Morning's Journey (44 page)

Fates be thanked, he did, but Morghe wished she’d ordered her driver to plow right through the man.

Accolon clucked his tongue, grinning, as he nudged his horse closer. “Lady Morghe, this is not our appointed day.”

“Indeed?” She tried to slow her racing heart. “I must have confused the dates.”

He grunted. “I must say, I’ve seen you look prettier.”

The soot!
As calmly as she could, she replied, “I didn’t have an opportunity to bathe this morning.”

“Ah, of course. Obviously, you were in a great deal of haste.”

Before she could protest, Loholt let out a wail, followed by Tira’s frantic but futile efforts to shush him.

“Well, now.” Accolon peered into the cart. “What have we here?”

Morghe snatched the reins from Lughann’s hands and slapped them across Astarte’s back. Horse and cart leaped forward. Tira yelped, but the baby didn’t even whimper. Morghe hoped he was all right but had no way to be certain.

In minutes, Accolon had caught up. Face contorted in fury, he drew abreast, crouched on his horse’s back, and jumped. Tira screamed. Morghe urged Astarte on, hoping the burst of speed would disrupt Accolon’s balance.

No such luck.

Accolon pushed Lughann off the cart and wrested the reins from her. Accolon’s horse kept pace as Accolon pulled Astarte to a halt.

Drawing his sword, Accolon ordered Morghe down. Tira shrieked and Loholt cried, but they seemed unhurt. How long they’d remain thus was anyone’s guess. Accolon ordered them out, too, before jumping down. Morghe glanced down the road, but Lughann had vanished.

“I am not in the habit of killing women.” Accolon leveled his sword at Morghe and Tira. Still clutching the struggling Loholt, Tira shrank behind Morghe. “But now is a fine time to begin.”

ANGUSEL STRADDLED the log, bending over the trophy while scraping his dagger across its surface. Though he was no closer to identifying his location, at least he’d have something to show for it.

Grinning, he ran his fingers through the beautifully speckled fur, reliving the pleasure, after having endured countless wild onions, dandelions, strawberries, and toasted grasshoppers—which, amazingly, tasted like nuts—of roasting and eating his meaty catch.

He flipped the hide to begin the onerous task of rubbing in the paste he’d made of the creature’s brains, thanking the gods he hadn’t become a tanner by trade. The very thought made his skin crawl.

Ideally, he’d have snared the rabbit on the eve of his return to Arbroch, eliminating the need for this step, but he didn’t want to risk either not catching another rabbit or letting this pelt dry out. Neither possibility boded disaster, but he wanted with all his heart to pass this trial brilliantly. Hence the need to—his lips stretched into another grin despite his dislike of the job—use the brains the gods had given him.

Rumbling drew Angusel’s attention, and he swiveled his head, knotting his eyebrows. Distant thunder? Nay, the sound was closer, and he heard the creaking of wood, too.

Wagons!
His spirits soared. He had to be near the Arbroch road!

He stuffed his dagger and pelt into the sack, along with what remained of the preserving paste in its oak-leaf wrapping. After shouldering the sack, he dismounted the log, snatched his spear, and set off. He’d have to avoid the other travelers lest his deuchainn na fala become nullified. He didn’t think that would be a problem from that caravan, since it seemed to be headed the opposite way.

A woman’s scream froze Angusel’s soul.

Clenching his fists, he glared up at the towering oaks. Why pass a ritual test, he challenged the gods, if someone he could have helped got hurt or even killed?

His answer came not from the trees but from his heart.

Spear in one hand and dagger in the other, he ran toward the wagons and more screams, praying to catch up and fearing he harbored a futile wish.

He came upon a stopped cart hitched to a foam-lathered black mare with heaving sides and quivering limbs. A man stood near the horse’s flank, sword pointed at two smaller, hooded figures huddled beside the cart. From his hiding place, Angusel couldn’t see their faces, but by their stature and bearing, he guessed they were women, likely the same women whose screams he’d heard. He fervently hoped he hadn’t arrived too late. The swordsman’s intent as he neared the others, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse, was hideously obvious.

Another figure burst from behind an outcropping and attacked the swordsman. Though garbed and collared like a slave, he displayed the courage and grace of a warrior, but he was unarmed. A thrust of the other’s sword, and the would-be rescuer crumpled to the ground. The swordsman stepped over the body to approach the women again.

One of the women shrieked. Another cry mingled with hers, higher and more persistent.

Dear gods, a bairn!

The woman shrank from her attacker, and her cloak shifted. A shaft of late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the trees, making silver threads flash in the hem of the child’s blanket.

The pattern was…oh, gods.

Loholt!

Questions flooded his brain, but he had no time to ponder them. He stood, aimed, and flung his spear at the swordsman. The spear pierced the man’s leather-clad shoulder. Cursing, he dropped his sword to paw at the shaft.

No time, either, to weigh the odds of defeating someone who, though wounded, was much bigger and better armed than he. Angusel drew his dagger, burst through the bushes, and charged at the swordsman.

GYAN DID her best to banish her worry as she watched the race.

Rounding the curve, one of the riders let his horse drift a little too far to the outside, crowding another contestant’s horse, whose stride faltered. The second rider flailed his arm to ward the first away, catching him on the shoulder to make him sway in the saddle. They exchanged glares, but both riders returned their attention to the race without further incident, as if the contact had never occurred.

“My lady, did you see that?”

She gave a small shake of the head, not in answer but to clear her mind. She’d witnessed the fouls, but initially they’d failed to register as such when all she could see was Loholt’s face. She regarded her fellow judge. “What? I—yes. Disqualify them.”

As he waved the red flag to signal the finish-line judges, she cast a glance at the sky, where the sun stood at well past its zenith. Tira and Loholt remained at large. This, she reminded herself, might mean nothing. The grounds were packed with people and animals. Cynda had suggested that Gyan return to judging races to take her mind from the problem. She’d reluctantly agreed and had sent Cynda to await Tira and Loholt in Gyan’s quarters.

She wished she’d kept searching.

Donning a rueful smile, she faced her companion. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to carry on without me. I have other business to attend to.”

Gyan’s judging partner, a merchant who understood the necessity of maintaining one’s privacy regarding business ventures, merely smiled, bowed, and shifted his attention to the start of the next race.

Feeling better for her decision, she strode off to find the festival’s captain of the guard, Rhys, stationed in Arbroch’s main gate tower. As she dodged past revelers, children, musicians, and other performers, crafters’ and merchants’ stalls, livestock pens, and the occasional loose dog, cat, pig, or chicken, she devised a simple plan. She would order the guards to check for the Argyll clan-mark on the foot of every male child, within Arbroch’s walls and without.

No, better to make it every babe in arms.

At the base of the guard tower, she stopped. What if this resolved into a simple misunderstanding? Wasn’t she overreacting? Wouldn’t she feel foolish for having mobilized all of Arbroch to find her son?

“Chieftainess? Something wrong?”

Gyan looked up to see Rhys descending as she stood poised to ascend the steps.

Was something wrong? Gyan hoped with all her heart there wasn’t. Yet she had to be sure.

In the privacy of the guardroom, she explained the situation to Rhys. Compassion softened his gruff features. When she finished, he saluted smartly.

“Fret not, my lady. If they’re here, we will find them.”

If.
Rhys unintentionally had voiced her doubts, but she couldn’t let them cripple her.

Trying to sound calm, she said, “The warrior who does shall escort them to the guard tower without delay.”

“As you command, Chieftainess.” With another salute, Rhys left.

She stood at the slotted window and braced both hands against the ledge. As she formed a prayer for the safety of her son, her gaze roved not heavenward but toward the festival grounds. She squinted at the fingernail-size people and animals scurrying about. Rhys’s men, recognizable by their identical black battle-gear and clan cloaks, fanned out among the crowd. Tira and Loholt had to be down there.

And Tira’s explanation for running off with the bairn without a by-your-leave, Gyan thought darkly, had better be a good one.

WHILE THE swordsman tried to yank the spear shaft free, Angusel dived for his legs. The spear came out. Both weapons flew from the man’s grasp as he fell with a yelp onto his wounded shoulder.

Angusel rolled to his feet and spat a curse; he’d lost his dagger. The swordsman lay on his back, motionless. Angusel didn’t dare hope the fall had killed him. He had to do something to finish his foe, but without a weapon, what?

As he looked about, he saw no sign of the women or Loholt. Mayhap his diversion had helped them escape. He spied the spear and sword, nearly obscured by grass tufts in the road. The spear lay closer, but the sword would give Angusel a better advantage if he could reach it before his adversary stirred. Its hilt lay just beyond the man’s fingertips.

Angusel crouched, gauged the distance, and sprang.

He never made it.

In midair, Angusel watched in horror as the man’s eyes snapped open and he grabbed his sword. The point came up. Angusel steeled himself against certain agony.

LUGHANN WOKE to a nightmare of pain and blood. Gingerly, he touched his abdomen, where most of both seemed to be concentrated. With the stuff that oozed onto his hand he could have painted a picture, but he lived. Barely.