David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Starting to think walking would be a better idea,” he grumbled.

Tristan said nothing.

By the second day, the plains were spotted with trees, and with each hour they rode, they gathered thicker, forming clusters that would soon be a forest. Felwood Castle was getting closer. It was one of those nearby clusters that saved both their lives. They’d stopped by one for a piss, and while dismounted they heard the thunder of hoofbeats approaching from the south. A warning instinct, like when he knew something was after his animals, told Matthew it was time to get off the road.

“This way,” he said, grabbing the reins in one hand and Matthew’s wrist with the other. He led them into the copse of trees, far enough that they’d go unnoticed.

“Stay here, and hold on tight,” he said, handing Tristan the reins. Hurrying back toward the road, he peered from behind a tree as a group of five rode past at full gallop. They wore dark tabards that he easily recognized. Hadfield’s men. Did they know of Gert and Ben’s absence? More importantly, did they know where it’d happened?

Trying not to think about it, he returned to Matthew, who stood with wide eyes.

“It’s them again, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Matthew said. “Looked like it.”

“Will everyone be safe?”

Matthew’s jaw clenched tight. He yanked the reins from the boy’s hand and led them back to the road.

“Ashhur only knows,” he said as the silence hung over them. “And if not, then may Karak curse every one of those bastards.”

Including the one who brought you to me, he thought, not cruel enough to say it aloud.

*

O ric sped his men across the road between Felwood and Tyneham, the lightest touch of panic brushing his neck. It wanted to dig in, sink its claws deep, but he refused to let it. He hadn’t failed his master yet, and so far he had no reason to think he would. Not a soul had seen or heard anything of Nathaniel. It seemed likely he’d frozen to death, that strange Watcher there for the gold and nothing else. The lack of information suggested the boy was a corpse in the melting snow somewhere, his body devoured by coyotes or vultures-except for one troublesome detail: they’d found Gert’s horse unbridled, the soldier nowhere to be found. That meant he was dead somewhere, killed while searching for Nathaniel. So far he had no evidence, but he assumed the same had happened to Ben. For two of his men, armed and armored, to mysteriously vanish…they’d found Nathaniel, and then paid the price. He needed to discover where, and quick. If the boy even made it to Felwood, there’d be disaster. Lord Gandrem certainly knew of Alyssa’s loss, and Oric had personally brought the ‘body’ to be buried. All sorts of questions would need answered should Nathaniel appear alive and well, and none of the answers would endear him to anyone. It was either find the boy or hang from a noose.

The farms were few and far between as they rode north, and something clicked as he finally came upon where the ambush had first been.

“Let’s say you’re wounded and carrying a sick boy,” he said to his men. “Snow’s falling, and you’re low on food. What is it you’d do?”

“Ditch the boy,” said one. “Either way he’s dead. No reason to go with him.”

“Assume yourself a better man than that. What then?”

“Carry him until I find the closest shelter.”

Oric tapped his forehead. “Exactly. Patt, take Rat and go north. Stop at the first two homes off the road, and you search them thoroughly. The rest of you, come with me.”

They split, two north, three south. Oric had a feeling this Watcher, when in danger, would have gone south instead of north, since by all appearances Veldaren was his home. They saw no dwellings for the rest of that first day, but come the second, a farm appeared in the distance. Oric led the way, feeling his pulse quicken. This had to be it. The Watcher would have stopped here, maybe not for long, but at least for food and water.

When he knocked on the door, it was a long time before he heard a response.

“Who’s there?” asked a woman’s voice.

“Oric Silverweed, soldier of lord Hadfield of the north. I demand entrance.”

A lock rattled from inside. Oric leaned back toward his men and whispered, “Hands on your hilts at all times.”

The door opened, revealing a mildly attractive woman in her early thirties. Beside her stood a teenage boy, a dagger tucked into his belt. From where Oric stood, he saw several more children, all younger, huddled about a wood stove.

“Where’s the man of the house?” he asked as they stepped inside.

“That’s me,” said the eldest boy. Oric raised an eyebrow as he glanced at the woman. Something already felt off.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked, glad to see him ruffle at being called boy. If he was angry, he might say something stupid, something he’d rather have kept quiet about.

“Trevor.”

“Where’s your pa, Trevor?”

That brief hesitation, along with the woman’s sudden flare of her eyes, was all Oric needed to know.

He had two men with him, one a young soldier named Uri, and the other a skilled fighter named Ingram. Oric turned to them, purposefully putting his back to Trevor and his dagger.

“Ingram, search out back. Check the barn, the fields, anywhere they might keep him. Uri, search the house. Pull up the floors if you have to.”

“You can’t do this!” the woman shouted. Oric struck her with the back of his hand. Finally Trevor drew his dagger. Before he could do a thing, Oric crossed the distance, rammed his throat with one arm, and grabbed Trevor’s wrist with the other. He held him pinned against a wall as the younger children screamed.

“You pulled a blade on me, boy,” Oric said, feeling like a wolf among sheep. He let a wildness appear in his eyes, knowing it’d frighten them more. “That means I can do whatever I want, and I got half a mind to leave you a cripple. Think your ma here will keep feeding a worthless belly that can’t help out in the fields? How you think she’ll like watching me cut off your fingers one at a time?”

Trevor’s eyes were wide, and he looked ready to cry. He couldn’t speak, only cough, and Oric kept the pressure up to keep it that way. He wanted him lightheaded, scared, convinced he was about to die.

“Stop it, please,” the woman pleaded. She still stood near the door, a red mark swelling on her face. Meanwhile Uri flung open drawers and dressers as he searched the house, occasionally stamping hard with his heel to test for false floorboards.

“Stand over there with your children,” Oric snapped at her. “You make a move toward me, anything at all, and you can watch as I pull your son’s guts out one inch at a time.”

She reluctantly obeyed, sitting between her two girls. A young boy was with them, and he moved to sit at her feet. Oric turned back to Trevor, who had dropped the dagger and started retching silently.

“Take a deep breath,” he said, lessening the pressure. As air sucked into his windpipe, Trevor coughed, every gasp he made strained. “Good. Now you listen to me, got it? I’m missing two of my men, and I’m thinking they were here. But let’s not worry about that right now. Right now, I want to know about a little boy, red hair, about five years old. Did someone bring him here? The truth, you worthless shit, tell me the truth.”

Trevor’s face contorted with pain. He had something to say, no doubt about it. But he didn’t want to. Even threatened with death, he didn’t want to say. He was protecting his parents, Oric realized. Nothing else could keep his tongue still when so blatantly faced with death. Well, there were ways around that.

“Uri,” he shouted. The man appeared seconds later.