Elizabeth Haydon - The Assassin King

“We backed up the sewage cistern and blasted ’er out of the tunnels with the hrekin,” Grunthor replied. “About an ’undred thousan’ gallons of the former contents of Bolg arses; seemed an appropriate enough weapon. Besides, dragons are extra sensitive to all the senses, if I recall correctly. Stunned ’er, it did. Left an ’eck of a mess as well, which we thought about cleaning up before you got ’ome, but decided instead it made a lovely battlement. So we just sort a shaped it into a barricade and left it to stink up the place right nicely. Don’t expect she’ll be comin’ back anytime soon.”

“And you neglected to mention this at the council of war?” Achmed said, amused. “Yes, sir,” Grunthor said. “If ’e ’ad known that the dragon had already broached the Bolglands, there was a possibility ’er ’usband would not let her go. And in my judgment, sir, dragon or no, she’s safer with us anyway.”

“Agreed,” Achmed said, mounting his horse. “It should be interesting to see her reaction to your new barricade; Rhapsody considers cleanliness to be a sacrament. Let’s be on our way as soon as he can tear his lips off her and the squalling brat.”

The cohort of the Second Mountain Guard of Sorbold came to a halt at the place where the road leading north into the province of Canderre crossed with the forested trader’s route heading east from the wooded lands of Navarne to the capital city of Bethany. The wind was cold, but the sky clear; darkness and the absence of travelers in winter had covered their journey from their southern homeland with but minimal exception. Each stray merchant or farmer had been easily dispensed with, with no major outcry or notice in the sparsely settled area, just as they had planned.

Now, as they approached the keep and the surrounding walled village mat was Haguefort, the commander gave quiet orders to more surreptitiously travel the forest road, to cling to the fringe of the woods for cover, in single and dual file, to keep from attracting notice of any of the patrols that were most likely stationed throughout the area, guarding the home of Gwydion of Manosse, the Lord Cymrian. And his family. The commander silently signaled to the troops, and they followed him quietly into the woods, their surefooted mounts all but silent along the forest trail. They had gone the better part of a league when the sound of horse approaching could be heard in the woods to the north. Quickly, the commander signaled to two of the scouts and dismounted. They followed him, sliding down from the saddle silently while the rest of the cohort quietly came to a stop deeper into the fringe. The commander and the scouts crossed the forest road and crept through the underbrush, dry and dead from the snow that still gripped this part of the continent, so different from their homeland of dry and arid mountains. They passed through the forest easily, having been trained to do so at great expense, and stopped within a thick copse of evergreens to wait. Beyond the stand of trees at the edge of their sight was a forest path, a meager route where farmers traveled to avoid the main road and to harvest the fruits of the forest, wood for hearths, berries and wild herbs, and game. The sound of a small number of horses at full canter could be heard in the west; the three soldiers sank lower to the ground, waiting. After a few moments the horses and riders came into sight. There were four beasts, two light riding horses and two heavy draft, with what appeared to be two riders atop one each of the light and heavy, the others carrying supplies. The man atop the heavy horse was enormously tall and broad; the beast was breathing noisily as it ran. The travelers did not tarry; they traversed the forest path, gaining speed as the woods grew thinner, and disappeared into the distance. The commander rose quickly. Take the third wave, and follow them,” he said to the first scout. “It may be nothing, but my instinct says they should not be allowed to slip past. Bring back their horses if you can; they will aid in the journey back.” The scout nodded, and all three men made their way quickly back to the main forest road. The cohort divided itself up quickly and quietly, the third wave taking to the north in pursuit of the riders, the second doubling back southwest to serve as a far flank, the remainder heading quietly west. To Haguefort.

The small carriage was outfitted and ready at the western gate shortly after the two Firbolg and the Lady Cymrian had departed by the northern one. Gerald Owen coughed as the dropping temperature stung the inside of his lungs. He looked up into the cold night sky from the courtyard, illuminated only by a single hooded lantern, at the stars spreading out beyond the canopy of trees that were the beginning of the wooded lands to the west of Haguefort, through which they would be riding, eventually melding north into the holy forest of Gwynwood and the Circle, their destination. For all that bitter cold had returned, the sky itself was clear and the wind gentle; it seemed that they would have favorable enough weather to make good time. He conferred quietly with the drivers and their two escorts, then signaled to the window of the keep. A few moments later the buttery door opened quietly, and the two Navarne children appeared, both clad in dark shirts, trousers, and gray cloaks that blended into the night. Gwydion Navarne closed the buttery door quietly, then took his sister’s hand and led her through the herb garden and across the cobbled courtyard to the tree-lined area where the coach was waiting. “Oh, good, they’ve used the roans yoked in a doubletree,” Melisande whispered. “Should be a fast ride.”

“Is everything ready, Gerald?” the young duke asked nervously, loosing Melisande’s hand and passing the bag carrying the last of her supplies to the coachman. Melisande snagged the waterskin from his hand and attached it to her belt. “Everything, m’lord,” the chamberlain replied. “The Lady Cymrian sent word by winterbird to Gavin at the Circle, so he will be expecting us, no doubt. I’ll see to it that Lady Melisande is delivered promptly and safely.” Gwydion nodded, trying not to vomit. Melly had been too little to remember the last time they had seen their mother, but the memory was as clear to him as if it had happened yesterday instead of nine years before. He had been eight years old at the time, a quiet lad of books with a deep love of the woods that his mother shared. She had also shared his propensity for shyness, unlike his father and sister, whose natures were abundantly social and warmly cordial. He missed her still, the scent of lavender or lemon in her hair, the gentleness of her hands as she smoothed the covers around him at night, the way the comers of her mouth crinkled when she smiled—the memories always made the hollow space in his stomach ache when he let them come back. Worst of all was the last one, of her and her sister, his aunt who he barely remembered, climbing into just such a carriage, on their way to the city to buy Melisande some shoes in which to learn to walk. They were laughing, her black eyes, so like Melly’s, were sparkling, and she had held his face in her hands, had kissed him on the cheek and forehead and whispered in his ear, words he could still recall in the very tone of her voice. Be a good little man. Help your father. Remember that I love you. He had endeavored to fulfill all of those requests. Most of the time it wasn’t difficult. “I know you will,” he said rotely to the chamberlain. Melisande, who rightfully fancied herself an excellent groom, had already made a check of the horses’ bindings, to the quiet amusement of the coachmen, and was standing at the door of the carriage. “Enough,” she said impatiently. “Time to go.” Gwydion exhaled deeply and went to the door. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Listen to Gerald,” he said seriously. “And don’t take any silly risks.” He saw her eyes narrow, and suddenly remembered how it felt to be underestimated because of age. He quickly reached into his boot and pulled out a small knife in a sheath. “Here,” he said more pleasantly. “You know how to use this better than I do—it was Father’s.” Melisande’s expression of annoyance melted into one of delight. “Thank you,” she said eagerly, taking the knife and turning it over in her hands. She hugged her brother quickly, then reached for the door. Gwydion forestalled her, opening it for her and lowering the step. She climbed up, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she said, her black eyes dancing. “And don’t have too much fun without me.”