The Wizard's Ward (Queen's Quests Trilogy Book 1)

by Deborah Hale

  Rath shook himself awake and leapt to his feet, cursing. His gaze swept the campsite looking for answers to his questions.

  The fire appeared to have died out on its own. A blackened bundle rested against the circle of stones that had contained the small blaze. Sheathing his sword, Rath stooped to examine it more closely. It turned out to be a packet of overlapping pondflower leaves wrapped around a generous portion of seasoned fish.

  Had Maura saved this for him to eat when he returned? A spasm of shame clenched his belly. Or had she kept it to break her own fast this morning? If so, why had she left it behind?

  He checked the surrounding grass, searching for more clues. A wide swath around the fire had been trodden down, but he and Maura might have done all that. A narrower trail led to where the pony had been tethered... though not as narrow as Rath would have expected.

  It appeared more than two people had gone that way, though Rath was quick to admit Maura might have made several trips back and forth from the fire. As he followed the pony’s trail away from the lake, he became convinced that more than one person had gone with it.

  Soon Rath found evidence he’d guessed right... though he would far rather have been proven wrong. In a place where the ground was soft and the grass scant, he spied a clear footprint—one a good deal larger than Maura’s.

  When he stepped on the spot with his own boot, the other print spread out longer and wider. All Rath’s conflicting feelings about Maura fell away suddenly, mown down by an urgent need to find her and make certain she was safe.

  He started to follow the trail at a crouching run, but before he’d gone far, his stomach gave an empty gurgle. Remembering the packet of fish in his hand, he stripped off the burnt outer leaves and began wolfing down the food as he ran.

  He tried to keep from fretting too much over Maura’s disappearance. Imagining her in danger would only distract him. Perhaps the fellow with the huge feet meant her no harm. Perhaps she had gone with him willingly, exchanging one protector for another. Hard as Rath tried to convince himself there might be nothing sinister behind her leaving, all his instincts and all his experience urged him to make haste after her.

  Do not fret. Do not fret!

  Over and over Maura repeated those words to herself as the outlaws bore her farther away from the lake. After a time, the litany ran through her head like an enchantment.

  Except, this enchantment was not working.

  Her heart continued to hammer. Her belly churned. And it felt as though an unuttered scream had lodged in her throat, choking off her breath. Her cheek ached where Turgen had hit her and her ear still stung from the blow.

  Men who struck a woman with such casual violence or handled her the way Orl did, as if she were a sack of vegetables rather than a living creature, would not hesitate to degrade and abuse her until she died of their ill treatment, or did away with herself from despair. Tears prickled her eyes and that voiceless sob edged a little higher in her throat.

  Keep thinking like that and you will not stand a chance in the world. She heard Rath’s words as clearly in her mind as she had heard Langbard’s the night of the fire, when he had been past communicating with her any other way.

  The tone was blunt and faintly scornful. It made Maura clench her teeth and swallow her tears, even if they did choke her. She would show Rath Talward! Just because he had abandoned her did not mean she would curl into a quivering ball of fright. She would not give him the satisfaction.

  Indeed, my lady? Then what are you going to do?

  Just what she had planned from the beginning, of course. She would conserve her strength and wait for the first moment her hands and feet were free.

  She had rescued Rath from the Han, hadn’t she? When he had tried to throttle Langbard, she had put a stop to it. And when he had grabbed her from behind that first morning at the cottage, she had fought her way free. She would show these ruffians their error accosting defenseless women in the dead of night!

  Gradually the night began to wane. Off to Maura’s right, the sky took on a soft glow, the color of queensbalm petals. That must mean they were heading south, for which Maura was grateful. Once she escaped—she savored that reassuring thought—at least she would not need to double back to reach Prum.

  The turf that lurched and swayed beneath her looked like heath, with many moss-covered outcroppings of broken rock and scattered clusters of low scrub. The ground appeared to be rising. Maura wondered if Rath would think any of that significant.

  Not that she cared whether he would or not. She wished she could get him and his disparaging comments out of her mind and keep them out. Though she had to admit, they’d shaken her free of her crippling panic. For that she was grudgingly grateful.

  Just then, Orl broke the silence of their march with a garbled grunt that ended in the rising tone of a question.

  “I don’t care!” snapped Turgen, as if he had understood. “Set the wench on her feet and let her walk the rest of the way. It is not far to camp.”

  Then he added, in a tone that made Maura’s stomach plunge, “Aye, set her down. I would not mind getting a look at her now that there is light to see.”

  Quick to do as he was bidden, Orl stopped and unloaded Maura off his beefy shoulder.

  This was it—her chance to escape. Before they got her back to their camp where she might be surrounded by too many people to subdue with a single spell. Or where someone might recognize the significance of her sash and take it away from her. Then she would truly be at their mercy.

  In the short time it took Orl to set her on the ground, Maura’s mind raced. Sleep, daze or invisibility? Which spell should she use?

  Sleep, she decided with barely a heartbeat to deliberate. The pocket that held the dreamweed would be easiest of the three to reach. And unlike the precious cuddybird feathers, dreamweed flourished in most eastern woods, readily available to someone like her who knew what to look for. Besides, her captors must be tired after a night stalking the countryside. That would make them vulnerable to a sleep spell.

  As Orl eased his tight grip on her arms, she reached toward her sash. But her fingers felt so wooden and clumsy, she feared she would not be able to fumble the pocket open or dig out a pinch of the powdered weed if she tried.

  Do not waste your chance. Rath’s voice whispered in her thoughts. This time he did not sound scornful. Play for time.

  Though her hand prickled with the fierce urge to strike back at her captors and her legs ached to run the moment they came to rest on solid ground, she sensed that neither would be able to do what she demanded of them just then.

  “Can you believe our luck, lads? We have snared a beauty.” Turgen’s voice came from so nearby, Maura shrank back in dismay.

  A good thing she had not reached for her dreamweed or he could have caught her before she had a chance to use it. If she acted very docile, now, perhaps the bandits might let down their guards, giving her a better opportunity.

  Good lass! That’s using your head.

  When a shiver ran through her, she did not try to hide it. Instead she pulled her cloak tighter around her as if she were cold or fearful of being touched. Both were true. But more important than either, Maura needed to keep her sash hidden and to conceal her hands as she rummaged in the pockets.

  Adopting an air of timidity that was only a little exaggerated, she lifted her gaze to observe her captors. There were three of them. She’d been right about that much. Even before any of them spoke again, she had no trouble figuring out who was who.

  The fellow whose name she did not know led the pony. As she had guessed, he was shorter and slighter than his companions. The patch of downy whiskers on his chin confirmed his youth. If she could bind the other two with a spell, she might be able to fight or flee this stripling.

  Orl, the one who had seized and carried her this far, stood a head taller than any man she’d ever seen. His blunt fingers were each nearly as thick as her wrists. The roundness of his big face, and the fact
that he was missing three front teeth, gave him the appearance of an overgrown child. That did not make Maura fear him any less.

  Though not half so much as she feared their leader, Turgen. In some ways, he reminded her of Rath. The two men had a similar hard build and battered features. Turgen appeared to hold with Rath’s opinions about proper outlaw grooming. His dark hair looked as though it had been hacked to its present shoulder length with a dull knife by a blind barber.

  There, all similarity ended.

  While Rath had a tough, dangerous look and manner, seasoned with a dash of mocking impudence, Turgen had a truly sinister, predatory air.

  When he raised his hand, Maura flinched. But he only ran his fingers over her hair as if perfectly entitled to do so... or any other liberty he might wish to take with his prisoner. The excessive delicacy of his touch still managed to suggest lurking violence that could erupt without warning.

  “Seems a shame to let Vang have her first, after we went to all the trouble of finding her, now doesn’t it, lads?” With his forefinger, Turgen traced her features—the tilt of her nose, the curve of her mouth.

  Meanwhile, Maura’s fingers edged toward her sash and the pocket that contained the ground dreamweed leaves. Let the knave touch her face as though it were his to admire or punish as he wished. Let him believe he had her even more terrified than he did. It clearly amused him and kept him from doing anything worse while her hands and feet recovered.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Maura spied the younger outlaw scuffing the heath with the toe of his boot.

  “I want no part of it,” he muttered. “Vang won’t like it.”

  Turgen’s fingertip froze on Maura’s chin. She closed her eyes, expecting a blow. Some instinct told her when this man was crossed, he could lash out at whoever was nearest.

  When Turgen spun about to confront his younger comrade, Maura opened her eyes again and heaved a soft sigh of relief.

  “You know your trouble, you whining whelp?” Turgen took a menacing step toward him. “You spend too much time worrying what Vang will like and what he won’t.”

  He let fly a backhand cuff that would have lifted the young fellow off his feet. But the lad ducked and danced back a step.

  Don’t just stand there gaping, lass! The thought jolted Maura. She would never get a better opportunity.

  The younger outlaw had drawn Turgen several steps away. Orl’s attention was fixed on his comrades, as Maura’s had been.

  Whispering the words of the incantation, she reached into a large pocket on her sash and pulled out a generous pinch of dreamweed. Then she skipped a few steps to her left, to put the west wind behind her.

  Her sudden movement made the trio of outlaws turn toward her, their differences forgotten. As they swarmed after her, Maura opened her hand and blew the powdered dreamweed at them. The delicate little cloud of herb powder wafted on the air.

  It looked so pitifully inadequate to stop the three men lumbering toward her. Orl, least of all. A man his size would probably bathe in a vat of dreamweed tea without raising a yawn.

  Hitching up her skirts with one hand, Maura turned to run. With her other hand, she fumbled at her sash. Perhaps the dreamweed would slow the outlaws long enough for her to reach the cuddybird feathers. She could hear the outlaws coming behind her, but she dared not spare the time to glance back.

  Then something made her cloak catch tight around her throat, choking her and jerking her backward. Dazed, gasping for breath, she fell back, colliding with something large, solid and malodorous. Orl, no doubt.

  Her fall must have knocked him off balance, too. Before Maura could catch her breath, they both began to tumble down the gentle slope. When they finally came to rest, Maura struggled to her knees, trying desperately to muster her rattled wits.

  Orl sprawl nearby in a great senseless lump.

  Had the sleep spell finally taken effect? Or had he bashed his head against an outcropping of rock during their fall? It did not matter, Maura told herself. As long it kept him from following her, she would consider it a blessing.

  She tried to rise and run, but her head went into a dizzy spin that brought her to her knees. Unable to stand, she crawled toward a small thorn thicket. By the time she reached it, her dizziness had lifted enough to see the three outlaws lying about on the heath, sound asleep.

  How she longed to join them—but she must not! If she succumbed to the sleep spell, she would be worse off than ever, and her efforts would all have been in vain.

  What to do? A few moments ago, thoughts had raced through her mind. Now they felt bloated and cumbersome. It took all her dwindling strength to budge them. Where was Rath Talward’s mocking advice when she most needed it? Somehow, Maura knew it would have goaded her to action. But, like the man himself, it had deserted her.

  No! She fought to keep her eyes open. Rath’s advice could not leave her if she refused to let it go. What would he say if he were here?

  She let all her other sluggish thoughts slumber to concentrate on that one. Just when she feared sleep would claim her, she imagined, or perhaps dreamed, Rath standing over her. What was he saying?

  You put everyone to sleep with your sorcery. Can you not use it to revive yourself?

  “I have told you.” She spoke the words aloud. “It is not sorcery!”

  The force of her anger went some way toward rousing her. Rath’s answer did the rest. Of course, she had something to rouse her—in her sash. She had not used all her supply of quickfoil in the futile effort to revive Langbard.

  She tried several pockets before she found the herb, and she had no hot water to brew a tea. Instead she placed a few crumbs of dried leaf on her tongue and let the sharp tang quicken her torpid thoughts. As she had rummaged through the sash for quickfoil, now she searched her memory for the incantation. At last she remembered the first few words. By the time she said those she was beginning to feel more alert. Other words came to her until she had spoken them all.

  A tide of energy and renewed confidence surged within her. She knew just what she must do next. Staggering to her feet, Maura resolved to unload everything from the pony but a little food. Then she would climb onto the beast’s back and ride as far from here as it would carry her.

  Before she could fully savor the heady draft of hope, a sharp, resonant voice rang out behind her. “Blade and blood, witch! What did you do to Turgen and his lads?”

  Before she could reach her small horde of cuddybird feathers, rough hands seized her arms and she was spun about to face a hulking man whose left eyelid had been crudely stitched shut over an empty socket.

  As the sweet wine of hope turned to vinegar on her tongue, desperation made her defiant. “Who are you to care?”

  The monstrous man gave a gust of harsh laughter and pounded his massive chest with his thumb. “I am their leader. Vang Spear of Heaven.”

  Why had she even asked? The moment the daft question left her lips, she’d known who he must be.

  “I can wait to learn your name, witch.” As she quailed before the ferocity of his one-eyed glare, Vang reached beneath her cloak. “Until I take this.”

  One massive hand closed around her sash and yanked hard. Maura gave a gasp of surprise and pain as the stitching ripped over her shoulder and the bandit leader robbed her of her only defense.

  Chapter Eleven

  AS HE FOLLOWED Maura’s trail south, Rath wished he had her sash with him. He could do with a drink of that potion she’d given him to wash down the bear fur on the night of the fire—something to keep him alert and give him fresh energy. Stopping for a moment to catch his breath, he took a quick sip from his drink skin, but it was not the same.

  Gazing around from the wooded ridge of a low hill, Rath took his bearings, trying to figure out where Maura might be bound. She, and the man or men with her, appeared to be headed due south, which puzzled him. Most folk would have gone west to Long Vale, a wide strip of fertile farming land in the lee of the Blood Moon Mountains. Travel and t
rade between Norest and Southmark flowed through the vale.

  A less popular choice might be to make east for the coast, then hire passage on boat in one of the harbor villages. It made no sense for Maura to do that, since Prum was far inland.

  Straight south lay Aldwood and beyond that Lost Lake, where few dared venture and from which fewer ever returned. Between there and the Sea of Dawn, the Unnamed River oozed through the Far Fens. Apart from the bowels of the Blood Moon Mountains themselves, there were few parts of the kingdom Rath had less inclination to explore.

  For all that, once he had recovered a crumb of energy, he set off south at a quiet steady lope, like a tawny wolf tracking its prey. Like a wolf, too, he kept his senses alert for any subtle warnings of danger.

  The sun had risen quite high behind thick banks of cloud by the time he reached Battle Heath, north of Aldwood.

  “What’s all this?” he muttered to himself, puzzling the riddle of tracks on the turf.

  Maura and her companion had stopped here, long enough for the pony to forage on a small patch of grass and relieve itself. The party had spread out, too, by the look of it, though why, Rath could not guess. At least not until he examined the terrain more closely.

  In one spot a wide path of bracken had been flattened, as if something large had rolled or slid over it. Whatever it was had gouged the turf in two spots and...

  Rath peered closer at a jagged spur of rock. Was that blood? He had seen enough of the stuff in his life to be tolerably certain.

  With renewed urgency he scoured the area. A tiny flash of color caught his eye from a clump of bushes. When Rath checked it, he found a long thread of green wool fluttering in the breeze. He would wager good coin it had come from Maura’s cloak.

  While he knelt there staring at the thread, his nose twitched, smelling something that did not belong. The faint tang of herbs reminded him of Langbard’s cottage.