by Lynn Kurland
No matter. She had no desire for the former and no fear of the latter. She would merely keep him in her sights until an opportunity to choose a different path presented itself.
The man hesitated at one point, likely realizing that his quarry was no longer in front of him. He hesitated, then eased into the shadows of the wood to the right of the road. Morgan raised her eyebrows. So he was not unskilled. Interesting. She continued down the road, all her senses tuned to what was going on in the woods beside her, and allowed events to unfold as they would.
In truth, she likely should have been more careful, but she’d had a rather tedious journey so far, it was dusk, and she was in the mood for something to do besides walk. But not too much sport. She was, after all, in a fair bit of haste. Best that she merely take the fool and render him unconscious, then be on her way.
She was prepared when she heard a footstep behind her and felt a hand clap her on the shoulder. Morgan stomped back on the arch of his foot, elbowed him in the gut when he bellowed in pain. She drew her sword, then spun around and clunked him heartily on the side of his head with the hilt.
He fell to the ground like a mature tree, slowly and ending with a great thump.
Morgan waited an appropriate amount of time before she attempted to roll him over, her sword still in her hand. She managed it with difficulty, but once she had him on his back, she could see that he breathed still.
Perhaps unfortunately.
She looked, in surprise, at the most handsome man she had ever clapped her poor eyes on. Not pretty, as many lords’ sons she’d known were, but noble. Indeed, the first thought that came to mind was that he belonged as a statue in the Hall of Kings in Tor Neroche, not trailing her to do heaven only knew what. His hair was dark, his features perfectly fashioned, and his form enviable.
Of course, he was drooling, but that might have had something to do with her tender ministrations.
Morgan took an unsteady step backward. It took her three tries to replace her sword in its sheath. The man had been following her, likely with her death on his mind. Or worse. She hadn’t killed him, for pity’s sake.
Still, it was difficult to look away from him. She felt like she had the first time she’d laid eyes on the sword Nicholas had had made for her. It had been so beautiful, she’d done nothing but stare at it, hardly able to believe such a thing existed. And considering the undeniable beauty of the man before her, perhaps she could be forgiven her moment of weakness.
Weger wouldn’t have agreed, but he wasn’t there to witness her witlessness and she certainly wouldn’t tell him when next they met.
She gave herself a good shake, reminded herself that she was not an empty-headed tavern wench, and attempted to turn her mind to other things. Usually at this point in a skirmish she would have been looking for spoils. She set herself to that task, almost certain it would make her feel more herself.
It was one of the rules of engagement. When one bested his enemy, the victor was entitled to the conquered’s goods. If one was feeling particularly generous, he left the vanquished his boots and cloak. All weapons were fair game, though it was generally considered bad form not to leave the fallen at least something with which to defend himself.
She would first look for weapons. It would serve a dual purpose: he wouldn’t be able to use them against her and she could perhaps fall upon them if she didn’t regain her wits soon. She reached for his sword. Somehow, though, she could not bring herself to touch it. She gaped at her own hand as if she’d never seen it before.
With a curse, she reached again for the sword, only to find herself still unable to even put her hand to it.
Good heavens, what next? Would she take up stitching? She snorted and promised herself a good run later to clear her head. For now, she would settle for the man’s purse, which she cut from his belt without a twinge of remorse, and a rummage through his pack.
She helped herself to a pair of socks so fine they had to have been stolen from someone else and a scarf made of the same stuff. These things she put into her own pack, then she examined the contents of his purse.
She was surprised to find the coins were not all of a Melksham strike. Half of them she did not recognize; she wondered if she might have pilfered fakes. They bit like gold, though, so she supposed they would do in a pinch. She hesitated, muttered in disgust under her breath, then deposited a bit of his gold back into his purse and put his purse into his pack. No doubt he would find himself robbed of it just the same, but she would sleep with a clear conscience knowing she hadn’t been the one to leave him penniless. She had been far kinder to him than any of her mates would have been. They would have thought her mad.
She suspected she should have agreed with them.
With a sigh, she squatted down, put her hands under the man’s shoulders and dragged him off the road under the trees. She retrieved his pack and dumped it down next to him.
She walked away before she did anything else foolish.
She had done enough already.
An hour later it was dark and Morgan was leaning against a tree twenty paces from the man she had felled, unable to explain to herself why she was there or what she hoped to accomplish by returning.
She had traveled for half an hour, then come to an unwilling stop, unable to go on. She had touched the mark on her brow, reminded herself that it had been earned at the expense of any emotion and any pity. She didn’t pity the man. She certainly hadn’t fallen prey to the fairness of his face.
Perhaps it had been the fineness of his socks. She’d paused to put them on, unable to resist their softness. It was possible that they had been what had dealt the killing blow to her common sense.
Or perhaps it had been instinct that had forced her to retrace her steps. Weger had never discounted instinct. Indeed, that was the one thing about her he had found to praise, if a single lifting of one eyebrow on one lone occasion could be taken as praise. Few earned even that.
But as she stood leaning against the tree, she discounted instinct and socks, and credited her return to too much rich food at Nicholas’s table. She would have to remedy that with a large number of very meager meals on her journey.
The man in front of her stirred. Morgan saw him sit up, then clutch his head in his hands. He lay back down with a selection of curses that had even her raising her eyebrows in appreciation.
It was likely those curses that distracted her from the true peril—the one that had put the point of his sword on her shoulder and given her a brisk tap or two.
Morgan spun around. She had her sword halfway from its sheath before she stopped and stared in surprise.
“Paien?” she said.
Paien of Allerdale made her a low bow. “Morgan, you are not yourself,” he said. “Didn’t you recognize me?”
She should have. He was one of a trio of companions she had kept company with since her release from Gobhann. “I did. I just didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Actually, neither did I,” Paien said with a half laugh, “but things change when you least expect them to.” He nodded toward the road where vociferous complaints were still being made. “Who is that?”
Morgan shrugged. “I have no idea. He was silent enough after I felled him.”
“No doubt,” Paien said. “Well, we’d best go shut him up, or we’ll have every ruffian for miles joining us for supper.” He looked at her calculatingly. “Why were you watching over him?”
“I wasn’t watching over him,” she said with a scowl. “I was . . . well, I was making certain he didn’t attack me. You see, he came up behind me with untoward intent—”
“You attacked me!” the man said, suddenly struggling to his feet. He staggered about for a moment, clutching his head, then he stopped, swayed, and glared at her. “I thought you were a man!”
Apparently looks and sweetness of tongue didn’t always go together. Morgan frowned. “You were mistaken—”
“And you’re a girl!” the man exclaimed. “I’v
e never been bested by a girl—and I’m not admitting to being bested now, of course. I was taken by surprise and in a most unchivalrous manner.”
Morgan looked at Paien, who seemed to be struggling not to laugh. He reached down and handed the man his pack.
“We’ve all had our share of surprises with Morgan here,” he said easily. “I’m Paien of Allerdale. Who are you?”
“Adhémar,” the man said with a scowl.
Morgan rolled her eyes. Adhémar? Yet another fool bearing the current king’s name? Why couldn’t men name their sons after mountains or famous makers of swords? If she’d had a son, she would have named him Buck.
But thinking about Adhémar the king reminded her of what she carried in her pack.
Her pack that she had left by a tree far too far away for her comfort.
“I’ll be back,” she said to Paien as she strode past him.
“Come, Adhémar,” Paien said, “and let us see to a fire. I heard nothing following me, but we’ve made enough noise here recently to be attacked by all manner of unpleasant things. You know, I’m for Bere. What of you?”
Morgan left them to their speech. If something had happened to that blade . . .
It was with a very unwholesome sense of relief that she found her pack just exactly where she had set it down, twenty paces into the forest. She picked it up, then hesitated. It seemed untouched, but who was to say? She closed her eyes briefly, opened the drawcords, then thrust her hand down inside. She felt around until she found a long, slim wallet of leather. She didn’t have to pull it from her pack, or unwrap it, to know it contained the blade.
She could feel the whisper of magic, even through the leather.
She jerked her hand out, yanked the drawcords, then slung the strap over her shoulder. She wiped her hand against her leg, but her hand continued to tingle just the same.
She had not had a very good day so far. A poor night’s sleep, a long and tedious walk, a handsome man, and magic. Could it get any worse than that?
She hoped not.
In time, she turned and walked back through the woods until she found Paien in a little clearing, feeding a cheery fire by himself. She dropped her pack on the ground and sat down. “Where’s Adhémar?”
“He went to collect what gear you left him with.” Paien looked at her knowingly. “Turned your head, did he?”
“He most certainly did not,” she said.
“You left the lad with most of his gear.”
“An altruistic impulse.”
Paien only laughed. “I daresay.” He chuckled again as he tended his fire. “He’s of a finer quality than we grow here in Melksham. Perhaps it is that you have a discerning eye.”
“I was impressed at first,” she admitted. “But I feel more myself now. Besides, I have no time for that sort of thing.”
“Don’t you?” Paien looked at her with interest. “What are you about?”
She hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Paien, for she did. Though he was old enough to be her sire, he fought with the strength and agility of one much younger. He was a giant of a man with hands as big as serving platters and a heart equally as large. Aye, she could say she trusted him. For her, there was no higher praise.
But she hadn’t decided exactly what she would tell anyone who asked about her journey. Nicholas had not sworn her to secrecy, but then again, he hadn’t needed to. She wasn’t one to say more than she needed to about anything she was doing. But perhaps she could trust Paien with her destination at least.
She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it when Adhémar walked into the circle of firelight.
“Is supper ready?” he asked imperiously. “I’m starving.”
Morgan frowned. How was it a man could be so handsome when he was unconscious, yet not so handsome when he was awake?
Perhaps she had hit him harder than she’d intended. He spent a good deal of his time wincing, as if his head truly pained him. If that was the case, perhaps he could be forgiven his bad manners.
Then again, truth be told she wouldn’t have offered to help Paien with supper either. He was a much better cook than she and she repaid him for his efforts by always taking the first watch so he could savor the last bites of his meal in peace. Morgan let Paien cobble together a passable supper and avoided looking at Adhémar. It was likely the safest thing to do. Bere was close and perhaps she would make very good time on the morrow. Perhaps Adhémar would go his way at dawn and no longer be of concern to her.
She suspected that would be a very good turn of events.
Two days later Morgan followed Paien through the congested streets of the port of Bere, not enjoying the crowds in the least. Too many people jostling her, too many smells distracting her, too much noise making it difficult for her to concentrate.
She looked behind her briefly to see how Adhémar was managing. He still seemed to be following them, and she wasn’t all that pleased about it. His face was beautiful, but every time he opened his mouth, she wanted to clunk him over the head again with her sword.
She and Paien had passed their brief journey to Bere in companionable silence, reliving past escapades, and reveling in past triumphs—of which there were many. Adhémar had offered more than his share of impossible tales of battle, simply saturated with delusions of grandeur. He seemed to think he’d had men at his command, then remembered in the midst of a glorious tale that he’d had none but himself.
Perhaps that bump on his head had done more damage than he cared to admit.
Running into Paien’s back startled her from her thoughts. She opened her mouth to curse him, then peered around him.
There, before her, bobbing quite innocently in the water, was a ship.
She stared at it, openmouthed. She hadn’t realized they were so close to the water.
“What a beauty,” Paien said admiringly.
Morgan decided it might be best to refrain from comment.
“Morgan!” came a call from nearby. “Paien!”
“Ah, look who’s come,” Paien said. “Friendly faces, indeed.”
Morgan pursed her lips. It was becoming a reunion of sorts; before her now stood the other mercenary companions she’d left behind. Apparently their business had been concluded successfully, for they seemed quite happy to be in Bere instead of camped out in a muddy field.
Glines of Balfour came to halt in front of her, bowed low, then straightened and smiled. He was a tall, fair-haired man who wore thirty winters on his shoulders and many pouches on his belt filled with gold he’d won from souls with lesser skill at dice than he. Glines was the youngest son of a minor lord who reportedly had a bastard elf lurking somewhere amongst his progenitors. Whether that was true or not, she couldn’t have said. What she did know was that Glines vanquished his foes with elegance and a bit of distaste, as if he would have preferred to be discussing politics at dinner.
Next to him stood a red-haired dwarf, short in stature and sharp in feature, who fought with less elegance than Glines but quite a bit more enjoyment. Camid of Carr had traveled the Nine Kingdoms extensively, hiring out to the highest bidder and forever seeking to improve his résumé of escapades in order to impress potential employers.
“Who are these?” Adhémar asked.
Morgan introduced them all briskly. She would have said more, but Glines was staring at Adhémar as if he’d just seen a ghost. She could have sworn he started to bow, but Adhémar reached out and clutched him by the shoulder. Perhaps Glines had been preparing to swoon at the sight of Adhémar’s admittedly very fine boots. She couldn’t credit him with being impressed by Adhémar’s face.
“Glines,” she warned, “Adhémar has little left in his purse. Find some other mark for your afternoon’s entertainment.”
Adhémar glared at her. “How would you—aha! I wondered where my gold had gone.” He drew himself up. “No matter. I will win more anyway. I am quite skilled in cards. Indeed, it might be said that there is not a better player in all of Neroch
e—”
Morgan didn’t bother to comment. Far be it from her to bruise his ego along with his head. If he wanted to endow himself with qualities that were not his own, he was free to do so. That didn’t mean she had to listen, though.
“Boast elsewhere,” she said shortly. “Indeed, I’m certain you have other business to see to—out of earshot, hopefully. Don’t you?”
Adhémar pursed his lips. “I didn’t find what I was looking for on the island. I will begin again in Istaur.”
“Is that where you’re off to, gel?” Camid asked her.
“That is what we heard,” Glines agreed, still looking at Adhémar with wide eyes. “When word was sent for us to meet you here.”
“Word was sent?” she echoed. “By whom?”
“Lord Nicholas, of course,” Paien said with a slight smile. “He sent a message to me as well. Didn’t you know?”
Morgan wasn’t sure if she should have been furious or relieved. What she knew, quite suddenly, was that Nicholas considered the blade to be quite a dangerous thing if he had entrusted it to her but then enlisted three of the most deadly men she knew to accompany her. She felt a little weak in the knees, and she never felt weak in the knees.
Of course, that could have had something to do with the ship in front of her.
Camid rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “I understand you’re taking this ship today.”
Morgan nodded confidently, far more confidently than she felt.
“Where to?” Camid asked. “Or do we discuss it in a more private setting?”
“Best to do that,” Morgan agreed, thinking that discussing it at all was a bad idea.
“Then let us find somewhere to eat and make our plans,” Glines said. “Somewhere comfortable, of course, for His—”
Morgan watched Adhémar stumble into Glines. Clumsy oaf. He seemed to have quite a bit to say to Glines—in a low whisper—and Glines seemed to somehow know him. Either Adhémar was consorting with minor nobility, which she couldn’t imagine, or he had encountered Glines in some tavern, already lost a goodly sum to him, and wanted it back, which she could readily believe. It was a mystery she would have to discover later. For now, it was best that she keep herself on her feet and not think overmuch on what she would be doing after the sun had set.
