by Anna Thayer
“Whose head, Lord Goodman?”
Eamon smiled, but he trembled within. This was the testing point.
“That of Feltumadas.” He paused. “You present yourself to me by some strange fortune, Lord Rendolet. For I feel that we may do even more for the Master. We shall kill Feltumadas now, together, and you will go in his stead. What havoc you shall wreck in this pitiable camp! Why, they shall make songs of it – how you brought the Serpent to his knees, to the Master’s glory.”
The face before him broke into a long smile. Eamon breathed. The Hand had taken the bait.
“I knew that you had a certain style, Lord Goodman,” Rendolet said smoothly. “I tried to mimic that when I moved their little bridge. But I see that I was not nearly stylish enough!”
Nauseous unease coursed through him. He swallowed it down. The cries of the burned and drowning men, and the impaling glares of the Easters flew into his mind. His unease was unhorsed by rage. How he longed to strike the Hand!
Instead, he smiled.
“You compliment me well, Lord Rendolet, and I trust that you will complement me also. I have, as you might imagine,” he added, “no weapon to hand. May I take yours?”
“Of course, Lord Goodman,” Rendolet answered, freely rendering his blade into Eamon’s hand. “I have others at my disposal.”
“Good.” Eamon felt a wave of relief as the dagger passed into his hand. “Where did you leave Feltumadas?” He had to hope that the Hand had not already killed the Easter lord.
“Resting in his tent,” Rendolet answered snidely, then laughed. “They would have charged him with your murder and he would have denied everything.”
Eamon saw at once how close to disaster they had come. After Hughan’s firm defence of his First Knight the previous day, to have that knight killed by an Easter who then denied the murder could well have spelled the end of the King’s alliance with the Land of the Seven Sons. Without them, Hughan could not have made a successful attempt on Dunthruik, nor kept up his skirmishes in the other regions and provinces of the River Realm. The broken alliance would, at best, have slowed the wayfarers to a near halt – allowing the throned to weed them out at greater leisure – and, at worst, have culminated in the elimination of the King’s men.
Eamon looked at the Hand again. “A masterful stroke,” he cooed. “I see that you have a style of your own, Lord Rendolet.”
The Hand smiled. Biting down his anger and the fear that touched his limbs, Eamon bade the Hand lead the way and followed him from the tent.
There were no guards outside.
“My guardians, Lord Rendolet?” he asked, softly and innocently, as they left. “Another stroke of yours?”
“Sent away by the Serpent’s sycophant,” the Hand answered. Eamon was chilled. Had Rendolet impersonated Leon, too?
They walked swiftly and silently across the camp, past the majority of wayfarer shelters, and on towards the large tents at the camp’s centre where both the Easter and wayfarer lords had their resting places. Eamon caught sight of Hughan’s tent to his left; Feltumadas’s was ahead and to the right. If he could just get Rendolet to Feltumadas, the Easter would see the changer and be able to help him in containing the venomous Hand.
Suddenly, Rendolet stopped. Eamon’s heart pounded as the sly face turned and smiled at him.
“I have heard it said, Lord Goodman, that the Serpent keeps some wench by him that he intends to make the fount of his bastard house,” he said. Eamon followed the Hand’s glance towards Hughan’s tent; Aeryn’s had been placed next to it. He froze, but still he had to smile.
“I have seen her, Lord Rendolet,” he answered.
“Is she worth some sport, Lord Goodman?” There was a terrible glint to the Hand’s eye.
“Perhaps to the Serpent,” Eamon answered with a forced snicker. The look in Rendolet’s eye did not diminish, and, as Eamon tried to think, from the corner of his eye he saw something that terrified him more.
Men began to stir. Hughan, Leon, and Anastasius walked towards the King’s tent. Any moment now they would see him. His opportunity would be lost, and this Hand could easily disappear to dispose of the Easter, or Aeryn, or perhaps even Hughan himself.
“Why strike just once, Lord Goodman?” Rendolet’s voice dripped foully from the stolen mouth. “Why just once, when a second strike can be more pleasurable than the first?”
“You would rape his queen?” The words spilled indignantly from Eamon’s lips.
Rendolet looked at him curiously. “You would not?”
Eamon did not answer.
A dark look passed over the face of Feltumadas and, as curiosity became suspicion, that same face turned vilely on him.
“Reluctance does not serve the Master, Goodman.” Eamon caught a glimpse of red in the man’s palm.
The King’s party could see him now, but he had no choice. He dropped all pretence and looked the Hand straight in the eye.
“No, Lord Rendolet,” he answered. “It does not; and neither do I.”
Rendolet’s eyes flared with rage. Eamon saw the red light gathering in the Hand’s palm. There was a frantic race of hands, Eamon’s to his blade and Rendolet’s to the foul red light.
With crushing force Eamon whipped the dagger round and drove it hard and deep into the Hand’s chest. The false Feltumadas’s lips opened in a horrendous, wrathful scream. Eamon persisted, drove the dagger down to the hilt, twisted sharply, then dragged it heavily out of the gushing flesh.
“Traitor!” The Hand’s voice – Feltumadas’s voice – screeched as reddened hands reached out for Eamon. Eamon dodged the clawing grasp, stepped to one side and then drove his knife down into the flailing man’s undefended neck. The scream became a frothing gargle and the Hand crumpled to the ground.
“Eamon!” Hughan’s cry coursed through him, the depth of its grief felling every sense. Eamon reeled.
Gasping and covered in blood, he held the dripping blade in his hand. All the eyes that watched saw that Feltumadas lay dead on the ground before him. As he turned, his gaze met that of his stricken King.
Suddenly the air erupted in shouts. He saw a man stringing a bow and seconds later an arrow struck the sodden ground by the corpse.
He hurled down the dagger and ran. Arrows hissed at him both from in front and behind. At the cries dozens of men emerged from their tents. Faced with a bloodied Hand careering towards them they fell back in fear. Eamon did not believe that he could clear the camp but he could not stop – he could not count on Hughan’s name to protect him.
Men snatched at him as he hurtled past but they could not catch him. Still he ran.
His pulse pounded in his sutured throat. Gasps for breath unsettled his wound and it bled again. The cries were strong behind him and he could not stop.
“Stop him! Halt him!” yelled a voice, dangerously close. Eamon risked a glance over his shoulder and recoiled.
Leon tailed him, his face full of fury, his hands ready to exact vengeance.
Terrified, he tore through the camp, pressing on in a desperate pelt to the tributary. A group of soldiers leapt at him as he came to the banks, but he darted past them and hurled himself into the water. It was deep, and the shingle was treacherous. He stumbled on debris as he waded; the water behind him grew red as it drew the Hand’s blood off him. He swam.
As he staggered out on the other bank, shivering, he heard sounds in the water behind him. Gasping, he saw Leon in the water, determination driving him ever closer.
Crossbowmen wearing Easter colours drew up on the opposite bank and set arrows to their strings. With a cry, Eamon turned and fled. He had to get away, but he could not outrun Leon. Surely they would see that he had not killed Feltumadas?
By the time they saw it, he would be a corpse.
An arrow struck at him, piercing a fold of his cloak and missing his flesh by little. He ran.
Woodland lay before him, the ground thick with hollows and bushes. He turned and looked over his shoulder again
: Leon was there.
He plunged into the trees, looking wildly for cover. Suddenly he saw some thick bushes on his left, next to a small clearing. The plants were overgrown with barbed thistles, but he had no choice. He drove down into them, scrambled underneath the pronged leaves, and pressed his starved lungs deep against the forest floor.
He lay trembling in the dank tangle of leaves, forcing his ragged breath to silence. His soaking hair trailed over his face and he anxiously pushed it away.
Suddenly a shadow moved among the trees. He fell completely still: so much as a sound, and Leon would find him.
He peered between the leaves. Where was the shadow? He had seen someone, he knew he had, and yet now…
He froze. There, hidden in the thick maze of trees across the small clearing, he saw the shadow again. He had seen someone, but not Leon. For the shadow set among the trees wore black and beside it were three others, similarly clad.
Hands: four of them. Eamon repressed the urge to swear viciously. He could only guess that they had not seen him. Why were they there?
He had no time to reason an answer: Leon entered the clearing. The wayfarer stopped, his own breath ragged as he searched the trees for his hidden quarry.
“I know you’re here, Goodman!” he yelled. Eamon flinched at the rage in that voice. “Treacherous murderer! I know you’re here!”
Eamon didn’t answer. He looked across again. The hidden Hands watched Leon intently; one whispered to another. What were they saying?
Leon filled his lungs: “Out!” His words, yelled at the top of his ample voice, were full of wrath, and his hands trembled with uncontainable fury. Leon stared with ashen face about the clearing and summoned him again. “Traitor! Out!”
Eamon felt the words striking at him as he lay there. Then he saw the shadows move and suddenly he realized that either he must strike at Leon, or they would.
There was no time to think. With a terrible cry he rose to his feet and lunged at the King’s man.
CHAPTER VI
The world slowed. Thorns ripped at his arms and face and then fell back from his terrible forward motion with rending snaps. He tore out of his hiding place.
Leon heard his cry and turned, rage ingrained on his face. Fuelled by terror, Eamon surged forward with all the speed and strength he had.
He grabbed Leon’s arms and then, stepping to the side, kicked the back of the man’s knees.
The King’s man crumpled. Eamon snatched the dagger that glinted at Leon’s belt and dropped on his back. He grimly drove his knees against the man’s arms, pinning him down. Leon gasped for breath as Eamon brought the dagger round to his throat.
“Traitor!” he howled, trying to hurl him off. Eamon almost lost his grip, but held firm. He forced the blade closer to the man’s neck.
“Lie still, snake,” he hissed, “or I’ll slit your throat like I did that of your precious sunny princeling.”
In the silence that followed they both breathed heavily. Leon’s chest heaved as he sought to regain his strength. Eamon knew that the King’s man would be a capable fighter, and feared that he would lose his scant advantage if he delayed too long. Discreetly, he flicked his eyes to the Hands in the shadows. They had not moved. Indeed, he could no longer see them. As he held Leon pinned he tried to think.
What could he do now? He realized with a lurch that his plan had been only half thought through. Leon was held, that was true, but there was no telling whether, even now, there were other wayfarers charging over the River. If such men arrived and found this scene, they would cry traitor and run him through. How long would it take them to realize that Feltumadas was alive and well? About the same amount of time, Eamon imagined, as it would take them to realize that they had killed him without cause.
He looked back at the wayfarer beneath him. Leon seemed to have been following a similar train of thought to his own.
“Now what, Lord Goodman?” he asked grimly. “Kill me and have done with it! You have done your work.”
“Not quite.” Eamon smiled sweetly. “Not quite, dear Leon. But I think you must agree that the work I have already completed, I have done extraordinarily well.”
Leon gaped with utter hatred. “He trusted you.” His voice was grieved, barely more than a whisper.
“And you trusted him,” Eamon countered. “Which of you was more foolish?”
With a cry Leon tried to break free but, with an unpleasant chuckle, Eamon crushed him back hard.
“You must face the truth, Leon: you have been outdone!”
Leon fell silent. What could he say? Eamon was sorry to treat the man in such a way, but had no choice. He leaned in close to Leon’s face. “Now you will have the honour of assisting me in the last stage of my work. It is more than you deserve!”
Leon gaped – and found no words to say.
Eamon was coming to the breaking point of his bluff; he drove himself forward. “But console yourself, Leon. It is difficult to match my genius. Wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?” He called the last loudly, to the silent woods.
For a moment nothing happened. Leon stared at him.
Eamon held his nerve. He needed the Hands out where he could see them. He gave an amused laugh.
“Ah! There are several explanations, dear Leon, why these lords might refuse my summons. The first charge is cowardice.” He cocked a sarcastic smile at the wayfarer. “Given as you are subdued, I cannot lay that against them. The second might be that they claim not to hear me. But I can hear them, so I find this solution as fault-ridden as the first. They may, of course, be in awe of my brilliance – something to which I have become modestly accustomed in the Master’s city, Leon – but I find it more likely that they hide themselves for the simplest reason: that they were not to be seen by me.”
It was logical, though quite what they had been doing, he did not know. Had they been sent to watch him in the camp? His heart chilled. How long had they spied on him?
They would have had something to watch now, at any rate.
Turning his gaze to the shadows he raised his voice again. “And if they don’t reveal themselves to me now, Leon, do you know what I shall have to do? I will have to report their indiscretion to the Master. He will not look kindly on them for that – because, unlike me, they will have failed.”
“You are mad, Goodman,” Leon countered, disgusted.
“You would find that satisfying, I am sure, but I must disappoint you,” Eamon returned. For the shadows moved, the threat of shame forcing his enemies to play their hand. “See what a snake this is, lords? He would like to excuse me my allegiance on account of madness. Do you not think that generous of him, Lord Febian?”
“Yes, Lord Goodman.” Febian’s face was downcast. Eamon didn’t recognize the three Hands with him, but he did not need to; he would know them again in the city.
Leon froze.
“A pleasure to see you, gentlemen,” Eamon told the Hands, offering them his warmest smile. “How have these last few days been treating you? Well, I trust?” He glared straight at Febian – the Hand who had incited the massacre on the return from Pinewood. His tone hardened. “I want rope, Lord Febian.”
Febian started. “Lord Goodman, we cannot –”
“Cannot what?” It was not hard to make his tone harsher.
“ – interfere. The Right Hand commanded that we observe.”
The Right Hand? Eamon glared; the Hand flinched. Eamon felt a chill within.
The Right Hand – not the throned?
He cast the thought as best as he could from his mind. Eamon knew that performing the will of the Right Hand was as vital to Febian as performing the will of the throned was to him – both of them had to make amends for their failures at Pinewood. He needed rope to bind Leon so that he could take him back to the King’s camp – he had to get Leon safely away from the Hands. But he also needed a plausible reason to do so…
As he glared irately at Febian, the answer came to him: what better reason to go bac
k than for the head he had been sent to obtain?
He made a harsh sound at the gathered Hands and rose suddenly to his feet, dragging Leon with him. He yanked one of the wayfarer’s arms painfully up behind his back, all the while keeping the blade firmly to Leon’s neck. The King’s man made no sound and, though defiant, complied.
“Give me rope, snake,” Eamon told him.
“Will you hang yourself with it?” Leon asked acridly.
“I fear not.”
“Then I am afraid that I have none I can spare.”
Eamon tensed his muscles as though to knife across the throat; Leon gasped. Eamon laughed cruelly.
“Next time you will not have the chance to gasp. Get the rope,” he commanded.
Leon drew a length of rope from where it was wound about his belt. The gesture was slow and cumbersome, for Eamon allowed him to use only one hand.
At last the coil of rope was in Leon’s hand. “Good,” Eamon told him. “Hold it, and kneel down.”
Leon stiffened.
“Kneel!” Eamon hissed.
Leon knelt. Setting his foot heavily on one of the man’s legs to keep him from bolting, Eamon tucked the knife into his belt before binding Leon’s hands together so tightly that the man winced when the knots were drawn firm. Eamon regretted it, but it had to be done.
The Hands watched him with strange awe as he stood back from his work. Leon knelt, bound, on the ground before them. Though the sight sickened him, Eamon smiled. He turned pejoratively to the Hands.
“You may go back to the Right Hand,” he said smoothly, “and tell him that I shall be in the city with my charge before nightfall tomorrow. For with Leon’s most genteel assistance guaranteed, the Serpent cannot but give me what I ask.”
“I will take no part with you, traitor!” Leon tried to leap to his feet, but Eamon struck him back harshly.
“Down, snake!” he snarled, and turned back to Febian. “I will discharge my business and you may yours.”
As he turned his back on the Hands and their pale and astonished faces, he trembled. He looked at Leon with a sarcastic smile.
