Gail Martin - The Sworn

Donelan moved slightly ahead, watching for deer. The two guardsmen were unwillingly forced to spread out, flanking the group to drive game into the king’s path. Cam and Wilym watched the forest, but their interest was in protecting the king, and not in the wildlife.

The brush to his right shuddered and something streaked from cover. Cam had his bow leveled before his mind recognized that a rabbit had been flushed from cover. He held his shot and gave Wilym a grin.

“Must be my stomach aiming. I’m as fond of rabbit stew as I am of venison!”

Wilym returned the smile, but it did not reach his eyes. Instead, he continued to scan the brush for trouble. But as the morning wore on without incident, even he began to relax, just a little.

A pheasant burst from its cover, scared into flight by their approach. This time, Cam’s arrow flew, catching the bird through the breast. It fell with a soft thump, and Cam tied off its legs and slung it over his shoulder.

Suddenly, Donelan stopped. He gestured silently for Cam and Wilym to freeze, and motioned ahead. Through the brush, Cam could just see a large rack of antlers. Donelan moved forward in a crouch, putting more room between himself and the others, drawing his bow for the shot.

Two arrows sang through the air. Donelan’s arrow found its mark, lodging in the stag’s shoulder, but in the same breath, a quarrel flew from the branches of a tree behind them, catching the king through the back.

“Up there!” Wilym shouted, running to cover the king, his own bow drawn and ready.

Cam gave a shout and launched himself at the tree where the bowman had hidden. He could hear the other soldiers crashing through the brush to get to them, but his full attention was on the tree.

Another quarrel tore through the air, barely missing Cam. Cam dove and lunged, coming up on the far side of the tree. Despite his bulk, Cam moved with surprising speed, something his opponents seldom realized until it was too late. And while Cam’s bad leg shaved some time off his run, his upper body, muscular from a decade of wielding heavy swords, was easily up to the task of hauling himself into the branches and helping him scramble toward where the attacker hid.

“Guard the king!” Cam shouted to the soldiers. Yet another quarrel flew past him, but it went wide and sank into a branch over his head. Cam had dropped his bow, and he carried a knife between his teeth. He peered around the trunk, and another quarrel shot past him, flying wild as leaves and branches sent it off course. It was enough for Cam to get an idea of where the shooter was. In one fluid movement, Cam stood and released his knife. Heavier than the quarrel, the blade cut through the small branches without losing its course. Cam heard the blade strike flesh. A man cried out, and as Cam stepped around the trunk for a better view, he saw a man falling, spread-eagled, to the ground below.

By the time Cam shinnied down the tree, the two soldiers stood over the downed man. They, too, had slung their bows over their shoulders, and they held the prisoner at sword’s point. In the field, Wilym knelt beside the king. Donelan wasn’t moving, and Cam felt his heart in his throat as he ran to Wilym.

“Is he-”

Wilym shook his head and Donelan groaned. “He’s alive. Thanks to the chain mail he’s got on under his shirt, it’s not as bad as it could have been, although since the bowman was above us, the angle made it penetrate more than a straight shot should have.”

“Do we move him or have someone ride for Trygve?” Trygve, the king’s personal battle healer, was back at Aberponte. It would be a candlemark’s ride one way, a long time to lie bleeding in a field.

Wilym shook his head. “I certainly haven’t got Trygve’s gift, but there’s a bit of hedge witch in my blood, enough to do some basic field healing. Cover us.” With that, Wilym closed his eyes and let his hands hover just above where the thick shaft of the quarrel protruded from the king’s shoulder. After a moment, Wilym frowned, and then let out his breath and opened his eyes.

“It’s torn up some muscle and sinew, but it missed the artery, thank the Lady. He’ll need Trygve to patch him up good as new if he means to fight soon, but, with the king’s permission, I can get the arrowhead out safely. As far as I can tell, it wasn’t poisoned. That’s something else to be thankful for.”

“Just pull the damned thing out!” Donelan’s voice was muffled as he lay face down in the grass, but there was no mistaking his imperative.

“This is going to hurt,” Wilym warned.

“Get on with it!”

Cam stood guard over them while Wilym braced himself and then kept up steady traction on the arrow to remove it from where it was lodged. Donelan grunted but did not cry out, although once the arrow was free, Donelan showed a bent for creative cursing that made Cam shake his head in approval.

“Stay still, Your Majesty,” Wilym warned. “I’ve still got to stop the bleeding and do what I can to set the healing on the right path until we can get you to Trygve.”

“Blast that! What about my stag?”

Cam walked toward the brush where they had spotted the antlers. A fresh deer carcass was held upright by a wooden rack, with the body mostly obscured behind brush. The antlers that had tantalized Donelan and lured him into range appeared to have been cobbled together from several pairs, upon closer inspection.

Cam returned to where Donelan sat, impatiently allowing Wilym to bind up his shoulder with strips torn from his shirt. “Well?”

“The deer was a trick. Someone knew you were planning to hunt and had a fondness for prize stag. The antlers aren’t even real.”

“By the Whore! Bring me the man who shot at me. I want answers!” Donelan was as angry as Cam had ever seen him, and Cam had the distinct impression that the king was as enraged about losing his deer as he was about the attempt on his life.

Cam motioned for the two soldiers to bring their prisoner forward. They had bound the man’s wrists, but they left Cam’s knife where it was, buried deep in the man’s back. From the way the prisoner was struggling to breathe, Cam’s aim had been truer than the assassin’s, and their attacker had obviously not thought to wear armor.

“Who sent you?” Donelan’s voice was firm, although what remained of his shirt was soaked with blood.

The prisoner raised his head, and it was the first good look Cam had gotten at the man’s face. He had the look of the Isencroft hills, and when he spoke, his accent confirmed Cam’s guess. “Death to traitors!” He spat in Donelan’s direction.

“I’d be careful what you wish for, boy. From where I sit, ’tis treason to fire on your king,” Wilym warned. “Tell us how you knew where we’d hunt, and who helped you, and perhaps one of the Light Faces will take pity on your soul.”

“You thought you broke us, but we’re stronger than you know,” the would-be assassin boasted, and choked on blood. “We’re everywhere, hidden in plain sight. And we won’t rest until Isencroft remains independent!”

“Funny way to show your loyalty, trying to kill the king,” Wilym said, prodding the man with the point of his sword.

Donelan’s eyes narrowed. “You can tell me now, or we can wait until you’re dead. My daughter’s husband is a very powerful summoner. I bet he could get your ghost to tell me what we want to know.”

“You can try.”

Donelan and Wilym exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. “Bind him and haul him back to the palace. We’ll let the battle mages have a turn at him, see what they can get from him.”

“The hunt was a last-minute idea,” Cam said thoughtfully. “How many people knew?”

The soldiers trussed the prisoner to drag him back to the horses. Wilym and Cam offered their hands to Donelan as the king got to his feet, but Donelan waved them off. “No one but Kellen was with us when the king proposed it last night,” Wilym said thoughtfully.