Chapter XXV

Wren

I reluctantly released my hold on oblivion as pain laced through the haze. Gradually my surroundings filled my senses, hearing first. The awareness of someone caressing my hand followed on its heels.

“What do you mean ‘it is probably the pain’?” Kat’s whispered harshly. “You mean you actually let her fight in a battle?”

The hand holding mine tightened and the stroking stopped. “I didn’t have much choice, Kat. We arrived separately. I was surprised as anyone else when she turned up between the battle lines unprepared for a skirmish.”

“Still, you should have done something.”

“I did. As soon as I could, I sought her out.”

“Hardly soon enough.”

A racking cough close by filled the awkward silence.

“How is Arthus? Is his cough improved?” Tourth’s voice was softer than normal as though he didn’t want someone nearby to hear.

“He will recover.” Kat shifted with a rustle of fabric. “The healer gave him this mixture to drink twice every day. It smells awful, but it seems to be helping.”

Another silence.

Tourth cleared his throat. “He loves you, you know.”

“What?”

“Arthus…he loves you.”

“Says who?” Kat demanded.

“Wren. She shared her observations right before you left for Philon’s.”

Kat laughed softly. “Figures she would see it first.”

“You know?”

“Of course, I might be slow, but I am not an idiot. He asked for me when we met up with him and Isacrus on the road. Burning up with fever and half out of his mind and the fool asks for me instead of a healer.”

“And you knew then?”

“Well, that and the kiss.”

His fingers tightened around my hand. “Kat.” His voice took on the tension of a drawn bowstring. “You are baiting me.”

“I will tell you how it works out.”

“No, you will tell me now. He kissed you?”

“I am a grown woman.”

“I am your older brother.” Tourth’s grip on my hand turned painful. “Kat, if you don’t…”

“Tourth,” I protested. “You are hurting my hand. Leave off pestering Kat.”

“I will get the healer,” Kat said, rising to her feet so quickly I heard her joins pop.

Tourth dropped my hand like it had turned into a live scorpion. “Wren, I can’t just let…”

I opened my eyes to find him frowning fiercely at me. Not the best of first sights, but I was simply thankful he was alive. “Think for a minute. You know Arthus. You know Kat. Leave them be.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but the healer arrived without Kat. It was the same young man from the battlefield.

“Mistress Romany, we meet again. I was hoping you would follow my instructions.”

I closed my eyes too weary to keep them open. “I did.”

“Standing for a tribunal is not resting.” He removed the dressing and began prodding. I was soon too busy enduring the resulting pain to point out that he had said nothing about resting.

“How does it look?” Tourth sounded really worried. I opened my eyes to find him watching the healer work. Worry lines that hadn’t been there a moment ago bracketed his mouth and pulled at his brows. Before thought, I reached up to touch his cheek. He looked down at me, surprise widening his dark eyes. I let my hand fall, too exhausted to keep it raised.

“I will be fine, Tourth. None of the stitches are pulled.”

“She is right.” The healer began reapplying the bandage. “A few days of complete rest and she will be back on her feet.”

Tourth claimed my hand again. “She will rest.”

The healer retied the last knot with a grunt that clearly indicated his skepticism. “Let me know if she develops a fever and let her rest.” He rose to his feet. “That means no talking. Now close your eyes.” I obeyed. “Sleep. I don’t want to see them open for at least eight hours. And you, Lord Mynth, I suggest the same for you. Lord Portan ordered your allotted cot and bedroll sent over. I had them set up in the corner over there. Now shoo.”

I missed the gratifying sight of the young healer herding Tourth off. I didn’t miss the soft brush of Tourth’s fingertips on my cheek before he moved away. Thank you for sparing us all, Redeemer. Your grace amazes me. Sleep claimed me a few breaths later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tourth

Wren slept. I did not. I wish I could have blamed it on Arthus’ ragged breathing, but I have slept through worse in the past. My worried thoughts kept me alert and staring at the taut canvas roof of the invalid tent only a foot or so above my head.

Low lantern light threw grotesque shadows. It burned for the sake of the healer passing between cots to check on patients. For such a young man, the healer was a vigilant caretaker. He made rounds frequently on silent feet with a glare for me because my eyes were still open.

Rolling on my side, I watched Wren sleep across the tent and struggled with my heart. I loved her. An admission easy enough to make, it would be torturous to carry through to completion. She was a wanderer. True, her stories of her family, the few I could remember, indicated she had not always been one. The fact remained that come spring she intended to move on. Did she endlessly seek something or was she running from something? I never asked. Suddenly wishing I had pushed for more answers, I rolled over to face the canvas wall.

Arthus coughed in his sleep and shifted. One of the other patients moaned. The healer moved to him with a whisper of reassurance and soothing noises.

I closed my eyes.

Offering one’s heart always came with risk. Simple rejection seemed small compared to the myriad other possibilities my suddenly pessimistic mind brought forth. The worst being she felt early, ripping the remaining days away from me. She entwined my life and I didn’t want her to rip away.

Father, help me.

I offered so little, a valley on the brink of destitution and a people worn to the bone facing a long winter with little in the stores. King Orac would most likely claim most of Hawthorne’s stores as spoils. Her skills would mean survival for more than just our household. Perhaps for the valley’s sake I would wait to offer her my heart. Time would offer a chance to probe her heart and see where she stood, how I could entice her to accept.

My personal failings marched through my thoughts as I jammed my flat pillow into a better position and closed my eyes again.

I needed sleep. Even more, I needed know what to say to make Wren stay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wren

I woke to a throbbing ache in my thigh. My hand moved instinctively to the source only to brush the linen bandage. Memories of the battle marched into place.

“Ready for food?” Dardon sat on the ground next to my cot cleaning his boots. Sunlight backlit the canvas around us.

“How long have you been there?”

He shrugged. “I came to check on you and Arthus. Tourth demanded I sit watch on you until he got back. Apparently you aren’t allowed out of bed yet.”

I attempted to move my leg. Pain subdued the impulse before my toes had risen an inch.

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you. Your healer threatened to tie you to the bed if you tried anything. I think he means it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Shifting my upper body instead, I adjusted my pillow. “How is Arthus?”

“See for yourself.” Dardon jutted his chin at the bed halfway across the tent. Arthus and Kat sat shoulders meeting, heads bent in conversation. “I would say he is doing fine. Does Tourth know?”

I nodded. “He is still struggling with his role.”

Dardon’s eyebrows rose. “What role?”

“Exactly.”

He considered that for a moment, devoting intense attention to the instep of his left boot. “Nope. That wasn’t the bee in his britches this morning. It was something else.”

“What?” I tried to prop my head up, but it wasn’t comfortable.

“He was mighty agitated. Muttered something I didn’t catch before he headed off to speak with King Orac.”

“Hmm…” My stomach rumbled loudly. “You mentioned food?”

He smiled. “Aye. Coming right up.” Leaping up, he strode off toward the far end of the tent. I watched his movements with envy. It would be quite a while before I would be able to move like that without a twinge of discomfort.

While he was busy, I attempted to prop myself up again and look around. Besides Arthus, three other cots filled the room. I guessed one of the two empty cots was Tourth’s. The last was occupied by a stranger, unconscious, his middle bound from sternum to hip with a dark red blossom spread along his left side.

“It looks like pottage for you.” Dardon sat back down on the ground. Steam rose in wisps from the large wooden bowl in his hands. He promptly filled the spoon. “Healer allowed milk, but not berries. Apparently he is concerned you will lose your stomach.”

“Where is Hiller?” He planted the hot pottage in my mouth with so little ceremony I almost coughed it out in his face.

“Recovering in a different tent. Not a broken bone in him. Amazing considering the way he was worked over.”

I swallowed. Warmth coated my throat, soothing the dryness. “And his eye?” I gulped again as the memory of his face made my stomach turn. Dardon shoveled in another bite before I caught my breath. I choked on it before swallowing.

“They thought he might have lost it, but as the swelling receded, they changed their mind.”

“Good.” Another ill-timed bite. I coughed my way clear and protested. “Are you trying to kill me? Slower.”

“Fine.” He scooped the next bit with exaggerated care.

“Stop torturing the invalid, Dardon.” Iscarus stood over us, frowning at Dardon.

“Are you trying to finish her off with that spoon?” Warrick asked as he appeared behind his brother.

“Fine, complain about it. I never claimed to be a nurse and I doubt you could do much better.”

“In fact, I am certain I can.” Warrick held out a hand for the bowl. Dardon gave it over with a smirk. “Now get out of the way while I show you how it is done.” He scooped out a reasonably sized spoonful and dropped it in my mouth.

“Now how did you learn that?” Dardon demanded. “Spend much time nursing?”

“No, just in the nursery with my daughter. This is about the consistency of her mash.” He gave me another before I could do more than smile at the incongruous picture his words brought to mind.

“You should spend more time practicing. With the way things are going, Arthus and Tourth will both be setting up nurseries soon.” Iscarus nodded his head toward the couple leaving the tent.

I choked on my pottage, barely containing it.

Dardon thumped me on the back so hard it hurt.

“Tourth is going to what?” I asked the moment I could.

“He is going to ask you to marry him,” Iscarus replied.

Warrick smacked his shin.

“What? It isn’t like he asked me to keep my mouth shut.”

“How do you know?” My thoughts disseminated like scattered chaff, isolated and fruitless.

“He asked me how I got my wife to marry me.” Warrick met my gaze. “He set his mind on convincing you to stay. He is stuck on this idea that you want to go.”

“Do you?” Dardon frowned at me.

“No.”

“Then put the idiot out of his misery,” Warrick advised.

All three dropped into uncomfortable silence. Warrick continued spooning food into my mouth without meeting my eyes. Dardon broke away first.

“If you are going to handle this, I am going to go talk to Tourth about moving everyone back home. This camping stuff reminds me too much of the war.” He gathered his boots. “Glad to see you are better.” He tramped out without waiting for my reply.

Iscarus muttered. “Got to go check…”

“Get out of here, wuss.” Warrick waved at him.

“I am glad you are going to stay, Wren. They need you here.” He left.

“Big mouthed…” He focused intently on scraping the last bite from the bowl. Upon putting it in my mouth, he rose to his feet.

I eased back onto my side, seeking a comfortable position for my now aching arm. I was surprised to find him still standing there when I finally settled.

“Tourth needs you more than the valley does.” Then he walked away.

I lay in silence, stunned at what had just transpired. Fitful sleep came like a haze.

When I woke, the sun had set. My stomach bit hungrily at my gut and my mouth tasted of old cloth. The healer moved like one of the shadows among the cots. I looked for Tourth. The familiar outline of his shoulders against the pale canvas of the tent was all I could see of him. He slept with his back to the room.

“Are you in pain?” The healer touched my shoulder.

“Reasonable. The ache in my bones from not moving is almost worse at the moment.”

He nodded. “A common complaint under the circumstances. I will let you up, with assistance and no walking, tomorrow morning.”

“May I have something to eat and drink?”

“Certainly. I will wake your nurse and have him bring you something. Now no sitting up, understand?”

“Yes.”

He went directly to Tourth’s cot and shook him awake. He rolled over, alert and ready for combat. He followed the healer out and returned bearing a cup of mulled ale and bread and cheese wrapped in cloth.

“Which do you want first?” he asked, showing me the food.

“Drink.”

He set the bundle on the ground and knelt next to my cot. Propping me up with an arm around my shoulders, he offered me the cup. I relished the warmth of his presence as I sipped the warm liquid and breathed deeply of the spices.

Memories of home and gathering around the central fire on long winter nights blossom from the scents. Taerith devours a tome. Aiden and Arnan argue in low tones about something trivial, reveling in the competition more than the topic. Should the heat of the conversation grow overwhelming, they would cool it with a wrestle in the snow. Zoe watches them, eager for a chance to contribute. Her handiwork lays forgotten in her lap. I listen to them, but only to the rise and fall of the voices. My attention is on teaching Aquila to handle a knife. Ilara and Daelia bend over mending on the opposite sides of a lantern, hands and heads almost meeting in the glow. Sam sits at my knee, head heavy with coming sleep and the dreams constantly lingering in his eyes.

Memory pressed against my breastbone, aching and raw. Despite the longing, I knew the image was lost to time. We would never be so again.

Tourth shifted behind me. I took a deep draught of the ale.

Hope welled in the warmth of the liquid’s path. True, I would never be a part of siblings’ circle like I once had, but I cherished the possibility of new family circle. Arthus, Kat, Dardon, and Svhen were almost like brothers. Philon, Hiller, Warrick, and Iscarus acted like cousins, a new relationship for me. Tourth…

I swallowed all but the dregs.

No, Tourth was different.

Without a word, Tourth claimed the cup and eased me back to the cot. I watched him sleepily. He bent over the bundle of food, rumpled hair a black mass in the dimness. He offered me a bite-sized crust.

“My hands work fine.”

“Just take it, Wren. It is the least I can do.”

I took the bread. “Wallowing in guilt again?”

His head snapped up and dark eyes glinted in the light. “I am not wallowing.”

“Hmm…”

He handed me another minute piece and avoided my gaze. Three more bits of bread passed between us before he finally groaned. “Fine, I will stop.”

“Wise move.”

“But it is my fault you are injured. I should have never let you leave King Orac’s camp.”

“What would you have done to stop me?”

“Tied you up or…” His voice dropped off. We both knew I would have found a way to leave. With them I would have been a fatal liability.

“Dardon said I should ask you to stay.”

“I told him I would.”

“No…” His fingers crumbled the cheese.

“I would like to eat that,” I commented.

“Sorry.” He offered the chunk to me. I reached for it. Instead of letting me have it, he claimed my hand. “Wren, would you stay? I mean beyond the winter, for always. I can promise that you will always have a roof over your head and a fire in the hearth. I can’t offer much else at the moment. In a year or so, Lord willing, I will have more. The valley is full of rich soil and the people willing to work. Given time, we will reclaim the old security, but it is going to take work.”

“I like to work.”

“I know, but…”

“Stop trying to talk me out of it and give me the real reason you want me to stay.”

He met my gaze and truly looked at me for the first time in a long time. His eyes searched mine for the answer before he asked the question. I met his study with one of my own.

Dark blue eyes, black in the shadows of his face, hid so much. I could read his history on his face now that I knew where to look and how to interpret the lines and shadows. I wondered if he could do the same for me. Despite this knowledge, I saw more to learn.

When did it happen, Lord? When did he become so precious to my heart and necessary for my happiness? The thought of leaving had disappeared the first night. They needed me; he needed me; that was clear from the beginning. However, the roots of my own needs intertwining among his stole upon me until it was too late. All he had to do was ask the question.

He touched my face. Fingertips grazed the line of my jaw. “Wren, marry me.”

I smiled slowly. “Why?”

“Because God brought us together and I love you.”

“I cannot argue with that.”

His fingers laced through my hair near my ear, callused palm spanning my cheek. “So, is that a yes?”

“Yes, Tourth. I love you.”

He laughed and then kissed me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

© 2011 Rachel Rossano

Feedback Questions:

1) Did I miss anything crucial? If so, what?
2) Was it satisfying? If not, why?
3) Did their exchange come across as realistic? If not, what bugged you?
4) Any other comments you would like to make considering this was the last chapter.

Chapter XXIV

Wren

My hip throbbed. The cold numbness of shock began to dissipate and pain settled in its place. I attempted to ignore the healer’s touch and movements. Despite my general lack of queasiness, I hated knowing what he was doing to me. I preferred refusing to consider it and focusing on something else.

Tourth and Svhen stood only a few feet away discussing the situation. Keilvey had disappeared. I wasn’t surprised. Tourth’s frustration at the news translated into pacing.

“He has to be somewhere nearby. He couldn’t have gotten very far.”

“He required a fast horse and a head start. Look around. Horses aplenty.”

“But…”

The sensation of fire seared through my hip. I screamed. My focus snapped back to my leg. Liquid pain cut deep into my flesh radiating agony like a poison. Someone grabbed my free arm, enfolding my hand and lifting my upper body off the ground. Before I gasped for air to replace the wind knocked out of me, I was leaning against Tourth’s kneeling legs.

“Breathe through it, Wren,” Tourth’s voice burrowed through the haze. I latched on to it, focusing with all my might. “It will pass.” Someone brushed back my hair. I forced my lungs to do what they were design to do despite their momentary lapse in memory.

“What did you do to her?” he demanded of the healer.

“Alcohol, sir, I just pour it over to cleanse the…”

“Did you warn her?” Tourth’s grip on my fingers tightened.

“No, I don’t usually…”

“Lesson one in dealing with women: always tell them what you are going to do before you do it. Prepare them.” Although the words were kind, Tourth’s tone made it clear that the man better never forget the advice, or else.

“Men, too,” Svhen added.

“What?” Tourth barked.

“Warn men also. That is painful. It is better to be able to prepare for it first.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Give the man a break, he just surprised me. It isn’t as though this were the best of circumstances.”

I could barely see in the falling shadows. The healer worked by the light of a heavy lantern, but its halo of light didn’t reach my head. I couldn’t see Tourth’s face, but I felt him tense.

“I still have to stitch it.” The poor healer’s voice quavered uncertainly. “That is going to hurt as well.”

“Go ahead,” I said quickly before Tourth or Svhen could make it worse.

“Are you sure?” Tourth asked.

“Let the man do his job.” Thankfully that seemed to convince the healer. He resumed working. “Tell me about your confrontation with Hawthorne. It will distract me.”

Tourth complied. As he finished, Dardon arrived.

“That Lord Portan is grumping because you two are late to the tribunal. You better get over there quickly.”

“Can she be moved yet?” Tourth asked.

“One more stitch should do it. Then only the dressing remains.”

“What happened to you?” Dardon squatted down to my level. The lantern light threw his face into relief.

“Opponent took a bit out of my hip.”

“And the other guy?”

I refrained from speaking as the healer finished off the last stitch. Tourth answered for me. Dardon whistled in appreciation.

“Done, my lady,” the healer pronounced a few moments later, pulling my under tunic down to cover the bandage. “Change the dressing daily; keep it clean, and no walking on it for at least four days.”

I opened my mouth to protest the last, but Tourth cut me off by promptly shifting me to the ground. Climbing to his feet, he yelled for Svhen to bring a lantern. “Up you go,” was the only warning I received before I was scooped up in his arms. By the time I had recovered my bearings and swung an arm around his shoulders, he was striding across the night blackened battlefield with Dardon and Svhen scrambling to catch up, lantern swinging wildly.

“You should listen to some of your own advice, Tourth. I would have liked a warning.”

Svhen reached his side at that moment, light raised above his head. I gained a close view of Tourth’s tightly clenched jaw. I was tempted to touch his face to get his attention. I pushed the thought aside. Not now.

He grunted, hefting me higher. “We have a lot to talk about once this is over. First we need to deal with Hawthorne. Then we need to discuss the future.”

We reached the King’s camp before I could think of what to say.

Dardon pointed at the center tent displaying the King’s crest. “They are meeting in the main tent. Lord Portan…” Tourth didn’t wait for him to finish. He strode up to the men standing guard at the entrance.

“Mynth and Romany for the tribunal.”

The guards bowed us inside without a word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tourth

King Orac sat in state. Gone were the trappings of simplicity. From opulent robes to ornate crown he looked every inch a king. However, his disquiet as he sat on the small throne communicated clearly that he hadn’t been born to the position. Portan, standing at his right hand, offered a sharp contrast. Ease born of life-long privilege flowed from his shoulders like the heavy brocade of his mantle. Even the tilt of his head, chin slightly elevated even in repose, clearly indicated his heritage. I suddenly realized I had more in common with Orac than I realized.

“Put me down.” Wren pushed gently at my shoulder.

I complied, carefully, but keeping an arm around her waist once her feet were planted on the grass. She made one attempt to step away from me. I felt her reflexive reaction to the pain of the movement. Thankfully she didn’t try again.

“My liege.” I bowed from the waist without releasing my grip on her.

“I understand you are one of the wounded, my lady,” Orac observed.

“I, my lord,” she replied. “I would bow, but…”

“Understood.” Orac nodded toward a heavily padded chair. “I took the liberty of preparing for your arrival. You have my permission to sit in my presence for this tribunal only.”

“Thank you, your majesty, but I prefer to stand because of the nature of the injury.”

King Orac nodded and turned to Portan as I half-carried her over to rest beside Philon and two of his brothers, waiting off to the right side. A handful of other men stood along the opposite side of the tent. I didn’t know all of them, but a few of the faces chilled me. They were men I had met in battle or known of by reputation during the war.

“How is Hiller?” Wren asked as soon as she had composed herself. Pain and exhaustion etched shadows in her pale face. I was conflicted whether or not she belonged there considering the loss of blood and my doubts that she had eaten or slept much in the past two days.

“Bruised, but he will live without any physical scars,” Iscarus replied.

Warrick leaned over to whisper. “This bastard has a lot to answer for.”

Philon silenced him with a frown as Hawthorne was led in, hands chained, broken fingers swathed in linen.

Lord Portan greeted him. “Step forward and face your fate, prisoner.” Turning to a man kneeling at a wooden table to the left of the throne, he held out his hand. “Read the charges prepared by the king’s council brought against this man.”

The man rose, vellum in hand, and read out the contents in a steady monotone.

“Twyford Hawthorne, former enforcer of Iselyn Valley, you are charged with the following crimes: violation of feudal law by pressing the residents of the domain under your safekeeping into unpaid labor and by committing an act of war against a noble of the crown in the King’s name by invading his borders and performing raids on his lands. You are accused of treason against the crown on two counts. The first was by enlisting mercenaries, a sovereign right of the King alone. The second was a physical assault upon the King himself.

“You have been found guilty of these crimes based on the evidence of a great host of witnesses. However, based on the articles of feudal agreement set down at the foundation of the Kilanore Mountains, you have been granted opportunity to speak to the charges.” The scribe peered over his document at the prisoner.

Hawthorne stood silent. His mouth drawn in a pale line against his teeth and his shoulders hunched, he glared at Wren. The hatred in his eyes made my skin crawl. I inched forward, blocking her from his vision. She must have been more weary than I guessed because she leaned her head against the back of my shoulder.

“The accused refrains.” The scribe nodded to his assistant. “So note.” The young man complied. “Now the floor opens to the tribunal. If my lord king grants, others are allowed to speak to the charges.”

“I allow,” King Orac immediately replied.

Philon stepped forward. “Wish to add to the charges, my liege.” His shoulders squared, face solemn, and noble seal hanging across his chest, he looked like his father. A wave of grief for my own father swept through me.

“Do you have the evidence to support you claim?” Lord Portan asked.

“Aye.”

Orac nodded.

“I submit that Hawthorne did murder a noble of the realm and his wife willfully and without remorse while they were unarmed and reposing within the safety of their bedchamber.”

Orac leaned forward. “Have you evidence of this beyond the battlefield conversation we both witnessed?”

“Aye, my liege, the victims’ daughter, Katerina Mynth.”

“Bring her forth.”

One of the guards at the door pulled back the canvas and motioned to someone outside. Katerina entered. She took my breath away. Dress in a heavy blue and silver embroidered brocade, she glided smoothly into the center of the gathering, chin held high and confidence in every graceful motion. She looked like our mother, all golden hair and dignity. Homesickness turned my gut. Adding to my unease, I noted Orac’s marked attention. He had a reputation for liking women.

“Your name?” Lord Portan asked.

“Katerina Mynth, daughter of the late Lord Mynth.”

“You have evidence?”

“Yes. I saw that man descend the stars from my parents’ bedchamber bloodied knife in hand the night of their death.” She pointed at Hawthorne’s bent head.

“But you told me you weren’t there that night.” The words escaped my lips before I could catch them. Once committed, I felt I had to finish. “You told me you were visiting a friend.”

Kat turned anguished eyes on me. “I spread the story because I was afraid. Tourth, he murdered our parents and laughed about it. He…” She swallowed, forcing the reluctant words out. “He said Father plead for Mother’s life, offered his own in her place. Father died thinking she would live, but he…” A sob tore through her. She struggled to regain her composure, but obviously losing the battle.

Wren shoved me hard in the back. I stumbled the first step, but continued under my own volition. Wrapping my arms around my sister I held her close as years of isolated grief finally found release. Oh, Father, how could I have been so blind. So wrapped up in my own pain that I failed to see hers. Please help me to make it up to her.

“I think we have heard enough.” I looked up to find Orac had risen to his feet. He lifted his staff of office, which resembled a club more than a staff. “I, King Justus Orac, pronounce you, Twyford Hawthorne, guilty of treason and murder. As the law requires, you shall be taken from this place and punished to the full extent allowed, death by hanging, followed by decapitation. Upon declaration of death, your body will be…”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. Hawthorne uttered a barbaric howl, raised his chained hands before him, and charged Wren.

I released Kat, reached for my sword, and lunged to intersect him, but Warrick was faster. The villain’s crazed attack ended on the edge of Warrick’s blade. The howl stuttered into a choking gurgle in the shocked silence of the room. The body fell to the ground.

“It is done,” Warrick pronounced without emotion.

Lord Portan knelt to check the body, but I turned away, looking for Wren.

I found her gripping Iscarus’ shoulder in an effort to stay upright. Her features had taken on a bit of a greenish hue.

"I have her, Iscarus.” I slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her good hip against my leg. If she fainted, she would go nowhere. “Could you see to Kat?”

“I will take her back to Arthus, if the king allows.”

He stepped away.

“I never pegged you for someone with a weak stomach.”

Her face was hidden by the fall of her loose hair so I couldn’t read her reaction. “It hasn’t been the typical day and I am not my usual self.” She took a steadying gulp of air. “To be completely honest, the pain is making my stomach rebellious.”

“Warn me if you need to heave. I don’t relish having to clean my gear again.”

She lifted her face enough for me to glimpse her weak smile, but she avoided my eyes.

“Your attention!” Lord Portan stood in the center of the tent. “The King has one other item of business to conduct before releasing you to your duties.”

Orac once again sat on his throne. The door duty guards were dragging away the body. Orac nodded to Portan.

“In recognition of actions proving his loyalty to the throne, crown, and person of His Majesty Justus Orac, King of the Kilanore Mountains and the valleys between, Tourth Mynth, son of the late Lord Tourth Mynth, is hearby awarded the title of his father and family previously declared obsolete by this crown, thus assigning him all the duties and privileges entailed by such a personage. Here witnessed by the Lord Avery, Lord Nornham, Lord Ryhmin, and myself, Lord Portan. Good luck, Lord Mynth, you have a hard task before you.”

Shock hit me in the chest. My thoughts froze. I would have stood there like an idiot if Wren didn’t save me yet again. She fainted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

© 2011 Rachel Rossano

Feedback questions:

1) Is there still enough tension to hold your attention?
2) Does the interaction between Wren and Tourth strike you as believable and true to their characters?
3) How do you feel about Hawthorne's fate and how it was handled?

Thank you for reading. The next chapter will probably be the last.

Chapter XXIII

*This post has been revised from the original*
Wren

My birds still circled above, but they hadn’t attempted an attack since Iolani’s dive at Hawthorne’s head. Below them, chaos swelled through the crowd and ranks. When Hawthorne drew his sword, his troops reacted. The sounds of metal blades scraping from sheathes deafened. Orac’s force didn’t hesitate to follow. Within moments Svhen, myself and our eleven companions were standing between two forces intent on battle. Only the lack of a signal held their fervor at bay.

“Back to back,” Svhen ordered.

The mock prisoners dropped their chains and gripped their swords.

I drew my borrowed weapon and paired up with Jadet, my closest match height wise. Glancing around, I tried to assess the situation.

I faced a wall of men, sunlight glinting across breastplates, shields, and swords. Suddenly feeling woefully unprepared in my leather and cloth, I struggled to swallow and adjusted my grip on the steel in my hand, testing the weight with a few swings. I drew one of my knives with my left hand for backup.

I might be seeing you, Deus, sooner than I planned. Have mercy on my soul, my Lord and God. Please allow me to fight with honor and bravery for Your glory, my King. If it be Your will, spare Tourth. He has so much left to do.

The tension snapped. I didn’t see or hear the signal, but Hawthorne’s waiting army did. Cries echoed up and down the ranks. The first wave of men rushed forward, swords drawn, yelling a battle cry I couldn’t make out. The answering yells of Orac’s mounted warriors at my back drowned all other sound.

My stomach knotted itself into a rock and my lungs refused to take in air. Plowing through the panic growing in my chest, I forced air into my lungs. I am ready to die, I reminded myself. My God-given faith rose to the challenge, peace flooding in its wake. I was here for a purpose. I intended to fulfill His destiny by His strength and grace.

A throaty bellow brought my full concentration to the heavily bearded young warrior bearing down on me. His eyes intent on mine, sword raised to take a swipe at my head and shield guarding his middle. His technique left no weak point for a knife. Despite the fact he weighed almost two of me, I saw no option but to engage him. Instinct and memory from matches with my brothers brought up my arm. I would defend myself as best I knew how and pray for mercy.

My sword barely deflected his swing at my head. I attempted to puncture his leather jerkin with my knife as he rounded for another attempt. The point encountered the mail beneath. Not a surprise. Still my heart burned in defeat.

We sprang apart. I planted my feet and waited for his next attack. He turned leisurely as though certain in his superior might and armor. I could use that against him.

His next charge was easy to sidestep with a brief touch of metal and fancy footwork. Despite the glancing blow, I felt the force of his swing travel up my arm with enough force to cause discomfort. I would lose my sword with the first encounter might to might. He would come to the same conclusion soon. I needed an alternative, now.

His slow turn gave me an instant to think. That was when I saw my hope. One more exchange and I would have him.

I glanced at his face. Cold hatred and purpose met me in his eyes. He knew. My chest constricted. Lord, please make it quick.

He lunged.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tourth

Hawthorne was not a warrior, despite his pretense. My response to his first assault lost him his horse. It galloped off.

I dismounted as required to continue the confrontation. He attacked before my last foot left the stirrup, gaining him the first blood, a small gash on my left arm. Its lack of depth indicated his lack of strength.

I retaliated. Within three swipes I knocked his sword from his hands.

He produced a knife. His handling of the smaller weapon revealed experience with it, but I still easily disarmed him with a bone-crushing blow to the back of his hand with the flat of my sword. The knife joined the sword in the mud, only a few feet away, but well out of reach.

He fell to his knees cradling broken fingers. One point in his favor, small though it was, he didn’t cower. Instead he attacked with his words. First he used profanity that should have burned his lips. Finally he gave up on the foul language and attempted a more personal assault.

“You look just like your father, standing there all self-righteous and pompous. He refused to strike an unarmed man too. Idiot! You realize I will probably never hold a sword again!” He spat at me.

How could he know? When had he met up with my father? Anger followed on the heels of my momentary confusion as I remembered he was possibly the man who had killed my parents.

“I have a feeling that being able to wield a sword again is going to be the least of your worries.”

“He was a coward you know.”

I didn’t need to ask who he spoke of. My anger blazed into hatred. “Why do you say that?”

“He begged for your mother’s life. Fool even offered his life in her place. Little did he know she died a breath after him.” A manic laugh broke forth from his garishly twisted mouth ending in a ragged cough.

Fighting the instinct to cut him down where he crouched. My fingers flexed on the hilt of my sword. It would be so simple. The madness rose, urging me to raise my arm. One simple stroke and it would be over. He couldn’t hurt another person and my parent’s death would be avenged. Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord.

The verse doused my rage like a bucket of ice water leaving only grief in its wake. It was not for me to take this man’s life. A lump of unshed tears blocked my throat. If only…

Someone moved at my side, just out of sight.

“So, you are confessing to the murder? That makes things so much easier.” Philon’s voice cut through my concentration.

What was he doing here?

Philon laid his hand on my shoulder. Probably to restraint any foolish inclinations I might have. Little could he know Deus already doused that fire.

“Would you be willing to confess to treason as well?” Lord Portan approached from the left. Behind him, King Orac watched in silence behind an impressive looking honor guard. “You appear so eager to die. I believe the attempted assassination of your king is a hanging offense.”

“King, ha!” Hawthorne spat in the mud at Portan’s feet. His eyes glittered strangely. “He is nothing but a pretender to a false crown. Everyone knows the valley nobles hold the real power.”

Portan ignored Hawthorne. “My Lord Eyrant.” He inclined his head respectfully. “You wish to bring a charge against this man?”

“If my Lord King pleases, I wish to call for a battlefield tribunal to try this man right here. I have little patience in regards to bring this...”

“Traitor?” Iscarus offered as he stepped to his brother’s side.

Warrick approached and offered another alternative which earned him both of his brothers’ glares.

“…traitor to justice.” Philon finished.

Lord Portan turned to King Orac. “My Liege?”

“It pleases me, Portan. Summon a scribe.”

One of the armed honor guards turned, claimed a horse and trotted back toward the king’s caravan already making camp along the edge of the last field.

Only then did I realize the battle was already over. Except for a small skirmish playing out down the way, the field was filled with men in Philon’s colors or the king’s herding groups of Hawthorne’s men away from a growing pile of weapons.

My first thought was Wren. I scanned the crowds of burly men for her dark head and slender form. I had to warn her about Keilvey.

A screech pierced the air. The small brown body of a falcon plummeted from the sky swooping above the only remaining fray and scattering men in its wake.

“Wren!” I whistled for Trader. The horse pulled away from the man holding the mounts of the king and his party. I swung up into the saddle while he was still in motion and urged him into a gallop.

As I approached the heaving mass of men, I spotted Svhen’s blond head in the midst. Wren wasn’t visible. Fear reared its head. Please, Lord, protect her. I jumped to the ground running, unsheathing my sword mid sprint.

A second falcon, this one the white female, dove and attacked, carrying away a leather helmet and effectively clearing men from the central battle. I spotted Wren’s dark head for the first time.

She went down on one knee, clutching her side.

Her opponent lifted his sword.

I pushed my leaden legs to press forward as I shoved men out of the way. I had to reach her. The need pressed against my chest wall, crushing my lungs.

The sword descended.

A man lunged across my path momentarily blocking my view as a dark object hurled through the air over our heads.

A male scream tore at my ears as I struggled to shove aside the buffoon in my path. I barely restrained the instinct to simply attack him instead. Finally free, I stumbled through the suddenly subdued mob and out into the open space cleared by the bird only to encounter Svhen arriving from the opposite direction.

Wren lay on the ground at my feet, remains of her braid twisted about her body and stray hair obscuring her face. The growing puddle of blood beneath her ripped my heart down the center.

Svhen grunted. “You check her. I will deal with him.”

I dropped to the ground next to her. “Get a healer,” I ordered the closest man. I vaguely recognized him as one of Hiller’s men.

“Already on the way,” he replied.

“We need to stop the bleeding. Anyone have clean cloth.” It was a ludicrous thing to request on the battlefield, but I wasn’t thinking about that.

I brushed her hair away from her face and worked at finding a pulse.

“Here.” A wad of brown cloth was shoved in my face.

I took it and began looking for the wound. When I found it, I breathed more easily. A gash in her hip, clean, but deep, it cut through muscle, but nothing vital. Cauterization and stitches and she would heal. Easing her clothing away from the wound, I pulled the skin together and applied pressure. She groaned and tried to move away.

“Easy,” I whispered.

“How is she?” Svhen hunkered down on her other side, blocking out the fading light.

“You are blocking the light.”

“Sorry.” He moved around to my right shoulder. “How is she?”

“If this is the worst of it, she will live.”

“Good. She deserves it after that fight.”

“The bastard that attacked her?” I asked.

“She hamstringed him before her birds got to his face. One of the other men put him out of his misery after that brown falcon took him down. You don’t want to look.”

“I will trust you on that.”

Wren’s face contorted in pain, her hand moving toward her hip. The touch of her fingertips on the back of my hand made my gut tighten. Thank you for sparing her, Lord. She opened her eyes and looked up at me.

“What were you thinking taking on a man twice your size?” I asked.

She grimaced. “He didn’t give me a choice.”

“Hmm…” I adjusted the pressure. Suddenly remembering Keilvey, I looked up at Svhen. “Hawthorne ordered Keilvey to kill Wren. We need to make sure he doesn’t get a chance to finish what this guy started.”

“Understood.” He rose and immediately started rounding up the curious onlookers and organizing a search.

“Hawthorne?”

I looked down to find Wren studying my face, worry clouding her brown eyes. I was looking forward to observing all the colors her eyes were capable of. So far I had noticed a golden hue when she wasn’t particularly emotive, the worried brown, and the amused amber. I wondered what color they would change if I kissed her.

“Tourth, what happened with Hawthorne?”

“In custody.” I mentally shook myself. These were not appropriate thoughts for the battlefield. However, I had every intention in following them up, thoroughly. “Lord Eyrant petitioned King Orac for a battlefield tribunal and it was granted. The scribe should be arriving just about now.”

As though summoned by my words, a soldier in Orac’s colors arrived with an agitated young healer in tow. Upon seeing Wren, the healer’s face flushed bright red. “I have never treated a woman before,” he haltingly admitted.

“It they aren’t that much different than us,” I reassured him as I relinquished the now bloodied cloth. “I will be right here if you need me, Wren.”

Her eyes laughed when she seriously described her injuries to the young man. The soldier pulled me aside.

“King Orac wishes you to attend the tribunal.”

I nodded. “I will come once I can move her.”

“But…”

“The tribunal and Hawthorne’s fate is just as much her business as mine. Please request that they delay for a half hour.”

“By then it will be dark.”

I shrugged. “I think the king will be inclined to grant my request for her sake. Just be sure to mention that it is for Lady Romany’s comfort.”

The soldier obeyed, but made no effort to disguise his skepticism.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

© 2011 Rachel Rossano

It would help me a great deal if you could answer these feedback questions:

1) How do you feel about Wren's battle?
2) What did you think of Tourth's reactions during and after his exchange with Hawthorne and especially his reaction to Wren?

Plus any additional comments or reflections are welcome. One more chapter to go, I think. :)

Chapter XXII

Wren

I hid among the crowd and prayed that my falcons didn’t decide to greet me. A falcon swooping out of the sky to land on my shoulder would certainly cause a stir among the closely packed people and draw Hawthorne or Keilvey’s attention. Head bent, cloak drawn close, I shuffled along, trying to regain my inner peace.

Something was wrong, though. I felt it in my gut. I wasn’t much of an instinctive decision maker, but I knew that 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, working 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 semi successful.

“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.

“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, but most visible of the lot. Hiller, recognizable only by his clothing, tramped in the lead. His 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 wasn’t profitable to point that out.

“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 didn’t know why they were picking on him and not Hiller, but I suspected the reason. 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 had retraced his steps and was approaching 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 dominate 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 had stuck 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 look on his face. Third blade in hand, I adjusted it into 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 before he realizes something is wrong and immobilize him.” 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 discernable eye was closed. My chest constricted, the familiar bondage of grief.

“We need the keys.”

Svhen turned away, his voice distantly demanded the keys as I checked Hiller’s vitals. 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 struggle 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 taking 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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tourth

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 1,000 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. No doubt noticing what I had 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. 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 stagemaster 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 Bjon the madman mercenary. Also, a surprising treat, the Butcher of Catorna himself, Tourth Mynth appeared among 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 Bjon. Why does he have a price on his head? Who is the funder?”

Hawthorne’s face flushed. “I am the funder, sire. Bjon 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 Bjon 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 thousand 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 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. 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 toward Orac. My hand already sought 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. 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 animal’s neck at an odd angle, knocking the blade from his 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.

“The man you harmed was my friend, Lord Hiller. A noble.”

He and his mount circled us. Trader followed their movements without my instruction.

“Lord Hiller should have stayed home, keeping to his brother’s leading strings. This valley is none of his concern.”

Beyond Hawthorne, I caught a glimpse of Wren. No falcons were with her, which meant they were airborne and could attack any moment. I couldn’t risk a glance upwards. Please don’t let them mistake me for an enemy, Lord.

Seeing my distraction, Hawthorne charged.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

© 2011 Rachel Rossano

Feedback Question:

1) Was the action clear and easy to follow? Were there any spots where you were confused?

Thank you for reading and commenting.

- Rachel Rossano