heartless bastard.
“Listen to me,” he whispered to Nathaniel. “He’s lying, I know it. You need to run, you understand? I know you don’t want to, but you have to try. He’s cruel. I’ve always known it, now just…”
“Mark!” Arthur shouted. “Come out and face this with honor!”
“That way,” Mark said, pointing to the exit beside the driver’s seat.
Nathaniel nodded. Despite his fear he was holding together. Though they lacked any blood connection, Mark felt proud of the boy. A child worthy to raise, to claim the Gemcroft wealth. A child who’d probably freeze to death in the next twelve hours. He almost thought to change his mind, to carry Nathaniel out and discover what Arthur would do. But he couldn’t. If Nathaniel was somehow part of Arthur’s plans, Mark wanted to ruin them. It was petty, perhaps, but by the gods, he had to do something to avenge his own death.
He stepped out from the wagon, his sword still drawn.
CHAPTER 5
Haern kept his cloaks wrapped tightly about himself as he trudged along the road. He felt foolish for not preparing for such weather. His feet were numb from the cold, and he’d have given anything for a thick coat. He’d dressed like a thief when he should have dressed like a bear.
He lacked the proper tools to build a fire, which was especially problematic given how heavily the snow came down. Moving kept him warm, so that’s what he did. It’d been two days since he saw houses in the distance, farms both large and small. Before that he’d stayed a night in the comforts of Felwood Castle, stocking up on food and, like a fool, refusing to steal anything warmer to wear before continuing toward the mines along the Crestwall Mountains. That was before the snow, before he realized just how pathetic he was compared to nature’s forces. His hood pulled low, he stared at the white ground and kept his feet moving. Night was approaching, and he pondered what to do. Surely he could find a tree for shelter, and should probably start looking. But he didn’t want to stop just yet. He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him feared that the moment he stopped moving he would curl up, fall asleep, and never wake again.
The first time he heard the noise he thought it a hallucination. Then it came again, and many times after. It was the sound of steel hitting steel, coupled with the neighs of horses. He felt some of his drowsiness leave him. He’d headed north in hopes of discovering the source of the Serpents’ gold, prepared to travel all the way to Tyneham if he must, to where the gold was minted. But could the source be something as simple as raiding the caravans as they traveled south? Dashel had insisted against it, and Haern had agreed with his argument. Then what?
He urged himself on, and despite the snow that blew in his face, he forced himself to stare straight ahead. The snow was thick, and it seemed as if a white fog had enclosed the land so many yards away from where he stood. When he saw the first rider, it was if he emerged from another world. Haern dove for the cover of trees, then glanced back to see if he’d been spotted. He hadn’t. The rider turned back and charged into the unseen combat.
Not willing to risk such foolishness again, Haern weaved through the trees, making sure to stay close to the road. If the weather remained foul, it might be days before he found the path again. He was no woodsman. The city streets were his home. Out
among the trees, in the snow, he felt like a bumbling idiot.
The sound of combat faded not long after. After a few moments of silence he heard someone yelling. His numb ears at first refused to make words out of the noise. As he followed the sound, he started to understand.
“Where is the child?” he heard a man ask. “I don’t want him to witness your execution.”
Finally reaching the area of combat, Haern leaned against the thick trunk of a tree and surveyed the situation. Two wagons were pulled close together, the oxen tethered behind them. Eight men on horses milled about, all with swords or crossbows. The speaker seemed older than the rest, and he wore no armor, just a thick coat of bearskin that Haern felt ready to kill for. All around them lay bodies, their warm blood melting the snow beneath them.
It didn’t make sense. All the horsed ambushers wore the same insignia, a sickle held before a mountain. This wasn’t the Serpent Guild. They didn’t wear green cloaks. What then? Should he interfere?
Meanwhile the older man continued talking, evidently with someone inside a wagon given the direction he faced and the command he gave.
“Mark!” cried the older man. “Come out and face this with honor.”
And then it seemed Mark obeyed, stepping from the back of one of the wagons. He looked young, his armor dark and expensive. The riders circled about him as the older man smiled.
“Hiding during a battle,” he said. “Such shameful behavior.”
“Perhaps,” Mark said. He lunged at the nearest rider, but never got close enough to swing. Two crossbow bolts pierced his back, and he stumbled, his weapon falling from his hand. Haern winced. At least the man had died bravely, even if he hadn’t accomplished…
A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2) Page 5