by Anna Elliott
The man’s sword flashed, and Isolde heard Cabal give a high, sharp cry of pain, but he didn’t draw off, only stood with his head down, forelegs planted wide and a rumbling growl sounding deep in his chest. Isolde’s heart was pounding hard enough to make her vision blur. But this was the second time within a seven-night she’d faced violent attack—the second time she’d stood with Cabal between her and an upraised sword, waiting for a blow to fall.
And she wasn’t afraid. Her eyes stung and her chest felt as though she were breathing fire instead of air. But somehow, she’d passed beyond fear to pure, simple fury. At the man before her for hurting Cabal, at Trystan for being too drunk to wake, and at the stupid, pointless waste of dying this way, not even knowing who her attackers were or how they had found her and why.
She adjusted her grip on the knife, breathing quickly, ordering herself to think. Think. Her mind flipped uselessly through possibilities—none of them standing a chance of saving her life or Cabal’s. The boat was still rocking under her feet, making it hard to keep her balance. And hard for her attacker to stay upright as well.
She waited until a lurch of the boat had made the man before her stagger. No time to think—hardly even any time to take aim. She threw the knife, hard and fast. Not at his body—he wore a leather war shirt that she doubted the knife would penetrate—but at his leg.
The blade caught him in the upper thigh, and Isolde heard his howl of pain. He staggered again, and then the leg collapsed under him, the sway of the boat making him fall as hard as the first man against the deck. This time, though, Isolde had time only for a sharply in-drawn breath before the attacker struggled upright, regaining his footing, and came at her again with a shout.
He’d lost his grip on his sword—Isolde could see it lying on deck a short distance away. Maybe half a heartbeat, though, Isolde thought, before he draws one of the knives at his belt. She threw herself forward, kicking out at the man’s injured leg, but another lurch of the deck beneath them made her lose her balance, robbing the blow of its force. Instead the attacker’s hand shot out, catching hold of her arm and dragging her to him, pinning her back against his chest.
She could smell the man’s sweat, feel his breath hot on the back of her neck. Her heart was racing, but the tide of fury was still running hot and strong through her veins. Isolde drew back and then drove her elbow into the man’s stomach, as hard as she could. The blow caught him by surprise; he’d not expected her to fight back. He grunted and doubled over, partially releasing his grip on her, and she lashed out again. This time her elbow caught the attacker full in the face.
She heard a crunch and another howl of pain, and knew with a sick certainty that she’d broken the man’s nose. But this time his hold on her had loosened enough that she was able to jerk herself free and twist away, breathing hard.
TRYSTAN SAW ISOLDE THROW HERSELF FORWARD at the attacker, heard the crunch and the gasp when she broke the man’s nose. It got her free—but not for long. One hand clapped over his face, the man lunged at her, catching hold of her by the wrist and dragging her towards him again. Snarling, Cabal launched himself forward, but the man kicked out, catching the big dog a savage blow to the belly with the toe of his boot, and the snarl changed to a yelp of pain.
Trystan’s hand reached reflexively for the knife at his belt a moment before his mind registered that it was gone. His sword was where he’d left it, by the pile of sails he’d used for a bed. No time to get it, either. The other man had drawn his knife and had it at Isolde’s throat, his other hand gripping her by the hair, forcing her head back.
A red mist seemed to come down across Trystan’s eyes. There was a sword, lying just at the attacker’s feet; Trystan could just see the gleam of metal in the moonlight. Probably a good thing his head was still swimming with the effect of the wine. You never wanted to think before trying a stunt like this one.
A voice in the back of his head told him he was likely to die swearing at himself for stupidity after all—and get Isolde killed, into the bargain. But even then he was throwing himself to the ground, grasping the sword, and then rolling up to block the slashing blow of the other man’s knife with the flat of the blade.
The impact sent waves of shock vibrating up and down Trystan’s arm. But the man had loosed his grip on Isolde; Trystan saw her wrench herself free again, stumble, and then come up with her back pressed against the rail.
Trystan turned back to the other man, shaking off the feeling that all this had to be some wine-induced nightmare. It was too dark to see the attacker clearly—but he’d gotten used to taking an opponent’s measure quickly. This one was a big man, and clumsy with it, Trystan judged.
As though to prove the point, the other man lunged forward, slashing with the knife, and Trystan twisted aside, landing a hard kick to the other man’s knee that sent him sprawling. He staggered, flailed wildly as he tried to recover, then went down, and as he struggled to rise, Trystan hit him across the back of the neck with the sword hilt. The man collapsed with a groan, sprawling facedown on the deck.
Only then did Trystan register what he’d only half noticed before. The pitch and sway of the deck beneath his feet had stopped. They’d run aground against the riverbank; he could see a sea of reeds, swaying shadows in the night darkness, just beyond the rail. Isolde was still pressed back against the rail, and in an instant Trystan had caught her by the shoulders, the lurch of sickness in the pit of his stomach making him forget his rule of not touching her. “Are you all right?”
In the moonlight, her face was a pale oval, the gray eyes huge and wide. She nodded, though, and Trystan passed a hand across his brow, controlling the urge to either shake her or pull her into his arms. “Shades of hell, Isa, what in God’s name were you thinking of?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re unarmed, facing an opponent with a knife? You run—you lock yourself in the cabin. You don’t throw yourself at him and break his goddamned nose so that he’s going to kill you or die trying.”
Her answer came quick as a slap, her voice angry and hard, and she pulled herself away. “I was thinking that I’d rather die fighting back than cowering in a corner like a rabbit and waiting to be killed.”
He saw her hand move to her throat, and knew she was remembering the bite of the attacker’s knife. “I was thinking that since you were too drunk to do more than snore, I was the only one who could put up a fight. And besides, what were you—”
But her teeth had started to chatter, and she had to clench her jaw shut to stop. Even so, Trystan could see the shivers of reaction that shook her from head to foot. His hand moved towards her, but he stopped himself. Try to put an arm around her or touch her again and he’d probably get his nose broken as well. Not that he could blame her.
Too drunk to do more than snore. If she didn’t despise you before this, he thought, she certainly will by the time you reach the Wessex borderlands. Though if that was the worst that happened, he supposed he could be heartily thankful.
Trystan turned to the two unconscious men sprawled across the deck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Isolde move, too, dropping to kneel beside Cabal, who lay panting beside the cabin door.
“Is he all right?” Trystan asked after a moment.
“I think so.” Isolde’s voice still sounded tight, but she did at least answer. She ran her hands gently over the big dog’s coat. “I don’t think his ribs are broken—only bruised. And there’s a cut on his shoulder, but it’s not deep.”
Trystan nodded, then toed the body of the man he’d fought, rolling him onto his back. His face was smeared with blood from his broken nose, black in the pale light of the moon. But no badge or other marks—nothing to tell where he’d come from or whose man he was. For a moment, Trystan saw again the man’s hands, holding the knife to Isolde’s throat, and his own hand went to the hilt of the sword he still held. But it was a long time since he’d cut an unconscious man’s throat. Besides, he’d enough on his conscience
already.
Trystan let out his breath, then hefted the man up onto one shoulder, carried him to the railing, and then heaved him over the side. The water was shallow here; unless he rolled onto his face and drowned before he woke, he’d likely survive. Trystan did the same for the second man, then turned to find Isolde watching him, her arms still about Cabal’s neck.
“What are you going to do?” Her voice still sounded slightly shaky, but she’d stopped shivering. Trystan thrust away the image of her with the knife at her throat. For the first time, he gave his full attention to the question of who these men had been and where they’d come from. A random attack? Not bloody likely.
He shook his head, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Get us as far away from here as possible, for a start. After that, I don’t know.”
ISOLDE LET HER HAND FALL FROM Hereric’s brow and sat back, biting her lip. The fever was rising. Slightly, but unmistakably. The Saxon man’s skin felt hot and dry to the touch, and looked painfully stretched over the broad bones of his cheeks and brow. Though at least he hadn’t wakened when they’d carried him ashore from the boat. Trystan had carried him, and Hereric had groaned and tossed his head fretfully with each step. Isolde had held her breath until Trystan had splashed his way through the shallows and lowered the big man at last onto solid ground.
Now Isolde made an effort to push away the awareness of Hereric’s fiercely agonized pain. She’d managed to trickle another dose of the poppy syrup between his lips; there was nothing else she could do for him now. She straightened from where she knelt at Hereric’s side and wrung the water out of the hem of her gown before joining Trystan beside their campfire, sullen and smoking, since what wood they’d been able to gather had been either rotted or damp.
Cabal padded over and settled himself at her feet with a sigh, and Isolde checked the bandage she’d wound around the cut on his back. Still dry. The wound hadn’t been deep, and she’d not even needed to stitch it to be sure it would heal cleanly.
Dawn was breaking, showing as a faint band of orange on the horizon, showing the sea of swaying reeds and patches of mud all around. They’d come some little way into the marshy swamp that surrounded this stretch of the river on all sides. The air was dank and smelled of mud and marsh gas, and clouds of stinging insects buzzed overhead. The boat they’d had to leave behind, at the water’s edge, beached and keeling over on its side so that the steering rudder, broken on a sand shoal during the wild voyage downriver, showed plain.
“Is the rudder badly damaged?” Isolde asked, breaking a silence that had lasted nearly since they’d stepped ashore.
Trystan shrugged and reached for one of the skins of water they’d brought from the boat. “Nothing that can’t be mended. Say a day, maybe, for me to get it fixed. Maybe only half a day. I’ll be able to tell better once it’s light.”
He squinted at the eastern horizon, where the band of orange was broadening into fiery gold. There was another silence, and then Isolde said, “They were professionals—paid fighting men—who attacked us last night.”
Trystan took a swallow of water, eyes still on the eastern sky. “Common bandits don’t wear leather armor or fight with swords,” he agreed. He lowered the waterskin, securing the metal cap once again. “No random attack, either. It was murder they meant, plain and simple.” He stopped and glanced at her. “Any idea whose men they were?”
Isolde shook her head. “Not for sure. Marcia did speak of treason, though, on the king’s council.”
“And you think someone on the council got word that you were traveling to Cerdic and sent his guardsmen to stop you?” Trystan absently rubbed at a smear of mud on the back of his hand and frowned. “I thought no one but Madoc knew your intent.”
“I thought so, too. But it’s either that, or—” Isolde stopped.
Beyond that one single outburst just after the attack, she’d not spoken of what Trystan’s drunkenness had nearly cost. Drunk or no, he’d still saved her life, with that insane dive for the attacker’s sword. The memory of it still turned her cold.
She might still have been angry—or rather, more angry—a faint tingle of disgusted fury still vibrated in every nerve. But when they’d faced each other across the unconscious attacker’s body, Trystan’s look had called back a memory from years before. Meeting his eyes, she’d remembered the boy who stood in the practice yard with a set, stony face and threw a knife at a leather target over and over, because he’d not been able to stop his father beating his mother again.
And unless he’s changed more than I think, Isolde thought, there’s nothing I could say that he’s not already saying to himself.
And now, sitting with him amidst the rushes, drying their clothes by the smoking fire and listening to the buzz of the insects all around, she tried to make up her mind whether to finish what she’d just begun to say.
Isolde looked over at Trystan. His breeches were still muddied at the hems, and there was a bruise on his jaw. He sat with his arms resting on his knees, the linen of his shirt pulled tight across the broad muscles of his shoulders, and his eyes strayed from time to time to Hereric’s motionless form.
Slowly, Isolde shook her head. “No, nothing.” Trystan was, too, she saw, holding his right hand slightly awkwardly, as though the fingers ached, and she gestured. “Do you want me to tie that up for you?”
Trystan had been watching Hereric again. In the silence, the harsh rasp of the injured man’s breathing was almost as loud as the rustle of reeds stirring in the breeze. But at Isolde’s question, Trystan glanced down at his own fingers, then shook his head. “This? No, it’s nothing. Last night maybe didn’t do the fingers I dislocated before any good. But it’s fine. Tie it up and I won’t be able to work on the rudder.”
He took another swallow of water, then got to his feet. “I’d better scout around for some wood to use.” He cast a glance around the hastily assembled campsite. “You’ll be all right here on your own?”
“Of course.” Isolde hesitated then said, “Trys? Those men—they came on a boat. I heard the oars.”
Trystan nodded, and answered the unspoken question, picking up his knife from the ground and sheathing it in his belt. “They’ll search for us—bound to. Unless we’re both wrong, and it was just a chance attack by bandits. But we came a good way downriver. And now the reeds would hide the boat and this camp both from anyone still on the river. So there’s no more reason for them to look here than anyplace else.” He looked up again at the lightening sky. “Better put the fire out, though, before the smoke gives us away.”
WHEN THE FIRE HAD BEEN EXTINGUISHED and Trystan had gone, Isolde sat down beside Hereric, drawing her feet up under the still damp skirts of her gown. Either the night’s attackers had been under orders from a traitor on the king’s council, she’d been about to say, or else they were from Marche. Acting in hopes of his reward.
But when it came to the point of speaking them aloud, the words had stuck like rocks in her throat.
Beside her, Hereric made a soft, fretful sound and turned his head restlessly against the blankets she’d spread under him on the ground. Isolde took up the waterskin and dampened a rag, then started to wipe off the Saxon man’s face, wondering whether she only imagined that his tautly stretched skin felt hotter yet.
At first, back at Dinas Emrys, she’d been too shocked by Trystan’s arrival to face the thought of telling him that his father was searching for him. And then, later …later she’d said nothing because they’d hardly spoken since leaving Dinas Emrys. Because Trystan was drinking himself into a stupefied sleep every night. And, more than that, maybe, she’d said nothing because it would have meant speaking of Kian, returning to her captured and battered bloody and with a hollow socket in place of his eye.
Isolde remembered the last time she’d spoken to Kian, before starting out with Trystan for Hereric and the boat. She’d gone to her workroom, to pack the salves and simples she’d need for the journey, and found Kian
there, waiting for her on the corner bench, arms crossed on his chest. He’d refused her offer to change the dressings on his eye, though.
“Don’t trouble yourself, it’s well enough. Just came to say good-bye. Heard from Madoc what you planned.”
“He told you the whole?” Isolde asked.
Kian shrugged. “Gave me the story he’s giving everyone else. Bloody unlikely Trystan would appear out of a blue sky so that he could take you to Camelerd, though.”
Isolde nodded. Kian, at least, deserved the truth. So she told him everything and watched his face tighten when she spoke of Hereric’s injury. He said nothing, though, even when she’d finished, and after a moment Isolde asked, “Are you angry with him? Trystan, I mean. Because he didn’t tell you himself that he’s Marche’s son?”
“Angry?” Kian had been frowning down at his own boots, but at that he looked up, plainly surprised. “Why should I be angry? Can’t remember ever telling Trystan the story of my life, either—or mentioning who my father was.” He hunched his shoulders. “That’s the way we lived—no past, no future, just get through each day as it comes.”
“Do you want to see him, then?” Isolde asked. “Before we leave?”
Kian was silent. His gaze was fixed once more on the floor, but Isolde could see his inner struggle in the tight set of his shoulders. And after a moment, he shook his head. “No, better not. I—” He broke off, and reflexively touched the leather patch over his missing eye. “I …well, better not, that’s all.”
Now Isolde set down the damp rag and drew the blankets up over Hereric’s chest. Kian would know Trystan, she thought. Maybe even better than I do, by now. And even she could guess what Trystan would feel if he knew what Kian had suffered because he’d been recognized as Trystan’s companion of five months before. And tell Trystan about it now, Isolde thought, let him guess that last night’s attack may have been more of the same, and he’ll almost certainly go one step further.