“He's with Vickry,” Quinn said. “They're okay, but I've told everyone to gather here. We need a place that we can fortify.”
“Are we under attack?” Ollie asked.
“In a sense. The animals that took Vickry's daughter are smart. They're attacking people, and we need to stay together. Can we use the inn?”
“Of course,” she said, stepping aside, but still looking nervously for Buck.
Quinn turned to the hunters, some of whom had bows and quivers of arrows.
“You hunters with bows,” Quinn shouted. “Find a way onto the roof. Stay high and make every shot count.”
The men nodded and hurried to the rear of the inn where there were barrels and crates that could be stacked so the men could climb onto the roof of the inn. It was only a one-story building, but the roof was peaked, and along the top they would have good lines of sight around the entire building. The other hunters looked nervous. Quinn wanted to reassure them, but he wasn't sure what to say. Kurchek was among them and he looked suspicious, but Quinn decided he couldn't worry about the disgruntled miner at that moment. What they needed were better weapons. Most of the men only had farm tools—hoes, pick axes, and sickles for harvesting wheat. They could be deadly in a close fight, but a lot of people would die in the fighting if those animals got close enough to be in danger of the farmers' tools.
“We need spears,” Quinn said. “Sharpened sticks. Anything that will let us fight the creatures off without getting us hurt in the process.”
“Allsford had a pile of fence posts,” said one of the men. “It might take some time, but we could sharpen them up.”
“Go!” Quinn ordered. “Bring as many as you can.”
Half of the men hurried off to get the poles. Quinn looked at the men who were left. Some looked eager to have something useful they could do; others looked tired and frightened.
“Let's make sure the windows and doors of the inn are secure,” Quinn said.
He was letting the others file in through the common room door when Kurchek laid a thick hand on Quinn's shoulder. He pulled Quinn to the side and pressed him against the wall.
“I'm watching you, old man,” he snarled.
“With your one good eye?” Quinn said.
Kurchek raised a hand to punch him, but Quinn slipped under the miner's arm and darted into the inn. He was too busy to put the one-eyed ruffian in his place, but the time would come soon. And Quinn was looking forward to it.
***
Mansel rode home as fast as his horse would take him. Fear was seeping into his consciousness like water into a leaky boat. Nycol hadn't wanted to be too close to town, and while she appreciated Zollin and Brianna, she'd wanted her own space. So Mansel had built them a house on the opposite side of Brighton's Gate. It only took a few minutes to ride to his home, but the house and stable were dark. He had to get close to the small cabin to see that the door was broken in.
“Nycol!” he screamed, as he leaped off his horse. “Nycol!”
There was no answer. He ran into the house, expecting the worst. He couldn't see anything but shadows in the gloom, but in his mind he saw Nycol's body ripped apart the way he'd seen the animals tearing Quinn's horse to pieces. When he'd fired the first arrow, he'd been expecting the attack, and his shot was true. But then he'd had time to really see the creatures as they tore into Quinn's horse. Mansel had seen many horrible things in his life, but he'd never seen anything with such a ferocious appetite for carnage. It had caused him to pause for a long moment before coming back to his senses and taking aim at another of the creatures. Now, with fear making his heart race almost uncontrollably, he wished he had killed all the of the vicious animals.
Nycol wasn’t in the house, so Mansel sprinted out to the stable. The little barn was a small structure, just big enough for three stalls and a storage space to keep hay in the winter months. Nycol had taken to caring for the horses and often spent the majority of her day exercising each one and cleaning out the stable. Quinn’s horse had been killed by the creatures they were hunting, and Mansel was still riding his own mount. That left Nycol’s horse, which should have been in the little structure. Mansel had never gone into the stable when the horses didn’t have their heads out of the stalls looking around. This time there was no sign of any life within the stable. Mansel checked each stall to be certain, but there was nothing. No horse, and thankfully no bloody corpse.
Mansel’s fear took a strange turn. Nycol was almost certainly in trouble—the missing door on their cabin proved that without a doubt—but she had fled their home, and tracking her in the dark would be impossible. He needed light, but going away from the village, highlighted by the fire from a torch or even a lantern, all alone, would make him a perfect target. He wouldn’t be able to see the creatures until they were right on him, and yet he couldn’t wait. He couldn’t even stand the thought of waiting another second to find her. He’d been scared before, but he’d never experienced fear for someone he loved so much. It felt like he was exposed, weak, and unprepared. And the worst part was he had no idea where Nycol would go. She didn’t like crowds and had no friends in the village. She liked the river, but they had no boat, and she couldn’t have taken the horse in one if they did. Most likely she had simply fled for her life and the only hope she had was that she had outrun the creatures.
Mansel knew Quinn needed him in town. But he couldn’t go without Nycol, and he wouldn’t rest until he knew she was safe. He went back into the cabin and knelt by the fireplace, which was filled with half burned wood and sticks. No embers remained. The fire, left untended, had burned completely out. He cursed his luck, knowing he would have to start a fire just to get a torch burning. He fumbled in the dark until he found the flint and then drew his dagger to drag against the rock. They kept straw and wood shavings in a basket near the hearth. Mansel grabbed some of each and then struck his steel blade against the flint, sending sparks bouncing into the pile of tinder.
His hands were shaking and he was so focused on the task at hand that he didn’t notice the large, white-furred creature creeping in the open doorway of the cabin. He kept dragging the blade across the flint, setting sparks shooting into the kindling he'd gathered and was just starting to blow on the tinder as a tiny ribbon of smoke wafted up. Then the beast pounced. Mansel saw a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye and managed to roll onto his back just as the beast came crashing down on him. The animal’s jaws snapped shut. If he hadn’t moved, it would have ripped his throat out.
His free hand came up quickly. His fingers found the thickly muscled neck of the animal and shoved its head away from him. At the same time his other hand came up with his dagger and the blade bit deeply into the creature’s side. The animal’s claws scrabbled at his chest, but his thick, leather vest was almost as strong as armor against the beast’s desperate attack. He stabbed again and again, hot blood pouring onto him, his blade striking thick organs and smashing through bones. The wolverine’s muzzle snapped over and over, and it tried to jerk free of Mansel’s death grip on its throat, but the young warrior was in a frenzy. A berserker rage had taken hold of him and all his worry about Nycol came out in a torrent of violence and bellow as savage as any animal.
The wolverine died long before Mansel’s strength gave out. When he finally stopped stabbing the animal, it was nearly cut in two. He flung the carcass off him and got shakily to his feet. The tinder had been on the remains of some wood that would have burned up completely in an earlier fire, but no one had been around to tend to the burning logs. The wood began to burn brightly, and Mansel looked down at his hands, which were covered in blood. His whole body was covered in blood, but very little of it was his own. For a moment he was transfixed, but then he heard growling outside the cabin. He picked up a burning log and hurried to the open door, not noticing that some of the other logs had tumbled from the fireplace.
In front of the cabin was another of the white furred creatures, only this one was dark with blood a
ll around its muzzle, neck, and forepaws. Mansel held up the firebrand, trying to shine more light on the creature. The incredibly large wolverine growled menacingly, but when Mansel moved out onto the porch the beast fled, running away from the cabin into the darkness.
The horse neighed again, and Mansel ran to see about the poor animal. He saw none of the wolverines, but he guessed there were more close by. He soothed the horse as best he could before climbing into the saddle. Then he drew Death’s Eye and rode around the stable. In the darkness beyond his circle of light he heard the deep, throaty growl of another wolverine, but he didn’t let that stop him. He searched for any signs of Nycol. The ground between the stable and the cabin was hard packed dirt, but he did see hoof prints leading away from his property. The stride was long; Nycol must have fled at full gallop. Finding her was the only thing on his mind, and he didn’t notice the smoke rising from the cabin behind him as he kicked the horse forward. He knew Nycol’s time was running out, and he was determined to find her no matter what.
Chapter 17
The mercenaries dragged Lorik for several hours—much longer than he had anticipated—but the time gave him the chance to formulate a plan of sorts. Each soldier carried a short curving sword. If he could just get hold of one of their weapons, he would be able to fight his way clear.
The mercenaries were hardened killers. Despite his superior size and strength, they could overcome him with their greater numbers. The one thing he had in his favor was the way the group of soldiers were spread out. They didn't see him as a threat, and their arrogance would play right into his hands if he waited for the right moment. It wouldn’t do him any good to break free and then be run down by the mercenaries on their horses. Even if he was able to get one of the horses, he couldn’t outrun his captors. Biding his time and waiting for an opportunity to escape without being followed was the best option. He couldn’t wait too long, though, or he’d end up dead before he got his chance to escape.
It was just before nightfall when the troop stopped to make camp. Lorik was exhausted but hopeful that the coming darkness would conceal him once he made his escape. The rope around his neck had rubbed the skin raw. Whenever he tried to adjust it, the mercenary leading him tugged on the rope, sending him stumbling in an effort to stay on his feet and cinching the rope even tighter.
"See to the horses!" Pyllvar said. "And secure the prisoner. I doubt those yokels could tie a proper knot."
"We know our business," snarled Ulber. “Don’t let your new position go to your head.”
“Is that any way to speak to a lord?” Pyllvar asked, feigning outrage.
“Don’t know; never spoke to one,” Ulber grumbled.
The mercenaries set up their camp quickly and efficiently. Lorik had hoped they would remove the rope around his neck before retying his hands, but his captors were more cautious than they let on. Two of the larger mercenaries held him tightly, one on each of his arms. Another man held the rope around his neck, ready to jerk Lorik backward if he tried anything. A fourth man untied the rope around Lorik’s hands, which were then jerked behind him and retied.
“Enjoy a short rest,” Pyllvar said. “The real fun begins once we've eaten.”
Lorik was pushed down near the fire, his rope leash tied to a stake that was hammered into the ground. Getting free would be possible, but not easy. The mercenaries watched him as they set up their camp for the night. He would have to wait for nightfall to work on the ropes binding his wrists. Unfortunately, his hands were already growing numb, and he wouldn’t have the dexterity he would need to sort through the knots. He might not even have the strength to hold a weapon if he was able to get free at all.
For the first time since being taken captive, he wondered if he might not survive. The thought of dying didn’t disturb him nearly as much as the gall of dying at the hands of mercenaries he knew he could defeat in a fair fight. Their arrogance about his plight made him seethe, but there was little he could do about it.
The mercenaries ate little, but drank much. Several of the men were drunk by the time their meal was finished. Lorik watched them, struggling with his bonds whenever he could. He was close enough to their large campfire that he was clearly visible to them, but once they began drinking, they rapidly lost interest in their prisoner.
“Time for some fun? What say you?” Pyllvar said in a loud voice.
The mercenaries shouted their approval. Lorik was flexing his hands, trying to force the blood to flow back into them. He had no idea what his captors had in mind, but he was certain it wasn’t anything good. They removed the noose for the first time since taking charge of him, and he knew his time was close. Only two men had taken hold of his arms; the rest were sitting or lying sprawled out closer to the fire. The night seemed dark, and something inside Lorik knew that the darkness would hide him. He needed to get away from the camp, to let the darkness cover him, and then he would be truly free. The mercenaries were drunk and probably without any night vision from staring into the fire all evening. Even though his hands were numb and still securely tied behind his back, Lorik knew his chance to escape had finally come.
He slammed his shoulder into the man on his left, and then lashed out with his foot toward the man on the right’s knee. His boot connected, and the mercenary’s leg gave way. The injured man screamed as his knee buckled. Lorik caught a glimpse of angry faces around the fire, but the men were slow to get up, and Lorik raced away. The darkness beckoned like a lover Lorik hadn’t seen in a long time. He ran away from the camp, his own eyes straining in the darkness, his hands still struggling to break free from the ropes that had been wrapped so tightly across his wrists.
He didn’t see the large form of Ulber looming up out of the darkness in front of him. Afterward he spent many long hours trying to figure out how the burly mercenary got the drop on him. He couldn’t remember if Ulber had been around the fire, but he guessed not. Ulber wasn’t as big Lorik, but he was a thickly built man. His body was shaped like a wine barrel, his head was large, and he had a very short neck. Lorik ran into Ulber at full speed, his hands still tied behind his back. The impact was so massive that Lorik fell to the ground while bright spots floated in his vision. Ulber grunted but didn’t fall, a fact that irritated Lorik, but he didn’t have long to worry.
Rough hands snatched him up and dragged him back to the fire. Lorik smelled the sour odor of alcohol on the breath of his captors as they cursed him, and he was shoved down hard, almost falling into the fire as he struggled to regain his balance with his hands bound behind his back.
“They always run,” Pyllvar said. “Ulber enjoys the chase. I was anxious to see how you’d handle the situation. You have quite the reputation, even in Hassell Point. You’re the local hero there. But it’s a nasty place. I don’t blame you for leaving.”
“Enough talk,” Ulber said, drawing an almost delicate looking knife. It was thin, with no cross guard, just a leather-wrapped handle and a blade about the length of Lorik’s middle finger. The blade curved upward slightly, and the point looked as sharp as a needle. Ulber held the knife lightly with his fingertips.
“King Yettlebor wants you dead,” Pyllvar said, "but he needs some information first. Now I’m not a cruel man, but my associates can be. Answer my questions, and we’ll make things quick. Although I can’t say painless—where’s the fun in that? We won’t make you linger, not if you cooperate. But if you’re stubborn, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice but to let Ulber have his way.”
The other mercenaries laughed, all except for Ulber, who had a crazed look in his eye. He was like a starving man just feet away from a roasting pig, and he could hardly wait for the meat to finish cooking before gorging himself on the rich meal. Lorik did his best to look as if the news wasn’t horrifying, but inside he felt his bowels turn to water.
“King Yettlebor wants to know about your plans,” Pyllvar said in a merry tone. “Specifically, he wants to know if you are planning to support his rule.”
“He’s no king,” Lorik spat. “He’s not even from Ortis.”
“True enough, but he wears the crown, has an army, and controls the kingdom. That kind of sounds like a king. Doesn’t it sound like a king to you, Ulber?”
The big mercenary grunted and Pyllvar went on.
“It almost sounds like you want to remove Yettlebor from power. Now, that is exactly the kind of information we were trying to obtain. Tell us your plans.”
Lorik cleared his throat and spat into the fire. Ulber grinned happily but Lorik ignored him. Pyllvar didn’t look as pleased.
“Don’t make this hard on yourself, Lorik. Just tell us your plans. Do you have an army? How did you plan to attack Ort City? You don’t really expect us to believe that you were captured so easily by that band of merry idiots we took you from.”
“I don’t care what you believe,” Lorik said.
“Well, I’m afraid that you will care, because I believe in torturing people to death. Ulber, take a crack at him. We’ll see just how cooperative he is once the blood starts flowing.”
Ulber stepped forward as Lorik was jerked upright by two more of the mercenaries. They pulled his arms so tight that the rope tore the skin on his wrists and made them bleed. Lorik felt the blood running across his palms, and the pain seemed to make everything around him come into focus. He heard the wood popping in the fire; he heard the rapid breathing of the mercenaries who were excited by the prospect of torture; and he heard a bird call that was common in the Marshlands, but not in the northern portion of Ortis where he was currently held captive. Lorik couldn’t help but smile, and then he kicked Ulber as hard as he could. His boot smashed hard against the burly man’s groin. Ulber grunted, taking a few steps back, but still not going down.
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