Michael Sullivan: The Crown Tower

“What stopped you?”

“I got in a fight with my rival-nearly killed him.”

“So?”

“He was also my best friend. We were both in love with her. Hintindar is a small place and didn’t have a future for me. I figured everyone would be better off if I left-me included. So I hiked out and joined the army. Been fighting ever since.”

Far below, two perhaps three miles away, Royce noticed a dozen men moving along the road. One was on horseback wearing black plate armor and a red cloak. The rest were footmen, some with pikes and some with bows. Out in front was a pack of hounds.

“What is it?” Hadrian asked.

“They’ve got dogs-I hate dogs.”

“Who does?”

“That patrol.” Royce gestured down toward the valley.

Hadrian peered out. “What patrol?”

“The huge patrol down there.”

Hadrian squinted and shrugged.

“Trust me, there’s a dozen or so footmen and a knight wearing black armor, so he might even be the seret you met at the tavern. You didn’t leave anything at the tavern, did you?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you dressed my wound, what did you do with the part of your cloak that was around me? Did you leave it behind?”

“Didn’t see any point in bringing a bloody rag.”

“Damn.”

“What? They have hounds?” Hadrian asked. “The dogs are hounds?”

“Yep.”

“But dogs can’t scent in the rain, right?”

“No … of course not.” Royce didn’t really know but he wanted it to be true.

“What are they doing?”

“Just walking.”

“Where?”

“Right below us.”

As Royce watched, the dogs veered off the road into the brush on their side. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what?”

Royce lost sight of them as they disappeared under the heather. A moment later he heard them bay.

“Did I hear something?” Hadrian asked.

“They have us.” Royce pushed himself up, feeling dizzy the moment he did.

“I thought hounds couldn’t scent in the rain.”

“These can.”

Royce staggered up the slope, feeling like someone was sticking a hot blade in his stomach.

“We can’t outrun them, can we?” Hadrian asked, catching up.

“Not even if we were healthy.”

Behind them, the baying of the hounds blended into the rain and the sound of ringing bells.

Hadrian reached the crest of the hill first. “A farm!”

“Horses?”

“Not even a mule.”

Royce looked back and saw the patrol rushing up the hillside. The knight was out in front just behind the dogs. He didn’t think they could see them yet, but they would soon.

“Maybe we can hide in the farm?”

“Farm? What’s their crop? Rocks?” Royce asked.

“Better than getting caught in the open.”

The land wasn’t rocky so much as filled with rocks, which lay scattered on the grass like the remains of a stony hailstorm gathering mostly in gullies and at the bottoms of hills. They worked as effective obstacles, preventing anything close to sure footing as the two blundered down the slope.

Not surprisingly, the farmhouse, the barn, and even the silo were built of stacked stone. A rambling wall corralled a small flock of sheep, and there were a half-dozen chickens wandering the space between the house and the barn where numerous puddles formed in the mud to either side of a stony path.

Smoke rose from the chimney that poked out of the thatch roof, and both men made for the front door. Hadrian paused to knock. Royce walked in. An elderly man seated at a weathered table and a woman working near the hearth started at his appearance.

“Don’t move or you’ll die,” Royce said, struggling to stand upright and gritting his teeth to manage it. That was fine, clenched teeth just made him more menacing.

Hadrian followed him in. “Sorry about the intrusion.”

A boy around the age of ten trotted from one of the back rooms and halted, wide-eyed. The old man grabbed his wrist and jerked him to his side. White-haired and balding, the man moved quicker than Royce might have expected. He wasn’t as old as he looked.

“Who are you? What do you want?” the man asked.

“Just do as you’re told,” Royce snapped.

“My name’s Hadrian, he’s Royce, and we just need a place to get out of the rain for a bit.” Hadrian’s tone was gentle, and he was smiling-not sinisterly, not malevolently, or crazy-dangerous-like, just cheerful. If he were a dog, he’d be wagging his tail.

“You’re wounded,” the old man said. “Both of you-you’re the two thieves they’re looking for.”

Royce drew his dagger and let it catch the light from the hearth. That always had an effect. Alverstone’s blade looked like no other. “We’re also armed, dangerous, and as you might imagine, desperate.” Royce stepped closer, causing the man to stand up and move his son behind him where the boy tilted his head to see. “In a little while a knight leading a patrol of soldiers will arrive here. They will ask if you’ve seen two strangers-wounded men. You’re going to say you haven’t. You’re going to convince them we aren’t here and make sure they leave without entering this house.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because we’ll be in the back room with your wife and boy.” Royce paused to glance at his son for effect. “And if they come in, or if I hear you whisper-if you try to be tricky or sly-I’ll slit their throats.”

“He will not!” Hadrian said.

“ Yes, I will. ” Royce glared back over his shoulder with a whose-side-are-you-on look.

“Listen, we haven’t done anything wrong,” Hadrian said. “There was a misunderstanding, and a fight, and we defended ourselves. Now they’re after us, so we’d appreciate it if you could help.”

All three just stared.

Royce shook his head and glared at Hadrian. “They don’t care. All they know is we’re in their home, and they want us out. You can’t reason with these people. Those are their troops coming to protect them. They aren’t going to side with us.”

“Lord Marbury sided with us,” Hadrian said.

“And they arrested him for it, remember?” The house lacked windows, but he could see well enough through the gap between the door and the frame. Through the cracks he had a fine view of the barnyard and the chickens snapping up worms among the puddles. He could also see a bit of the main road. Nothing yet.

Hadrian took a seat, rubbing his leg above the point where he’d tied a strip of his cloak.

“You know Lord Marbury?” the old farmer asked.

Hadrian nodded. “Good guy. Had a drink with him recently.”

“When?”

“Four, five days ago.”

“Where?”

“Iberton, in a little tavern at the edge of the lake.”

The man exchanged looks with his wife, who maintained a scowl.

“Keep quiet,” Royce growled.

“We’re in their house looking for help,” Hadrian said. “The least we can provide is answers.”

“I don’t think you understand the meaning of the word least .”

A pot began to bubble.

“See to the pot, woman,” the man said. “No sense letting the meal burn.”

The woman hesitated. “Why not? They’ll just be taking it for themselves.”

“A little food would be nice,” Hadrian admitted. “We haven’t eaten for…” He hesitated.

The man nodded. “Get them each a bowl.”

“You’re a fool,” the woman said. She was plump with baggy cheeks, an extra chin, and pudgy fingers. Royce couldn’t help wonder how she got that way farming rocks.

“We don’t deny food to anyone under this roof.”

“They’re not guests,” she hissed.

“They’re under my roof.” He turned to her. He didn’t look like any farmer Royce had ever known. The body type was wrong, especially for his age. Decades behind a plow had a way of stunting a man, but he was tall, broad shouldered with powerful forearms and a straight back. “I won’t be accused of lacking generosity to strangers.” The voice was odd too-proud. Royce didn’t know too many farmers and had never spoken to one of these northern rock growers, but pride in the face of invasion was unexpected.