Evelyn put her arm across his chest and pressed her face against his neck.
“It would explain a lot though, wouldn’t it?” she asked, her voice quiet. “Why those men were searching for him. We both knew he was no ordinary boy to be hunted like he is.”
“But why would Arthur’s men be after him? The whole bloody north knows he’s been courting her.” An unspoken question hovered in the air between them, until at last Matthew gave it voice. “What if the men we killed were actually trying to rescue him?”
Matthew waited for his wife to speak, trusting her to better understand these complicated matters. He could list the price of every vegetable that grew in Dezrel, what the color of the soil meant and what could grow in it, but these things were beyond him. He liked living outside the city, where so long as you paid the taxman when he came, you could live unbothered by your lord and trust in your neighbors. Hard luck comes in strangers’ hands, his ma had always said.
“That man, Haern, might have kidnapped him,” Evelyn said. “If he was wounded and low on food, he’d need someone like us to help out, but why leave the boy here? Why tell us to take him back to his parents whenever he could talk? Everything he paid us for, he could have taken by force. Still, I won’t pretend to understand Arthur’s reasons, and neither does Tristan.”
“He says his name is Nathaniel.”
Evelyn kissed his neck.
“I told him his new name, and we’ll use it so long as he’s with us. No need to risk undue attention should we go out and about.”
Matthew grunted. Fair enough.
“It might be Arthur himself that came for him, though everything’s just a jumble when Tristan tells what happened,” he said. “But I think you’re right. Those men were up to no good. Could see it in their eyes.”
“So what do we do?”
Matthew sighed. He wished he knew. While he thought, he ran his rough fingers through her hair, enjoying its softness.
“We got to get him home, even if that means traveling all the way to Veldaren.”
“What if you stop in Felwood and deliver him to Lord Gandrem? He’s always been a close friend to the Gemcrofts.”
“So was Arthur.”
He was right, of course, and he could tell she knew it.
“Let us all go, then. I don’t want to be left here, and it won’t be safe for the kids, either.”
“Our livestock’ll die.”
“With how much Haern gave us, we could buy our farm back twice over.”
Matthew shook his head, thinking of all the work he’d put into raising his cattle and pigs.
“Still no good reason to let them die, waste all they’re worth. Besides, me going to the city might be strange, but it ain’t unheard of. All of us packing up to go? If there’s more soldiers looking, and you know there are, then they’ll hear about it in a heartbeat. I’ll go alone, just me and the boy. He’s light enough. We can ride together, make good time.”
“We have no horses.”
“I’ll buy one from the Utters in the morning.”
Evelyn pulled her arms tight across her chest as if she were cold. She recognized that tone in his voice. He’d made up his mind, and it’d take tears and a hysterical fit from her to change it. She didn’t have it in her. They had to do something before more soldiers showed up looking for Tristan.
“Trevor’s old enough to look after most things,” Matthew continued, as if trying to reassure her. “And with the cold already breaking, we’ll easily last until spring on what wood we have. I’ll leave you half the coin too, in case something happens. You can afford salt or meat if need be.”
“I know I can do it,” she snapped. “Don’t mean I want to, or will enjoy it. I’m scared, Matt, scared witless. What if men come looking while you’re gone?”
He kissed her forehead.
“I trust you,” he said. “And I’ll pray you stay safe. I don’t know what else to do, Evelyn. I just don’t know.”
Come morning he trudged east through the half-melted snow, across fields he knew by heart. The Utters were a large clan, and wealthier than most of the local farm folk. They had several horses, and while they might not be eager to part with one, Matthew knew the gold jingling in his pocket would be persuasive enough.
When he returned, it was atop a mare he’d paid for—far more than she was worth, but given how they were still waiting for winter to make its exit, and time wasn’t on his side, he’d been forced to accept. He’d refused to be overcharged on the saddle, though.
“Without that mare you got no reason for it anyway,” he’d argued, and after he threatened to buy a saddle from the Haerns or the Glenns, they’d relented. The mare was a beautiful horse named Strawberry by one of the Utter daughters. Matthew thought the name a little demeaning for such a majestic creature, but figured he’d leave it be considering the horse was already familiar with it. On his ride back he swung by Fieldfallow (the closest thing to a town for thirty miles) and bought trail rations and a thick riding coat.
“Little early to be heading up to Tyneham,” the old storekeeper had said. Matthew only gritted his teeth and paid, again twice as much as he would have in spring. Back at the house Tristan was already bundled up and ready to go. His fever had come and gone, but never as badly as before the amputation. Matthew kissed his kids good-bye, hugged his wife, and then set Tristan on the saddle.
“You ever ridden a horse before?” he asked.
The boy nodded. “At the castle,” he said. Matthew guessed he meant Felwood, and again he felt tempted to stop there. Lord Gandrem was an honorable old man. Surely he wouldn’t let something untoward happen to the boy. But Haern had told him to deliver the boy to his parents, and that meant Alyssa Gemcroft all the way south in Veldaren. There was also his nagging worry that Lord Gandrem might, however unlikely it seemed, also be involved in the attempt on the boy’s life. Resolving to decide the issue later, he climbed into the saddle, shifted Tristan so they could both sit more comfortably, and then set off.
The first day came and went uneventfully. A caravan passed them heading north, dour men who didn’t even wave in greeting. Just before nightfall he spotted a distant pond. Glad for once for the cold, since there’d be no mosquitoes flitting about, he set up camp beside it, Strawberry staked close enough to the water’s edge to drink. Tristan had remained quiet through much of the ride, and Matthew didn’t press him to talk. Come the fire, though, it seemed both their tongues loosened.
“How long until we get there?” Tristan asked.
Matthew poked the fire with a stick, shifting one of the thicker logs into a hotter section so it might burn better.
“It’ll be several days to reach Felwood. From there, less than a week to ride into Veldaren. That’s where your ma is, right?”
The boy shivered, as if the mere mention of her reminded him how far away she was.
“I think so,” he said. “Do you … do you think she misses me?”
“Can’t see why not. Evelyn would be sick with fits should one of our sons run off missing.”
Tristan pulled his blanket tighter about him, and his eyes glazed as he stared into the fire.
“He died protecting me,” he said.
“Who?”
“Mark. I liked him. He’s nicer than Lord Hadfield.”
The name Mark didn’t ring any bells, but Hadfield sure did.
“Do you know why Arthur would want you dead, boy? You’re young, sure, but you got ears and you probably know more than I when it comes to the upper crust.”
“I don’t. He always said I was like his son, and when he married Mom, he’d be my father.”
Matthew felt a tingle in the back of his head at that. Perhaps it had something to do with marriage. Had Alyssa rejected Arthur, and he lashed out in spite? Did he want to remove any potential heirs? What foul plans might he have for Alyssa as well? Too many questions without answers.
“Safe to say he ain’t planning to be much of a father to you,” Ma
tthew said. “Now eat up. Got a long ride tomorrow, and you’ll need the energy for it. Riding’s tiring work, though you wouldn’t think it.”
They slept under blankets. Halfway through the night Matthew awoke to distant howling. Coyotes, he figured. A tired glance to his side showed Tristan shivering, a shaking fist pressed to his lips. He was crying. Touched, Matthew reached out and put his arm around the boy, sliding him closer so he could wrap him in a hug. Tristan continued to cry, but his trembling stopped. Soon the crying turned to sniffles, which turned to steady breathing. Matthew fell asleep not long after.
Come morning, they both woke red-eyed. Tristan said little, and several times Matthew had to hold back an angry word. Evelyn always insisted he was a bear when he got up in the morning. No reason to take that out on the poor kid. They ate some rations, drank, and then rode south, stopping every few hours to stretch their legs and rest their backs. Matthew wasn’t a stranger to a horse, but he hadn’t ridden in over six months. Muscles he hadn’t known he had announced their angry presence to him.
“Starting to think walking would be a better idea,” he grumbled.
Tristan said nothing.
By the second day the plains were spotted with trees, and with each hour they rode, the trees gathered more thickly, forming clusters that would soon be a forest. Felwood Castle was getting closer. It was one of those nearby clusters that saved both their lives. They’d stopped by one for a piss, and while dismounted they heard the thunder of hoofbeats approaching from the south. A warning instinct, like when he knew something was after his animals, told Matthew it was time to get off the road.
“This way,” he said, grabbing the reins in one hand and Matthew’s wrist with the other. He led them into the copse, far enough that they’d go unnoticed.
“Stay here and hold on tight,” he said, handing Tristan the reins. Hurrying back toward the road, he peered from behind a tree as a group of five rode past at full gallop. They wore dark tabards that he easily recognized. Hadfield’s men. Did they know of Gert and Ben’s absence? More important, did they know where it’d happened?
Trying not to think about it, he returned to Tristan, who stood with wide eyes. “It’s them again, isn’t it?” Tristan asked.
“Yeah,” Matthew said. “Looked like it.”
“Will everyone be safe?”
Matthew’s jaw clenched tight. He yanked the reins from the boy’s hand and led them back to the road.
“Ashhur only knows,” he said as the silence hung over them. “And if not, then may Karak curse every one of those bastards.”
Including the one who brought you to me, he thought, not cruel enough to say it aloud.
Oric sped his men across the road between Felwood and Tyneham, the lightest touch of panic brushing his neck. It wanted to dig in, sink its claws deep, but he refused to let it. He hadn’t failed his master yet, and so far he had no reason to think he would. Not a soul had seen or heard anything of Nathaniel. It seemed likely he’d frozen to death, that strange Watcher there for the gold and nothing else. The lack of information suggested the boy was a corpse in the melting snow somewhere, his body devoured by coyotes or vultures—except for one troublesome detail: they’d found Gert’s horse unbridled, the soldier nowhere to be found. That meant he was dead somewhere, killed while searching for Nathaniel. So far Oric had no evidence, but he assumed the same had happened to Ben. For two of his men, armed and armored, to mysteriously vanish…
They’d found Nathaniel, and then paid the price. That’s what Oric’s gut said, and he trusted it over everything else in the miserable world. He needed to discover where they’d found the boy, and quick. If he’d even made it to Felwood, there’d be disaster. Lord Gandrem certainly knew of Alyssa’s loss, and Oric had personally brought “the body” to be buried. All sorts of questions would need to be answered should Nathaniel appear alive and well, and none of the answers would endear Oric to anyone. It was either find the boy or hang from a noose.
The farms were few and far between as they rode north, and something clicked as he finally came upon where the ambush had first been.
“Let’s say you’re wounded and carrying a sick boy,” he said to his men. “Snow’s falling, and you’re low on food. What is it you’d do?”
“Ditch the boy,” said one. “Either way he’s dead. No reason to go with him.”
“Assume yourself a better man than that. What then?”
“Carry him until I find the closest shelter.”
Oric tapped his forehead. “Exactly. Patt, take Rat and go north. Stop at the first two homes off the road, and you search them thoroughly. The rest of you, come with me.”
They split, two north, three south. Oric had a feeling this Watcher, when in danger, would have gone south instead of north, since by all appearances Veldaren was his home. They saw no dwellings for the rest of that first day, but come the second a farm appeared in the distance. Oric led the way, feeling his pulse quicken. This had to be it. The Watcher would have stopped here, maybe not for long, but at least for food and water.
When he knocked on the door, it was a long time before he heard a response.
“Who’s there?” asked a woman’s voice.
“Oric Silverweed, soldier of Lord Hadfield of the north. I demand entrance.”
A lock rattled from inside. Oric leaned back toward his men and whispered, “Hands on your hilts at all times.”
The door opened, revealing a mildly attractive woman in her early thirties. Beside her stood a teenage boy, a dagger tucked into his belt. From where Oric stood he saw several more children, all younger, huddled about a wood stove.
“Where’s the man of the house?” he asked as they stepped inside.
“That’s me,” said the eldest boy. Oric raised an eyebrow as he glanced at the woman. Something already felt off.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked, glad to see him ruffle at being called boy. If he was angry he might say something stupid, something he’d rather have kept quiet about.
“Trevor.”
“Where’s your pa, Trevor?”
That brief hesitation, along with the woman’s sudden flare of her eyes, was all Oric needed.
He had two men with him, one a young soldier named Uri, the other a skilled fighter named Ingle. Oric turned to them, purposefully putting his back to Trevor and his dagger.
“Ingle, search out back. Check the barn, the fields, anywhere they might keep him. Uri, search the house. Pull up the floors if you have to.”
“You can’t do this!” the woman shouted. Oric struck her with the back of his hand. Finally Trevor drew his dagger. Before he could do a thing, Oric crossed the distance, rammed his throat with one arm, and grabbed Trevor’s wrist with the other. He held him pinned against a wall as the younger children screamed.
“You pulled a blade on me, boy,” Oric said, feeling like a wolf among sheep. He let a wildness appear in his eyes, knowing it’d frighten them more. “That means I can do whatever I want, and I got half a mind to leave you a cripple. Think your ma here will keep feeding a worthless belly that can’t help out in the fields? How you think she’ll like watching me cut off your fingers one at a time?”
Trevor’s eyes were wide, and he looked ready to cry. He couldn’t speak, only cough, and Oric kept the pressure up to keep it that way. He wanted him light-headed, scared, convinced he was about to die.
“Stop it, please,” the woman pleaded. She still stood near the door, a red mark swelling on her face. Meanwhile Uri flung open drawers and dressers as he searched the house, occasionally stamping hard with his heel to test for false floorboards.
“Stand over there with your children,” Oric snapped at her. “You make a move toward me, anything at all, and you can watch as I pull your son’s guts out one inch at a time.”
She reluctantly obeyed, sitting between her two girls. A young boy was with them, and he moved to sit at her feet. Oric turned back to Trevor, who had dropped the dagger and started retchi
ng silently.
“Take a deep breath,” he said, lessening the pressure. As he sucked air into his windpipe, Trevor coughed, every gasp he made strained. “Good. Now you listen to me, got it? I’m missing two of my men, and I’m thinking they were here. But let’s not worry about that right now. Right now I want to know about a little boy, red hair, about five years old. Did someone bring him here? The truth, you worthless shit, tell me the truth.”
Trevor’s face contorted with pain. He had something to say, no doubt about it. But he didn’t want to. Even threatened with death, he didn’t want to say. He was protecting his parents, Oric realized. Nothing else could keep his tongue still when so blatantly faced with death. Well, there were ways around that.
“Uri,” he shouted. The man appeared seconds later.
“Yeah, Oric?”
“Find anything?”
Uri shook his head. “He ain’t in here. Nothing for Ben or Gert either.”
Oric looked to the adjacent room, which was curtained off, decided there would work.
“Come take him,” he told Uri. The other soldier grabbed Trevor by the wrists and shoved him through. Meanwhile Oric walked over to the woman.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
“Evelyn,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Pretty name, that. You come with me now, or I’ll drag you away by the hair while your little ones watch. Your choice.”
She kissed her daughters and stood. Oric put a hand on her neck and guided her into the room where Uri pinned Trevor against a wall.
“You’re trying to protect your ma, maybe your pa, or both,” Oric said as he shoved Evelyn onto the small bed in the cramped room. “But you ain’t protecting them, not anymore. Gonna show you what’ll happen, Trevor, if you don’t tell me what you know, got that? Hold him tight, Uri.”
“Will do.”
Oric struck the mother, spun her onto her stomach, and ripped at her skirt. When she started to sob, he took a wad of the blanket and shoved it into her mouth. Trevor struggled, but Uri stood a foot taller and easily outweighed him. Oric pulled off his belt, pushed aside the rest of Evelyn’s skirt, and shoved himself inside. She screamed into the gag, tears streaming down her face. Oric beat her when her screams got too loud, or when Trevor’s struggles lessened. He needed the horror to continue. He wanted that fucking brat scarred.
A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2) Page 20