by Dora Machado
By the gods, she recognized the last man!
The broad face, the thick beard, she’d seen this man before, in the kingdom, wearing the king’s colors, although he was not wearing them now. Orell. He was the brute who had come with the king’s magistrate, the one who had taken such great interest in all aspects of her torture, the one who had seemingly enjoyed witnessing her destruction.
What was he doing here? Were Aponte and the magistrate hiding in the forest as well?
Lusielle shivered in fear and yet she couldn’t imagine her portly husband or the delicate magistrate crouching in the dark wood, enduring the elements. More likely, they had sent Orell and his men to finish her off.
Had the lady known? Had her bodyguard Tatyene encouraged Lusielle’s escape only to deliver Lusielle to her pursuers?
They had to know.
Lusielle crouched among the poplars and tried to catch her breath. She felt as witless as she was breathless. Her feet hurt, her back ached and her legs cramped with exhaustion. She had left her sickbed too early. She was weak, hungry and thirsty, and any of those conditions could cause her to blunder. She had almost walked into the snare and yet she hadn’t.
But if she wanted to be free tomorrow, she had to keep going tonight.
She crept away from the men and headed deeper into the forest, looking for a place to cross the brook. She was a good ways upstream when she heard a racket. There was a shout, then she heard the sound of bodies crashing through the woods and the clash of swords. The sounds of struggle stalked her as she stole through the forest. Something—or someone—was running up the trail and engaging the stalkers.
But who would want to come after her?
Only one man.
And why?
So that he can take pleasure in killing you himself.
Lusielle knew without a doubt that the Lady of Tolone couldn’t be trusted and yet her instincts told her to run. She had to get away from this place. Now.
She heard the cry of a dying man closely behind her. For an instant, she wasn’t sure what to do. She ducked behind a fallen tree. Someone leapt over her, running swiftly. A second man attempted the jump, but landed, face first, on the ground. With a feral grunt, he scampered to get up. His little eyes fell on the shadows where Lusielle hid.
Realization dawned on Orell’s dreaded face. A sneer bloomed on his lips.
Lusielle ran, crashing through the woods like a doe in full flight.
The man took up the chase, bellowing for his warriors to join him. “I got her,” he shouted.
But he didn’t have her yet.
Perhaps if she were stronger, she would have been able to outrun the men. Perhaps if she knew the terrain, she might have been able to make a swifter escape. As it was, her strength was waning and her breathing had grown ragged and short. To make matters worse, the soggy ground suddenly quit beneath her feet. She balanced at the edge of a cliff. She turned to see the stalkers, inching toward her.
Orell emerged from the tree line. “For a wench, you can run. I’ll give you credit for that. But now it’s time for you to be nice and helpful.”
Before she knew it, Lusielle was on the ground, kicking and trying to scream despite the gag the man stuffed in her mouth. Her wrists were roped together and strapped against her belly, and her arms were immobilized by the same rope, coiled around her waist and knotted at her back.
“Up.” The man clutched her braid, dragged her to her feet and, bracing her against his body, manhandled her into facing the wooded slope. “You might as well step out where I can see you,” he shouted. “Quickly, before I slit her throat.”
The serrated edge of a hunting knife tickled Lusielle’s neck. She didn’t gulp, not even when a tall, powerfully built figure stepped out from the forest with his sword unsheathed. She recognized the bloodstained sword first, the curled blade with the black stone at the hilt. She had trouble making out the sword wielder’s face, as half his face was covered in blood, presumably his opponent’s blood because he didn’t seem to be wounded. The other half of his face—where the flushed scar flared like a flaming beacon—was alight with murderous rage.
Lusielle had trouble both breathing and thinking. What was Lord Brennus doing here?
The man at her back barked a command. “Drop the sword.”
Lord Brennus flashed his mirthless smile. “Orell, my old friend, have you forgotten the code? You’re in the Free Territory of Tolone. You’re forbidden here.”
“Forbidden, you say?” Orell chortled. “There’re always ways to hunt the king’s outlaws. I won’t ask again. Drop your sword or I’ll kill the woman. She’s nothing to me.”
The glare the lord directed in Lusielle’s direction was more than a scolding; it was an accusation. She knew without knowing that she had gotten him caught. Whoever was after her was hunting more than just her. They were hunting him as well. What foul games were these highborn playing?
Suddenly, Orell scored her back, grinding the hilt of his knife into her healing wound. She flinched but managed to swallow a startled cry.
The lord barked. “Leave her be!”
“I bet you I can make her wail.” Orell traced his knife across her belly. “I bet you I can make her suffer even more than you can. Surrender your weapon or watch me start.”
The lord dropped the sword.
“I guess he wants you more than you know.” Orell signaled to his men, who seized on the lord like crows on scraps. Within a few moments, they had him disarmed with his hands trussed behind his back.
“As soon as the locals spot you, you’ll be detained if not killed outright,” the lord Brennus said. “The people of the Free Territories abhor the king’s so-called justice.”
“Do you think I’m a fool?” Orell said. “I’ve got a plan, one you won’t like much.”
Whatever response the lord gave was smothered under a gag. He managed to kick two of Orell’s men to oblivion, but despite his efforts, he fought against too many, especially considering that his hands were tied behind his back and he no longer had a weapon.
“Allow me.” Orell shoved Lusielle into the arms of another brute and hit the lord several times. When he was done, the lord Brennus was bleeding from the nose and barely conscious. Orell and his lackeys dragged him and Lusielle down a slippery track toward the main road.
A hitched wagon waited, hidden among the shadows. The night was dark and the rain continued to fall, but she made out a draft horse and a cart. A long box was strapped to the back of the cart.
Lusielle blinked away the raindrops. One of the thugs was lifting the lid off a wooden coffin. As she was hustled toward it, she wished she hadn’t figured out what it was, because if Orell had an option between bringing in his prisoners dead or alive, he had already made his choice.
Chapter Ten
ORELL THREW BREN INTO THE COFFIN. His shoulder hit the bottom of the box with a smarting thud. Orell was no gentler with the woman. When she balked, Orell put her out of her senses with a brutal backhand, then crammed her slender body into the tiny space behind Bren. They both lay on their sides, back to back, with their faces shoved against the coffin’s sides.
For all his brutality, Orell wasn’t stupid. He had come up with a sound plan. No one in Tolone would take notice of a humble funeral procession, and travelers were likely to stay away from a coffin.
“Enjoy the ride,” Orell said, before he slammed the heavy lid on Bren’s face.
Then he heard pounding, a hammer beating on nails and nails crunching into the wood. Ropes rustled against wood as Orell and his men secured the coffin to the wagon.
Damn the Twins. Bren was livid. He knew better than this. He should have taken an escort, or at the very least, alerted some of his men as to his whereabouts. But he had been careless in his fury, not just because the woman had escaped, but because when he had finally gotten up the nerve to do his duty, she was missing.
Damn Orell.
Damn the woman. What could have possessed her to a
ttempt an addlebrained escape on a night like this?
The cart lurched, and then wobbled into a staggering roll as it zigzagged down a steep trail. Both he and Lusielle sloshed like soggy sacks in the cramped box. Lusielle’s limp body was tucked tightly against his back. She was unconscious but still breathed.
He started working on the gag right away. It was an old trick that Hato had taught him years ago. It entailed clenching and unclenching the jaw and pushing with the tongue. The tongue, Hato used to say, was a most powerful, if underestimated, muscle.
Time to test his theory.
Bren pushed until his face’s muscles were sore, all the while scraping the leather strap against the newly hewn boards at the bottom of the coffin. The pervasive stink of pine resin irritated his lungs. His own scent—damp leather and acrid sweat—permeated the air. A few hours passed by the time he finally managed to dislodge the strap and spit out the gag.
By then, the woman had woken up and gone into quiet panic. She gagged and wheezed, breathing too fast for her own good. Her body shook in a convulsive rigor. He sensed her madness cramming the limited confines of the coffin as her anxiety reached a point from where her mind might not be able to return.
“Panic kills,” he told her. “Get a hold of yourself.”
In what could have been bitter sobbing or mocking laughter, the woman’s shoulders shook against his back. He wasn’t getting through to her.
“Listen to me,” he said intently. “We’re getting out of here. It’s a promise. Do you hear me? I always keep my promises. You and I. We’re going to escape. Do you understand?”
He heard a muted rustling. He had her attention.
“These wretches want us alive,” he said, “at least for now. They bored small holes into the sides of the coffin. Press your nose against the holes and breathe.”
He felt her head shift.
“That’s right, take deep, even breaths. Good.” He paused, and thought about what to say that might calm her further. “We’re going to have to work together. First of all, I’m going to tackle your knots.” He scooted down and grappled with the ropes behind her back. “Be patient. They’re tight knots, but I think I can undo them.”
Time passed without much progress, but to her credit, the woman held on to her wits. Every so often, he succeeded in loosening one of Orell’s knots. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, but he kept going. He judged that a good hour had passed before he managed to undo the ropes binding her tied wrists to her waist. Although her wrists were still bound together, she could at least move her hands up and down.
She tackled the gag right away. “It’s off,” she reported hoarsely.
“Excellent,” Bren said. “Now, I’m going to try to turn around. Bear with me ….”
What followed was a feat of will and bodily contortions. His rigid chest plates and his leather greaves didn’t help. He turned his neck first, then his torso, twisting a shoulder, straining his waist, rotating the other shoulder ….
“Ouch.”
“Pardon me.”
“That’s my—”
“Sorry.”
Facing up, he knew his body would take up all the space in the box, so he wedged one of his wide shoulders under her head before rotating his legs. His knees scraped against the coffin’s lid. They were sore, entangled and sweating, but at least they were both facing up now.
“Can you reach the ties of my breeches?” he asked.
A pause. “Um, this might not be the best time for that sort of thing.”
“What?”
The nervous giggle smothered against his cloak startled him. Had she just tried to jest with him? At a time like this? He let out an uneasy laugh.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“There’s a leather trim at the waist. The leather cords come out of it. Can you find it?”
“You want me to undo the cords?”
“Aye, release the cords and bend down the leather trim. Can you feel the hardening in it?”
“And if I say yes, what else will you make me do?”
He was on to her now. “It’s a pair of little knives, you dirty-minded wench, the only ones Orell and his idiots didn’t find. Can you slide them out of the trim?”
Her fingers worked diligently. Her knuckles brushed against his underbelly. It was strange. He found himself thinking about things that men in extreme danger of dying seldom ponder.
“Here comes the first one,” she said, tugging on his breeches until the little blade slid onto his belly.
“Now if you can just stand me moving around one more time ….”
She clutched the little blade while he managed to turn on his side again. If she only knew his intentions, she would have plunged the knife in his back. Instead, without need for further explanation, she put the small hilt between his hands and rubbed the ropes around her wrists against the blade.
It wasn’t easy. Groping blindly in the darkness, holding the blade stiffly between his swollen fingers, he was fairly sure he managed to cut her at least a couple of times.
But she didn’t complain. Instead, she kept at it with single-minded determination. A quiet little shriek announced the moment in which the rope gave way. Without prompting, she took the knife from his hands and began slicing through his ropes.
His hands were free shortly thereafter.
“One last time,” he said, shifting to his back. She shrunk back as much as the limited space allowed. He braced his hands and feet on the lid and pushed, but the lid didn’t budge.
“What now?” she whispered.
“We wait.” He slid the second knife out of his waistband.
“I hate waiting.”
“So do I, but it can’t be too much longer now. Riva wants us alive; otherwise, Orell would have killed us earlier. That means they’ll have to stop to feed and water us before morn.”
She flinched when the wagon jerked over a particularly deep rut.
“Cramps?” he said.
“My leg.”
He reached down to knead her calf with one hand. Her skin was warm and damp beneath his fingers. Her muscles were knotted. His own body was also feeling the effects of the long hours in the cramped box. His rigid chest plates were digging into his ribs. He calculated they had been on the road for at least six or seven hours.
“Better?”
He felt her nod in the darkness.
It was strange, but he took a measure of comfort from having her near. She was so different from what he had expected. She was earnest, resourceful and witty; fragile, but yet somehow reliable. He found himself making space for her, adjusting his body to mold to her softer lines, inhaling the damp version of her feminine scents with something akin to appreciation.
He could feel her heartbeat pummeling against his side, the fear trapped under her mind’s strong will. He didn’t like small spaces either, not since Hato had smuggled him in a trunk out of his father’s house and kept him hidden through some of the purge. But he wasn’t going to think about that now.
He forced his muscles to relax. He had learned long ago not to squander a drop of the vital energy he would need to survive.
“Are you hungry?” she said, groping in the dark.
“Are you thinking Orell will treat us to a nice dinner in a tidy tavern along the way?”
“I might be baseborn, but I’m not daft.” She stuffed a few squashed grapes into his mouth, followed by a chunk of stiff ham. “Eat. I might need to rely on your strength.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled through a mouthful. “I get cranky in tight spaces.”
“Word is all highborn are wiseasses.”
“Are all baseborn chits as feisty as you are?”
“Only the ones stuffed in tight coffins with arrogant thugs like you.”
“Peace, girl.” He gulped down the rumpled fare. “You’re brave. If I had to be stuck with someone in a rattling coffin, you’d be my first choice.”
“I would’ve gotten away fine if y
ou hadn’t shown up.”
“I doubt you could’ve taken on Orell and his goons.”
“I wasn’t going to fight them, you fool.”
“None of this would’ve happened if you would’ve stayed where I left you.”
“And what good would’ve that done me?”
No good at all.
“Are they after me or after you?” she asked.
“They’re after me and therefore, they’re after you.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
“My expectations are slightly higher than yours,” she said. “Why are they after you?”
“It’s a long story.”
“It appears you may have the time to tell it.”
Damn his bad luck. The woman was going to be troublesome. Bren had learned long ago that trust was an expensive grant. He was not about to betray Laonia or compromise his hunt in any way.
“Well?” she said.
“Be quiet.”
Outside, voices were shouting instructions. The wagon lurched and stopped, until the wheels found purchase and clattered on wood.
“What’s happening?” the woman asked.
“I think we’re coming to a boat,” Bren said. “We’re crossing the river.”
“The Nerpes?”
“It’s the only one around here that merits a ferry boat.”
“Where do you think we are?”
“Somewhere in southern Tolone. It’s the fastest way down the mountains and it’s not heavily trafficked. If I had to guess, I’d say we’re crossing the Nerpes a few leagues short of the Dismal Swamp. Orell is in a hurry to get back to the kingdom.”
“Why does he hate you so?”
“Orell?” Bren said. “It’s a highborn thing.”
“Would you like to explain?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I might not be as dumb as you expect,” she said. “Have you two known each other for long?”
