Maids with Blades

by Glynnis Campbell

  Rand walked along the path through the Rivenloch woods with the faith and courage that came from the love of a wonderful woman and the knowledge that he was going to prove her innocence today.

  He’d set an ingenious trap, one into which The Shadow was sure to fall.

  Rand had funded the players well enough last night to ensure they could wager high and win considerable coin from Lord Gellir. The pair of apparent fools, their purses heavy with silver, would prove an irresistible target for the outlaw.

  But what The Shadow didn’t know was that the players were quite skilled in combat. Watching them yesterday, Rand realized that the interplay between Hob-Nob and Wat-Wat, though farcical, required a high level of coordination, speed, and agility, the same strengths The Shadow possessed.

  If they could catch the thief off his guard, startle him with their antics, match him, move for move, dazzle him with their nimble sparring, Rand could move in while he was distracted and capture the outlaw once and for all.

  He’d naturally offered the players a generous reward, the remainder of the advance that the Lord of Morbroch had collected for him. He didn’t care about the coin anymore. What he did, he did to exonerate Miriel.

  As he’d instructed the players, they traveled jauntily down the path, quibbling loudly, pretending inattention, while Rand followed distantly behind, scouring the trees for signs of the familiar figure all in black.

  He didn’t have long to wait. But when The Shadow made his appearance, he didn’t so much arrive as materialize. Rand would have sworn he’d been staring at a shade-darkened patch in the crotch of a tree when he suddenly realized it was more than a shadow. It was The Shadow.

  The players had sauntered past the outlaw already. Rand gave a quick sharp whistle to attract their attention and drew his sword. As he’d warned them, they’d have to be quick.

  While the thief watched with mild interest from his perch, Hob-Nob shoved Wat-Wat, and Wat-Wat’s fist came round with a wide swing that missed his opponent’s nose by a scant inch. Using the same rapid lunges and feints, punches and kicks, spins and rolls that they had at the fair, the players engaged each other in a mock fight that was so perfectly coordinated and so convincing, Rand himself was distracted for a moment.

  In that moment, The Shadow bounded to the ground. When Rand next looked up, the robber was already making his stealthy way toward the players.

  Rand narrowed his eyes. Could the thief in black be Miriel? He didn’t see how. It was impossible to reconcile the sweet damsel giggling in his arms yesterday with the silently efficient outlaw.

  Rand anticipated an entertaining exchange of blows. The players would use their wily moves to confound The Shadow, and The Shadow would employ his acrobatics to dodge their attack. While they were engaged, Rand would steal up behind the outlaw and take him at sword point.

  That wasn’t what happened at all.

  When Hob-Nob wheeled about, his arms flailing, strewing silver coins all over the path, The Shadow took one calm step toward him. The robber reached out to Hob-Nob, as if affectionately clapping an old friend alongside the neck, then gave a sharp squeeze.

  The player’s bones seemed to turn to custard. His eyes rolled up, and he collapsed like a pile of laundry. In fact, if The Shadow hadn’t reached out to soften his fall, lowering him carefully to the ground, the poor wretch might have knocked himself witless on a rock or a tree trunk.

  Wat-Wat hesitated an instant, stunned by the suddenness of his friend’s demise. But he quickly recovered and began goading The Shadow with words and blows, allowing Rand to approach slowly from the rear.

  “You scrawny black devil!” Wat-Wat dodged left and right, forward and back, his fists raised before him. “Come fight a real man!”

  The Shadow simply stood watching while Wat-Wat danced about, as if patiently waiting for the player to tire himself.

  Rand was but eight yards distant. If the player could keep him occupied, and if the outlaw didn’t make some sort of swift, impossible leap into the trees, in another few moments he’d be near enough to take him.

  “You motherless cur! You demon’s spawn!” Wat-Wat danced about, bobbing his head this way and that. “Show me your claws!”

  Just four more yards, and The Shadow would be within sword’s reach. Rand didn’t intend to use his blade. Unless the outlaw was devoid of common sense, he’d realize when the sword point touched his back he’d have no choice but to surrender.

  Then Wat-Wat, convinced The Shadow wasn’t going to attack him at all, simply hopped from one foot to the other and spread his arms in askance. “What’s wrong with you, you Lucifer’s whelp? Are you afraid I might—”

  His words were cut off as The Shadow’s arm shot out with lightning speed, the heel of his hand striking the point of Wat-Wat’s chin and driving his head backward.

  Wat-Wat, his arms still extended like branches, continued his backward fall, crashing into the thick brush lining the path, like a tree downed in a storm.

  Then The Shadow whipped around toward Rand.

  Bloody hell! He was still two yards out of range.

  In that instant, the outlaw could have simply turned and fled, making one of his acrobatic escapes into the wood.

  But he didn’t.

  And in that crucial sliver of time, The Shadow’s curious inaction gave Rand the advantage.

  Rand seized that advantage. He hurtled forward the last few yards, sweeping his blade up and lodging it against the villain’s black-swathed throat.

  He’d done it. He’d captured The Shadow.

  Rand was not the kind of man to gloat. He’d hunted down enough fugitives to know it was miserable for them to be caught, so he always spared them the humiliation of crowing over their capture. It was satisfaction enough to know the robber was at his mercy.

  Still, he should have been filled with the thrill of victory. He’d caught the outlaw no other man could touch. Rivenloch would rejoice. He’d collect his reward. And Miriel would look up at him with shining eyes of admiration.

  He should have felt victorious, but his triumph was strangely hollow. The Shadow wasn’t moving a muscle, wasn’t showing the least bit of resistance. Indeed, Rand got the distinct impression that he hadn’t so much conquered the thief as simply accepted his surrender. It was almost as if The Shadow wanted to be captured.

  Still, Rand was wise enough to be wary. The man was clever. There was no telling what weapons he might wear up his sleeve or hidden in the folds of his odd black garb.

  Keeping the sword at The Shadow’s throat, he slipped the shackles from his belt, then bade the robber slowly extend his arms. The Shadow complied, and it was the work of a moment to lock the shackles about his wrists, even with one hand. After all, he’d had much practice taking outlaws into custody.

  Then Rand was able to lower his sword.

  Still he was not content. It had been too easy. Criminal apprehension never went this smoothly. Outlaws fought capture with every last ounce of their strength, some with their dying breath.

  Unsettled, he half expected The Shadow to lash out suddenly with one of his powerful feet and send Rand flying ten yards down the path. At the moment, Rand felt about as safe as a mouse scampering across the floor of a mews. He couldn’t afford to let down his guard.

  There was one more thing he needed to do before he returned to Rivenloch with his quarry. He had to make sure the players were unharmed. Indeed, it was surprising that The Shadow had treated them to such violence. All the castle folk insisted that the outlaw had never seriously hurt anyone. But whatever he’d done this time, it had rendered his poor victims as still as death.

  “Sit,” he told The Shadow, pressing upon the man’s small shoulder to force him down.

  Then he placed the point of his sword just below the thief’s ear. One thrust forward, and they both knew he could sever the artery there, leaving The Shadow to bleed to death.

  The Shadow sat, unmoving, while Rand checked for the pulses of the fallen men. T
hey were thankfully strong. Whatever the thief had done to the players, at least he’d left them alive.

  Rand was secretly glad. Whether the Lord of Morbroch would ultimately hang The Shadow for his thievery, Rand didn’t know. But it seemed the thief had shown a certain restraint in his attack. It was a relief not to have to add murder to the miserable wretch’s list of crimes.

  Almost at once, Hob-Nob groaned as he began a groggy ascent to wakefulness. Wat-Wat followed shortly thereafter, struggling to sit up while cradling his injured chin.

  “You got him?” Wat-Wat asked, trying to smile through the pain.

  Rand nodded. “Keep the extra silver for your trouble.” Their winnings, currently strewn across the path, he’d originally intended to return to Rivenloch’s coffers, to keep Miriel’s accounts balanced. Now he would reimburse Lord Gellir with a portion of the reward from Morbroch.

  “Happy to be of service,” Hob-Nob said cheerily, despite the foggy glaze of his eyes.

  With that, the players collected their wits and their winnings and gladly resumed their travel through the Rivenloch forest, back to the fair, where they could earn their keep for much less demanding labor.

  The Shadow remained quiet, which was not surprising. In Rand’s experience, cornered criminals behaved like cornered animals. They either put up a desperate fight, howling and whimpering and bellowing with rage, or they fumed in silence, perhaps recognizing the futility of resistance, perhaps planning for the opportunity to escape.

  Still, there was a curious peace about The Shadow’s demeanor. He seemed neither fearful nor angry. Which made Rand uneasy.

  He’d feel better if he could see the robber’s face.

  Cautiously sheathing his sword, he drew his dagger instead and crouched beside the captive. Slipping the point beneath the black fabric enshrouding The Shadow’s head, he sliced carefully upward until the cloth fell away.

  Shock sucked the air from his lungs.

  There, sitting stone-faced before him, was Sung Li.

  Chapter 22

  The Night has swallowed The Shadow.

  The parchment dropped from Miriel’s trembling fingers. Her heart plummeted. One hand still gripping the lid of the empty pine chest, she slowly sank to her knees.

  She still didn’t completely understand. But gradually, pieces of the mystery were roiling into place, like sinister black clouds swirling together in the portent of a storm. With each passing moment, that storm looked more menacing, more dangerous.

  Miriel needed to find out exactly what had happened and act before it was too late.

  The stark, damning words on the parchment stared up at her from the floor of her workroom as she reviewed what she knew.

  Sung Li was nowhere to be found. No one had seen him all day. Yet no one had seen him leave the castle.

  Rand had departed with the players hours ago and had never returned. Sir Rauve was convinced he traveled with them in the hopes of reengaging The Shadow. But now it was feared that some foul play might have ensued.

  Sung Li had warned her that Rand was not who he said he was, that he’d come to Rivenloch, not for Miriel, but for reasons of his own. He believed Rand had conspired with the players to rob Lord Gellir. He’d also told Miriel that The Shadow would be foolish to pursue and engage such skilled fighters.

  And now, as Miriel peered again into the empty chest, her heart thumping woodenly against her ribs, she feared Sung Li had acted against his own advice.

  The Shadow’s disguise was missing.

  And so was Sung Li.

  Miriel supposed she should have known Lucy Campbell couldn’t keep her mouth closed about the black cloth Miriel had sent her to fetch. Indeed, a few hours later, Deirdre and Helena came barging into Miriel’s workroom, demanding answers.

  “Miriel!” Deirdre barked. “What the devil are you…”

  Helena gasped. “Bloody hell.”

  The sisters froze as Miriel whirled toward them, clad from head to toe in black. For a moment, no one said anything. The only movement in the room was the flickering flame of the candle.

  “Miri?” Deirdre finally whispered.

  Helena’s mouth curved slowly into a delighted grin. “I knew it. I knew it! You’re The Shadow, aren’t you?” She couldn’t have looked prouder as she beamed at Deirdre. “She’s The Shadow.”

  “I don’t care who she is. I don’t care who you are,” Deirdre hissed in no uncertain terms. “You’re not leaving the keep tonight, so don’t even think about it.”

  Miriel frowned, admittedly disappointed by their reaction. Weren’t they utterly shocked to discover that their little sister was The Shadow? She thrust out her chin. “I’m not asking for your permission.”

  Helena crossed her arms over her chest. “At least wait till morn, Miri.”

  “By then it may be too late.” Miriel drew on the pair of black leather gloves Lucy had brought her.

  “Too late for what?” Deirdre asked, eyeing the weapons laid out on the desk before Miriel. “God’s blood, what are you plotting?”

  “’Tisn’t your concern.”

  Deirdre reached out to snag her by the front of her garb. “Don’t tell me my sister is not my concern.”

  Miriel, moved by guilt, acquiesced. After all, Deirdre and Helena were only worried about her. “I’m going to get Father’s silver back.”

  It was half-true, but Deirdre wasn’t fooled for a moment. “I don’t recall The Shadow ever needing such an array of weapons simply to cut a man’s purse.”

  A silent standoff ensued between them until Helena broke the tension. “We’ll go with you,” she decided.

  “Nay,” Miriel said. “I work alone.”

  “Not this time you don’t,” Deirdre said.

  “I always work alone,” Miriel insisted. She grumbled under her breath as she tied the sash about her surcoat. It was bad enough that they seemed indifferent to the startling revelation that their little sister was the elusive scourge of Rivenloch, but now they refused to give her the respect afforded a notorious outlaw. “God’s blood, aren’t you even the least bit impressed by the fact that I’m The Shadow?” she muttered.

  Deirdre and Helena exchanged glances. Then Deirdre said, “We’ve had our suspicions for a while now.”

  “The way The Shadow accidentally left food for us in the crofter’s cottage,” Helena said, referring to Miriel’s visit during her abduction of Colin.

  “The explosion of the trebuchet,” Deirdre added, recalling Miriel’s destruction of the English war machine.

  “After all,” Helena said with a sly grin, “Rivenloch blood runs through your veins.”

  “But I still won’t allow you to leave the keep,” Deirdre warned.

  Miriel arched a brow. “And how do you propose to prevent me?”

  Deirdre gave her a grave stare as she fondled the hilt of her sword. She might be a bit round with child, but that didn’t keep her from wearing a blade, and apparently she wouldn’t hesitate to use it if Miriel defied her.

  Of course, she’d never get the chance. Miriel wouldn’t let her. “Deirdre, I’m The Shadow,” she gently reminded her. “The Shadow?”

  Helena drew her sword. “Maybe. But there are two of us.”

  Miriel sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was fight her own sisters. But time was a-wasting. And if she had to prove herself capable before they’d let her go, she supposed she’d better do it now, quickly.

  With an arcing kick, she struck Helena’s wrist, dislodging the sword. Then, before the weapon even clattered to the floor, she stepped close and pressed two fingers into the hollow at the base of Helena’s throat.

  While doing no real damage, the move caused discomfort and induced retreat. Helena staggered back, tripping over a stool to land on her hindquarters.

  By then, Deirdre had her blade halfway out of its sheath. Miriel wheeled about, seizing Deirdre by her sword arm and the front of her surcoat. Then, hooking Deirdre’s heel with her toe, she swept her off her feet and
carefully lowered her to the ground.

  When Miriel released Deirdre, the stunned silence was thick enough to cut.

  “Any more objections?” Miriel asked.

  She glanced from one sister to the other. Now they looked properly shocked, their eyes wide, their mouths agape.

  Helena was the first to speak. “Bloody hell.”

  “How did you…what did you…” Deirdre asked in awe, propping herself up on her elbows. “Where did you learn…”

  Miriel didn’t have time to answer. It would only upset them anyway. How could she explain that everything she knew, she’d learned from her maidservant? They still didn’t realize that Sung Li was a man. “Later.”

  She began caching the weapons she’d chosen earlier—sais, shan bay sow, woo diep do, and shuriken—in the folds of her surcoat, while Helena came to her feet and lent Deirdre a hand.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Miriel told them. “But you needn’t fear for me. You know there’s not a man born who can best The Shadow.” Then she added with a smug smile, “A man or a woman.”

  Helena and Deirdre, still staring at her in mild awe, gave her fierce hugs of farewell. Then Miriel escaped through the tunnel and into the woods, moving through the trees with silent stealth and blending into the night as invisibly as wind.

  “She is good,” Helena admitted when Miriel was gone.

  “Aye.”

  “How much of a lead shall we give her?”

  “Two hours. Maybe three.”

  Once Rand recovered from his shock, finally accepting the incredible fact that The Shadow was Sung Li, he realized he had a dilemma of the worst kind on his hands.

  He’d vowed to catch the outlaw.

  He’d also sworn to protect Miriel.

  Never had he imagined those two goals would conflict.

  He could see now that Sung Li had betrayed Rivenloch, but more significantly, she’d betrayed Miriel. The maidservant had ingratiated herself to the trusting lass, befriending her, charming her, bowing and scraping and playing at obsequiousness, using that trust to gain access and knowledge.