Wren (The Romany Epistles) (22 page)

Something was wrong, though. I felt it in my gut. I wasn’t
much of an instinctive decision-maker, but I knew something about the whole
situation irked me. I needed to figure out what.

A glance around gained me nothing. I was too short to see
over the people jostling me. Being brief of stature came with disadvantages.

Another was the encroaching claustrophobia of the crowd
enhanced by the narrow field of vision of my hood. Roulf, with the assistance
of his staff, shouldered his way through the crowd. With him in the lead, we
worked our way toward the front fringe behind the foot soldiers. Jadet and
Parkin flanked me, ensuring I wasn’t bowled over by the pressing bodies. They
were only partly successful.

The dark shadow of the wall passed over us. I dared not look
up to mark its location. Once it was behind us, though, we all lifted our heads
to scan the crowd.

“I see Svhen,” Jadet announced at my left. “He is that way.”
He flailed an arm to our left.

Parkin nodded and grabbed Roulf’s shoulder to get his
attention. We tried to stop, but the momentum of the crowd refused to part
around us and we were carried along instead.

All four of us clustered together, me at the center, and made
a stand. Finally the people parted, passing at each side.

“It is thinning out,” Roulf yelled in my ear above the
cacophony of voices cheering and talking as they passed. As he predicted, a few
seconds later the number of people decreased.

“This way.” Jadet bounded off, dodging stragglers.

The rest of us followed. Leaving the crowd behind, we struck
out through the brush. Jadet headed for a stand of tall pines clogged with
underbrush. It was only when we caught up with him that I realized his plan.
The prisoners were apparently being led to the meeting by another path, passing
on the opposite side of the trees. Their course brought them out of sight of
the gathering before the gates.

“How did you know?” Parkin demanded, as soon as we caught
up.

“Hush!” Roulf hissed.

Just beyond the last of the trees, a man dressed in leather
with a black cowl about his neck and an oversized sword strapped to his back
led a line of prisoners along the footpath. Their hands were bound before them
and looped together. Two of the soldiers escorting them carried a thick block
of wood between them, the chopping block for beheadings.

Svhen’s blond head and massive shoulders appeared second in
line, the most visible of the lot. Hiller, recognizable only by his clothing,
tramped in the lead. Hiller’s steps faltered. Falling to his knees, he brought
Svhen down with him.

The prisoners stopped. Familiar faces turned toward the head
of the line. One of the seven guards called out to the executioner to halt while
two others closed in on Hiller and Svhen, reaching for the cudgels attached to
their belts.

“Now is our chance.” Jadet produced a knife from beneath his
cloak and brandished it like a complete novice. I could have disarmed him in
one move, but it wouldn’t have helped to point it out then.

“There are eight of them and three of us,” Parkin protested.

“Your accounting of our allies is off,” Roulf replied. “I
count fourteen: ten prisoners and the four of us.”

“But they are bound.” Parkin gestured just as the first blow
landed across Svhen’s shoulders.

I wondered why they were picking on him and not Hiller, but
I suspected the reason was because Hiller hovered on the edge of collapse.
Regardless, I couldn’t bear to watch more without action.

“Get out your sword, boy. A soldier worth his keep can
utilize more than just his hands to take down an assailant. They just need a
chance.” I unsheathed my first and second knives. “Ready, Roulf?”

He adjusted his grip on the heavy staff in his hands. “Aye,
Wren, just give the word.”

I eyed the situation. The executioner retraced his steps and
approached Hiller and Svhen, yelling words that made my ears burn. I waited
until Parkin drew his sword, thankfully with more skill than Jadet and his
knife.

“Now.”

My first knife sank into the kicker’s shoulder, most likely
breaking his shoulder blade. The second lodged in the executioner’s dominant
left hand. He would not be executing anyone with that sword today. Before the
first man reached the ground, Roulf dealt him a blow to the head that would
keep him unsteady for a while.

The lads moved to attack the man who struck Svhen. Before
they could do much damage, though, Svhen took the man down with a shoulder to
the back followed by a crushing two-fisted blow to the man’s chest. I heard his
ribs crack.

Roulf confronted the wounded executioner as the second guard
sized me up with an incredulous expression on his face. Third blade in hand, I
adjusted it into a fighting grip and prepared for him to lunge. My eyes watched
his weight distribution, alert for a tell that would warn of his intended move.
He never made it. One of the prisoners slung the lead rope around his neck from
behind and hissed something in his ear. The soldier’s sword dropped to the
dirt.

I glanced along the trail. The remaining soldiers were all
incapacitated.

“Here are the keys,” Roulf said as he appeared at my
shoulder. He tossed them to the nearest man. “Hurry, the enforcer is going to
miss you soon.”

“What is the plan?” Svhen asked.

“Get close as possible to the enforcer and immobilize him
before he realizes something is wrong.” Roulf rubbed his shoulder ruefully. “If
we have some of you pose as prisoners and the rest as guards, we should be able
to get away with it. I have hoods for the ones playing guards.”

In the midst of the following flurry of activity, I knelt by
Hiller’s still form. Svhen’s large hand came to rest on my shoulder.

“How is he?”

His face a muddy mixture of red, black, and blue, I could
barely recognize the identifying features I would expect. His one discernible
eye was closed. My chest constricted in the familiar bondage of grief.

“We need the keys.”

Svhen turned away. His voice distantly demanded the keys as
I checked Hiller’s life signs. He breathed and his heart beat steadily. I eased
him over onto his back. A groan shuddered through him. The pressure in my chest
moved to my throat.

As I struggled to regain my control, Svhen returned. He
worked the keys into the lock. “There.” The manacles fell away, leaving raw
remnants on Hiller’s wrists.

“He will live.”

“Can he be moved?” Roulf asked from above us.

I nodded.

The men lifted him as gently as possible and carried him off
to the shelter of the trees where someone had cleared a space for him. The
moment he was settled, two of the enemies’ cloaks wrapped around him for
warmth, the men returned to assist with the prisoners. I remained by Hiller’s
side.

One of his men approached. “Your weapons, my lady.” He
offered my knives, clean of the blood I expected. “They were well used.”

“Thank you.”

“The name is Fronk.”

“Thank you, Fronk.”

“Who is going to stay with him?” Svhen asked as he
approached.

I shook my head. I couldn’t. I had to reach Tourth. He would
need me.

“I will,” Roulf offered. “I doubt I will be much use with
this shoulder.”

The matter settled, we formed up the line. Five men took the
guards’ roles, hoods raised to hide their faces. One man, the second largest to
Svhen, took the role of executioner. With the borrowed black cowl about his
neck, his scarred face, and the huge sword strapped to his back, Fronk looked
the part.

Each prisoner held the iron manacles in place around their
wrists, giving the appearance of being bound. The leg irons were gone, used to
bind the captured enemy. The remaining men escorted them, hiding their faces as
best they could with hoods, helmets, and such. I joined Jadet at the end of the
line. We lugged the execution block between us.

Enforcer Hawthorne approached King Orac’s party on horseback
and clothed in silk. “My Lord King,” he murmured as he bowed, offering the
bared wrist of his right hand.

“Enforcer,” Orac replied. “Quite the spectacle for my
arrival.” His nod encompassed three hundred foot soldiers in full regalia, a
crowd of excited peasants, and Hawthorne’s own overblown attire. The king,
dressed in simple armor with only a crest and a battle-crowned helmet to mark
his authority, presented a solemn contrast to his underling.

“We seek only to please, my liege. The morrow being the one
year anniversary of your ascension to the throne, we wished to celebrate the
glory of your reign.”

Orac’s light eyes did not meet Hawthorne’s. Instead they
roamed over the ranks behind him. He no doubt noticed what I marked some time
ago–there were no Tarins among Hawthorne’s troops, a count against my case.

“We have some entertainments planned, my liege.” Hawthorne’s
arm wave indicated the small band of prisoners approaching half the field away.
Svhen’s bright hair attracted the eye in the glow of late afternoon sunlight. I
scanned the group for Hiller only to notice a very familiar face among the
escorting soldiers. What was Wren doing there? I dragged my gaze back to
Hawthorne in time to see confusion followed by anger cross his features before
the mask of jolly stage master returned.

“A recent raid on a rebellion hideout produced unexpected
fruits. My men captured a number of known criminals. I am sure you have heard
of Svhen Bejork, the madman mercenary. Also, a surprising treat, the Butcher of
Catorna himself, Tourth Mynth appeared among the prisoners. I understand he
killed your step-son on the field. A fitting tribute to the fallen hero to
execute his murderer upon the anniversary, wouldn’t you say?”

“Do not assume anything, Hawthorne.” Orac’s voice froze
Hawthorne with his mouth open and hand upraised to signal something. “My son
died in battle, in a skirmish with Tourth Mynth, but that does not justify
further bloodshed to mark the anniversary. However, I am curious about this
Svhen Bejork. Why does he have a price on his head? Who is the funder?”

Hawthorne’s face flushed. “I am the funder, sire. Bejork is
well-known as a war criminal and rebel.”

“Mynth?” Orac turned to me.

I struggled to keep my surprise from my features. “Aye, my
liege?”

His silver gaze pinned me. Blank and emotionless, it gave me
no clue as to his intentions.

“I am curious. Have you or your men participated in any
illegal or criminal ‘rebel’ behavior since the peace declaration?”

“Nay, my liege.”

“Is Bejork one of your men?”

“Aye, my king.”

He frowned. “Would you be willing to vouch for his life with
yours?”

My stomach clenched, but I answered without a pause. “Aye, I
would, Sire.”

He studied me for a moment longer. Something within me knew
this was a test. I met his gaze steadily and prayed that the Lord would allow
me to live.

Abruptly, Orac turned back to Hawthorne, catching him in the
act of whispering instructions to Keilvey. “What troops do you speak of,
Hawthorne? I only commissioned you the few hundred you have here.”

“Recruits from the locals, my king.”

Orac frowned. “Not allowed, Hawthorne. You have overstepped
your commission. Lord Portan….”

Lord Portan guided his horse closer to Orac’s right hand.
Meanwhile Hawthorne attempted to regain some control. “Perhaps we could speak
of this later after the celebrations, my liege. I planned some lovely pageantry
within the walls.”

“No, Hawthorne, I do not think I shall enter your gates
until my men have searched the interior. Portan, have the prisoners approach. I
want to speak to the one they considered Mynth.”

A screech ripped through the air, drowning out Orac’s words.
A second bird answered from closer at hand. As though pulled by a puppeteer’s
string all heads turned toward the second sound as a dark body plummeted
through the air. Wings cupped to slow his approach, a falcon descended with
claws outstretched toward Wren. The lad assisting her with the execution block
dropped his load, threw his hands over his head, and ducked down. Wren also
dropped the wooden block, but she turned to locate the first cry. I followed
her gaze and spotted a larger female, white and silver in the sunlight
approaching like a vengeful angel of fury. However, she was not headed toward
Wren, but a more immediate goal, Hawthorne. The falcon missed his head by a
foot, screaming her anger as she beat the air to gain altitude.

“The Romany.” Hawthorne’s gaze was only for Wren’s upturned
face. Hatred, pure and potent, permeated every syllable. “Kill her,” he hissed
to Keilvey.

Hawthorne’s hand went to his belt as he swung to face the
king. Orac’s eyes were still on Wren and her falcon, oblivious of the malice
gathering in the enforcer’s eyes. Winding the reins around my left hand, I
heeled Trader and threw my body weight, directing the horse toward Orac. My
hand already gripped my own sword hilt.

A glint of metal heralded Hawthorne’s intent as he raised
his fisted hand, a blade protruding. Orac reacted to the movement, turning in
time to see the weapon about to plunge toward him. He reached for his own
sword, but he moved too late.

“Long live the king,” Hawthorne announced as Trader’s
shoulder impacted the king’s mount, jarring rider and horse aside. Hawthorne’s
blade struck the neck of Orac’s mount at an odd angle, knocking the blade from
the enforcer’s hand. The horse screamed. Trader head-butted the stallion and
nipped his shoulder. Prancing away, the horse carried Orac from harm and placed
us firmly in his stead.

Sword drawn, I faced the enemy.

“Mynth.” He spat my name. “I should have known he wasn’t
you. He didn’t have half the arrogance I expected of the Butcher of Catrona and
none of the strengths of a traitor.” Reaching down, he pulled a short sword
from its hiding place beneath his horse’s trappings.