And then again, what if this was not the cavalry at all, but some group of as yet unknown protagonists in Alberon’s complex dealings.
Wynter sighed and ran her hand over her face. Could nothing be simple? All right, she decided. I’ll go have a look, then make my decision.
She regretted having to leave Ozkar saddled up, but she promised him that as soon as she had satisfied her curiosity they would camp for the night. With a last fond scrub between his eyes, she tethered him to a long line and ran in the direction of the sounds.
It rapidly became clear that this site had been very well chosen. It would be next to impossible to get close without being seen. Wynter came to a frustrated halt, her back against a broad oak. The sounds from the camp were much clearer now, and she could occasionally hear men calling to each other in what sounded very much like Hadrish. This was not the cavalry.
She listened for a while, but was still too far away to make out anything of use. The ground sloped up to the south of camp, and Wynter skirted around behind this small rise to see if she could get a vantage point.
Once behind the hill, she dropped to the ground and scurried under cover. The camp was just over the rise, and she could clearly hear the men talking as they set up their tents. Peering up through the branches of her hiding place, Wynter took her time, looking for sentries. She would have to be very sly breasting that hill. There was little vegetation up there and she would be easily seen if she wasn’t careful.
A good four or five minutes passed with no sign of a lookout, so Wynter took a deep breath, covered her face to blend into the shadows, and eased out from hiding. Slowly belly-crawling up the leaf strewn slope, she thanked God for the recent rain. Without it, this hill would have been a noisy crackling hell of dry leaf-litter. As it was, it was still just damp enough to make no noise as she slithered upwards.
Halfway up the hill, a small sound froze her in place. Dropping her head, Wynter lay motionless for a moment, then turned her cheek into the ground and glanced in the direction of the noise. It took her a moment to find him, and when she did he was so close that she had to bite back a cry of shock. A darkly clad man, less than ten feet from her, quietly crawling through the vegetation to her right. His attention was focused upwards and he had not yet seen her.
Swallowing dryly, she began to ease herself backwards. With any luck, the man would just keep going and she would be able to sneak away through the woods before he knew she was there.
A sharp hiss from above stilled Wynter, and she snapped her head up to see another man, almost at the brow of the hill. He pointed Wynter out, and there was a flurry of movement beside her as the first man rolled and drew his knife. She didn’t even bother to look at him. She just scurried backwards until she got to the bottom of the hill, then got her legs under her and ran as fast as possible towards Ozkar.
It was obvious that these men couldn’t afford to make any noise, and the silent, wolfish way they rolled to their feet at the base of the hill and took off after her through the trees caused the hair to rise on the back of Wynter’s neck. She made no attempt to stay low, only ran at full tilt, her arms and legs pumping, trying to get as much distance between herself and the camp before turning and facing her pursuers.
Her mind was screaming at her. Don’t turn your back! Don’t turn your back! Turn and fight! If they get you on the ground, you’re dead! But she couldn’t seem to stop her arms and legs from churning and she felt her eyes beginning to start from their sockets. Oh, Christ! she thought. There’s two of them. What am I going to do?
She could hear them dashing through the bushes behind her. They had split and were attempting to flank her, one of them coming up very fast in a wide encompassing circle, while his companion gained on her from behind. They were hoping to cut her off and bring her down together.
She was beginning to lose her breath and she realised with a stab of despair that she wasn’t going to make it back to Ozkar. As she ran, she unsheathed her knife and zigged left to put more space between herself and the fast-paced man who was trying to cut off her escape. She dodged around a thick patch of bramble and lost sight of him. The fellow behind her was very close. She could hear him smashing through a bush, only yards away now.
She dodged again, leaping a deadfall, and cut left once more, putting even more space between herself and the man to her right. For the moment, it was just herself and the fellow behind her. She might have a chance if she could stop this desperate forward run and turn to face him; get him while he was alone, and slit him quickly, before she grew too tired to fight.
Still her pursuers maintained their silence. The only thing audible was the whisper of their feet in the leaf litter and the brief shushing rustle when one or the other of them leapt through a bush.
Up ahead, the ground rose sharply into a steep bank topped with the long body of a fallen tree. Wynter sped towards this slope, hoping to give herself an advantage over the man behind her. She could taste blood on her breath. She was running out of energy, it was now or never.
Lorcan’s voice spoke loud and calm in her head, Keep your knife low, darling, and strike upwards, just like I taught you. Remember? As she skidded to a sudden halt she pressed her arm straight down, holding her knife against her thigh, exactly as Lorcan had said. Wynter spun to face her attacker, just as he launched himself through the air to tackle her.
She was on the ground before she knew it, slamming backwards, all the air driven from her, and the man’s considerable weight bore down on top of her as he tried to press her into submission. She was stunned for a moment, and he had the chance to straddle her and bring his arm down hard across her windpipe. He was hot and panting, incredibly strong and smelling of sharp sweat and horse. Fear clenched Wynter’s heart as all the nightmares of the previous three nights flooded her mind.
She jerked her knife upwards, turning her head as she did so. As the blade came slicing up between the man’s legs, Wynter found herself glaring triumphantly into a pair of brown eyes shot through with gold flecks.
Razi jerked and made a sharp little guh as her knife came up into his groin. Wynter froze with a cry. She had no idea whether or not she’d cut him. Before she could do anything, there was a thud above her and a wild scattering of leaves as the second man leapt the dead tree and slithered down the hill.
Razi lifted his eyes to the new arrival and grated out a hoarse, “Don’t!”
Wynter hardly dared to hope. She turned her head to look up into the masked face of the man sliding into place beside her, and whispered, “Christopher?”
Christopher’s knife was already pressed to her throat. As he registered her voice, his fury changed to shock and he jerked the blade away from her neck. He lay still for a moment, as though not trusting his eyes. Then he gently pulled the scarf from her face. Wynter couldn’t help but smile as his clear grey eyes creased up in joy.
“Razi,” he said. “You’ve finally apprehended the scoundrel who stole my coat.”
Razi, still frozen in place, huffed dryly. “Oh aye,” he said, “though I think the scoundrel may well have apprehended me. Wynter? Could you perhaps…?”
Wynter laughed as Christopher leant forward to look between herself and Razi. He squinted theatrically, as though peering down a rabbit hole, and raised an eyebrow at the position of her knife. “Oh my …,” he breathed. “Tell you what, Razi, swap places, will you? I do so love a woman who knows what to do with her hands.”
Company
“Good God…” Razi’s stunned voice trailed off into muttered Arabic.
Wynter put her hand over her mouth, torn between laughter and apology. Her friend was sitting on the leafy slope, his long legs splayed, his body hunched as he examined the slit her knife had left in the crotch of his trousers. Christopher was kneeling by his side. Wary of the nearby camp, they spoke in hushed tones.
“Good God.” Razi held the torn fabric apart and gaped at the long shallow cut high on the inside of his thigh. “Wynter! You almost g
elded me!”
Christopher chortled. Razi turned to him in wounded dismay, and Christopher turned his palms up in apology, trying to swallow his laughter. “Sorry, friend! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t…” He started laughing again and had to turn his head so that Razi’s hurt look wouldn’t push him over the edge entirely. “After all,” he chuckled, getting himself under some control. “It ain’t like we were playing patty-cakes. We were fully intent on slitting the poor woman’s throat.”
This bald truth stunned them all into silence and stole the smile that had begun to creep into Razi’s face. They’d all come so close. One small slip of blade or hand and any one of them could have inflicted real harm on someone they loved.
Wynter swallowed hard. “Chance would have been a fine thing, Christopher Garron,” she said softly. “You being such clay-footed creatures, and so timid in battle. Be grateful I decided to take mercy on you, and thank your Gods that I do not demand your eternal obsequience as tribute.”
Christopher gave her a shaky smile. “What are you doing here, girly?” he asked, his eyes grave.
Razi pressed his hand against his thigh and stared at Wynter for a moment, then he rose abruptly to his feet. “Let’s save all that,” he said. “We need to get some distance between us and them.” He began to pick his way down the slope, grousing as he did. “Good God, Wynter Moorehawke, if this cut rubs against my saddle, I shall tan your hide.”
“Don’t you want to see who they are, Razi?” she said, leaping to her feet. She had to restrain herself from taking his arm as though he had lost the leg entirely and needed her support. Truth be told, she wanted to fling her arms around the two men and squeeze them both until their heads popped off. Razi was already limping away and Christopher was gazing anxiously in the direction of the camp, his posture tight.
Razi gestured for her to catch up. “Come on,” he grunted. “We can check on them tomorrow. Let’s get some distance.”
Wynter realised that he was trying to take her away from the men in camp and get her to safety, and she was instantly filled with impatience. This struck her as so utterly funny that she grinned. Would they ever, ever change?
“Razi!” she said, laughing.
“What?” He turned to look at her, flinging his hands out in exasperation, still backing resolutely away from the camp.
“My horse is this way!”
Razi gritted his teeth, turned sharply without pause and stalked away in the direction she had pointed. Christopher chuckled and she heard his light footsteps as he jogged to catch up.
They gathered up the horses and put a good thirty minutes’ ride behind them before setting up their camp. It was falling rapidly to dusk, and they set about their work with maximum efficiency and minimum talk.
The men didn’t seem to be bothered with bivouacs so Wynter didn’t unpack hers. It would be a hot night, a groundsheet and cloak would do. Like Wynter, they were camping cold, so there was no fire. Instead, Christopher combined their supplies and set about soaking some horse-bread in a small pot. He added spices and dried fish and shaved an apple into it as Wynter and Razi tended to the horses.
Razi kept looking at her as they were working. She smiled at him, but he just tightened his jaw and turned his face back to the horses. Wynter felt a knot of tension tighten in her chest and she tried not to get angry before she had any good reason to.
By the time they were done, Christopher was finished laying out their bedrolls. He had arranged them in a loose triangle in the small clearing, with the pot at its centre where a fire would normally be.
“Wash yourself first,” he said, pointing to a copper bowl full of water that he’d set aside for them.
Wynter stood back to allow Razi first go, but he gestured that she go ahead while he undressed. It was so delicious to wash herself with water that she longed to strip and plunge headfirst into the bowl, but she satisfied herself with scrubbing her face and neck and arms to the shoulder, then stood aside to dry herself while Razi gave himself a good wash.
Once dry, Wynter stood for a moment, her tunic dangling from her hand, and closed her eyes. For the first time in six days she felt safe enough just to stand and breathe, to let the world drift off while she took her ease. Her body was utterly spent, her head stuffed with thistledown, and she was certain she would sleep like the dead tonight.
She opened her eyes to find both men staring at her. Razi, drying his neck, glared at her from angry eyes. Christopher crouched expressionless by the pot. Wynter lifted her chin. “It would appear that you two got lost on your journeys to Italy and the Moroccos,” she said. “How fortunate that you happened to meet up. What a tremendous coincidence that you both ended up here.”
Christopher lowered his eyes and went back to stirring the food.
Razi continued to glare. “Did you leave your father alone?” he asked flatly.
Wynter’s heart dropped, and her eyes flew to Christopher, whose head shot up at the question. He stared at her, his spoon poised over the bean mush.
For one shameful moment, looking into Christopher’s wide eyes, Wynter was tempted to lie. She was sorely, sorely tempted to say that she had stayed with Lorcan to the end, and only left him when it was too late to do more. But instead, she just nodded. Christopher dropped his eyes in sorrow and disbelief.
“You…? After all that man has done?” Razi’s voice was low and cold, and Wynter burned under his terrible disappointment in her. “How could you, Wynter? How could you abandon him like that?”
“Leave her be, Razi,” commanded Christopher softly. “We all abandoned Lorcan.” He lifted his eyes to meet those of his friend. “And all for the same bloody reason. So leave her alone, and come sit for your meal.”
Razi deflated at the quiet bitterness in his friend’s voice. Wynter smiled gently at him. He looked away, nodded and crossed to hunch down by the food pot.
They ate their fill in silence, then Christopher covered the remaining food and put it aside for breakfast. “Bloody beans,” he grumbled. “My gas could fill a swamp.”
Razi went to scour their bowls while Christopher carefully split an apple in three. “Here,” he said, holding Wynter’s segment out to her. She reached for it and their eyes met. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded gratefully. “Aye.”
He looked her up and down uncertainly, released her portion of the apple and looked away. Razi returned and sat cross-legged on his bedroll, his sewing kit in his hand. Christopher tossed him his third of the apple and Razi caught it neatly.
“It’s the last one,” said Christopher, lying back against his saddle and looking up into the trees. The horses shifted quietly in the gathering gloom. Wynter sighed and bit into her apple; it was good juicy and sharp.
“What are you doing here, Wynter?” Razi’s deep voice was grudging, and he did not look up from sewing the hole in his britches.
“Same as you, Razi. I’m heading for Alberon’s camp to see what he is up to.”
Christopher snorted. “Good luck finding it. We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of aught since we set off. We’ve been chasing our bloody tails this last week. Those buggers over there were the first sign we’d found since we trotted into this forest. You know something, Razi,” he mused, picking apple-skin from his teeth. “I think that Comberman spy back at the palace was pulling your tail. Your brother’s nowhere near here.”
Wynter sat up straight. “Don’t you know where he is?” she exclaimed, a little seed of excitement growing in her chest.
“No, Wynter, we do not,” said Razi, snapping off his thread. He grimaced sarcastically at her as he put his needle away. “Do you?”
Wynter grinned at him and Razi’s eyes widened. Christopher propped himself on his elbow.
“Good God!” said Razi, and he actually started to grin. “Wynter, are you serious?”
Wynter told her friends about Isaac’s ghost and the Indirie Valley. She told them about her encounter with the Combermen
and the Haun, and their remarks about the Rebel Prince. By the time she was finished it had come on to night. An almost full moon filtered down through the trees, and it gave the silently listening men the air of watchful spectres in the gloom.
“The Indirie Valley,” murmured Christopher. “We’ll have to ponder our maps tomorrow, friend.”
“But I know the route,” said Wynter. “There’s another ten days journey left.”
The pale smudge that was Christopher’s face bobbed as he nodded his understanding.
“Haunardii,” whispered Razi. With his dark skin and clothes, he was almost completely invisible, but Wynter could see his eyes flashing as he lifted them to look at her. “Oh sis, what is he thinking?”
“I know,” she said softly. “Bad enough the Combermen, after everything our fathers have done to rid this place of intolerance… but the Haunardii? What does Alberon expect will happen if he tries to wrest the throne from Jonathon with those allies? The people will revolt against him. There’s still too much bitterness left after The Haun Invasion. Also…” she paused. “Also Razi, there is the matter of my father’s invention. This machine of his. This Bloody Machine.”
Wynter barely made out the movement as Razi lifted his hand and ran it across his eyes. Christopher shifted quietly against his bedroll.
“Do you know anything about it?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Only that my father seems to fear it. And my brother seems in some way to have gained control of it.”
The Crowded Shadows Page 3
