Not knowing where they were was worse than being attacked. They were like rattlesnakes hidden in the grass, unseen, not even rattling. Just curled up, waiting, ready to strike.
23
Martyn gripped Wanderer’s reins and forced himself to stroll long-legged and easy toward the campfire set into the hollow below. After catching up with the group of ten men the night before, he’d observed them during the day, spotting several wearing uniforms with King Respen’s black, crossed daggers. He hadn’t recognized any of them, so none of them should recognize him either, not with most of his knives tucked away.
If he was going to learn what was going on, he needed to get inside wherever these men were going. And to do that, it would be best if he joined these men and became one of them now. It would arouse less suspicion when he got where they were going.
As he approached the campfire, he stepped on sticks and clomped across patches of stone. When he was within earshot and the men around the campfire had stiffened, reaching for weapons, he cupped a hand around his mouth. “You there by the campfire. Permission to enter?”
The men relaxed, dropping their hands from their sword hilts at the standard greeting. One stirred the pot hanging over the fire. “Come on in, stranger. Food’s hot.”
That unspoken traveler’s code. Approach as a friend; be welcomed as a friend.
Martyn plastered on a smile and strode into the campfire light, looping Wanderer’s reins over a log next to the men’s horses. After he dug out his plate and fork from his saddlebag, he sank onto one of the fallen logs the men had dragged into a circle around the campfire.
The man with the ladle scooped what looked like a thick beef and bean stew onto Martyn’s plate. The rest of the men started into their own food once again, though now silent and staring.
Martyn blew on a bite and popped it in his mouth. Not too bad, though Kayleigh would’ve…
No, don’t think about Kayleigh. Concentrate on the mission.
He tucked into the food, letting the silence linger. The questions would come, if he waited. They’d only get suspicious if he did the questioning.
The man with the ladle stopped stirring and dropped onto a seat. “Where are you bound?”
Martyn chewed a bite of beef slowly. He’d have to take a chance. “Kilm. My town ran me out last fall. Didn’t like having one of King Respen’s soldiers living there. Never mind my family has lived in Keestone for six generations.”
Even if these men weren’t headed for Kilm—but Martyn was betting they were—the mention of Kilm and his made-up backstory should convince them he was on their side.
Several of the men nodded, their shoulders relaxing. Good. Exactly the response he’d been looking for.
“Hopefully Lord Norton can deliver on all his promises.” One of the men stabbed a bite, muttering a few curse words. “We deserve something after all the fighting and dying we did.”
Martyn grunted agreement. He’d been right. They were headed toward Kilm, and Lord Norton was neck-deep in whatever was going on.
“Got nothing but the clothes on my back out of the war.” Another man picked at the tattered remains of his uniform.
“Not enough of my uniform left to salvage. I had to steal these.” Martyn tugged at the buckskin trousers Kayleigh made him. They were too new and clean to match the wandering vagabond he was claiming to be otherwise.
That got him a few more nods and relaxed muscles. Just like that, he was one of them.
“It wasn’t so bad in Hakon. I would’ve been all right, except for the Rovers attacks.” A man across the campfire from Martyn shook his head. “King Respen at least managed to keep the Rovers under control.”
Never mind that men like these were the problem, even as they complained about it. Martyn kept his expression as neutral as he could manage.
An older man in his forties snorted. “I won’t serve another Eirdon king. I remember all too well how the last one messed up the country. Keevan was a shiftless boy, and he’ll make a worse king than his father.”
Martyn shoveled in another bite of the stew to hide his stiffening muscles. Where did his loyalty stand? He’d given his loyalty to King Keevan out of a sense of duty to Leith all those months ago. But in the two times he’d met him, King Keevan’s hard-eyed gaze and frank words merited some sort of respect.
These men around this campfire should’ve been Martyn’s people. He should’ve shared their loyalties, their dissatisfaction with how the war ended.
Was it possible Martyn was more on King Keevan’s side—on Leith’s side—than he’d realized?
Martyn tried not to choke on the hay dust in the semi-darkness in the barn at the edge of Kilm. Shafts of light speared through the cracks in the barn’s siding, only visible above the layers of hay piled along the walls. One of the other men coughed, and a horse snorted to clear its nostrils before it went back to munching hay.
There were now twelve of them in this barn and their horses, crowded in a hollowed out section among stacks of bales and drifts of loose hay. Waiting. For what, Martyn would have to find out with the rest of them.
A sneeze built in Martyn’s head. He pinched his nose, his nostrils tingling and burning, until the sensation passed.
Some scout he’d turned out to be. Why hadn’t he done a more thorough search when he’d scouted Kilm before?
But he’d been so sure Lord Norton would keep the Blades and his scheme close to him. That’s what King Respen had always done. And why would Martyn have thought to search a rundown barn—identical to every other rundown barn scattered along the edges of town—filled with innocent-looking hay?
Not that Martyn had stumbled across anything terribly illegal yet.
The barn door, out of sight behind mound of hay, creaked. Martyn straightened and sensed more than saw the other men stiffen as well.
A slim man with a small nose and squinty eyes rounded the hay bales and halted in a shaft of light and dustmotes. General Wentle, the man who had commanded King Respen’s army. Even this long after the battle, his uniform remained crisp and clean.
Finally. Something good and suspicious.
Martyn stood with the others but hung back in the shadows. While Martyn knew General Wentle by sight, he hadn’t personally worked with him on the battlefield the way most of the other Blades had. Odds were, General Wentle wouldn’t recognize Martyn in broad daylight, much less in this partial light.
“Attention, men.” General Wentle’s high tenor cut through the dust-laden air. “You are here because you fought bravely for King Respen Felix, and now you have heeded Lord Norton’s call to rally once again. Extend the same brave loyalty to him as you did King Respen, and he will right the wrongs that were done to you.”
The men gave soft cheers, and Martyn joined them. What wrongs did Lord Norton plan to right? The scarcity of food in some towns? The anger simmering between towns that supported the Resistance and those that supported King Respen? More war would only make that worse.
Life was tough. Swaying to the promises of every man claiming he could make it better wouldn’t help matters any.
But these men had taken the bait, and now General Wentle had them snared.
“Follow me in single file. No noise.” General Wentle spun on his heels and marched out the barn door.
Martyn collected Wanderer and let most of the men fall into line ahead of him before he found a place near the back. Not the very back. That would’ve been almost as noticeable as the front of the line.
Outside, the setting sun cast uncertain shadows across the prairie. Lights shone in a few of the houses and businesses of Kilm, far enough down the road that no one from the town would be able to see what was happening at this barn clearly. To Martyn’s left, two men rode around a small herd of cattle.
General Wentle swung onto a small, dark brown horse and set out north. Martyn mounted Wanderer, sticking to his place in line.
After only a few hundred yards, they reached the Hawkpine Creek. Their
horses’ footsteps clopped and splashed in the shallow water. In an hour or so, any sign that horses had come through here would be washed away.
At a sound behind him, Martyn turned in his saddle. The herd of cattle lowed as they ambled along the creek’s bank and behind the barn, trampling whatever tracks Martyn and the other men might have left.
No wonder Martyn had never seen anything or found tracks. He would’ve had to be at Kilm the exact moment Lord Norton moved a new group of men, otherwise he’d never spot them. During all that rain and sleet last fall, Lord Norton had probably moved them before Martyn even arrived.
General Wentle led them deeper into the Sheered Rock Hills, still riding in the Hawkpine Creek. The water grew deeper and faster, but still only came up to Wanderer’s belly. Martyn lifted his toes to keep them dry.
After half an hour, they reached a section of a canyon where two rock walls buttressed the creek. General Wentle urged his horse forward. The horse snorted and lunged against the current, though even at its deepest, the water only reached the horse’s chest.
Martyn directed Wanderer into the fast-flowing water when it was his turn. Wanderer blew a few deep breaths and forged against the current. Water splashed over the bottoms of Martyn’s boots up to his knees.
As soon as they were clear of the rocks, the land opened into a broad valley, the sides bordered by cliffs and jagged mountains with a tall waterfall at the far end. The creek cut through the middle of the valley, and beside it, rows upon rows of tents, lean-tos, and small cabins dotted the valley.
This explained the lack of tracks this spring. The Rovers, King Respen’s former soldiers…they were here. And there were a lot of them.
What was their target? And when? He couldn’t send King Keevan’s army off into the Hills on half-formed intelligence.
And he needed those answers soon. King Keevan and Lord Alistair would both leave for Stetterly within a week to get there in time for Leith and Renna’s wedding two weeks from now. If Martyn wanted to report before they left, he’d have only a day or two here for gathering information.
A man dressed in a lieutenant’s uniform directed Martyn and the other men to a far end of the valley. “We don’t have any spare tents for you, and you might want to construct a lean-to for tonight. But it won’t be long. I’ve been told we’ll be moving out soon.”
How soon? And to where?
And maybe just as importantly, why? Gathering a secret army. Reinstating King Respen’s army officers to their former positions. All for what?
If General Wentle and the lieutenants had regained their standing, had the Blades as well?
Martyn kept his head down as he unsaddled Wanderer and set about constructing a lean-to. The spring night would be freezing without proper shelter.
As he collected a bundle of pine branches, he glanced at one of the men a few feet away. “How soon do you think we’ll move out?”
“Don’t know.” The man shrugged. “I heard Lord Norton was providing food and work for those who were hurt by the end of the war, and that’s enough for me.”
“What do you think his plan is?” Martyn grabbed another branch.
“Don’t care. Anything Lord Norton does is bound to be better than wandering Acktar.”
Martyn gritted his teeth. Did loyalty matter so little? What was Lord Norton going to accomplish? Another war?
For some reason, Martyn didn’t want another war. He didn’t want a return to a reign like King Respen’s. King Keevan was king now, and Martyn would fight to keep it that way.
Starting now.
That night, Martyn rolled out of his lean-to and peered into the darkness. Soft snores came from one of the nearby lean-tos while the fires simmered in low coals.
He eased to his feet and crept deeper into the massive camp. Somewhere in the center he should find General Wentle’s cabin. Surely they had maps or sketches or something to indicate a target.
Deeper into the camp he reached the section of cabins. On one of the cabins, a flag stood silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky. Martyn couldn’t see the colors, but if he were to guess, it would either be Lord Norton’s emblem of a black mountain lion against dark green or King Respen’s banner of dusky blue with black, crossed daggers.
Most likely, that was the command cabin. Martyn slid between the cabins and paused in a shadow.
Something moved.
Martyn froze. A man eased along the wall of the command cabin. He paused beside the door and glanced around. Something about his stance seemed familiar.
When the man turned, the light from one of the fires shone on his face. John Uldiney. He’d been the Seventh Blade. Was he Fifth Blade now?
If one Blade was here, they all were. Martyn wouldn’t be able to sneak in tonight, especially since he didn’t know where the other four Blades were.
Once Uldiney strolled around the corner of the command cabin, Martyn eased deeper into the shadows. He’d have to come up with some other way to find out what was going on. And soon. Acktar’s future might depend on it.
Martyn halted in oiling his saddle as a commotion broke out at the far end of the valley near the creek entrance. A few of the other men around him also paused in their work. Would this be the opportunity for information that Martyn had been waiting for?
“Attention! Gather at the streambank!”
Martyn joined the other men from his area of camp as they strolled through the encampment. Near the creek, the cabins and lean-tos stopped, leaving a broad space.
Lord Norton rode past the ranks of men, his angular face tight. Though not a large man, his body exuded the confidence of someone comfortable with his own skills.
Martyn crossed his arms and leaned against the cabin behind him. This was about to get interesting.
The five Blades trailed Lord Norton, though they were dressed in brown rather than black. Martyn had to force himself not to duck out of sight. They wouldn’t be able to pick out his face among the scores of men before them.
Lord Norton halted his horse, one hand resting on his thigh. His gaze swept over them, as if assessing their strengths and weaknesses with that one glance. “Gather your supplies, hone your weapons, and prepare to march at dawn. The time has come to overthrow this impostor calling himself king. We will take back our country and return it to the peace and prosperity we enjoyed under King Respen.”
The men around Martyn cheered and stabbed their fists in the air. Some of them shouted insults about King Keevan. The noise echoed off the valley walls, turning the cheers into a roar.
Martyn jabbed his fist into the air to fit in, but a knot formed in his stomach. What was Lord Norton’s plan? He had barely five hundred men, a far cry from the thousands both sides had gathered during the war.
What could he do with five hundred men? That wasn’t nearly enough to take Nalgar Castle. Was he planning on gathering reinforcements from the other lords that once supported King Respen? Something like that would take time, and was bound to be noticed. Yet, everything Lord Norton had done so far hinted at secrecy. Was it possible that he had something else planned instead of a full-scale war?
If he wasn’t going to attack Nalgar Castle, and he wasn’t going to start another war, how did he plan to overthrow King Keevan?
Martyn stilled. King Keevan would leave for Leith and Renna’s wedding soon. He and his men would be vulnerable out on the prairie. Would Lord Norton attack then? Or would he wait for King Keevan to leave and take Nalgar Castle while it was undermanned?
As Lord Norton forged his way through the men toward the command cabin, Martyn kept groups of men between him and the Blades. Surely Lord Norton would discuss some last-minute planning with General Wentle and the Blades.
Martyn followed them at a distance through the jostling bustle that had once been the camp. It seemed everyone now had somewhere to be and something to do right that minute and couldn’t be bothered to get out of anyone’s way while they were at it.
Lord Norton entered the com
mand cabin, followed by General Wentle. Four of the Blades joined them, but the fifth—Former Fourth Blade Tooley—remained on the front porch. Martyn eyed him as he circled around the cabin in the crowd. Tooley seemed to be content to remain on the porch, glaring at anyone who stepped too close.
Martyn wound his way closer to the cabin. There, at the rear of the cabin, a stack of firewood piled beneath a window. Someone didn’t want to walk all the way around the cabin to retrieve more firewood.
Martyn strolled up to the wood pile and knelt. He peeked through the window. A bed stood against the wall, pegs holding clothes beside it. Across from him, a partially open door led into the main room where a few figures hunched around a table.
After a glance around to make sure no one was paying attention to him, Martyn drew a knife and worked it between the window panes. After a few minutes, he lifted the latch and pulled the panes open a crack.
The voices were muffled, speaking in low tones that didn’t carry. Martyn sheathed his knife and picked up a log from the stack of firewood. The best way to fit in was to look busy, even if that meant moving the stack of firewood over a few feet one log at a time.
“…avoid Sierra…ruin surprise…scout…”
Martyn gently picked up two logs and set them down on his new stack a few feet down the wall from the original stack.
“…Mountainwood…supplies…eight days march…”
Eight days march? Martyn stacked two more logs. What was eight days march from here? Pretty much anything. But also brought them past Mountainwood? That wasn’t anywhere near Nalgar Castle or King Keevan’s route to Stetterly.
“…wedding…Stetterly…”
Martyn froze, logs poised above his new stack. Wedding. Stetterly. Eight days march.
Lord Norton wasn’t planning on attacking King Keevan directly. He planned to take the town of Stetterly first.
King Keevan’s guards would be alert while the king and his family traveled. For most of the trip, they wouldn’t be farther than a day from a Resistance town. If trouble happened, there was a good possibility King Keevan, his wife, and their child could ride to safety.
Deliver (The Blades of Acktar Book 4) Page 21
