Chapter 11
The men no longer ran but kept a steady pace as they walked across the open grassland. The ground was gently undulating, and small hillocks rose at various intervals, like anthills. Twig yanked the rope repeatedly, sometimes causing Lark to trip and stumble. About twenty minutes had passed when Lark saw Beauty galloping down a hill towards them, and a few minutes later the man with the limp pulled up beside them.
“Not much further.”
“Did you see the bastards?” Twig asked.
“No. But the Drameara knew they were close by.”
“What about the Shadow Warrior?”
“I didn’t see one. But the Drameara said he was coming.”
“How would he know?” demanded another one of the men.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said the man on the horse. “’E’s got ways to contact ’is Shadow Warrior.”
“I don’t see ’ow.”
“That’s not your concern, now, is it? ’E said the Warrior’d be there, and ’e will.”
“Fine,” the man mumbled. They continued on, walking quicker now as they followed Beauty, while Lark contemplated the words she had overheard. She also wondered how the Drameara could contact the Shadow Warrior. Did it have something to do with his markings? Did every Shadow Warrior have a Drameara to serve them? Was it the same Shadow Warrior who had taken her captive? She shuddered at the thought. There had not been much interaction once he had taken her captive, but the terrifying visage and the menace in his expression had lingered in her mind, and she was glad he had relinquished her to the Drameara. As cold and cruel as he was, he did not scare her as the Shadow Warrior had done.
They kept going, picking up the pace, but they stopped suddenly when the sound of shouts reached their ears. They could not see the fighting, but the sounds came from just over a low rise. The men surged forward, drawing their weapons.
As they crested the hill Lark stumbled along behind them, unable to do anything else as Twig kept his hold on the rope. Ahead of them, the red jackets of the Crimson Guard were stark against the yellow grass as they whirled about, fighting a blur of movement which was cutting down everything in its path. Twig paused, then spun around with a snarl, dragging Lark to a small stand of trees where he shoved her to the ground and tied her securely against the trunk of a tree.
He stepped back and brought his hand to his cock as he rubbed himself with a leer. “Battle always makes me blood rise, so maybe we can ’ave a little fun after, eh bitch? Drameara’s not gonna stop us, now is ’e? Probably want a go at ya ’imself.” He gave her a wink before turning on his heel and running into the fray. Trees blocked her line of sight, but she could hear the cries and ringing of metal well enough, and she cringed as they rang through the air. A yell sounded near her and she jerked as a man came running between the trees, his crimson uniform ripped and torn. His eyes were wide as he swerved between the trunks, almost tripping over Lark as he clutched his sword. His eyes met hers, widening even more, before he suddenly arched backwards, then fell forward onto the ground, a dagger sticking from his back. She stared at him in horror as he gave one violent twitch then fell still.
Her heart was racing, and she tried to fill her lungs, but the gag constricted the flow of air, allowing only the shallowest of breaths. Frantically she tried to reach the choking fabric, but her arms were too tightly bound. Her breathing became shallower as her panic rose, making her even more frantic as she stared at the dead man at her feet.
From far away the trill of a bird sounded insistently in her ears, and she glanced around, surprised to see that it was only a few feet away. It was a lark – her namesake – and she watched as it puffed its breast and gave another trill. Closing her eyes, Lark focused on the sound, grabbing hold of it as she let it wash through her and over her. Her racing heart began to slow as she concentrated on breathing through her nose, matching each breath with the sound of the birdsong. The singing stopped, and Lark opened her eyes to see the little bird hop down to a lower branch, then again onto the ground as it scratched between the leaves to find a grub.
It fluttered back to the branch, but Lark’s gaze was fixed on the spot where the bird had landed. Lying between the leaves was a small knife, eight inches from the tip of the blade to the end of the handle. She had no doubt that it belonged to the man who had died just a few feet away, and she sent him her silent thanks for his parting gift, even if it was given unintentionally. Stretching out her leg, she reached the blade with the heel of her boot and dragged it closer. The sounds of the battle were dying down, the noise replaced by an eerie silence. She drew the knife another inch, and then another, then sighed in frustration when the angle of her leg could not draw it any closer. Shifting painfully against the rough tree bark, she repeated the maneuver.
There was a sound between the trees, and she twisted herself further, grimacing in pain at the awkward angle of her body and the scratching of the tree trunk, until she managed to bring the blade closer to her body and hide it beneath her leg. Another man stumbled into the clearing, clutching his arm, which was dripping with blood. He was grinning, however, and he kicked the man lying on the ground with a laugh.
“That’ll teach you to go messing with Rhymers,” he said.
“Think they’re invincible, but our day has come,” said Twig, striding up behind him. “Did ya see how they turned tail and ran!” He stopped when he saw Lark, then rubbed himself provocatively to the grunts of amusement from the others, and she turned away in disgust to see a figure approaching, his gray skin covered in blood. Carefully, Lark inched to the side, ensuring that the blade she had hidden was well covered as the Shadow Warrior’s gaze suddenly snapped around to her. He stared at her a moment, his tongue flicking between his teeth, as he breathed in deeply. The markings on his chest seemed to be moving, slithering around his body, and she stared at them, then shuddered when he dropped to his haunches before her. Her heart raced furiously as he brought his mouth to her ear.
“I love the taste of Cambrian blood,” he hissed. “Should I taste yoursss?” He leaned back, and she stared in horror as his tongue flicked the air.
Abruptly the Shadow Warrior rose and yanked the dagger still protruding from the back of the fallen Guardsman, then strode out of the clearing. There was some nervous laughter amongst the men, which became more confident when the Warrior did not reappear.
“Well, well,” Twig said, “’e’s left ya to our desires.”
“Forget the girl,” one of the men snapped. “Let’s bury our dead and collect what we can from the fallen. The Drameara’ll be back soon.”
“’E wasn’t in the fight, I noticed,” another of the men said.
“The Shadow Warrior sent him scouting, you idiot,” snarled the first. “Now let’s get moving.”
“What about the girl?”
“We leave her for the wolves.”
Twig gave her a sneering look but followed his comrades as they marched away, and Lark let out a sigh of relief.
The men did not return, and her relief turned to concern, then panic as the hours wore on. The bindings that held her to the tree were too secure to loosen, and while she had the knife beneath her leg, she could not bring it near enough to reach with her hands. Flies were gathering on the body of the fallen Guardsman, and she looked away in horror.
The sun was already starting to drop towards the horizon when she heard the sound of footsteps and the Drameara stepped into view. He crouched down and slipped the gag from her mouth so that it hung loosely around her neck. She sucked in a deep breath as he reached for the rope tying her to the tree.
“Nice of you to come back,” she snapped, and he paused, leaning back on his heels as he glared at her.
“Believe me, I would be quite happy to leave you here to die,” he snarled.
“Then why don’t you?” she demanded angrily.
For a moment she thought he was about to do just that, but then he leaned forward and slice
d a knife through her bonds, and she fell to the ground, the sudden release of pressure leaving her weak. “If it were up to me, I would,” he said as he rose and stepped away. She slipped the knife she had been hiding into her boot, then grabbed hold of the tree trunk and pulled herself to her feet, standing unsteadily as she regained her balance.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“I need some water, and then a moment of privacy,” she said.
“There’s a river close by.”
“I still need a moment of privacy.” She turned haughtily on her heel and headed behind a tree, but as soon as she was out of sight she took a deep breath, steadying the nerves that had been taut ever since she woke up that morning. She returned a few moments later and followed the Drameara as he wove through the trees, into the open area where at least a dozen men lay dead, their bodies now stripped of their weapons and in some cases even their clothes.
“Why?” she whispered. She ran over to the man closest to her, and dropping to her knees, she gently closed his eyes. Her stomach was churning, and she spun around as the little that remained in her stomach spewed onto the ground. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she rose and turned to face the Drameara, her voice trembling with rage as she stepped right up to him.
“Why?” she shouted. “Why do you do this? What did these men do to you?”
“Do?” he said. He leaned forward, and she resisted the urge to step back. “The fact that they are Cambrians is reason enough. Add in the fact that they ransacked a Rhymer town not far from here, searching for leaders of the uprising and burning down half the town, and there is plenty of reason to kill every last one.”
“Then you should be stopping the uprising, not supporting it,” she shouted.
“Stopping it?” He laughed derisively. “The Cambrians deserve what they are getting. They did not stop Valor when he rose up against the Ancients.”
“That was centuries ago!”
“Valor’s descendants will pay even more dearly for his sins.”
“Why? Valor defended himself from the Ancients when they attacked.”
“Is that what they teach you, princess? Valor rose up against the Ancients, not the other way around. And you and your kin will pay for his arrogance. My mistress will finally be avenged.”
He shifted his pack and turned away. “Try and run again, and you’ll live to regret it,” he said as he began to walk. “You should be learning by now that you cannot escape me, no matter how hard you try. And forget any thoughts of killing me. If your Guardsmen cannot kill me, then by the dragon, there is absolutely no chance that you could come close.”
Chapter 12
Lark’s wrists chafed, from the ropes binding them as well as the cuffs that allowed no way to wipe her skin free of sweat and dirt. In her boot, meanwhile, the knife she had hidden scraped her skin. Above her, the sun was beating down and she could feel her fair skin burning. They had slept the previous night beneath the stars, and she had fallen into a restless sleep as soon as she lay on the ground, dreaming of men dead and dying. They had started walking once more at first light, with the Drameara only pausing long enough to give her a dried-out piece of bread before retying her hands. She glared holes into the Drameara’s back as they walked, thinking about the ways she could use the knife securely tucked in her boot. If her hands weren’t tied, she would whip it out and plunge it right in, she thought vengefully. But the memory of how fast he had moved when she tried to use his knife against him at the hut made her rethink that plan. She could not make an attempt on his life while he was awake.
It was mid-morning when they reached a river, clear water running over a bed of pebbles. Hurrying past him, she knelt down and scooped the water into her mouth, eager to relieve her parched throat. She drank deeply, and only when she finally felt some relief did she sit up and glance around to see the Drameara a short way downstream. His tunic was off, and she could see the dragon tattoo twisting around his torso. Unlike Val with his fine features, he was ruggedly handsome, a man who cared nothing for his appearance and was the better looking for it. His skin was a healthy tan, and his muscles were well defined, without an ounce of fat. She turned away with a blush at her thoughts, determined not to be caught staring. He was her enemy, she reminded herself. The man she would kill as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
She rose and dusted off her pants, then glanced back at the Drameara to see that he was kneeling in the water, his fingers sifting through the mud. He was staring ahead of him, his gaze intent as he sunk his hand deeper into the mire, pushing aside rocks and pebbles. Lark was about to ask him what he was doing when his eyes dropped to the water and he pulled up his hand. He held a muddy object, but as the water washed away the muck clinging to it, she could see that it was a piece of red stone. He stared at it for a moment, then suddenly turned and looked at her, meeting her gaze with a frown. Something in his expression kept her silent, and he turned away, walking back to the bank where he placed the stone in his bag. He hefted the bag and started walking, not bothering to check whether Lark was following him, and with a sigh, she began to follow.
They continued walking as the sun beat down on them, and Lark was grateful for the ugly boots which were much gentler on her feet than her previous footwear. The plain seemed to stretch on endlessly, with only an occasional tree rising from the sea of pale yellow. Larks and other birds rose in the air as they passed by, chirping their annoyance at the disturbance before settling a few feet away. Sweat dripped down Lark’s neck and the chafing of her bound wrists grew. She twisted them painfully, trying to ease the discomfort, but without success.
Partway through the afternoon, the path they were on intersected a road, and they joined the flow of traffic heading north. It was busy, and more than once, Lark had to hurriedly step aside as a carriage raced past them, making the dust rise. Wagons rumbled by, the riders calling out a greeting as they meandered past, while travelers on foot eyed them warily, taking in the multitude of weapons worn by the Drameara and the ropes around Lark’s wrists. Some of the women gave her a sympathetic smile, but most just hurried by, their eyes averted.
They passed the skeleton of a burnt-out house, the walls blackened by smoke and only remnants of the thatch roof remaining. Lark looked at it curiously, wondering what might have happened there, but the Drameara did not spare it a glance as he strode by, not slowing his relentless pace.
It was dusk when Lark saw the first sign of buildings in the distance, and as they grew closer, she saw they were approaching a town. Unlike Cambrian towns, it had no defenses beyond a small lookout tower where a guard watched the road. A small, worn-out sign announced that they had reached Hazel Hollow. As they walked along the packed dirt road, Lark felt curious eyes on her. The people in the street were clearly Rhymer, but mixed amongst them were those with Cambrian features – fair hair, blue eyes, or light skin. But even so, she stood out with her pale features and colorless hair which was hanging messily down her back. Ignoring the pain in her arms, she lifted her chin and stared straight ahead as she walked one pace behind the Drameara. He turned down a narrow street, striding confidently down a rutted road, ignoring the looks sent their way, then turned down another street before coming to a stop outside an inn and pushing open the door. A sign hung above the door: The Red Dragon, it read. The door creaked ominously on its hinges as they stepped inside, and the noise in the room suddenly died away as all eyes turned, first taking him in, then moving on to her. From the corner of her eye, Lark could see people shoving each other with their elbows as they whispered and stared at her. She glanced around quickly, hoping to see a friendly face who might step forward to aid her, but she saw only varying expressions of curiosity and judgment as they took in her bound hands.
Walking up to the long bar, the Drameara beckoned to the boy wiping down the counter with a cloth. “I’m looking for Aranmell.”
The boy slouched away, heading through the door to the back and returning a
few moments later with a man on his heels who wore a frown of annoyance. The frown disappeared as soon as Aranmell saw who was asking for him.
“Drameara,” he greeted. He took a glass from a shelf and pulled a drink, which he placed before him. The Drameara took a long sip, then leaned forward on the bar and began to say something, his voice too low for Lark to make out. They continued to converse in soft tones for a few more minutes, and Lark glanced around the room. A man near the window was watching her closely, and when she looked his way, his eyes held hers. He stared at her for another moment before rising and heading over to the bar. As though sensing his approach, the Drameara spun around, and upon seeing the newcomer, he frowned. Like the Drameara, the man was well built, with a myriad of weapons arrayed around his body.
“What kind of a greeting is that?” he asked.
“The kind you deserve,” the Drameara replied, but there was amusement in his voice. “You abandoned me near Lenora.”
“You clearly survived. I see you picked up a traveler.” They both turned to look at Lark. “Is she the one I’ve been hearing about?”
“That depends on what you’ve heard.”
“Why is she not dead?”
The Drameara turned back to the bar. The barman had moved away and was talking to another customer. “You know who she is. For now, she’s more useful alive.”
“Or she might be a liability.”
The Drameara picked up his glass and took a sip. “Aye. She might.” He glanced back at the man. “You’re heading back?”
“Our mistress calls me north.”
“I’ll meet you there shortly.”
Into the Shadows Page 10
