Hearts in Cups (53 page)

"And I with
you," he sighed in resignation. "Damn the timing though!" At
once, they were both laughing, the tension between them broken.

Pulling her head back,
Angharad fixed him with a mock-stern glance. "Now, don't go getting
yourself hurt or captured to avoid coming back here."

Touching her hair and
tracing her brow with his forefinger, he replied wistfully, "I only wish
that it were not necessary for me to go now."

"I will be here
when you return," Angharad consoled him.

"And when I
return," Ian's eyes glinted playfully, "I will take up where I am
leaving."

Angharad fought a catch
in her throat. "Come back soon...my husband."

"As soon as our
task is done, my lady wife." Solemnly Ian lifted her hand and kissed the
fingertips. Not entirely trusting himself to stay any longer, he bid farewell
and left.

Alone again in the
room, Angharad's knees gave way and she collapsed into the pool of her skirts. A
fever born of elation washed over her, only to be replaced by a chill when she
remembered that he was venturing into the enemy's encampment virtually alone in
the dead of night to find one hostage and her children amid several thousand
armed soldiers.

Surrounded by the walls
made smooth ages ago by those who built this castle with the bones of the
mountains, Ian led the nine men chosen for this raid. Beside him, the tall,
lithe figure of the huntsman turned fighter, Arain, walked in silence. His men
were equally noiseless as they followed Ian up the long climb.

It had been many years
since a young Ian had followed his headstrong cousin through the door and up
the tunnel in the darkness. Hollin had brought torches that gutted and
eventually died, forcing them to stumble blindly until they reached the door at
the other end. After emerging in the late afternoon, high on the slopes of
Cloud's Rest, they had negligently let the door close behind them, so that they
had to climb back down the mountain to return to the castle. It had taken them
all night and when they returned in the morning the castle had been in an
uproar. When they told Hollin's parents what had happened, her mother had
admonished them never to use the tunnel again and Lord Courant, her father, had
made Ian take him to the entrance door in the keep and seen that it was closed
and locked. No one else was apprised of the existence of the tunnel and no one
had used it again, as far as he knew, until tonight.

The sky was awash with
stars when Ian pushed the door open and they breathed the cold, clean night
air. By the night sky, Arain concluded that it was close to midnight and that
they would have to move quickly in order to make it to the camp by the time
Angharad was due to start her diversion. Alaric had accompanied them to the
exit on the mountain and was to stay and keep the door open for their return.
Alaric wished them luck as Arain, with Ian at his side, began the treacherous
descent from the mountain's shoulders.

Though Ian had spent
little time climbing down mountains and through forests in the dark, he soon
found his eyes adjusting to the ambient light of the stars and learned to test
each footfall before he gave it his full weight. He knew that of all the men,
he was by far the noisiest, but by dogging Arain's heels he kept up a fair
pace. He knew Arain chiefly by reputation, and in the ensuing hours he found
that the stories of his stealth and skill were not exaggerated. Melting into
the darkness of the forest, he seemed able to conjure a path out of an
impenetrable tangle of trees, rocks and bushes.

They traveled thus for
several hours, stopping twice, more for Ian's benefit then for the men he
nominally led. At last, Arain came to a halt and soundlessly pointed to the
flickering light of the army's campfires filtering through the trees below
them. They withdrew to a spot fifty yards back, where an outcropping of rocks
shielded them and their voices from the enemy.

Looking at the small
portion of sky above them, hemmed in by the tops of trees, Arain spoke in a
whisper. "We have perhaps an hour until the diversion. I recommend that we
use that time to get as close to the hostages’ tent as possible. The fewer
soldiers who see us, the less chance they will guess our mission."

Ian nodded. "It is
a good suggestion, except that we don't know in which tent Lady Idris and her
children are being held. I would guess that it would be close to Lord Brescom's
though, and, if he is treating her as her rank would demand, the tent will be
rather large."

It was Arain's turn now
to nod. "Then Gwalt and I will reconnoiter the camp while you stay here.
When we find the likeliest tent, we shall return and move the rest of you into
position. Is this acceptable, my lord?"

Knowing that this was
something that Arain would be far better at than he, Ian consented. Around him,
the other men sat patiently waiting for the next phase in the night's
activities, as Ian's mind began to stray back to the castle and his interview
with Angharad. Checking that avenue of thought and speculation, he watched the
dark sky above him and willed the time to pass quickly.

In the deep quiet of
the false dawn, a slight figure wrapped in a heavy wool mantle passed the sentries
at the northern tower of the main gate and began to make her way up the stairs
with the swordmaster, Griswold, at her side. Torches mounted in wall brackets
lit the way for them, though it caused a momentary blindness when they came out
into the darkness on the roof. A cold, thin wind had already begun to rise in
anticipation of the dawn, and Angharad shivered with it. The days of autumn
were passing and she felt the first finger of winter in that wind.

Leaving Griswold
standing at the head of the stairs, Angharad walked forward so that she could
look out across the distance to where the night fires proclaimed the existence
of the besieging army. Someplace out there Ian moved, and she was afraid for
him. This was not a time, nor a place, for fear, she told herself as she pushed
the mantle back over her shoulders, freeing her arms. Breathing deeply to calm
herself, she let her mind begin to roam.

Like a lodestone, the
power reached out and pulled her to it. She hoped that it would be easier to
work with this time, having done it once before, but as it pulsed through her,
she was again torn apart and had to literally fight to control and direct it.
Slowly, sluggishly, she pushed it away from herself and sent it in the
direction of the enemy.

A gust of wind swept
through the camp.  Sleepy men pulled their blankets closer and huddled
against the ground. Along the picket lines, horses began to snort and sidle
restlessly. As the wind picked up speed, twisting and whirling, the watchfires
were set dancing while tents began to flap and strain at their guy ropes. Men
groggily opened their eyes as sentries called out in alarm, but their words
were smothered in the rising scream of the wind. The wind did not abate, but
continued to build in intensity as a panicky line of horses, breaking free,
trotted blindly through the camp. Soon soldiers, men-at-arms as well as their
officers, began running and shouting in confusion at this freakish attack. It
was then that Ian led his men into the heart of the enemy's camp.

Arain and Gwalt had
returned to say that, from their vantage points, a large tent to the right of
the tent flying the colours and device of the Earl of the Inner Ward seemed the
most likely place to begin the search. Moving with the greatest caution, the entire
band of men slipped from shadow to shadow until they were within sight of the
targeted tent. Then they sat and waited for the diversion to be created. When
the wind first changed, they stood and prepared themselves. Now they ran
forward, no one speaking, all moving with the same quick stride, short swords
drawn and glinting in the light. Two sentries challenged them as they dashed
through the camp but were cut down by one of the men, who stayed to fight while
his comrades ran on towards the tent.

By the time they
reached their goal, the wind was wreaking havoc in the camp. Everywhere there
was fear and tumult as the invisible enemy furiously blew. Arain pulled a long
hunting knife from his boot and cut a rift in the side of the tent. Immediately
stepping inside with swords at the ready, the two men scrambling off of their
cots were as surprised as the raiders. A lantern swinging wildly from the roof
of the tent illuminated the men as they instinctively lunged for their swords.

Automatically, Ian's
men countered and easily overwhelmed their sleep-befuddled senses. While they
were being summarily disarmed, Ian and Arain hunted through the tent and
checked the entrance for guards. Finding nothing, they returned to face the
enemy officers who stood with huntsmen on either side of them.

"Where is the Lady
Idris being held?" Ian demanded perfunctorily.

"Find her
yourself!" one of the men spat. A dagger's point was thrust into the skin
of his neck and the thin trickle of blood seeped out.

"I have neither
the time nor the patience to play games with you. Speak or you'll have no need
to ever speak again!" Ian barked at both men.

The first man continued
to glare at his captors, the line of blood staining his shirtfront, but his
companion fidgeted nervously. Ian's threat apparently had more of an effect on
him. "Take him away and dispose of him," Ian ordered curtly, pointing
to the first man.

The huntsman holding
him, nodded impassively and began to drag the officer across the tent. In an
attempt to alert his men outside of the tent, the man started to yell but was
efficiently silenced by a stunning blow delivered to the side of his head. His
body was dropped and the huntsman bent to examine him. With a shrug, he stood
back up. "No need to take him any further," was his assessment.

Grimly, Ian looked the
remaining officer up and down. "If you place any value in a future, you
are advised to speak now."

The officer, Ian's age
if not younger, drew back fearfully only to find the solid chest of Gwalt
blocking his exit. He was the younger son of a small landowner near the border
between Morna and the Inner Ward. Until last summer he had helped in his
father's fields and hoped to stay on after his father died, when his brother
would inherit. However, when, soldiers, wearing the insignia of the Earl of the
Inner Ward, had ridden through his father's holdings, he had followed them back
to their barracks with a warrior's dreams in his head. His father's allowance
to him had bought a commission, and he had ridden proudly with the earl's men
when they crossed the border, invading Langstraad's vassal-state of Morna.
There were things that he did not want to remember about his first battle, but
they had been victorious and his flagging spirits had soared with pride at the
accomplishment. Now he found himself face to face with, not the glorious death
of a warrior, but the mean death of a murder victim. All at once his bravado
evaporated and he found himself pleading for his life.

"She and the
children are in the small tent behind Lord Brescom's," he stammered.
"Please don't kill me!"

Ian looked with pity at
the man's trembling chin and ordered two of his men to remain behind a few
minutes to gag and bind the prisoner. Then, with Arain and the other men behind
him, he slipped back out of the tent.

Awakened by the howl of
the wind and soldiers shouting incomprehensibly to one another, a groggy Blaise
pitched himself out of bed and rubbed at his eyes. Lurching forward to a table
upon which a bowl and ewer of water were placed, he slopped a measure of cold
water into the bowl and proceeded to shock himself into wakefulness by
splashing copious amounts on his face. His mind, sharpened and focused,
suddenly grasped what the unnatural windstorm portended. Hurriedly pulling on a
pair of breeches, he grabbed his sword and stumbled barefoot out of his tent.

"To me!" he
bellowed above the shriek of the wind. A group of soldiers standing in
bewilderment nearby heard him and ran to him.

"It's a trick to
rescue the hostages," he screamed. "Go get the woman and her brats,
and bring them to my tent. It's worth your life if they are taken!" As the
soldiers raced off in the direction of the hostage's tent, Blaise forced his
way against the drive of the wind towards the earl's tent, swearing steadily the
entire time.

Before he made it to
his destination, he espied the bulky figure of Brescom coming towards him. The
older man was fully dressed and clutching a flapping cloak to him. Four guards
accompanied him. Seeing Blaise, he stopped and waited until the duke reached
him.

"It's that witch
in the castle!" Brescom's voice rose to combat the wind.

"Damn the girl!
They're after the hostages," Blaise yelled back.

The earl's face went
blank and then he was running back in the direction from which he had come, with
Blaise and the guards a step behind him. They reached the small tent set well
back and behind Lord Brescom's own. As they arrived, two men wearing the red
stag of Tuenth were exiting from the tent, joining another group of soldiers
milling in front.

"They're gone,
your grace," reported one of the men, his face white in the light cast by
the lantern he held. "The back of the tent has been slit open and she and
the children are gone."