by Headlee, Kim
“Indeed?” She tried to slow her racing heart. “I must have confused the dates.”
He grunted. “I must say, I’ve seen you look prettier.”
The soot! As calmly as she could, she replied, “I didn’t have an opportunity to bathe this morning.”
“Ah, of course. Obviously, you were in a great deal of haste.”
Before she could protest, Loholt let out a wail, followed by Tira’s frantic but futile efforts to shush him.
“Well, now.” Accolon peered into the cart. “What have we here?”
Morghe snatched the reins from Lughann’s hands and slapped them across Astarte’s back. Horse and cart leaped forward. Tira yelped, but the baby didn’t even whimper. Morghe hoped he was all right but had no way to be certain.
In minutes, Accolon had caught up. Face contorted in fury, he drew abreast, crouched on his horse’s back, and jumped. Tira screamed. Morghe urged Astarte on, hoping the burst of speed would disrupt Accolon’s balance.
No such luck.
Accolon pushed Lughann off the cart and wrested the reins from her. Accolon’s horse kept pace as Accolon pulled Astarte to a halt.
Drawing his sword, Accolon ordered Morghe down. Tira shrieked and Loholt cried, but they seemed unhurt. How long they’d remain thus was anyone’s guess. Accolon ordered them out, too, before jumping down. Morghe glanced down the road, but Lughann had vanished.
“I am not in the habit of killing women.” Accolon leveled his sword at Morghe and Tira. Still clutching the struggling Loholt, Tira shrank behind Morghe. “But now is a fine time to begin.”
ANGUSEL STRADDLED the log, bending over the trophy while scraping his dagger across its surface. Though he was no closer to identifying his location, at least he’d have something to show for it.
Grinning, he ran his fingers through the beautifully speckled fur, reliving the pleasure, after having endured countless wild onions, dandelions, strawberries, and toasted grasshoppers—which, amazingly, tasted like nuts—of roasting and eating his meaty catch.
He flipped the hide to begin the onerous task of rubbing in the paste he’d made of the creature’s brains, thanking the gods he hadn’t become a tanner by trade. The very thought made his skin crawl.
Ideally, he’d have snared the rabbit on the eve of his return to Arbroch, eliminating the need for this step, but he didn’t want to risk either not catching another rabbit or letting this pelt dry out. Neither possibility boded disaster, but he wanted with all his heart to pass this trial brilliantly. Hence the need to—his lips stretched into another grin despite his dislike of the job—use the brains the gods had given him.
Rumbling drew Angusel’s attention, and he swiveled his head, knotting his eyebrows. Distant thunder? Nay, the sound was closer, and he heard the creaking of wood, too.
Wagons! His spirits soared. He had to be near the Arbroch road!
He stuffed his dagger and pelt into the sack, along with what remained of the preserving paste in its oak-leaf wrapping. After shouldering the sack, he dismounted the log, snatched his spear, and set off. He’d have to avoid the other travelers lest his deuchainn na fala become nullified. He didn’t think that would be a problem from that caravan, since it seemed to be headed the opposite way.
A woman’s scream froze Angusel’s soul.
Clenching his fists, he glared up at the towering oaks. Why pass a ritual test, he challenged the gods, if someone he could have helped got hurt or even killed?
His answer came not from the trees but from his heart.
Spear in one hand and dagger in the other, he ran toward the wagons and more screams, praying to catch up and fearing he harbored a futile wish.
He came upon a stopped cart hitched to a foam-lathered black mare with heaving sides and quivering limbs. A man stood near the horse’s flank, sword pointed at two smaller, hooded figures huddled beside the cart. From his hiding place, Angusel couldn’t see their faces, but by their stature and bearing, he guessed they were women, likely the same women whose screams he’d heard. He fervently hoped he hadn’t arrived too late. The swordsman’s intent as he neared the others, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse, was hideously obvious.
Another figure burst from behind an outcropping and attacked the swordsman. Though garbed and collared like a slave, he displayed the courage and grace of a warrior, but he was unarmed. A thrust of the other’s sword, and the would-be rescuer crumpled to the ground. The swordsman stepped over the body to approach the women again.
One of the women shrieked. Another cry mingled with hers, higher and more persistent.
Dear gods, a bairn!
The woman shrank from her attacker, and her cloak shifted. A shaft of late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the trees, making silver threads flash in the hem of the child’s blanket.
The pattern was…oh, gods.
Loholt!
Questions flooded his brain, but he had no time to ponder them. He stood, aimed, and flung his spear at the swordsman. The spear pierced the man’s leather-clad shoulder. Cursing, he dropped his sword to paw at the shaft.
No time, either, to weigh the odds of defeating someone who, though wounded, was much bigger and better armed than he. Angusel drew his dagger, burst through the bushes, and charged at the swordsman.
GYAN DID her best to banish her worry as she watched the race.
Rounding the curve, one of the riders let his horse drift a little too far to the outside, crowding another contestant’s horse, whose stride faltered. The second rider flailed his arm to ward the first away, catching him on the shoulder to make him sway in the saddle. They exchanged glares, but both riders returned their attention to the race without further incident, as if the contact had never occurred.
“My lady, did you see that?”
She gave a small shake of the head, not in answer but to clear her mind. She’d witnessed the fouls, but initially they’d failed to register as such when all she could see was Loholt’s face. She regarded her fellow judge. “What? I—yes. Disqualify them.”
As he waved the red flag to signal the finish-line judges, she cast a glance at the sky, where the sun stood at well past its zenith. Tira and Loholt remained at large. This, she reminded herself, might mean nothing. The grounds were packed with people and animals. Cynda had suggested that Gyan return to judging races to take her mind from the problem. She’d reluctantly agreed and had sent Cynda to await Tira and Loholt in Gyan’s quarters.
She wished she’d kept searching.
Donning a rueful smile, she faced her companion. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to carry on without me. I have other business to attend to.”
Gyan’s judging partner, a merchant who understood the necessity of maintaining one’s privacy regarding business ventures, merely smiled, bowed, and shifted his attention to the start of the next race.
Feeling better for her decision, she strode off to find the festival’s captain of the guard, Rhys, stationed in Arbroch’s main gate tower. As she dodged past revelers, children, musicians, and other performers, crafters’ and merchants’ stalls, livestock pens, and the occasional loose dog, cat, pig, or chicken, she devised a simple plan. She would order the guards to check for the Argyll clan-mark on the foot of every male child, within Arbroch’s walls and without.
No, better to make it every babe in arms.
At the base of the guard tower, she stopped. What if this resolved into a simple misunderstanding? Wasn’t she overreacting? Wouldn’t she feel foolish for having mobilized all of Arbroch to find her son?
“Chieftainess? Something wrong?”
Gyan looked up to see Rhys descending as she stood poised to ascend the steps.
Was something wrong? Gyan hoped with all her heart there wasn’t. Yet she had to be sure.
In the privacy of the guardroom, she explained the situation to Rhys. Compassion softened his gruff features. When she finished, he saluted smartly.
“Fret not, my lady. If they’re here, we will find them.”
If. Rhys unintentionally had voiced her doubts, but she couldn’t let them cripple her.
Trying to sound calm, she said, “The warrior who does shall escort them to the guard tower without delay.”
“As you command, Chieftainess.” With another salute, Rhys left.
She stood at the slotted window and braced both hands against the ledge. As she formed a prayer for the safety of her son, her gaze roved not heavenward but toward the festival grounds. She squinted at the fingernail-size people and animals scurrying about. Rhys’s men, recognizable by their identical black battle-gear and clan cloaks, fanned out among the crowd. Tira and Loholt had to be down there.
And Tira’s explanation for running off with the bairn without a by-your-leave, Gyan thought darkly, had better be a good one.
WHILE THE swordsman tried to yank the spear shaft free, Angusel dived for his legs. The spear came out. Both weapons flew from the man’s grasp as he fell with a yelp onto his wounded shoulder.
Angusel rolled to his feet and spat a curse; he’d lost his dagger. The swordsman lay on his back, motionless. Angusel didn’t dare hope the fall had killed him. He had to do something to finish his foe, but without a weapon, what?
As he looked about, he saw no sign of the women or Loholt. Mayhap his diversion had helped them escape. He spied the spear and sword, nearly obscured by grass tufts in the road. The spear lay closer, but the sword would give Angusel a better advantage if he could reach it before his adversary stirred. Its hilt lay just beyond the man’s fingertips.
Angusel crouched, gauged the distance, and sprang.
He never made it.
In midair, Angusel watched in horror as the man’s eyes snapped open and he grabbed his sword. The point came up. Angusel steeled himself against certain agony.
LUGHANN WOKE to a nightmare of pain and blood. Gingerly, he touched his abdomen, where most of both seemed to be concentrated. With the stuff that oozed onto his hand he could have painted a picture, but he lived. Barely.
He heard a struggle nearby. Never mind his condition; Lady Morghe needed help!
Galvanized by that thought, he stripped off his tunic and tied it about his midsection to stanch the blood. Standing presented another problem altogether, but fighting off dizziness and nausea, he made it. The divine Lugh Longarm favored him, for the nearby rock mass lent him balance, strength, and concealment.
As he inched around the rock, a glint of metal caught his eye. A dagger lay at his feet. Another stroke of fortune! Hand upon the rock, he stooped to retrieve the weapon, scarcely daring to hope Lord Lugh would grant him a warrior’s death.
Gripping the dagger’s hilt with his unmaimed left hand was a new experience, but he managed well enough. He straightened to peer past the rock. The man Lady Morghe had called Accolon lay sprawled on the ground. Another stood panting nearby, a well-muscled youth clad, strangely, in naught but a dirty loincloth. The good Lord Lugh alone knew what had become of Lady Morghe, her companion, and the babe. His gut churned.
The lad turned toward him, and Lughann gasped. Lord Angusel!
Lughann stepped from behind the rock. The lad’s head moved, catlike, as if gauging a distance. Accolon’s foot twitched. Angusel would die unless Lughann acted fast.
Gritting his teeth against the eye-popping pain, he lunged for Angusel, connected with him in midair, and shoved him beyond reach of Accolon’s sword. The sword sliced into Lughann’s gut and back out. Pain burned a fiery trail. Lughann collapsed. Accolon kicked him, and he rolled down and down, over rocks and roots and dirt. He fell with a splash into a stream. The water enveloped him.
The fire in his gut yielded to cool numbness. The world’s reddish haze dimmed to black, then flared to dazzling silver. Lughann felt his lips relax into a smile. Blessed Lugh Longarm had granted his wish.
DEAD SILENCE dominated the forest.
Skirts hitched, Morghe crossed the stream in three wet leaps and ran back toward the road, knees trembling and tears streaming. Angusel lay near the cart, blood oozing from a head wound. His arms and torso bore several crimson cuts. Accolon stood over him, panting and swaying, sword poised to deliver the killing blow.
“Accolon, hold!”
He turned, revealing the bloody mess of his left shoulder. “Kind of you to save me the trouble of hunting you down, my lady.”
Angusel, eyes closed, moaned. Accolon pressed his sword to Angusel’s throat.
“Please—no!”
Not moving his sword, he twisted his head to regard her. “Why should you care if this whelp lives or dies? Better he died. One less witness.”
The fate of Loholt and Tira was too great a secret to bear without the added burden of Angusel’s death. She whispered, “He was—is—my friend.”
“Bah. This friend”—his lips made the word a curse—“will betray you to Arthur and Gyanhumara.”
“He wouldn’t! No, he couldn’t have—he didn’t recognize us.” She hated herself for the dithering fool she must sound like. Hands on hips, she said, “I’m sure of it.”
“Are you?” Up swung his sword as he pivoted to face her. His eyes glinted as hard as the blade. “Care to stake your life on it?”
She refused to flinch. Although Accolon’s face looked drawn and pale from pain and loss of blood, it didn’t make staring down the length of his sword any easier. She sucked in a breath. “A compromise, then. We leave him here, untreated, and let the Fates do what they will.” She glanced at Angusel and sighed. “If he dies, he dies.”
“What if he lives and remembers?”
“If he lives, I doubt he’ll remember much.” She injected her words with a confident tone. “I’ve seen many soldiers forget how they’d gotten injured.”
“It’s a stupid risk. I’ll be better off without him.” He tightened his grip on the sword and advanced on her. “And you.”
As she watched with a runaway heart, his eyes widened and lost focus. His stride faltered. The sword slipped from his grasp as he fell against the side of the cart. The jolt revived him, and he clawed at the wood for support.
Morghe snatched up his sword. Gasping and clinging to the cart, he could only watch her. She pointed it at him and grinned. “It seems you do need me after all, Lord Accolon.”
He gritted his teeth and groaned. “Just kill me and be done.”
“I need you to tell Urien that his orders have been followed.” She tried not to dwell upon the fact that she could scarcely heft the weapon, never mind her chances of wielding it lethally.
“I’ll be lucky to make it to the next village.”
She surprised herself by saying, “I’ll bind your shoulder.” Her eyebrows lowered. “Only if you promise not to move while I get something to use as a bandage.”
Accolon regarded her with suspicion but didn’t refuse. She moved to the opposite side of the cart and opened the sack containing Loholt’s effects. Sword in one hand, she rummaged awkwardly through the sack for a swaddling cloth and returned to him.
He winced and extended a hand. “My sword, if you please?”
“So you can kill me?” She kept the sword’s point leveled at him. “I think not.”
He laughed harshly. “As you’ve observed, Lady Morghe, I’m in no shape to do anything to anyone. I’ve field-dressed enough battle wounds to know you’ll need both hands for this one.”
She despised having to give up her advantage, but, Fates curse him all the way to Hades’s realm, he was right. Nodding her agreement, she said, “Besides, if you kill me, you’re too weak to hide my body. Someone will link me to Loholt and, through us, trace this whole bloody business back to Urien. If your chieftain doesn’t kill you, my brother surely will.” She grinned triumphantly. “Have I your word that you won’t harm me?”
He sighed. “My word.”
After cleaning the sword on Loholt’s blanket, she gave it to him. Grimacing, he sheathed it.
She drew closer to get a better look at his shoulder, but the mangled leather obscured her
view. “Dagger?” she asked.
“Is it that bad, then, that you’ll have to put me out of my misery?” He smiled wanly, but she chose to ignore the jest. Smile fading, he presented his dagger to her, hilt first.
She cut away the bloody fabric and leather to expose the wound. Splinters stuck out at odd angles. The surrounding flesh looked inflamed between the purple and blue mottling, and blood seeped from the gash.
With the dagger’s point, she pried out the largest splinters. His frequent gasps suggested she was doing more harm than good. She surprised herself again by regretting she had no valerian for him.
She stopped to regard him frankly. “Except for the bandaging, I’ve done all I can with this. Without my salves, I can’t prevent infection from setting in,” she admitted. “You’ll have to find a physician as soon as possible.”
He inclined his head. “My compliments, my lady.” As she wrapped his shoulder with strips torn from the swaddling cloth, he continued, gruffly, “And my thanks.”
She tied off the final strip, helped him climb into the saddle, and handed over his dagger. “Just remember our agreement.”
Tersely, he nodded and nudged his horse’s flanks. As the animal started forward, he reeled, pressing a hand to his temple, but didn’t fall. He disappeared around the bend.
She clutched Loholt’s torn, bloody blanket and picked her way down to the stream. It snagged on a bush and pulled from her hand. An edge settled to trail in the water. She crouched beside her distorted reflection. Tears brimming, she bowed her head and bid farewell to Lughann and Angusel.
Chapter 24
AT THE SOUND of footsteps, Gyan leaped from her chair and all but flew to meet her visitors. Her father entered the chamber, followed by Rhys. Both wore grim expressions. Her heart twisted.
Yet she had to ask, “What word?”
Rhys bowed his head. “Loholt and his nurse are not within Arbroch proper.” He met Gyan’s gaze. “Nor on the festival grounds.”