Tristan was barely listening. He was watching the change that had just swept over the men. Two had drained of color so rapidly he thought they might faint or be sick. One, too florid to ever be pale, flared even redder, his eyes bulging in rage or terror. While the first two let their bows slip unheeded to the ground, this one hurled his against the wall with a curse and rushed forward.
Was the man going to attack with his bare hands? Tristan thought of his sword, dropped under the table in the struggle. He had the blade under his foot, but had not yet managed to pick it up. And his leg was hurt; he didn’t yet know how badly, but he could feel the arrow hanging from his boot, stabbing into
flesh with every movement. Could he defend himself and keep his hold on LaBarque?
As the man came around the table, Tristan swiveled to face him, using LaBarque as a shield. But the charge stopped short as suddenly as it had started.
“WHO ARE YOU?” the man shouted at him. It was the cry, Tristan realized, that comes from urgency so great there is no time for niceties. He overlooked the breach of etiquette and answered simply.
“I am Tristan DesChênes of Verdeau and your liege lord.”
The sandy-haired man in the corner groaned and sank his face into his hands. But Red, as Tristan was beginning to think of him, stepped up to LaBarque and spat square in his face.
“You told me we was to kill that murderin’ foreign pirate captain, him that sank my son’s ship! Not the son of our own king, what died in the war!”
LaBarque sneered at the man’s tirade. “Pirate, prince, what difference does it make? It’s not like you had a choice, now is it?” His words died into a gurgling grunt, as a large red fist smashed into his mouth.
Take control, warned a voice in Tristan’s head. Or you’ve lost it for good.
“Return to the others now, sir,” said Tristan, putting all the confidence and command he had into that one phrase.
But the fight had gone out of Red. He turned to Tristan. “I’d have fled the country, with my whole family too, before I would knowingly ‘ave hurt you, whatever his threats. May the dark gods take me if that en’t the truth.” And he walked meekly to his companions and sank to his knees.
What to do with these men? The more Tristan observed them,
the more convinced he grew that they were neither conspirators nor thugs, but simple laborers who had somehow come under LaBarque’s thumb: not blameless, certainly, but not guilty of treason either. To what purpose would he have them arrested? Yet, as LaBarque had pointed out, he needed their witness. If they bolted now, he would lose them.
“You, in the corner.” He spoke to the tow-head, a very picture of despair. The man’s head jerked up as though on a string.
“Me, Sir? My Lord? I mean, Sire?”
“You,” he confirmed. “Help me here, will you?” Astonished, the man came forward.
“I need you to search this man. He may well be carrying a second knife. You are not to hurt him, but be thorough. You understand?” Pressing his own knife more firmly against LaBarque’s skin, he murmured, “Arms in the air, My Lord. And not one threatening gesture, if you value your neck.”
Tentatively, Sandy began patting down his employer, finding nothing on his initial search.
“Check his legs, especially inside his boots.” Sure enough, Sandy discovered a second knife slipped into a pocket in the right-hand boot.
“Well done,” said Tristan, as though he were addressing a soldier in his command. “Now see if you can find something—heavy parchment or cloth—to wrap both blades in, and stick them in my belt.” Holding his breath, Tristan presented his back to a man who had been hired to kill him—and waited while the knives were gently tucked into place. It was a considered risk, to put the knife within their grasp—a demonstration of trust that, Tristan hoped, would align them on his side and against LaBarque. By the time it was done, the change in the room was palpable. The men were
alert, their eyes trained upon him. They sensed they had been offered redemption and strained to grasp it.
“Now, you.” He pointed to the last man, who had been almost completely silent. He came forward eagerly and bowed. “I need rope, something to tie the prisoner’s hands.” In moments, the curtain cord was fastened tightly around LaBarque’s wrists. Now Tristan took time to glance at the arrow digging at his flesh. With relief he saw that the arrowhead had not even completely pierced his boot leather. At such a range, he might have been pinned to the floor, but his hasty dive had forced a hurried draw at an awkward angle, and he would have nothing worse than an angry surface injury. It was the work of a second to pull himself free.
“Isn’t there something I can do, Sire?” It was Red, positively eager.
Now Tristan allowed himself a small smile. “I think you have done quite enough already, don’t you?” The men exchanged glances, not daring to share the jest. Tristan relented. Red was his best hope for the last step. “Go to the front door, and tell the two guards posted there I have need of them. Tell them I have arrested LaBarque.” Fear jumped back into Red’s eyes, but Tristan held his gaze calmly.
A bitter laugh broke the spell. “You send the pig to fetch his own butcher!” crowed LaBarque. “Almost I begin to admire you, young princeling.” His lip curled in disdain. “You credulous fools! Prison looms before you, and you not only lack the wits to run, you leap to the aid of your jailer. You, not I, have attempted murder in this room. I strongly suggest you finish the job before it’s too late!”
“But I think you are mistaken, LaBarque,” said Tristan. “I heard you order these men to shoot me, yet they came to my aid.
They have had, in fact, several opportunities to finish me off, and each has instead demonstrated his loyalty. That is a strange sort of murder, is it not?” He watched as Red wheeled and marched decisively through the door.
As LaBarque was frog-marched from his home under guard, Tristan, severe now, addressed his little trio. “I do not doubt you were misled about my identity, but the fact remains you were prepared to kill another man,” he said. “Pirate or not, this is against the law of Verdeau.” They could not meet his eyes, but Red stepped forward hesitantly.
“Sir... Sire. He threatened us. LaBarque, I mean. Our families, like.”
“Aye.” Tristan nodded. “I am not surprised to hear it. That is the way of men like him. But that is a kind of piracy too, and others must stand against it.
“Now LaBarque may name you as accomplices in his trial. And if he does, you will have to come forward and beg the mercy of the court. But for myself, I am content to have your witness to his crime. I want you to go with Normand there”—he gestured at the remaining guard—”and make your statements as to exactly what happened. He will write it down, to be presented as evidence. And then I suggest you leave by the back door, if there is one, and put a substantial distance between yourselves and this house.”
As the men filed past him, Red bent onto one knee and touched his fingers to his brow. “If you ever come back here, you won’t find stronger or more loyal supporters than us, My Lord. That’s a promise.”
Tristan regarded him. “You have seen, I think, what I am made of this day. One day there may be need for you to stand up and show what you are made of.”
At last he was alone in the study. He sprawled into a chair, letting the tension of the last hour seep away, and chuckled to himself.
“You had better support me,” he said aloud. “I just saved your arse.”
T
HE
Greffaire strike team sent into Verdeau had been given clear, if demanding, orders: Avoid discovery; if possible without detection, examine the battlefield and the last Greffaire camp for clues as to what had transpired; and, most important, capture a Verdeau soldier or two for interrogation. The ten men traveled the Skyway Pass until they neared the foothills. Then they left the trail and picked their way slowly through the wild country, circling east and then south toward the mouth of the pass, hoping to escape the notice of any sentry forces posted along the main route.
The ten men were among the toughest-minded, most seasoned, military professionals remaining in Greffier. Not one of them believed in spook soldiers or any other gutless attempt at an excuse for the Greffaire defeat. Even so, their first shadowed sight of the creature they inadvertently trapped in a blind gully had stunned them. Manlike but no man, hugely powerful, it burst roaring at them from the dark jumble of rock like a nightmare spun from the fevered accounts of the defeated Greffaire soldiers.
Later they were ashamed and never spoke of the wild, clamoring fear that gripped them in that moment—the harrowing visions of ambush and death at the hands of a hideous army. But four spears flew at the creature before they fled, and it did not pursue them.
When they had regrouped and realized there was no “army” but only a solitary foe, some of the men wanted to go back and finish it off. But their captain forbade it.
“This ain’t a huntin’ expedition,” he said curtly. “We’re to bring back soldiers, not trophies. Get movin’.”
D
ERKH LAID OUT
his remaining food: two wedges of old bread, hard now as biscuit, and a handful of dried apple slices. He didn’t need to count the apple slices to know his chances of making it over the mountain were slim.
He had done the best he could with provisions, but opportunities had been few, and he had greatly underestimated the length of the journey. The map he had studied back in Verdeau had shown but a short gap between the Skyway and Otter Lake, which Gabrielle had pointed out as close to the Stonewater settlement. In the open plains of Greffier it would have been less than two days’ march. He had had no idea how slow his progress would be through such dense wilderness.
He guessed he was close to the pass by now. With the trees thinned out and the sun visible, he was confident again of his direction. But neither of his options looked good. He could venture out of the hills into the rural lands on either side of the Skyway Road, and try to beg or steal some food—if he could get there without being challenged by the sentry guard and if he didn’t end up arrested for theft or vagrancy. Or he could head over the mountains with an empty pack and hope to make it home before collapsing from hunger. A man can live a long time without food, his father had told him—many days if he has water. But could he make such a strenuous climb? Already his head ached and buzzed with fatigue and short rations. And if he came under attack...He
heard again in his mind the eerie cries that had made his guts do a slow roll just a few hours ago and shivered.
Col’s voice seemed to ring in his mind:
What mewling talk is this? You’re a Greffaire soldier, man! You’ll do what you have to do, or you’re no son of mine!
Derkh broke a chunk off one of the pieces of bread and packed away the rest. Then he shouldered his gear and plodded on, gnawing on the dry crust as he walked. His father was right. If he was going back to Greffier, he’d better start acting the part.
The sun was dipping low, and he was starting to watch for a sheltered place to make camp, when he heard a sound that froze him in his tracks. Voices. He must have stumbled into a sentry camp or scouting party. Scrambling for cover, Derkh flung himself over a lip of land that dipped into a shallow ditch, fringed with stringy shrubs, and strained his ears. For a long minute he heard nothing. Then the breeze gusted and with it came the unmistakable sound of men, louder now, voices raised as if in argument. There was a short burst of rough laughter, and the voices died down into silence.
Derkh flattened himself into the dust and stones, wondering what to do. The men were not gone, for though he heard no more talk, other noises came to him on the wind. Clanking—of weapons, or maybe cook pots. The scrape of loose scree underfoot. Caution and curiosity battled within him. Just before the last light failed, he decided to creep away out of earshot while he could still see to do so. He would head north and slightly east, hunker down for the night and in the morning cut above the sentries back to the pass. He stood cautiously and took his bearings.
A thud, a metallic crash, a roar of pain or rage and a hurled oath: “WHORESON BASTARD!”
Greffaire, Derkh thought dazedly. He spoke in Greffaire.
“W
E’RE LOSING THE
light, Gabrielle.”
For two hours Féolan and Gabrielle had scrambled through the mountain terrain, following the intermittent cries. There had been none for a long time now—but their hope had faded even before that. Acoustics in the mountains were deceptive and straight routes nonexistent; it was like trying to track an echo.
Gabrielle wiped the sweat from her face and glared at the surrounding country, as if willing it to give up its secrets. Then she glared at Féolan, as though this fruitless hunt were his doing. With a groan, she threw herself on the stony ground and concentrated on catching her breath and easing the burning fatigue in her legs.
Féolan hunkered down too and passed her the waterskin. “We’d better find a place to spend the night while we can still see. Even if there was still something to follow, it would be too dangerous to keep going once the sun is down.” The summer sky was bright yet, but the sun hung low over the peaks in the west. Once it fell behind the mountains, night would come swiftly.
Gabrielle raised herself on one elbow. “But what if it’s Derkh?”
“If it is Derkh, we could walk right past him in the dark,” replied Féolan. “And if it’s not, every hour we spend at this search takes us farther from his path.”
He was right. He was right, but it felt wrong. Throat tight, eyes prickling with tears, Gabrielle struggled against her own frustration and fear. Flipping onto her stomach, she lay against the rough grass, letting her heart slow, seeking the stillness that led to wisdom. She felt the strength of the mountain’s great shoulder under her, the quiet thrusting of life in the grass and lichens and
insects surrounding her. Yet the alarm in her heart did not fade; it grew clear and insistent as a ringing bell.
She sat up. “Derkh’s in danger,” she said. “I know he is.”