“I’ll join you,” Leandre said.
In five minutes, they were on their way to the south gate through the busy streets of the city, having taken Derek’s lead and borrowing fresh horses from the keep stable. The gate, when they reached it, was shut, and they had to rouse sleepy soldiers from the guardhouse to answer their questions.
“No one asked to be admitted, my lord,” the bewildered guard said. “The gate has been closed all evening.”
“And no one left?” Callan asked, exchanging a troubled glance with Leandre.
“Only one farmer’s cart, all loaded, my lord, not half an hour ago.”
“A cart?” Callan repeated. His hands tightened on the reins instinctively. Earlier unease grew into a full-blown panic, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. Leandre threw him a dark look, which meant she was thinking exactly the same thing. “Which direction did it take?”
Chapter Nine
THE CART JOLTED as it rolled over another bump in the road, and Derek gritted his teeth in frustration.
How could he have been so stupid as to fall for such an unsophisticated ploy? He must have been too addled with fatigue—and then too distracted by the sight of Callan’s bare chest to think clearly.
Derek groaned around the rag that was stuffed in his mouth. What a fool he’d made of himself. What was he thinking? Clearly, not an ounce of rational thought had been involved when he’d given in to the temptation to feel Callan’s touch against his skin. He’d made it clear enough that he wanted nothing of Derek. Their union was established for convenience, not passion. Callan was still mourning the love of his life, for gods’ sake. The least Derek could do was respect his wishes and leave him well enough alone instead of pouncing on him the moment he saw Callan naked.
In any case, the point was now somewhat moot, and he was most definitely paying the price for his lack of skepticism at receiving a note from an unknown source. But at the time, he’d been too worried about the possibility of Ivo showing up with more bad news from Camria, or in some sort of trouble, maybe even fleeing persecution by Duke Bergen for some ridiculous offense. And then, of course, came the humiliation of having been jumped in a dark alley by four masked assailants.
What had been the point of surviving a battle with the Mulbernians and then two skirmishes with Agiennan pirates if he couldn’t even defend himself from getting clocked on the head and hauled away like a sack of potatoes? In an actual burlap sack, no less.
With his mouth gagged and his hands tied behind his back, there wasn’t much Derek could do. The coarse fabric obstructed his vision, but he could tell it was pitch dark. They must be well away from the city. If he strained hard enough, he thought he could hear the distant sound of the sea lapping against the rocky shore, but the pain in his roughly twisted shoulder and the aching bump on his head were making it difficult to focus.
Breathe through it and pull yourself together.
If he didn’t gather his wits about him, he’d be in much worse pain, he was certain. He hadn’t gotten a clear glimpse of the men who’d kidnapped him, but he could hear them talking amongst themselves in hushed voices. They weren’t speaking the common tongue of the realm, and he didn’t recognize the language until one of them mentioned egondar, which was the Agiennan pejorative for “mainlander”—one of the few Agiennan words Callan’s soldiers had taught him.
Shit. What could the Agiennans possibly want with him? Derek wasn’t important enough to warrant the risk of infiltrating a large city teeming with armed guards—unless, of course, their goal was to retaliate against Mulberny by kidnapping the new husband of the fiefdom’s heir apparent. And if they were counting on a rich ransom, they were bound to be disappointed. No one in Mulberny cared enough about him to pay for his safe return, and it would take a long time to gather whatever funds were needed in Camria.
Derek closed his eyes, his frightened thoughts circling back to Callan, to the dry, no-nonsense tone in which he’d dispelled Derek’s self-deprecation, the unexpected gentleness with which he’d helped him disrobe for his bath. Perhaps Derek’s earlier assertion wasn’t entirely true, a treacherous voice whispered in his ear. Perhaps there was someone who cared—just as Derek had grown to care for the man he’d wanted so badly to despise.
Derek mentally shook his head. No. He couldn’t hope his muddled, hatchling feelings were in any way reciprocated. He had no one to count on but himself, nothing to fall back on but his own endurance, the way it had always been.
The rickety cart came to a sudden halt. Derek suppressed a groan as the jolt echoed beneath his shoulder blade, and lay still, listening for any sign of what was coming.
There were more voices, louder this time. They were definitely close to the sea now, its monotonous drum clear behind the shouts and laughter. Then somebody hoisted him off the cart and threw him on the ground, none too gently. At least the gag suppressed his grunt as his chest hit the hard earth and pain radiated from his shoulder to every inch of his body.
A thin blade sliced through the burlap, nearly missing his cheek, and somebody tore away the sack. Harsh light blinded his eyes for a second, and he blinked, adjusting his vision.
Several men stood above him, a few of them holding blazing torches. Behind them, the shape of a ship’s bow stood out against the backdrop of the oily black water, its fanciful carved face with a lolling tongue illuminated by the reddish glare. The face seemed to wink at Derek, mocking his predicament.
They were definitely Agiennan. Callan could have told him what clan they were by the cut of their clothes and the weave of their braids, but Derek was ignorant of these things. He shrank instinctively as the man with the knife stepped closer, but he only bent to cut the ties that bound Derek’s feet and, grabbing him by the right arm, hauled him upright.
“Walk,” he said, his accent so thick Derek struggled to understand him—but this man, at least, was no Islander. His clothes and speech marked him a native of Sansia, a northern kingdom that kept its own language and customs, unlike most of the fiefdoms of Ivicia.
Derek stumbled to his feet. With so many men surrounding him, attempting an escape was out of the question, even if his legs hadn’t been cramped from lying so long in an uncomfortable position. The four men who’d ambushed him in Bryluen, dressed in the somber, nondescript clothes of Mulbernian townsfolk, were now joined by at least a dozen others in full Agiennan garb.
“Move,” the Sansian said, gesturing toward the ship with his knife.
Derek balked. If he set foot on that ship, he was as good as dead. Not that he deluded himself as to his overall chances of survival, but out there on the sea, they’d be practically nonexistent.
Another man shoved him from behind, and he took an involuntary step forward to keep from falling. Surely there was something he could do to stall. The men who’d taken him off the street, at least, spoke the common tongue well, and he turned to them, making assertive mooing noises around his gag, intending to make them take it out so he could try to deal with them.
But he didn’t have a chance to see if they’d oblige him. At the sound of hooves thudding on hard ground, the men around him turned in alarm and jumped out of the way as a long blade sliced through the air.
“Leandre, grab him!” Callan shouted, as a second rider emerged from the shadows from the opposite direction, galloping toward Derek.
His heart leapt. Even presented with undeniable evidence, he could scarcely believe his eyes. That Callan was here, that he’d come to Derek’s rescue—it hardly seemed real. Spurred by renewed hope, Derek turned toward Leandre.
But the Agiennans’ initial confusion only lasted for a few seconds. Seeing they were only up against two people, even armed and on horseback, they rallied instead of scattering. One of the Agiennans, little more than a youth, stepped forward and closed his eyes, making a weird gesture with his hands. Both Leandre and Callan’s horses reared, whinnying, as if spooked by some unseen apparition. Seizing the opportunity in the momentary conf
usion, one of Derek’s kidnappers clutched at the saddle behind Leandre, ducking under her raised sword, and she wheeled around, trying to fight him off and regain control of her mount. Struggling to keep his balance, Callan hacked at the men coming at him with axes and short swords, aimed at him and at the legs of his horse. Wounded, the animal stumbled, and several attackers rushed to tug at Callan from behind, pulling at his cloak. Losing his balance, he tumbled backward, right into the arms of his foes.
With his hands tied behind his back, Derek wasn’t sure what he was trying to accomplish when he lunged toward him. But he didn’t have the chance to find out, as the Sansian man who’d commanded him to walk earlier grabbed him by the hair from behind. Derek twisted, trying to kick him in the knee, but the man slashed at his thigh, cutting deep. New pain blossomed, and Derek grunted when his assailant shoved him down to his knees, holding a knife to his throat.
Derek gulped at the cold bite of steel against his exposed skin. He stilled, watching in helpless horror as Callan was dragged on the ground, kicking at his assailants; as Leandre let out a cry of anguish when a short spear struck her side, and she fell heavily, slumping into an unmoving heap. Riderless and spooked, the horses bolted across the dark grassy plain, away from the glare of the torches and the Agiennans’ cries of triumph. The cart horse shifted nervously but stayed in place as the young Agiennan placed a soothing hand on her neck, stepping back from the calamity caused by whatever witchcraft he’d employed.
No. This can’t be happening.
Leandre couldn’t be dead—she couldn’t, not for something so pointless as trying to save Derek’s life.
His vision blurred by angry tears, Derek saw Callan stagger to his feet, having managed to fend off his attackers. He’d lost his cloak, and his clothes were bloody, but there was a dangerous gleam to his eyes, and he bared his teeth at the men that surrounded him, like a cornered wolf. Several bodies lay around him, unmoving.
The man holding Derek tightened his grip and shouted something in broken Agiennan. Callan whipped his head, taking in the picture of Derek on his knees, gagged and bound. The knife pressed into his skin, a hairsbreadth away from breaking it, and Derek stopped breathing.
Time slowed to a standstill. Callan paused, his blue gaze piercing him to the core. No, Derek wanted say, having guessed his captor’s meaning. Don’t do it. They’ll kill you. Not for me. But he could only stare, his eyes no doubt wide with terror, his body rigid.
With a jerky motion, Callan threw his sword aside. Slowly, so slowly, he went to his knees, and in the next moment toppled to the ground as one of the Agiennans hit his head with the butt of a spear.
Derek was yanked by the hair and pushed back, into the black water. Strong hands hauled him over the railing onto the flat shallow deck. Dazed, he made no move to resist. He was thankful for the gag. It was the only thing that kept him from giving his kidnappers the satisfaction of hearing him weep.
DEREK HAD NEVER been on a ship before, and this was not how he’d envisioned his first sail. Huddled together with Callan in a wooden cage that only permitted them to either sit or lie down, he could barely see the water from where they were situated by the mainmast. Perhaps it was for the best—the motion made him queasy, but at least he couldn’t watch the waves rise and fall around them as the ship sped on its way, carried by the strong winds in the swiftly rising dawn.
He was dirty, thirsty, and battered. His head hurt. Blood had finally stopped seeping from the gash on his thigh, but the cut smarted, throbbing in unison with his badly abused shoulder. He hoped the scabs around the arrow wound wouldn’t open again because he suspected he couldn’t count on medical treatment anytime in the near future.
But he wasn’t the one who needed it most. Callan lay next to him, his head resting in Derek’s lap. He was in much worse shape, dried blood crusting the roots of his hair. Whoever had hit him hadn’t held back. Earlier, Derek had removed Callan’s leather jerkin to ease his breathing, but he’d only moaned and remained unconscious, his chest rising and falling in a broken rhythm.
Derek had never felt so helpless. Once they were on board, the Agiennans had removed his gag and untied his hands, but they either didn’t understand or simply ignored his questions and pleas for water. They also took everything of value they found, including his father’s signet ring.
He was beginning to fear Callan might not reach the end of their journey, wherever their kidnappers might be taking them. And it was Derek’s fault because, when push came to shove, it turned out he couldn’t uphold his cavalier assurance about being able to take care of himself. He’d let himself be overpowered, and Leandre and Callan, having been compelled by some silly noble impulse to come to his rescue, had paid the price. The Agiennans might have played a dirty trick on them using magic, but Derek’s arrogance and incompetence was really to blame here.
He ran his hand over Callan’s matted hair, even though he suspected he wouldn’t have welcomed the intimacy had he been awake. But Derek also knew from experience that being held through pain was comforting, and it was all he could do to alleviate some of Callan’s suffering at the moment. And his breaths did seem to become a little less raspy at the touch, unless Derek was so dazed with thirst he was imagining things.
Maybe Callan dreamed it was Idona soothing him. Gods knew being lost in such a dream was better than facing their current reality.
“Hey,” Derek ventured again when one of the sailors approached the cage. “Where are you taking us?”
The man said something, a string of words Derek couldn’t understand. Seeing Derek’s confusion, he added with heavy accent:
“Leader. To see you.”
Encouraged that this man seemed to at least understand him, Derek tried again:
“Water. Please?”
The sailor scowled at him. Like most of the other Agiennan warriors, he was tall, clad in deerskins and mismatched bits of armor. Lanky blond hair hung to his shoulders, some of it plaited and interwoven with different-colored leather strands. Derek was sure the colors and the intricate ties had some significance, but he had no idea what it was. The men who’d accosted him at Bryluen, including the Sansian thug, were nowhere to be seen.
“Please.”
Perhaps resorting to begging wasn’t the best idea when it came to dealing with people who seemed to value warrior prowess above all else, but Derek was past caring what his kidnappers thought of him. Awe, respect, pride—none of it really mattered as long as what had to be done got done, and his language skills were too limited for any sort of bargaining with people who didn’t speak the common tongue of Ivicia.
Whether it was out of compassion or a desire to keep his prisoners alive till they reached their destination, the Agiennan walked away and returned after a minute with a waterskin, which he shoved between the cage bars.
The water was cold and stale, but Derek had never tasted anything sweeter. He gulped it down, shaking with need, but was careful not to finish it all at once. He couldn’t count on repeated kindness from his captors, and he didn’t know how long the trip would last. Instead, he pressed the waterskin to Callan’s slack lips while holding his head up, urging him to take a sip. Some of the water sloshed onto his chin, but Derek managed to get Callan to swallow a mouthful. Afterward, he closed his eyes and leaned against the cage bars, tasked even by this small effort. Callan’s head rested on his good arm, making it go numb, but he didn’t dare move him.
Derek wracked his brain trying to recall anything he could about the Outer Isles, but, unfortunately, living so much farther inland, where the threat of the sea pirates and witches was nothing more than a peddler’s tale or a passage in a book, he’d not been particularly interested in learning more about the region. He had no idea who’d want to kidnap him, but he suspected Callan’s arrival had disrupted his captors’ plans, whatever they were. The duke’s heir was a much more valuable prisoner than his unlucky son-in-law—and a much more dangerous one in the current shaky political climate.
The sailors otherwise paid them little heed, and Derek relaxed a fraction. He’d face whatever was in store for them when it came, but for now, he succumbed to exhaustion, lulled by the sound of the waves crashing against the hull.
HE WOKE WITH a start. He must have been asleep much longer than he intended, or had passed out completely, because it was dark again, the deck illuminated only by a single lantern that swung on its peg on the mast along with the sway of the ship. His mouth was dry, salt crusting his lips, and his body felt battered beyond the ability to function.
“Hey,” Callan whispered by his side, and Derek turned to him sharply, wincing as pain flared in his head at the movement.
Callan half sat, leaning—or more accurately, slumping—against the frame of the cage, regarding him with hooded eyes. His clothes were damp with sweat and what appeared to be traces of vomit, but Derek’s heart fluttered at the sight of him, like a butterfly mesmerized by the brightness of a flame.
“Hey,” Derek said, sitting up and licking his lips. He wouldn’t ask whether Callan was all right, since all the evidence pointed to the contrary. “Do you know where they’re taking us?”
“I’ve only overheard snippets.” Callan’s voice was soft, either from weakness or as an attempt at discretion. “These men are Undin. They’re barely a clan, and hold no land of their own. But there are more witches born among them, and their magic allows them to fare far and wide over the sea, far beyond the reach of the other clans, so it keeps them from being total outcasts. They worship no other gods but Dagorn, the Trickster, and break deals as easily as they make them. I don’t know what they wanted with you, but my bet is they’re going to sell us to the Danulf.”
“Idona’s kin?” The chill that ran down Derek’s spine was not entirely due to the cold night wind. He recalled Callan telling him that Idona’s father had sworn vengeance against him. It would curry no small favor to deliver Callan to the man who believed him responsible for his daughter’s death.
The Wolf and the Sparrow Page 10