Alan rolled his eyes with a curse.
“Rorie, give me some of your spears,” Rhys ordered.
Rorie reached into a bundle on his saddle and pulled out five short throwing spears. He handed them over with a grim smile.
“Go to the Wolf’s Head.” Rhys took the spears from Rorie’s hand and focused his gaze on Bryn. “If I’m not there by midnight, warn Sean’s family and get them someplace safe. Adam will be after them too. Rorie, head back to the Keep. Garen has command. Muster a company and go to the Carraig. If I’m still alive, I expect to be rescued.” He tried to give a little lightness to the words, but they almost stuck in his throat.
Rorie smiled tightly. “Yes, Baron.”
“Jes, Alan, you get Sean and Damon to Sarksten.”
“I’ll stay.” Alan shoved his horse closer to Rhys.
Rhys shook his head, reaching up to grip Alan’s arm. “You have to get Sean out of here. War’s coming, and you need him.”
Alan’s face twisted in reluctant understanding. He shifted to grasp Rhys’s hand. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
Rhys gave a tight nod, before looking at both him and Jes. “You keep them both safe, you hear me?”
Keeping Sean and Damon safe was one thing he was going to see done, no matter what it cost him.
“Aye, Baron,” Jes replied somberly.
Heads turned up the path where shouts had begun to echo. Hooves clattered in riotous noise, disguising the true number of oncoming soldiers, but still announcing a number that was too many.
“Go!” Rhys shoved Sean toward Draco. Sean reluctantly stuck a foot in the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle.
“Wolf’s Head. Midnight.” Rhys looked back to Bryn.
Bryn tilted a sharp nod, not arguing although reluctance sharpened his features.
“You’ll be there?” Sean’s burning gaze focused on Rhys.
Rhys only nodded. Sean could interpret it however he wanted. An affirmative would most likely be a lie, and Rhys wouldn’t lie. Not to Sean.
Bryn led the way onto the bridge after a salute.
Damon pulled his horse around after a long moment. “Be careful.” He followed Bryn.
Alan nudged Sean forward as the Seer still hesitated, stubbornness tensing his jaw.
Jes was the last to go. “There are ten at least in the advance guard. There is a druid with them. He may be more dangerous than the soldiers. Watch yourself, Baron.”
Rhys reached up his hand, and Jes clasped it.
“Keep Sean and Alan safe,” Rhys said. “And tell Sean not to look back.”
He didn’t want Sean to see what would happen.
Jes guided his sturdy mountain horse across the stone bridge, the animal’s hooves clattering like stones into an empty well. He disappeared into the dust kicked up by the other riders.
Rhys breathed in the scent of the forest and the dust and the warmth of the sky overhead. He turned to face the road and waited.
Chapter 18
Rhys loosened the two-handed broadsword on his hip and set the spears against the bridge’s curved railing. The spears were no more than three feet long, including the bladed head. Rorie had a thrower that he used to obtain a longer range, but in close combat, Rhys could hurl them just as well by hand.
He weighed one in his hand. He had to get the light spears off fast if he wanted an advantage.
Ten riders slowed their approach. No green robe accompanied them.
Good. He didn’t feel like seeing just what they could do.
“Move aside!” One wearing the bars of a captain on his shoulder plate ordered in a curt tone.
“And if I don’t?” Rhys palmed one of the spears.
“We’ll kill you, but not before you tell us where your companions went.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you that for free.” Rhys leaned forward a little as if confiding in the captain. “Far away from your mewling, pathetic excuse of a lord.”
The captain stiffened in the saddle. “You will speak of Lord Barkley with more respect!”
“And if I don’t?” A smirk toyed at the corners of Rhys’s mouth.
“I’ll be forced to execute you here and now.”
Rhys shook his head sadly. “You need to work on your intimidation tactics. That wasn’t even adequate.”
The captain turned a deep shade of red as a muffled snort of laughter came from behind him.
“I’ll tell you something else for free.” Rhys readied the spear in his hand. “I’ll hold this bridge and then come for your master. He and I have long unfinished business.”
The captain curled his lip in a sneer, laying a hand on his sword hilt. “Then what is your name so that I may entertain Lord Barkley with your story after we kill you?”
Rhys let his cloak fall from his shoulders, revealing the dragon crest on his jerkin. “I’m the Mountain Baron.”
The soldiers’ faces went slack in shock and fear and the captain’s horse jerked back a pace under his hand as he cursed.
“Kill him!” The captain drew his sword.
Rhys snapped the spear across the clearing, and the bladed head buried in the captain’s chest. The rough wooden shaft of the spears chafed his palm as he hurled three more in rapid succession, each spear finding its target with brutal precision. The fourth spear only missed its target by a few inches, and it still grazed the soldier’s side deeply enough to send him sprawling in the dust with blood spilling between his fingers as he clutched his hands to the wound.
The loss of the captain and four of their number didn’t keep the remaining five soldiers from charging once they saw that Rhys was out of spears. They spurred their horses forward with a collective shout, and Rhys seized the leather-wrapped hilt of his broadsword. He swung low at the legs of the first advancing horse. It pitched its rider and fell thrashing to the ground, the soldier lying stunned beneath it.
The four other horses crowded toward him, nearly surrounding him. He twisted to block an overhead blow from another soldier, and thrust up into the man’s side with a dagger. The soldier grunted in pain, slumping sideways in the saddle. Rhys jerked the knife free and slashed the horse’s flank, sending it bolting away to clear a path. Pain sliced down his ribs as another soldier fielded a lucky strike down toward him.
Rhys stabbed into the nearest horse’s withers, sending it crow-hopping away and giving him some needed space. He backpedaled away from the milling horses, pressing his hand against the wound. Not too deep.
Three soldiers left.
They spread out warily. Rhys hated to lose the dagger, but he threw and another soldier crumpled to the ground. The action pulled at his ribs.
“Get the reinforcements!” One soldier shouted to his shocked partner.
The first set his spear and charged as his companion set back up the path at a gallop.
Rhys cursed. He didn’t have enough time or range to throw his second dagger with the oncoming spear aimed at his chest. He dropped low to his knees and held his sword with both hands, slashing at the horse’s legs.
The soldier, having gained some wisdom from the fall of his counterparts, abandoned his horse before a similar fate could befall him. He gained his feet as Rhys rose from the wreckage of the horse and they moved to combat.
The soldier gripped his sword in both hands, caution showing in each step he took. Rhys matched his stance. Every move he made, the soldier backtracked away from. Irritation flared in Rhys’s chest, compounded by the ache in his side.
I don’t have time to dance around.
He lunged forward, his sword slamming into the soldier’s blade with a harsh ring. The man struck back, matching Rhys blow for blow as they strove in the churning dust. Sweat stung Rhys’s eyes and approaching hoofbeats became audible over the pounding of blood in his ears.
This has to end. Even if he did have some admiration for the man’s skill. No one usually tried to fight for that long against him.
He brought his sword up across his body, taking
the next blow across the flat of the blade. He threw his strength into levering the soldier’s weapon down and away from his body. The soldier audibly ground his teeth with effort.
Rhys let up, and the soldier stumbled a step, caught off balance, his guard too wide to stop Rhys as he drew a knife and slashed it across his unprotected inner arm. The soldier reflexively brought his arm to his chest and staggered back.
Rhys strode forward, striking the outside of the man’s knee with the flat of the blade, sending him crashing to the ground.
The man dropped his sword and lifted his hand in surrender.
Rhys kicked the blade away. “Stay down,” he growled. It still wasn’t in his nature to kill a man unable to fight any longer.
Rhys reached for the reins of a stray horse. He almost smiled as he prepared to mount. He could still catch up to the others. Rorie would be expounding on this for days.
He prepared to swing into the saddle when brilliant, searing pain blossomed in his chest. Like his lungs had caught fire. The pain threw him off balance, and he clung to the saddle horn. He looked down with a ragged gasp of pain and shock, expecting to see a spear between his ribs, but—nothing. No weapon. No wound other than the bleeding cut along his ribs.
The horse side-stepped with a nervous nicker, and he struggled to hold on, but the pain spread like fire down his arms, into his fingers, turning the muscle to liquid. Rhys tumbled to the dirt, and struggled to get his feet under him when a fiery spear pierced the back of his right knee. His leg buckled, and he pitched forward, the rough dirt scraping at his palms. The nervous horse edged away from him and he crumpled to the path. Rhys flung his hand back to dislodge the weapon from his knee, but he found nothing there.
What in flames is happening?
The muscles in his leg seized as though struck by a barbed Karanti shaft.
A strangled cry escaped his mouth as something blazing and sharp twisted deep inside his chest. The coppery taste of blood washed over his tongue, and in the agony of his insides being shredded by an invisible weapon, his vision began to blur.
He reached for his sword, fallen beside him, but he crumbled further into the dirt. His arms refused to support him as he tried to get up from his helpless position.
“Odd, isn’t it?”
Rhys struggled to focus through blurring eyesight. Green robes filled his vision.
“A man who denies divine power can still be defeated by its servants.”
The druid nudged him over onto his side, and Rhys gazed up into his bearded face, lips twisted into a cruel smirk. Rhys recognized the druid from the tavern.
“You.”
The druid clenched his hand, and crushing agony enveloped his shoulder, forcing a strangled gasp from him instead.
“If I had known these soldiers were utterly incompetent, I would have done this as soon as we arrived.”
He crouched lower, a limp cloth figure like a poor imitation of a child’s toy clutched in his hands. Thin silver needles protruded from the figure’s chest and knee. The druid pinched the bag, sharp fingertips twisting around the figure’s left shoulder.
In tandem, the muscles and bones in Rhys’s shoulder almost cracked under the pressure. His arm didn’t move, but it felt like someone had taken the joint and forced it to its breaking point. Spots swam before Rhys’s eyes as he waited for his shoulder to snap under the terrible pressure.
“Well, well!” A new voice broke in through his torment with unnerving cheerfulness.
The phantom pressure on his shoulder faded as the druid released him, and Rhys looked up through distorted vision at one of his nightmares.
Kane.
No.
“Looks like I’ll be able to finish the job I started seven years ago.”
“He is to be taken alive!” The druid stood to face the new arrival, contempt lacing his voice.
Rhys barely heard a sneering reply before an actual blow struck the back of his head with brutal force. Darkness swallowed him whole.
Chapter 19
Alan wrenched his tired gaze from Fintan’s bobbing neck to scan their empty surroundings. They’d slowed to a walk in the hours since they’d crossed the bridge, the horses stumbling in weariness. Sean’s shoulders slumped, looking as despondent as Draco for having left the Baron behind.
Fintan coughed, his head lowering in near defeat. Alan dismounted and loosened the girth to a sigh of relief from the stallion.
“I know. You did well, boy,” he murmured as he rubbed Fintan’s sweat-streaked neck. Bryn pulled to a halt beside him, turning keen grey eyes back across the trackless grassland that spread east of the Bear River.
Nothing broke the empty horizon line. No pursuit. No lone, victorious rider.
Alan bit back a sigh. At the bridge, with the light of battle in his eyes, it had been easy to believe that the Baron would meet them at midnight. But now, he wasn’t so sure.
Bryn didn’t say a word as he nudged his horse back up to a plod. Alan tugged Fintan’s reins, bringing him to reluctant walk. He’d never admit to it, but the first two days after the departure from the Clans had left him saddle-sore in a way he hadn’t been since the war. But his muscles had seized again over the hours of frantic riding. The bone-deep ache pounding through him almost a match for the regret at having left the Baron behind.
But until midnight came, Alan refused to accept the worst.
Eventually, Alan remounted and they rode on through the deserted countryside as the hours turned slowly towards evening. Open grassland rolled itself into hills topped by trees tangled in their own foliage. In the fading light, an angled bastion of white rock thrust up from the earth, its jagged point giving an eerie resemblance to a wolf pulling its lips back to howl.
A small stream chuckled around the base of the rock before wandering off into the foothills. The horses gratefully buried their noses in the water, slurping and splashing some of their fatigue away in its cool embrace.
A winding path twisted up the side of the bluff, and Bryn led them across the stream towards it. Half an hour later they stood on top of the Wolf’s Head. Trees grouped like sentinels atop the ridge, and they settled under their shelter.
Rorie kindled a small fire in a cleared space that bore the marks of previous camps. Alan pulled the saddle off Fintan, draping the sweaty blanket over a low hanging branch to dry, and tipping the saddle up on its pommel nearby. Fintan licked his lips as the bit slid free from his mouth and shook himself with a vigorous huff.
Alan took the time to dig out a lump of dried oats coated in honey to feed to Fintan while he rubbed him down.
Jes finished with his horse and settled down by the fire on one of the logs drawn around as seats. Bryn stopped by Sean and Draco only for a moment to dig out the feedbag and handful of grain from the Baron’s packs for the horse. Alan ground tied Fintan after fixing his own feedbag and crossed the few steps over to Sean. He slipped a few treats into Draco’s nosebag.
Sean pressed the back of his hand to his forehead for a moment before returning to rubbing Draco down.
“You all right?”
Sean nodded. “Just a headache.”
“Which I’m sure has nothing to do with riding near nonstop since last midnight, all while barely eating or drinking.” Alan scratched Draco’s withers.
A ghost of a smile crossed Sean’s face as he folded the cloth. “Nothing at all. Who is he?" Sean nodded to where Damon now sat slightly apart from the others.
“Someone the Baron knew in the wars,” Alan replied, some of the Baron’s panic at seeing the prince alive had spread to him.
“He know many noblemen?" Sean’s brow furrowed as he stared at Damon, searching for the answer.
“Rhy—The Baron was a good warrior even back then. We were both with Brogan often. We both brushed shoulders with different noblemen.”
Sean pursed his mouth, not quite believing Alan’s explanation. In truth, Alan was still having a hard time wrapping his own mind around it. But if he dwelt too l
ong on it, his own buried anger would resurface, and that wouldn’t do any good at the moment.
He waited until Sean finished to accompany him over to the fire. The only sound for minutes was the grateful crunching of the horses in their feedbags.
Silence had always weighed like a thick blanket on a summer night to Alan, never sitting right with him. Odd, considering his past friendship with the Baron, who could pass a whole day in silence if he felt particularly stubborn.
“How do you know this place? It’s not in the mountains.” Alan fixed his eyes on Rorie as the outlaw poked the fledgling fire with a stick.
“Every outlaw knows the Wolf’s Head,” Rorie replied. “We’ve been here more than once.”
“What for?” Alan wanted to know.
“Outlaw business.” Bryn didn’t seem inclined to share more.
The sun dropped below the horizon, pinks and oranges clinging on as darker purples and blues pressed down on top of them. The haze of golden light faded from the hills below them, drawing out the deeper shadows of the clustering trees.
Jes drew from their packs, cobbling together a light meal over the fire. The savory scent of spiced meat warming over the fire as cheese melted inside bread toasting near the coals drew a rumble from Alan’s stomach.
Alan moved closer to Sean as he rubbed his shoulder, a frown puckering his face. Sean gave a tight nod as if to reassure Alan that he wasn’t going to fall over from exhaustion just yet.
“How long will it take—the Baron to meet us?” Sean stumbled a little over the title as if barely remembering it out of deference to the men with them. Or out of worry that the Baron would emerge from the darkness to snap at him for using the name he insisted he didn’t have anymore.
The three outlaws shared a glance.
Do they even know his name?
“We wait until midnight,” Bryn replied.
Alan tapped his right thumb and forefinger together in a restless beat. “And what happens if he doesn’t come at midnight?”
“You counting the Baron out already?” Rorie leaned forward. “Seems like you don’t know him anymore.”
Alan tilted his head, allowing a faint smirk to show through his worry. “I do know that he never turned down a fight. But just wondering what happens when he finally picks one too big for himself.”
Oath of the Outcast Page 12
