Shadow Magic (4 page)

I
’ll wait till he’s asleep. Real good and snoring.

With any luck he’d get a half day’s head start before Tyburn even knew he was gone.

They’d left Cliff Road, turning away from the sea and into the trees. By lunchtime the scent of brine was gone, and now the air was thick with pine and the smell of damp earth and rotten bark. They followed a rivulet that twisted and frothed between mossy rocks and fallen branches. The dense canopy cast their route into twilight, and that suited Thorn fine. With the ferns and the uneven ground, you could disappear within ten yards.

Tyburn stopped his horse and looked around him. “You hungry?”

Thorn nodded.

Two months of living on slop not fit for pigs had left Thorn with a gnawing, constant hunger. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever feel full again.

Tyburn squinted. “My eyes aren’t so good in this light. Tell me what you see.”

Thorn jumped off his donkey, thankful to stretch his legs and shake the ache out of his backside. He searched the ground and picked up some dark rabbit droppings. Fresh. “It’s a trail. There must be a warren nearby.” He looked along the shallow trench through the tall grass. “They must take this path down to the stream to drink.”

“You know how to set a trap?”

“No, Master,” lied Thorn.

Tyburn slid off his own saddle and inspected the reeds along the bank. He plucked out a handful. “Strange, a woodcutter’s son who knows so much about the habits of rabbits but not how to catch them.”

Me and my big mouth. He did that on purpose.

Speaking of traps, Tyburn had laid one for him, and he’d run straight into it.

Thorn tried to cover up his mistake. “We should have bought the fish from that fisherman we passed a while back.”

“I’ve spent a month on the Sword Coast. I’m tired of fish. I want rabbit.”

Tyburn twisted the reeds into a loop, using grass stalks for string. He tied one end to the top of a flimsy branch, then he bent it down, wedging it into place with a simple wooden peg. Tyburn sprinkled grass around the loop so it couldn’t be seen. The whole thing took a few minutes. It was a good snare, but Thorn would have put it another few yards closer to the stream; rabbits were less wary when they smelled water.

Tyburn brushed the dirt off his trousers. “We’ll camp down by the stream. Off this path.”

So, by nightfall, Thorn and Tyburn sat eating spit-roasted rabbit.

The stars made their appearance between the cracks in the rain clouds. The moon was a sharp sickle, a silver blade slicing open the blackness.

There’s the High King’s Crown. And the Manticore’s Tail.

The stars here were the same back home. For a moment, lying under his blanket with the campfire warming his face, Thorn could close his eyes and almost, almost, imagine he
was
home.

The donkey and horse wandered nearby, drinking and snacking as it suited them. The campfire flickered red and crackled as Tyburn fed it more twigs. Then he settled down, head resting on his saddle and blanket pulled up over his shoulders. His sword lay beside him.

Thorn knew what would happen next. A meal, a warm fire, and then, under a thick blanket, Tyburn, like all old men, would begin nodding off.

Soon enough the executioner’s eyes drooped, his chin fell down to his chest, and after a few minutes, his breath was murmuring through his mustache.

I’ll give him a bit longer, just to be sure.

At last, the only sound in the night was Tyburn’s soft snores.

Hardly daring to breathe, Thorn drew aside his blanket and got to his feet. His eyes stayed on Tyburn, watching for the slightest flicker of his eyelids.

Thorn’s boots creaked, and he froze.

Tyburn shifted, grunted, and that was all.

Phew.

Now what?

It would take coin to get home, but Tyburn’s purse was on his belt. No way could Thorn get that. He needed something he could sell at a market.

The sword?

Swords sold for plenty, even plain ones.

He crept across the small camp, lowering each foot slowly, wary of twigs, just like his dad had taught him. The branches bent, but did not snap. He followed the first step with another, then another. It seemed as though the sun would come up before he reached the sword, but better slow and quiet than fast and loud.

Finally, he crouched by the executioner’s side.

Tyburn didn’t move.

Thorn’s breath trembled in his throat. His hands, sweaty, tightened around the leather-bound hilt, and he lifted the sword. It was heavy.

Thorn rested it on his shoulder, the same way he carried his father’s ax.

Sell the sword and buy passage back to Stour.

It didn’t matter how long it took. Mom and his three brothers and two sisters would be there, that was for sure.

He should have stayed and looked after everyone, like his dad had told him to. It was Thorn’s job to put meat on the table, something to add to the pot along with turnips and onions from Mom’s vegetable garden. He’d been gone too long.

And maybe,
maybe
, Dad would be there, too.

I’ll hug him and tell him how sorry I am for everything.

Things would be different this time around.

Tyburn’s horse, Thunder, nudged Thorn, wanting to know where he was going. Thorn rubbed his muzzle. “Shh. Let your master sleep. You stay here and be quiet, all right?”

Thorn really wanted to take him, but a peasant riding a warhorse would attract all the wrong sort of attention.

He moved cautiously, using what little moonlight there was to avoid trenches and twigs and potholes. A twisted ankle now and his plans would be ruined.

An owl hooted.

Thorn glanced back. Even the glow of the campfire had disappeared. He smiled. Tyburn would never find him.

I’m going home.

He checked the moss on the tree trunk. It always grew on the north side. The Cliff Road was to the south. Not far.

A branch creaked ahead of him.

It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t a deer exploring at night. Animals weren’t so clumsy.

A twig snapped, and a man muttered a foul curse.

Slowly, inch by inch, Thorn sank down behind a bush, down onto his haunches. He slid the sword off his shoulder and laid it on the earth.

Foliage rustled ahead of him. Moonlight glinted on the edge of a steel blade. Men skulked along the path.

“Where are they?” asked one.

How many were there? It was hard to tell in the shadows.

“The fisherman said they took this path,” came the reply. “He tried to sell them some fish.”

“This is Tyburn we’re talking about,” said another. “I’ve a bad feeling about this, Lukas.”

Lukas? Oh no.

Finally, Thorn could make them out. There were seven in all.

The slave master grabbed the guard’s collar. “He’s just one man. And he doesn’t know we’re coming.”

They brandished swords and axes, and each wore some piece of scavenged armor—a dented breastplate or a rusty helmet. Two carried loaded crossbows. When they came for slaves, they brought clubs, nets, and chains.

They ain’t here to catch Tyburn; they’re here to murder him.

“Think about it, lads,” said Lukas, his scarred face ghoulish in the moonlight. “We’ll be the fellas what killed Tyburn.” He held up his knife for all to see. “And the boy? Him I’m gonna skin alive.”

“R
emember, there’s seven of us, and two of them,” said Lukas. “Easy pickings.”

Steel scraped against steel as weapons were drawn. Armor jangled as a man shrugged.

“Quiet now, lads,” warned Lukas. “We don’t want to wake them if we don’t have to.”

They’re gonna kill him in his sleep. Cowards.

The bough of the tree groaned, and leaves rustled. The slavers moved away from Thorn, the sound steadily smothered by the foliage.

Thorn listened. Nothing. How far had they gone?

Now what?

He should keep going. They wouldn’t find him. Not the slavers and not Tyburn.

Forget Tyburn. He’ll be dead in a couple of minutes.

Thorn didn’t owe him anything.

The man was an executioner. Tyburn’s job was to go looking for trouble. He must have known, sooner or later, trouble would find
him
. The best thing for Thorn would be to stay well out of it.

But something bothered him, like an itch between his shoulder blades. It didn’t seem right, letting a man be murdered while he slept, even a man like Tyburn.

Maybe he’d wake up. The slavers were making plenty of noise, so it seemed. Tyburn’s camp was off the path. Maybe they’d miss it.

Just go. Leave them to it.

That was the sensible,
smart
thing to do.

No. Never gonna happen.

It didn’t matter who Tyburn was. Murder was murder.

Thorn needed to get back. He winced each time a branch rustled and a brittle twig snapped underfoot, expecting a battle cry or an ax in the dark. But he met no one and soon reached the edge of the campsite.

The fire was down to a few glowing embers, but he could just see the form of Tyburn, still asleep under his blanket, his face turned away.

“Tyburn,” Thorn whispered from behind a bush, “wake up.” He scanned the trees anxiously. Lukas had to be nearby.

“Wake up,” he said, a little louder this time.

What was wrong with Tyburn? Maybe it was his age. Old men slept longer and deeper. Thorn picked up a stone and tossed it. It struck Tyburn’s back, but the man slept on.

“Wake up!”

I’ll throw him his sword. Then he’ll have a chance.

Thorn looked all around him. Where
was
the sword? He thought he had it with him!

Cold horror rose from his belly. He’d put it down when he’d hidden from Lukas. And left it.

The bushes opposite rustled. Shadows moved and steel shone.

“Tyburn!” Thorn yelled.

Lukas and his men rushed into the camp. The crossbows thrummed, and two quarrels flew true into Tyburn’s body.

“Tyburn!”

One of the guards, a big brute with a black beard, buried his ax in the sleeping man. “I’ve got him!”

Lukas stabbed down hard, snarling like a rabid dog.

Thorn backed away. He’d acted too late!

“Well done, men.” Lukas swung around, face gleaming with sweat. “Now where’s the boy? I heard him shout.”

Thorn held still, every muscle motionless and holding his breath so not even the leaves beside him moved.

They killed Tyburn, and I let it happen.

He was only a few yards away. They’d find him, and it would have all been for nothing.

Lukas laughed and kicked the remains. “Not so tough now, are you, Tyburn?”

The guard with the ax grinned. “Let’s have a look.” He lifted up the torn blanket.

The grin froze. His eyes widened. “Lads…”

There was no body under the blanket—just a pile of clothes and the saddle arranged to resemble a sleeping man.

Tyburn stepped out from behind a tree, a thick branch in his hands. He swung, swung like a woodcutter chopping down a stubborn tree, all shoulders and hips to give the blow as much force as possible. The branch smashed the man’s skull with a sickening, wet crack.

Tyburn heaved the branch up, shattering the jaw of another man and lifting him clean off his feet.

The remaining five surrounded him, swords, axes, and daggers in their sweaty palms. Tyburn held the branch loosely in his.

“Run or die,” said Tyburn. “Your choice.”

That spurred them into action.

Nothing more I can do here.

Thorn ran.

Shouts broke out behind him. Yells and violent roars and the sounds of weapons clashing. Something large and heavy landed in the stream with a mighty splash.

Thorn stumbled through the woods, not caring which way he was going as long as it was away from the fighting.

A man screamed.

Thorn heard a loud thud. The screaming stopped.

He knew the sounds of the forest. Leaves rustling and twigs snapping as something fled in a panic. It might be a deer that smelled wolf or saw a hunter, but here it was a man, fleeing for his life. His eyes wide in fear of what was behind him.

Steel bit wood. Thorn had heard that a million times before. But this wasn’t his dad chopping down a tree. Someone had tried to chop down Tyburn with his sword. And missed.

Bad mistake.

The next sound was a sharp crack that made Thorn wince. That was no branch breaking—that was bone.

The ground gave way, and Thorn tumbled head over heels, plowing down a mud-slicked slope. He banged his head and skinned his chin as he rolled down into a deep trench, coming to a halt in a pile of soggy leaves.

Ow…

He lay there, panting, his head spinning. The only noise was his own breath.

Was the fight over?

Thorn tried to grab hold of the earth on the side of the pit, but it crumbled away. The few roots sticking out were too slick. He was stuck down here.

Great. Just great. How much worse can it get?

Thorn heard footsteps approach.