The Crowded Shadows Page 2

  “Huntin’?” echoed the other man, clearly baffled. “Instead of Jenny? Tosh, I ain’t complainin’, God knows! But are you mad?”

  The bandit chuckled. They began to trot away, but before they got out of earshot, Wynter heard his good-natured reply.

  “I ain’t mad,” he said amiably. “I just find myself with a sudden craving for fresh meat. That’s all.” And he laughed again, a warm laugh that made Wynter tremble and her throat close over with fear.

  Travelling Alone

  After a while Ozkar began to stumble, but still Wynter drove him mercilessly on and on. She had lost all sense of stealth or caution, and simply shoved forward through the heat and dust, hardly paying heed to her direction, only striving to get away.

  Her father had taught her well about travelling alone, and up until this moment Wynter had conscientiously followed all the advice he’d ever given. She had been disciplined, she had been careful and she had been totally in control. Now, panicked beyond reason, Wynter fled through the sweltering heat of midday with nothing on her mind but that man’s hot eyes and the fear that he might someday look at her again.

  All the things Lorcan had ever taught her about self-defence swam incoherently through her mind. Your thumbs hard into his eyes. Your knee or your fist to his balls, the heel of your boot to the tops of his feet. All of his detailed instructions, should a man ever try and assault her, repeated endlessly in her head. Do not turn your back unless he’s incapacitated. If he is incapacitated, then run like hell to the nearest population. If you are alone and with no hope of company, kill him where he lies. Stamp on his head. Gouge out his eyes; slit his groin or his throat. Wynter had heard this so many times—Lorcan’s unflinching list of ways to keep her alive and her enemies powerless or dead. And most important of all, the one thing he had told her over and over. Fear will paralyse you, baby-girl. Fear will kill you. You must not let fear win. If it wins, you’ve lost the fight.

  Well, there was no doubt but that she had lost the fight down by the stream. When that man had looked at her across the glittering light of the water, Wynter had quailed like a cornered rabbit and she had been filled with nothing but fear. Fear had won. That man had won. Had he chosen that time to strike, Wynter would have been useless against him. He and his companion would have taken her as easy as picking berries from a bush.

  Ozkar stumbled and Wynter kicked him on, her teeth bared. She would keep going forever, she would never stop moving. The thought of stopping now, anywhere near that man, and the possibility that he might be able to find her, filled Wynter with terror.

  The memory of Christopher rose up suddenly, sharp and clear and unexpected; his quick smiling eyes and his grin, his reckless bravery. Christopher! she thought, with genuine grief, Christopher! How could she miss him so much when she hardly knew him? But she did. She missed him and she admired him, both for his bravery and for his laughter in the face of all that had been taken from him. Not like you! she thought bitterly. Nothing was even taken from you! Nothing done to you but a look cast your way. And you are destroyed by it! You snivelling coward. You big baby!

  Wynter pulled back with a silent, self-loathing grimace and hauled on the reins. Ozkar came to a relieved halt and stood panting, his head down. The heat pressed around them, and Wynter, crouched in her saddle, listened for sounds of pursuit. Apart from the incessant singing of insects, the forest was silent and still.

  Breathing deeply, Wynter straightened and pressed her hand to her chest, urging her heart to calm itself. Razi’s note whispered against her palm. Her guild pendant settled against her breast. The forest slumbered placidly around her. She laughed. All right then, she thought shakily. All right. That’s over.

  Without wasting any more time, Wynter turned Ozkar and urged him up the hill. She let him carry her far into the high trees, and there she quickly chose a site, slipped from the saddle, and set up camp.

  Within half an hour Ozkar was fed and watered, rubbed down and tethered, contentedly snoozing against a tree. Tiredly, Wynter crawled under her bivouac. She lay with her head on her saddle, looking up into the light spattered canvas, and she tried to empty her mind of everything but the calm buzz of the forest. She said a prayer for Lorcan, a prayer for Razi and a heartfelt prayer for Christopher, wherever he might be. Sleep claimed her suddenly, a dark abyss opening soundless and vast, and sucked her under without warning.

  Thunder cracked in the sky above the trees and Wynter startled at the sound, trying to get her bearings. She was lying on her back beneath the shelter. It was almost dark. She must have been sleeping for hours. The air was heavy with storm heat, the small space under the canvas steamy and too close, and she was glad that she had made an open-sided shelter. Blinking, she turned her head to stare out into the clearing, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

  Lorcan was standing in the forest by her camp, anxiously scanning the dark trees. “Listen,” he said.

  Wynter swallowed at the sight of him glimmering there in the twilight. “Dad,” she whispered. “I’m scared.”

  Lorcan tutted and shook his head. “I’ve done all I can about that,” he said firmly. “You’re on your own now, baby-girl.” He glowered out into the darkness. “There are Wolves out there,” he said. “They’re coming.”

  “Dad,” she pleaded, but Lorcan had drifted away already, his white shirt a pale shape in the lowering gloom. He looked back at her, his features indistinct, and put his finger to his lips.

  Wynter cried out as lightning imprinted the trees against the canvas of her tent, and she came fully awake to the sound of thunder booming directly overhead. Ozkar whickered unhappily, and she heard him stamp his foot and shift in fear, pulling against his tether. She turned her head sharply as something moved in the not-quite-dark of the woods.

  The bandit was standing just within the circle of trees, hardly fifteen feet from where she lay. He stood sideways on to her, a thick staff balanced in his hand, watching her through the open side of her shelter. He must have seen her eyes gleaming in the dusk because he settled his grip on the staff and grinned at her, his teeth flashing in the shadows.

  “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “It’s just me… you left me a lovely trail. Very considerate.”

  Wynter lay still as a mouse and watched as he sidled across the clearing, the staff held out from his side. Lightning flickered briefly again, and Wynter clearly saw a knife in his other hand. There was a moment of blindness after the flash, then Wynter’s night-vision cleared and the man was standing beside the shelter, looking down at her. His grin had disappeared and his face was wary.

  “Now,” he said. “I won’t hurt you. Understand?” He sank to his knees, his staff held up, the knife held lightly in his other hand. His eyes were locked on Wynter’s and his head was tilted back slightly. His voice was low, as if talking to a snarling dog. “You give me what I want, and I won’t hurt you. All right?”

  Wynter said nothing and did not move.

  He knelt there for a moment, assessing her intentions. Then he let his eyes slip down her body, lingering on her breasts, dropping between her legs, running back up to her breasts again. Wynter saw his face become heavy, and his lips parted. He looked her in the eyes again and let her see the knife.

  Then he stooped in under the tent.

  Wynter waited until he lifted his leg, meaning to straddle her, then she punched hard between his legs. The air left him in a soundless wheeze and, as he doubled over, Wynter threw her head forward and butted him between the eyes. Blood gushed from his smashed nose and Wynter drew up her feet and kicked him in the chest, sending him rolling out from under the canvas.

  She dived after him, scrabbling for her knife, hoping to kill him while he was still incapacitated. But he must have had the constitution of an ox because he instantly rolled to his feet, his knife raised, his free hand pressed to his groin. Wynter met his eyes, and they told her everything she needed to know about her fate should she allow this man get the better of her. Behind them,
Ozkar lunged and heaved and kicked, struggling to free himself from his tether. Lightning seared the sky and thunder roared.

  Slowly Wynter rose to face the bandit. His attention dropped to the knife in her hand, and he grinned through the blood that drenched his mouth.

  “You drop that potato peeler now, girl, or I’ll lose my temper.”

  Wynter brought the knife up. She crouched in readiness. “Leave now,” she said, “and I’ll allow you keep your manhood.”

  The bandit’s face darkened with cruel amusement. Knife or no knife, he knew Wynter had little hope against him. He was heavier, taller, stronger than she, and probably well accustomed to fighting men of his own size.

  “Come on now,” he crooned. “Let’s be friends.”

  Wynter held her ground, and the bandit laughed. Lightning flickered silently again, and Ozkar stamped and threw his head against his tether, backing up as the rope stretched to its limit. The bandit lunged, and Wynter flung herself forward, her knife low and ready to strike.

  They collided. The bandit caught her knife hand and mercilessly twisted her wrist. Wynter turned with the pressure, saving herself from a broken arm, but her fingers went instantly numb and her knife tumbled to the leaves. Still, she wouldn’t submit, and the bandit had to struggle to keep a hold on her as she thrashed and kicked and bit. Cursing, he shifted his grip. He grabbed her hair, yanking her head back in a flash of blinding pain. Wynter saw his fist raised against the sky. This blow would knock her senseless. I am lost! she thought.

  A huge shape emerged from the dark and Wynter was jerked from the man’s grip. She fell, slamming into the leaves, the breath knocked from her as the great thing loomed above them. The bandit spun, looking up into living darkness, lifting his arms. Then he was catapulted through the air, to land with a loud thud on the other side of the clearing.

  Wynter scrambled for her lost knife, ready to defend herself against this new threat. Then the warm smell of horse filled her nose and she realised that it was Ozkar who was looming above her, stamping and pawing in the dark. Wynter fell back onto the cold ground, overcome with relief as the horse stood by, his great, strong body a living shield between her and the man that he had just kicked into unconsciousness. “Good boy!” she rasped. “Oh, good boy, Ozkar. Good boy!”

  She dragged herself up by the frayed end of his tether. All the time repeating that he was A good boy. Such a good boy. She couldn’t seem to stop saying it, and she couldn’t seem to let him go.

  She packed her camp with one hand knotted in his tangled mane, always keeping him between herself and the crumpled body lying amongst the shadows of the trees. When it came time to leave she couldn’t bring herself to take to the saddle. She found herself afraid to raise herself above the level of the horse’s neck. She had this horrible fear that if she did, the bandit would leap through the air and tackle her, bringing her finally and irretrievably to the ground. So she walked from the campsite, keeping Ozkar solidly between herself and the bandit. And it was only when the clearing was far from her sight, far from earshot, that she managed to break her death-grip on the horse’s mane and heave herself into the saddle.

  The Mourning Pennant

  The trail gradually levelled off as Wynter rode into the long, nameless valley that her map had prepared her for. She expected to reach a river sometime around midday. She planned to follow the river’s course for the next six or seven days, until she got to the Orange Cow Inn, and then she would begin to climb again, further into the mountains and up towards the Indirie Valley and, hopefully, Alberon’s camp.

  Ozkar was much happier on this even ground. He had been finding the steep slope more and more difficult to cope with, and Wynter could sense his relief as her position in the saddle gave him less discomfort and his legs better shared the burden of her weight. Wynter was glad for him, but she did not like the way the trees were thinning out here. The heavy pines of before had been a marvellous cover, but these long-trunked, light-foliaged species were not so dense and it was going to be harder, soon, to stay out of sight.

  It had been two and a half days since the bandit had attacked, and she was now thoroughly back in control of her waking hours. During the day, she was disciplined and careful, calmly in command of all she did. Her nights, however, were a different story. Every night the bandit found her again and tormented her in her dreams, and every morning Wynter woke weighed down by fatigue, her thoughts mired in a thick slime of exhaustion.

  And then there were thoughts of her father. Sometimes, the rhythm of the horse would lull her into a numb trance and Wynter would find herself with silent tears rolling down her face, thinking of him. She missed Lorcan so badly that it was like a toothache. Her grief for him slithered under her defences at any opportunity, and she could not help, sometimes, but think on how lonely he must be, and how she had not said all the things she had wanted to him on their last day together. Those things would probably never be said now, except as useless whispers over a lovely man’s grave, and what comfort was that?

  These regrets had once again begun to gnaw at Wynter when the sound of horses intruded on her thoughts. She pulled Ozkar to a wary halt and listened. They were still quite a way off, a large group, travelling fast and hard on the road. Whoever they were, these men had no fear and seemed to feel no need for stealth.

  Wynter slid from her saddle and tethered Ozkar to a birch sapling.

  “Stay easy,” she told him softly, patting his nose. Then she crouched low and ran through the trees, hoping to make the road and get a good look before the men passed by.

  She made it just in time, diving under the brush by the side of the road as an impressive body of horsemen came galloping around the bend. It was a squad of Jonathon’s marvellous cavalry. At their head, three of the King’s own personal guard loomed huge and imposing on their chargers.

  All the men were fully armed and wearing their colours. Sitting erect and noble in their saddles, their heads held high, their faces covered against the dust, they were utterly magnificent. They thundered towards her, and Wynter laughed with joy as the vibration bounced her up and down like a pebble in a bucket.

  Then she caught sight of the pennants, and the laughter died in her throat. They were flying at half mast, and all of them were dyed black. Wynter looked from man to man, and noted with despair the fluttering triangle of black cloth that each of them wore on their right shoulder. The plumes that flowed from their nasal helms were also dyed black and bent in two so that they hung down the men’s backs like horses’ tails.

  These men were in mourning; all flying the traditional mourning pennants, all wearing the official trappings of courtly grief. That could mean only one thing. There had been a death in the royal family. Alberon, or Jonathon or Razi, one of them was dead. For no other person, not even her father, would warrant the flying of a black flag or the breaking of the cavalry plume.

  Wynter lay on the jouncing ground, pebbles and dust jittering around her, and stared as the streaming banners passed her by. The horses carried on up the road, leaving the air heavy with yellow dust, and Wynter stood up out of hiding. She stepped from the bushes, watching the last of their numbers round the corner and out of sight.

  A royal death, she thought. A royal death. But who? Not Razi! And not Albi either! And, oh God… what will become of us if Jonathon is dead?

  What should she do now?

  She stood in the blazing sunshine, the dust settling slowly around her, and stared at the empty road. All around her, the forest slowly recovered from the shock of the men’s passage. Little birds began to sing in the bushes, while Wynter’s thoughts raced around each other like dogs. Oh Razi, she thought suddenly, speared with her first real pang of grief since she’d seen the flags. Oh my brother, oh friend. Do not let it be you! And she knew at once that this was the truth, she knew, with absolute certainty and guilt that, of all of them, it was Razi she could not bear to lose.

  All this ran as a feverish undercurrent to the overwhelming dil
emma of what Wynter’s next step should be. She was almost exactly halfway to Alberon’s camp. In light of the mourning pennants, would it be better for her to continue onward as she was doing now, or would it make more sense for her to return home and find out for whom the pennants flew?

  Without taking any conscious decision, Wynter continued her onward progress. And so she found herself at midday gazing across the wide expanse of the river which would lead her through this valley to the Orange Cow Inn and from there to Alberon’s camp.

  She frowned out across the sluggish green water, then laughed. So! While her mind had run itself in knots, her heart had led her here. Alberon it was then. She turned Ozkar’s head east and kicked him forward. Another hour, that was all, she’d travel one more hour and then they would rest. She fished a handful of nuts from the pouch on her travel belt and chewed thoughtfully as she drove Ozkar on.

  Not So Easy When There’s Two

  It was, in fact, five hours later when Wynter slipped from her horse. And even then, it was only because she could hear activity in the trees ahead. The day was sinking into its lazy, golden decline, and the woods were full of dusty beams of light. Wynter stood quietly, her hand on Ozkar’s neck, and listened.

  She recognised the unmistakable sound of a camp being set up. Across the still evening air she could hear the hammering of stakes, the sawing and chopping of firewood and the occasional whinny of horses. The smell of campfire came drifting through the trees. This was quite a large group, at least ten men, maybe more. Good Christ, she thought, I’ve been in less crowded fairgrounds than this forest. Alberon must be sending engraved invitations.

  She patted Ozkar’s shoulder and scrubbed absently between his ears while she pondered her options. It was more than likely that this was the cavalry settling down for the night. If that were the case, she wondered if she might not just ride straight into camp and ask what their business was. She had no fear of the cavalry themselves—her father commanded a lot of respect with that fine body of men—but Jonathon’s three guards gave her pause for thought. If Jonathon were dead, where would their allegiance lie? If they were loyal to some faction or another unknown to Wynter, how might they react to the King’s Protector Lady riding into camp and demanding information? On the other hand, if it were Albi who was dead, and they were here to search for his supporters, how would it look? The Protector Lady, wandering about in a forest swarming with suspected rebels.