by Shea,Lisa
Conrad glanced at his companions, then back at Catherine. “Interrogate Shadow. It is certainly a thought,” he agreed, smiling with cold amusement.
Catherine flicked back a shoulder with a smooth motion and the swirling cloak exposed the sword blade’s hilt. In the bright moonlight the men could see the moss-green-dyed leather wrap on the hilt, held in place with bronze wire. In the ensuing silence, one of the bandits murmured to the other, “He is a Bowyer.”
Catherine nodded in agreement. It was time to increase the stakes. “I see you have heard of my clan and our sword fighting reputation. Let me assure you that if you try to prevent me in fulfilling my current assignment, I will spill the entrails of at least one of you. I may even slice open two or three of you, ensuring an agonizing death, before I am done.” She created eye contact with each mercenary in turn, confirming with each man that he was her chosen first victim. When she spoke again, she pitched her tone to be a melding of ice and steel.
“Which of you will volunteer to be the first to die screaming?”
The silence stretched on for a few moments while the men eyed the potential threat speculatively, sizing up the challenge. Catherine did not move. A tense calm settled across the group. Each person there had been in many fights; there was no compunction about one more. It would only take a word from Conrad to start a fierce, coordinated flurry of swords.
Catherine knew she had little hope of taking on all five well trained mercenaries, but there was no backing down now. With practiced ease she first tensed then relaxed each muscle group, watching for any sign of movement. The command would come from Conrad; these men were too disciplined to move until the signal was given. She would need to subdue Conrad first – if such a thing were even possible.
The mercenaries had changed their stance subtly, settling into combat readiness. The four subordinate men were focused on Catherine, but clearly watched Conrad for a sign.
A movement came from the courtyard; all eyes instinctively turned toward it. Mouse came scurrying out of the inn and ran quickly across the cobblestones to Conrad’s side. The smaller man seemed oblivious to the tension in the air and gave his news to his boss in a rapid, soft whisper.
“Shadow told the truth. There is no sign of the priest or his followers,” he reported in his barely audible voice. “I checked every room. Now what?”
The mercenaries relaxed slightly at hearing this information. Conrad took his hand off his sword and glanced over at Catherine. “So, any other interesting information to share with us?” he asked, his smile glinting in the moonlight.
Catherine returned Conrad’s gaze without saying a word. There was a long silence which Conrad made no move to break. When Catherine finally spoke, she pitched her voice to be low and reluctant, as if she were providing an unplanned concession.
“It is in my best interest to tell you, I suppose, as it will get you out of this area,” she offered in a growl. “The priest and his entourage left the inn earlier today in a great hurry. They headed north; in that direction lies the old stone bridge.”
Conrad eyed Catherine for a long while, considering. He crossed his arms, fingertips drumming on the heavy muscles of his forearm.
“Here is what I will do,” he offered at last. “We will make our way to the bridge and see if we pick up the trail. Yes, I am sure it is in your best interest to have us leave, and I will take that at face value.” His eyes sharpened. “However, if we find you have misled us for any reason, we will be back. When we find you - and we will - we will make sure you greatly regret having caused us to waste our time.”
Catherine nodded amicably and stepped back. “Good hunting.”
With an answering nod, Conrad turned on his heel and strode northwards. The mercenaries moved in closely after him.
Catherine remained motionless and carefully watched their movements until they had dissolved into the obsidian night. Then without a sound she turned and retreated down the alleyway in the opposite direction, regaining her watch position, furling herself back into the shadows.
* * *
In a window high over the square and opposite the Black Cock inn, Jack sat back in the ancient leather chair, its decaying hide crackling beneath him. He ran a hand through his thick hair, contemplating what he had seen.
The second floor room had been too high up to hear the conversation clearly, but an alliance between Conrad’s well trained mercenaries and Shadow’s sword prowess was definitely not a good thing.
Jack looked over at the elderly priest who lay slumbering peacefully in the corner of the room, surrounded by his three young acolytes. His brow furrowed as he considered his options.
He would be very happy when he had delivered the group safely to Worcester Cathedral.
Chapter 2
Jack cursed at his bad luck, careful not to let Father Berram hear him. The winter rain, freezing cold, was pouring down for the third day straight. The forest road was swamped in mud, grabbing greedily at their boots and allowing coarse roots to poke up in unexpected locations. Their dark brown cloaks were soaked through and draining their body heat with every step.
They could not afford to stop, however - the danger was too great. They had to press on to get to the cathedral.
To their credit, the three weary novices did not speak a word of complaint about their heavy, ice-water-logged clothes or the long hikes briefly interrupted by hurried meals. The young men assisted their elderly priest in turns, their huddled cloaks moving alongside his stooped form in a silent, steady march.
Jack ranged ahead and behind the group, his long, lean form taking the muddy road with ease. In his thirty-two years he had dealt with far worse weather conditions, but it did not make the task enjoyable. His dark hair, hanging wetly to his shoulders, lay matted against his head. Despite the icy cold against his neck, he refused to draw the hood up. Experience had taught him to put off any comfort which might interfere with hearing or seeing an enemy. Beneath his cloak he wore light leather armor and carried a long sword at his side. He hoped he would not have to use his weapon on this trip. If they came across bandits, he would be hard pressed to keep all four of his charges safe at the same time.
He was scouting in front of the group when a sharp cry split through the rain’s drumming. His sword was out in a flash and he sprinted back to check on his wards. To his relief, no bandits were in sight. Instead, one of the acolytes – Michael, the tall, thin member of the trio - was sitting on the ground, wincing in pain and holding his ankle. His two friends, Walter and John, crowded around him, examining the injury with sympathy.
Michael blinked away tears. “I think it is broken,” he murmured in a tremulous voice, a stalwart look masking the suffering evident in his motions. “I must have tripped over a root.” From his sitting position he hesitantly pressed the foot into the ground, then winced. “I cannot put any pressure on it.”
His eyes dropped guiltily. “I am sorry; I know I should have been more careful.” He rubbed at his ankle as if somehow the blood flow would heal the injury in seconds.
Jack scanned the surrounding forest, holding back another oath. He prayed Michael’s cry had not carried to unfriendly ears. “We should get off the road,” he directed. “I will see if I can find a solid walking stick for you. You are too big to carry, and we have to keep moving.”
He bustled the group into a small clearing and found them the partial shelter of a large oak tree. The men settled down to rest, sighing in gratitude as they crossed from the drenching rain into the quiet peace beneath the large branches. Jack ensured they were secure, then searched carefully through the nearby woods, looking for an appropriately sized staff to cut down for the injured lad.
A few minutes later, Jack found a likely young oak and hewed at it with his knife. He focused on the task, working his way through the hard wood with practiced ease. What a time for Michael to have tripped. The teen was rather gangly, and the ground had been rough, but still ...
Without knowing why, Ja
ck suddenly froze in his motions mid-cut. An overpowering sensation of being watched pressed in on him. He automatically closed his eyes and listened intently.
The forest seemed quiet, but not hushed. There was the muted warbling of birds in the trees, the steady patter of the rain cascading down through the leaves all around him. Still, he quickly sheathed his knife; his hand strayed to his sword.
Opening his eyes again, he turned around in place slowly, trying to pick out distinct sounds amongst the constant wet splush of cold rain impacting soaked mud. The trees glistened around him, light and dark stripes patterning his world.
The feeling of being watched only grew.
At last the words burst from him. “Who is there - show yourself.”
A moment went by, then two ... then a form slipped from within a stand of trees. Jack found himself face to face with Shadow. The man’s hood was drawn forward as he’d seen a few nights ago. Jack tensed, his breath coming out in slow, frosty clouds. Shadow could easily be the advance scout for the wolves’ heads.
Jack flexed his fingers on his blade’s hilt, but Shadow made no move to draw a sword. Instead, the cloaked figure stood still, silently watching Jack, apparently considering him.
Was Shadow an ally or a threat?
Jack could not afford the luxury of time. He glanced around again, but saw no other sign of movement. Jack brought his eyes back to meet Shadow’s – and stopped, realization hitting him.
Shadow was furious.
Jack now saw the sharp glint of anger in the eyes, the tightness in the form that was more than battle readiness. The heat was also quite evident when Shadow finally spoke in a tightly controlled, low growl.
“Why in God’s name have you stopped, Southerner?” Shadow snapped in exasperation. “Conrad’s crew is nearly upon you. They will have you in another ten minutes. They have brought a tracking dog with them; hiding cannot be an option.”
Ally.
Jack let out a breath, counting his blessings. He almost chuckled at Shadow’s use of the epithet Southerner, the name hurled at him when he scouted north past Wolverhampton. Apparently the man hailed from that region. His mind clicked through the available defensive options with lightning speed.
“There are still six of them?” He looked Shadow up and down, considering how Shadow had stood against the bandits in the courtyard, if indeed Shadow had not been working with them. He came to a quick decision. “If you are willing to help, I think we have a chance.”
Shadow’s head was shaking no even before Jack finished. “There is no way we can keep all four of them completely safe from harm,” came the furious objection. “I refuse to take a course of action that risks injury to any of the four.” There was a pause, then Shadow continued half to himself, “Circumstances have drawn me in too far as it is.”
Jack did not waste further time arguing; in a flash he turned and sprinted back toward the clearing, scanning the area rapidly as he reached it. The four religious men huddled beneath the tree; they looked up, startled, at his fast approach.
The elderly priest’s wrinkled face peered turtle-like from within his soaked cloak. “Is everything all right?” he asked tremulously.
The group looked past Jack as Shadow strode into the clearing behind him. Walter’s portly face beamed with pleasure, and he called out in surprise.
“Shadow!” With effort, Walter pushed himself up to a standing position, brushing his tousled blond hair out of his eyes. “It is great to see you again!”
John had stood with Walter, but at Walter’s outburst he flushed crimson in anger, his face almost matching his copper colored hair. His well-toned body flexed as he turned to send a hard elbow into Walter’s side.
Walter gasped at the impact, then flushed in shame and, sealing his mouth tight, looked down to the ground.
Jack was surprised that the novices would know this rogue swordsman, and wondered why they were reluctant to reveal that knowledge. An issue to investigate at a later date. Right now Conrad’s team was bearing down on him. He had to defend his charges.
Shadow had dropped down at Michael’s side and was deftly examining the ankle. The thin lad’s foot was swelling up by the minute; the wound was lumpy, violet, and Michael winced at each gentle touch. Shadow glanced at the two friends’ troubled eyes, then back at the injury. The hooded figure cursed softly in the lilting tones of Welsh. “It is broken. He will never get clear of the drawing net with his foot compromised.”
Jack dropped to a knee beside Shadow, answering in the same language, keeping his voice low. “I know you do not want to alarm the boys, but we must make a choice. Time is short and my choices are few. I have to stand and fight. Will you help?”
* * *
Catherine’s eyes flickered to Southerner in surprise. Her switch to Welsh had been instinctive, designed to shield the acolytes from her out loud musings. She hid in the lyrical language often, one of her childhood games she had never quite outgrown. That the Southerner knew Welsh was quite unexpected.
His sturdy arm brushed against hers, and she flinched away. She had been confused when the notorious loner first arrived in town. What odd coincidence had brought the wanderer in to meet the men she had been watching over? When he had prodded the foursome to leave, she had almost dropped her disguise, had almost stepped in to interfere. Instead, as always, she bided her time. In short order it had become clear Southerner had some sense of what he was doing.
Since then he had guided the religious group, surely and carefully, through the mud and rain along their path. She would not have expected that attention from the recluse she had heard tales of, the half-crazed outcast she had avoided deliberately when their paths had almost crossed on lonely roads.
Who was this man?
His arm grazed hers again, shaking her back into reality. Suddenly realizing how close Southerner was, Catherine quickly turned to look toward the ground so that deep shadows fell within her hood again. She saw that his sharp eyes were aware of her motion, but he did not press her further on it. Instead, his eyes went to the muscles of her arm, the sword she wore at her hip, and then over to look for a moment with tenderness at the four religious men clustered around them.
He kept his voice low, and she appreciated his care. Even though it was unlikely that the foursome spoke Welsh, they could still infer meaning from tone, and the last thing she wanted to do was to panic them.
The lilting rhythm flowed soothingly from his lips. “I know I have no right to ask you for assistance, but please, for their sakes ...”
Catherine heard the power behind his message, and it soaked into her very core. It would be so easy to stand by his side, to unite publicly against Conrad’s team, to ally herself with Southerner’s clear strength and skill. It could be one of Shadow’s last acts … the culmination of a four year legacy …
The longing rose so strongly that it became an almost tangible connection between them. She dropped her eyes to the ground, frustration growing and overwhelming her. Finally she ground out, “I cannot. I swore a vow.”
Father Berram’s tremulous voice came from behind the pair. “What is it that you two are saying? What is happening?”
Catherine took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, looking down into Michael’s pained eyes, holding his gaze for a long moment. There was no time to agonize over this. The wolves’ heads would be on them in only a few minutes. Something had to be done.
Standing quickly, she gave a short, descending whistle. Within moments a tall black stallion with a white blaze on its forehead moved quietly into the clearing. Catherine strode over and laid a hand fondly against his mane.
She reverted to English, to ensure the group understood the plan. “I will take Michael myself,” she instructed. “If we split up, and you have the ability to move quickly, we have a chance.”
Southerner and Michael both cried “No!” in unison, causing her to turn in surprise.
Southerner spoke first, his voice clipped. “How can I know
I can trust you? These are my charges. The last I saw, you were holding conversations with the mercenaries. This could all still be a trap.”
Catherine scoffed in exasperation. “It is because of my intervention - at great personal risk - that you made it out of town alive,” she retorted hotly.
She turned to look down at Michael. “Michael, surely you trust me ...?”
Michael’s thin, pale face blossomed crimson. “Of course I trust you, Shadow. However, we made a vow - Walter, John, and me. We promised to stick together no matter what. What kind of a vow would that be if I ran off at the first setback?”
The accusation struck Catherine to her core. With everything she was facing, with the brutal choices which lay before her, it was as if Michael had chosen the one statement which caused her soul to echo in understanding. For a long moment she found she could not speak.
Finally she brought herself back to the dangerous present. “You are right,” she agreed, her voice somber. “A vow should be held to even when it is most difficult. Perhaps especially when it is most difficult.”
The man by her side turned to her, the gentle, musical language of Welsh coming to her again, and her tension eased at its sound on his lips. The message, however, was a velvet-wrapped reminder of danger. “This brings us to our main problem, that of Conrad closing in on us.”
Catherine nodded in agreement. He was right, of course, and time was growing short. She raced through her few options, glancing at Father Berram’s shoulder pack for a long moment. “I would wager the bandits do not really want the religious men. They want what they carry. They will therefore seek to track and apprehend anybody who they feel has that object.”
She stood holding the reins of her black horse, staring off into the distance, trying to calculate if her insane plan had any chance of success. If only the pursuers had been Carl and Craig. She would have gladly stood with Southerner to slay those two abominations, her Council’s orders be damned. Against Conrad’s team, though, the odds of failure were just too high.
