"Oh, you want me to go with you then?"
"That seems the logical thing to do," Baleron replied.
Finn nodded, taking several puffs of his pipe. "Well, it's been a long time since I've had a nice adventure. Let me think about it. But tell me one thing. You wouldn't happen to have been involved in the big battle recently, would you?"
"We were," Baleron replied. "My company and I."
"What company is that?"
"Odhran and I are rangers as you said," he explained. "But we are a new company trained in the ways of the Alvar, or Sidhe as our people call them."
"Ah," Finn said. "Then why travel to Tel Drakkar? What is there that you need to get to?"
"If you can get us there quickly, then you'll no doubt see."
There was a sudden ruckus outside as several bells rang. People began reaching for their blades or fleeing, and several well-armed men began to run outside. Baleron stood when Finn stood, giving the older man a questioning glance.
"What's happening?" he asked.
Finn shrugged, but walked casually toward the edge of the tavern's supports. The others followed, and they could see a crowd approaching from the forest, torches in hand, and blocking off the exit to the town.
"Damn," Finn cursed. "T'kar's men."
Baleron gripped his blade, looking at the other knights. Ivar, of course, was ready to fight, having his hands at his axes, ready to pull them out. Baleron stayed his hand, moving up closer to Finn.
"What are they doing here?" he asked.
"I don't know friend," Finn replied. "They don't come here often. And when they do, it's never good."
Finn stepped forward and began moving behind the crowd to get a closer look. The knights followed, keeping inconspicuous as they moved closer to the squad's position. A large and heavily armored man was at their lead, and his face was grim and furious. Baleron's heart began to race as he wondered why the troops were here.
Did they know that the knights were here?
"We are here to finally lay claim to this territory," the leader spoke.
The crowd began to murmur amongst themselves. Some of them faded into the shadows, others stood firm, willing to protect their town, it seemed.
"T'kar has deemed this city his, and it will remain ignored no longer."
"What right does the king have to lay claim to this territory?" someone asked.
The leader glared in the speaker's direction, his face twisted in rage. "Who said that?"
Finn leaned in to Baleron, whispering, "I've seen him before," he said. "He's a nasty one. Even more so than Captain Jarka. He must have gotten promoted."
"Who is he?" Baleron asked.
"Garris," Finn replied. "Something like that, I think. He's a native of Thyre I've heard."
The leader began walking from side to side in a menacing fashion, glaring at everyone who stood in the front. Finally, he stopped and pointed at a woman there who carried a bundle of rags in her arms.
"Take her," Garris said. "Cut off her head."
Two guards stepped forward to roughly grab the woman, who screamed and dropped her bundle. They dragged her to the edge of the city where everyone could see her, pushed her down to her knees while one held her hair tightly. The other raised his blade as the crowd gasped in horror.
Two arrows struck the would-be executioner. Baleron's heart jumped, and he drew his blade, looking for the source of the arrows as the crowd went into action. Freyja's bow was out, and she was nocking another arrow. Ivar and Alric were already charging. Baleron glanced at Odhran.
"What are we waiting for?" he said, charging.
Finn was right behind Baleron as he focused on a small group of soldiers who had charged some fleeing women. Odhran's bow took out one of them, and the others turned to face the two rangers and their hatchet-wielding companion. Baleron ducked under a soldier's swiping sword, gutting him as he passed. He spun and impaled another through the back, withdrawing and blocking another attack from his right. Finn's hatchet lopped off the man's head and stuck in another man's back.
"Thanks," Baleron called out.
"No," Finn said, his eyes wide as he struggled to see over the surging crowd.
Baleron turned to look out toward the edge of the giant tent. Flaming arrows were being released into the town over the heads of all involved in the skirmish. Panicked townsfolk began pouring out, pushing the enemy soldiers out of the way as they fled.
"You need to get out of here," Finn said. "If the tents fall, it's all over. They'll spread the flames to everything."
"Our horses," Baleron shouted back.
"Forget them," Finn said. "They're done for."
Baleron cursed to himself, turning to seek out his companions. He saw Ivar and Alric charging the archers on the outside, and followed them out. Freyja and Odhran were nowhere to be seen, but his focus was getting the two men out of harm's way. He plowed into a line of soldiers protecting the archers, slashing to the left and right to clear his path.
"Ivar! Alric!" he shouted, kicking a soldier out of the way. "Get out of there!"
Ivar's axes spun this way and that as he twirled his way through the archers. He took down six of them in a matter of seconds, spitting at them and kicking them away as he chopped in a whirlwind of steel. Alric saw Baleron just as he took out another archer with his daggers, and headed straight for him.
"Where is everyone?" Baleron asked.
Alric took out another archer who wandered too close, and shook his head. "I don't know," he shouted. "Follow the arrows."
"Grab Ivar and follow Finn south," Baleron shouted. "I'll find them."
Alric nodded and disappeared into the crowd. All around, peasants and warriors alike were fending off the soldiers, bravely protecting their city. But Baleron knew it was too late. The large overhead tarp was already aflame and was beginning to shred, dropping flaming bits of cloth onto the structures below. Though he wanted to assist in putting out the flames, he knew his first duty was to his companions.
He found Odhran near the stables, protecting the horses and their keeper from the soldiers who tried to enter. Freyja was on the roof, her bow firing arrow after arrow into the passing soldiers. He saw that she had fired her last arrow, though, and was beginning to make her way to the edge of the roof. Baleron looked around at the bodies, seeing a case of arrows strapped to the back of one of the soldiers. He cut it loose, and backed away to get Freyja's attention.
"Freyja!" he shouted.
When she looked in his direction, he tossed the arrows up to her. She caught them and knelt to restock her own quiver.
"We need to get out of here!" he shouted at both of them.
Odhran moved forward, giving Freyja room to jump down. Baleron charged by them, motioning for them to follow.
"What about the village?" Odhran asked.
"Finn wants us to follow him," Baleron said. "We can't take the horses."
"Most of them have fled anyway," Freyja said. "I was protecting the poor stable man."
Baleron led them through the rocks and into the forest, where the smoke was beginning to filter through. He searched around them, looking for any sign of the others. Through the darkness and smoke, he saw the glint of steel and the frantic shouts of a Northman.
"Ivar!" he called out.
Through the smoke, three figures came running at him. He was glad to see that Finn had joined his friends, and now they were all together again.
"This way," Finn said, heading south and into a small cave. "We can cut through the mountains here."
Baleron stopped by the entrance, allowing the others to enter. He took one last look around, to ensure they wouldn't be followed, and entered right behind them.
"Where does this cave go?" he heard Ivar ask.
"It meets up with the road again," Finn replied. "But we'll have to climb down a ways once we exit."
"Finn," Baleron said. "I am sorry about the village."
"Don't be," Finn laughed. "They'll be fine. We just
need to worry about getting away."
"Good," Baleron said. "But I can't help thinking this is our fault."
"Of course it is," Finn said. "But no worries. I'm having a great time."
Chapter Five
Despite nearly freezing to death in the cold waters of the lake, Lorcan was finally able to undo the restraints that held him fast to the submerged post. He remained there, still as a reed, as the Northmen and villagers passed him by group by group. There was still much activity on the catwalks, and he would have to be cautious once he swam away and attempted his escape.
The Alvar warriors were nowhere to be seen, and he imagined they were somewhere in the forest immediately to the south. Once he escaped, he would have to cross the river to avoid them. That meant getting through the gate, or at least over the wall.
Either choice was dangerous.
He had spent two nights in water up to his neck, having been captured shortly after finding Captain Jarka's headless body in the forest. The discovery had been slightly disenchanting to him, although it meant a possible promotion for him, in reality. All he had to do was get back to his king, and he would be rewarded for his bravery.
He hoped.
Hearing nothing but the lapping of the water on the nearby supports, he pushed away from the post and began wading slowly underneath the walkways. Though several people walked overhead, he slipped beneath them without their knowledge, and headed toward the last walkway on the edge of the small village. There, he could climb up and go along the outside of the ridge, possibly bypassing the wall altogether.
But there, standing just above the spot from which he planned to emerge were two Northmen, conversing about nothing in particular. He didn't understand what they were saying, but their tone suggested casual conversation. He recognized the voice of one of them. He was the one called Hafdan.
He waited patiently as the two spoke, still waterlogged and freezing. After what seemed like hours, the other Northman clapped Hafdan on the back and walked away. Lorcan watched his bulk move down the walkway and out of sight. Hafdan had stayed, and settled against the railing, presumably leaning back to look inward at the village.
Lorcan silently emerged from underneath the wooden planks, peering upward at the Northman's belt. There was a dagger there, just out of reach. Though he couldn't very well leap out of the water and grab it without causing a massive disturbance, he guessed he could pull the Northman back and down, grabbing the dagger and pulling him underwater.
It was worth a try.
Keeping mostly submerged, he looked around at the walkways. There was no one about, and the darkness was fairly complete at this distance. There were only a few lanterns on the nearby walkways, hanging on crooked posts.
He focused on Hafdan's belt, crouching down to get some leverage, and then shot upward. He grabbed the Northman's belt, putting all of his weight on it and jerking downward. Hafdan grunted and went down, and Lorcan pulled him through the railing, taking the dagger from his belt, and pulled him under.
Though the Northman struggled, Lorcan managed to get the dagger around and plunge it into the man's gut several times. He held him underwater, wary of the man's flailing limbs, desperately trying to keep him submerged. After a few moments, the thrashing stopped, and Lorcan let out his breath, releasing the Northman's body. It floated up and rested against the support post.
Lorcan undid the man's belt and used it to tether him to the post so he did not float away. He chuckled, putting the dagger in his teeth as he waded toward the shore. He crouched there, watching the area to make sure it was clear, his heart beating heavily with the thrill of escape.
When he saw that the way was clear, he climbed up and over the ridge, keeping near the peak as he made his way toward the wall. The moon was shining on the inside of the ridge, he saw, so he would be concealed from anyone down in the forest, except for the Alvar perhaps, but they were likely farther south, keeping watch on the roads there.
He silently crawled on, keeping behind the rocks as he neared the wall. There were several men in the distance, right above the gate's great hinges, but no one near the edge. Smiling, he slid down the slope at the end of the wall and onto the rocky ground. He pressed himself against the rock wall as he rounded it, keeping his eyes on the men at the gate. He was in darkness, however. Even if they looked in his direction, they wouldn't be able to see him.
Once he was out of the line of sight, he rushed toward the river, knowing exactly where it was the shallowest. He crossed, leaping from stone to stone almost effortlessly, until he finally reached the other side. The bridge just to the north was occupied, he saw, but they hadn't seen nor heard him. He laughed, leaping onto the opposite bank, and disappeared into the forest.
He was home free.
The guards at T'kar's fortress barely recognized Malthor as he stumbled up the stone path. They rushed toward him immediately, fully prepared to skewer him until he threw back his charred hood and scowled.
"Lord Malthor," one of them said. "Are you injured? You look… unwell."
"I'm fine," Malthor hissed back. "Stand aside."
He continued toward the large door, enraged and still in agony from having his spell turned on him. His flesh was still charred, though partially healed thanks to the witch. His hair, he knew, was completely gone, including his eyebrows, and his lips were swollen and scarred. It would take time to heal fully, but he didn't care. His only thought was the betrayal he received at the hands of Randar.
The bastard had left him to die.
The remaining guards opened the doors for him, and he entered the courtyard stiffly, uncaring for the world around him. He simply walked in a straight line toward the stone stairs that led up into the fortress, unwavering and autonomous. He could hear the gasps of guards and servants around him as he passed, and he occasionally glared in their direction. They all turned away.
At the end of the courtyard, he entered the fortress proper through the iron doors that were opened for him. There, in the Great Hall, Randar sat on the stone steps that led to the empty throne. The man's eyes went wide, and a smile spread across his face as he stood. Malthor, though wanting to rip his throat out, felt his anger melt away. That infuriated him even more in a way. He stopped and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, gritting his teeth in anger.
"Malthor," Randar said. "I see you've made it back in one piece. I'm so happ—"
"Shut up!" Malthor hissed. Randar stepped back. "You left me out there to die."
"Die?" Randar repeated. "You were in no danger of dying, my friend. And I knew that."
"I was set on fire and you left without even looking for me."
Randar sighed. "I'm sorry, my friend. I knew you weren't really in any danger. My first priority is to the king, and seeing him injured, it was my duty to get him to safety."
"Injured?" Malthor said.
"Badly, I'm afraid." Randar said. "Skewered with a magic blade."
Malthor felt bad for a moment. He had not realized that T'kar had been hurt. Not that he cared, it's just that perhaps his anger was misguided. He was, after all, incapable of dying by any normal means. The king, however, was mortal—as strong and resistant to injury as he was.
"Will he…"
"He'll be well in no time," Randar said, putting his arm around Malthor's shoulder. "Lilit will take good care of him. Perhaps there is something you can do to help as well. You helped me, after all. In the meantime, we should get you to Lilit yourself and see if she can help… your face."
Malthor covered his face in shame, then rubbed his scalp. "My hair is gone and my lips are scarred."
"Not to worry," Randar assured him. "These things do not affect your value, nor our friendship."
Malthor sighed. "I was fully prepared to blast you to pieces."
Randar chuckled. "I understand, my friend. I understand."
Lilit's magic had helped T'kar's wound considerably, but the horrible sting was still there, burning him from the inside. H
e could feel the blade's magic working its way through his body, despite how much Lilit tried to stop it. Evidently the magic was something far more powerful than anything Lilit had ever experienced.
Still, her touch was comforting.
"Lilit, my dear," T'kar croaked. "I'm weary. Put me to sleep for a while."
"I will, Sire," she said, her sweet voice music to his ears. "Allow me to repair the damage just a bit more."
T'kar groaned in pain as he felt her finger tracing the inside of the wound. She was cauterizing it to stop the oozing that had started in the morning. She had told him it was infection, which made him wonder how clean her finger was.
"What a strange wound," she said. "It's very hard to repair. Even my magic cannot close it fully."
"Well then take your finger out of it," T'kar hissed. "That would likely help."
"The wound cannot be closed from the outside, Sire," she insisted. "It must first be healed on the inside. I have to cure the infection first."
"Fine," T'kar grumbled.
There was a knock on his chamber doors, and the lone guard opened it, sighing when he saw Randar.
"Lord Randar, Sire," the guard said, going back to his post.
"Randar," T'kar said. "Come in, come in."
"Malthor has returned, Sire," Randar said.
The sorcerer was right behind him, hunched over with his face hidden in his cowl. However, when he took his place at Randar's side, he lowered it, revealing his scarred face.
T'kar burst out in laughter.
"Malthor!" Lilit said in shock. "What happened to you?"
He glared at her. "What does it look like you useless witch? I was set on fire!" he snapped. "It was one of those peasants with a bow."
T'kar glanced at her, seeing her face growing red with anger. "Be careful, Malthor," T'kar said with a grin. "She's likely to set fire to more than just your face."
"I hear she did not fare so well, herself," the sorcerer said. "Something about a Druid?"
"Ah yes," T'kar said. "The Druid. I should have sent the assassin after him."
"It would have done no good," Malthor reminded him. "Even Lilit is powerless against him, as is the other witch."
Sisters of the Blade Page 5
