David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“The wagons might get stuck if it continues,” Mark told him.

“Better stuck on the road than in a ditch,” Dave shot back.

They used the wagons to block the wind, shoveled snow until they found cold, dry ground, and then built a fire. They gathered around it, their own bodies sheltering the fire from the wind that sneaked in.

“Come morning we’ll dig out and then continue,” Dave said as they huddled there. “Run this route plenty of times, and I have a feeling for how the weather works. We’ll have clear sky tomorrow. Assuming we don’t break a wheel, we should reach Felwood in a…”

He stopped, for amid the howling of the wind he heard something strange.

“Horses,” said Dave.

“Who would ride in this weather?” asked one of the guards.

Mark drew his sword and stood, and the rest did likewise. There were only four guards per wagon, and the eight hurried to the openings between them.

“It might be a messenger meant to reach us,” said Dave, just before a crossbow bolt pierced his arm.

“Shit,” he cried, snapping the shaft in half and tossing it. “Stay down, all of you!”

Horses thundered by either side, and as they passed the gap, many fired crossbows. Mark dove into one of the wagons as the bolts flew, dragging Nathaniel with him. The horses turned around, and at their return charge, he heard the sound of steel hitting steel.

“Stay down,” Mark said to Nathaniel. The boy sat huddled in blankets beside the crate of gold. His eyes were wide, rimmed with tears that refused to fall in the chill air.

“I’m scared,” Nathaniel said, and his whole body shook.

“I am too,” Mark said as bolts tore through the fabric of the wagon, thankfully missing. He kept his sword facing the back of the wagon and listened. He heard screams, plus Dave hollering like a madman. From where he stood he could only see a small portion of the combat. The guards had cut down two of the riders, but the rest continued their charge, hacking as they passed or firing more crossbow bolts.

Then he heard Dave cry something that made no sense, but at the same time, was certain to be true.

“Lord Hadfield? But why?”

He died soon after, or at least his orders stopped. The cries of pain lessened. Swords struck rarely, then stopped altogether. Mark pushed Nathaniel further into the wagon and tried to shrink down. He might be able to surprise one or two of them if they didn’t realize he was inside…

A man rode up before the wagon, a crossbow in hand. Mark lunged at him, extending his arm as far as it could go. His sword pierced the man’s breast, punching through his leather armor. As he bled out, the crossbow fired harmlessly into the air. Mark retreated into the wagon, his blood running cold. He recognized the symbol on that armor. It was Hadfield’s men, all right. But why? Why would he ambush his own wagons?

He glanced back at Nathaniel and decided he already knew the reason.

“Mark?” he heard Arthur call out. “Is that you in there, Mark?”

“Just keeping warm,” Mark shouted back. “What’d your men do to deserve this?”

“Deserve? Nothing. They died in my service, as all men should for their masters. Where is the child? I don’t want him to witness your execution.”

Mark clutched his sword tighter. Behind him, he heard Nathaniel whimper.

“You’d protect him?” Mark asked.

“As if he were my own son.”

Or at least until you have a son of your own, thought Mark. At least until you’ve consummated your marriage to Alyssa, you heartless bastard.

“Listen to me,” he whispered to Nathaniel. “He’s lying, I know it. You need to run, you understand? I know you don’t want to, but you have to try. He’s cruel. I’ve always known it, now just…”

“Mark!” Arthur shouted. “Come out and face this with honor!”

“That way,” Mark said, pointing to the opposite exit beside the driver’s seat.

Nathaniel nodded. Despite his fear, he was holding together. Though they lacked any blood connection, Mark felt proud of the boy. A child worthy to raise, to claim the Gemcroft wealth. A child who’d probably freeze to death in the next twelve hours. He almost thought to change his mind, to carry Nathaniel out and see what Arthur would do. But he couldn’t. If Nathaniel was somehow part of his plans, Mark wanted to ruin them. It was petty, perhaps, but by the gods, he had to do something to avenge his death.

He stepped out from the wagon, his sword still drawn.

H aern kept his cloaks wrapped tight about him as he trudged along the road. He felt foolish not preparing for such weather. His feet were numb from the cold, and he’d have givenanything for a thick coat. He’d dressed for stealth when he should have dressed like a bear.

He lacked tools to build a fire, especially given how heavy the snow came down. Movement kept him warm, so that’s what he did. It’d been two days since he saw houses in the distance, farms both large and small. Before that, he’d stayed a night in the comforts of Felwood Castle, stocking up on food and, like a fool, refusing to steal anything warmer to wear. That was before the snow, before he realized just how pathetic he was compared to nature’s forces. His hood pulled low, he stared at the white ground and kept his feet moving. Night was approaching, and he pondered what he’d do. Surely he could find a tree for shelter, and should probably start looking. But he didn’t want to just yet. He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him feared the moment he stopped moving he would curl up, fall asleep, and never wake again.

The first time he heard the noise he thought it a hallucination. Then it struck again, and many times after. It was the sound of steel hitting steel, coupled with the neighs of horses. He felt some of his drowsiness leave him. He’d headed north in hopes of discovering the source of the Serpents’ gold. Could they be raiding the caravans?

He urged himself on, and despite the snow that blew in his face, he forced himself to stare straight ahead. The snow was thick, and it seemed as if a white fog had enclosed the land so many yards away from where he stood. When he saw the first rider, it was if he had emerged from another world. Haern dove for the cover of trees, then glanced back to see if he’d been spotted. He hadn’t. The rider turned back and charged into the unseen combat.

Not willing to risk such foolishness again, Haern weaved through the trees, making sure to stay close to the road. If the weather remained foul, it might be days before he found the path. He was no woodsman. The city streets were his home. Out among the trees, in the snow, he felt like a bumbling idiot.

The sound of combat faded. After a few moments of silence, he heard someone yelling. His numb ears at first refused to make words out of the noise. As he followed the sound, he started to understand.

“Where is the child?” he heard a man ask. “I don’t want him to witness your execution.”

Haern surveyed the area from his position amid the trees. Two wagons were pulled close together, the oxen tethered behind them. Eight men on horses mingled about, all with swords or crossbows. The speaker seemed older than the rest, and he wore no armor, just a thick coat of bear skin that Haern felt ready to kill for. All around them lay bodies, their warm blood melting the snow beneath them.

It didn’t make sense. All of the horsed ambushers wore the same insignia, a sickle held before a mountain. This wasn’t the Serpent Guild. They didn’t wear green cloaks. What then? Should he interfere?

Meanwhile the older man continued talking, evidently with someone inside a wagon given how muffled his voice sounded.

“Mark!” cried the older man. “Come out and face this with honor.”