Paladin's Prize (Age of Heroes, Book 1) (14 page)

Their longing filled the whimsical round room, but Thaydor studied the ceiling and reminded himself repeatedly that he was the Paladin of Ilios, and a true knight did not ravish his future wife until the ring was on her finger.

And
that
he would most assuredly be bringing back with him on his next visit here.

He was no scholar, just a fierce, brute soldier when it came down to a fight, but he knew to trust his instincts, and he wasn’t stupid enough to let his perfect woman get away.

Wrynne didn’t know it yet, but she would be his. As soon as possible.
Nay, sooner.

Just as quickly as he could sort out the headache of who was trying to kill him this time, he’d be back to claim her for his own. She’d be safe here until he found and fixed the problem, anyway. Until then, the last thing he wanted was to drag her into the net of treachery that he had to admit he sensed was already closing around him.

Funny, though
, he mused, feeling much better about life in general as he closed his eyes. He never would’ve imagined that nearly getting killed would turn out to be one of the best things that had ever happened to him.

The amount of blood he had cleaned out of his armor made it plain he should have died.

Somehow he hadn’t, and yet it seemed he had found Elysium anyway.

Chapter 6

Wanted

S
ure enough, the next morning, a dozen men from Buckby arrived in the field below Wrynne’s mountain to burn the Urmugoth bodies, as Thaydor had suggested.

They sent a boy up the winding footpath to let him know they had “found” his bay mare, hitched her to his wagon for him, and brought the whole lot to their hero, for his convenience. Horse and wagon waited at the bottom of the mountain path.

Wrynne and he exchanged a glance of wry amusement at this change of heart on the unknown horse-thief’s part, but all was forgiven, as long as nothing was missing from the cart.

Thaydor left to take his now cleaned but still dented armor down to the wagon, letting the awestruck boy help by carrying a few of the smaller pieces of his armor.

When they had gone, Wrynne hurried to make her final preparations for leaving her hermitage. She bathed in the waterfall pool, dried off, and dressed again in fresh clothes, then changed the bandage on her arm where she had cut herself to work the
Kiss of Life
spell.

As she packed her things, she discussed her decision with Silvertwig. Though her little familiar was sad about their leaving this very pleasant assignment, Silvertwig had agreed to take Thaydor’s letter to the warrior monks to secure their help at the border gates. Wrynne had folded the letter up for her into a tiny square small enough to fit in the fairy’s satchel.

“You’re sure you know the way to the Scythe Valley?”

Silvertwig nodded, and though Wrynne knew her fey friend was quite resourceful, she frowned with worry all the same. Twenty miles was a vast distance to cover for someone who was barely six inches tall.

“Find me when you can,” Wrynne instructed. “I’m not sure where I’ll be… In fact, you should probably just go to my family’s house in Pleiburg and wait for me there. Let them know I’m safe.”

The fairy nodded sadly.

“I’ll miss you, Silvertwig,” she said softly. “Please be careful.”

“You too, Wrynnay.” Silvertwig landed on her shoulder and pressed a wee kiss to her cheek, then wiped away a tear and flew off on her mission.

Hands propped on her waist, Wrynne glanced around to make sure she had everything she needed. She had donned good, sturdy boots and would wear her cloak and carry her staff, as well as her large satchel full of healing supplies.

Into this she also tucked her most vital reference books for healers, an extra set of clothes, and—perhaps most importantly—her small, light crossbow with a slim quiver of ten mistletoe darts.

She filled a crate with all the food that would merely spoil if she left it behind and went to put it in the wagon, along with her satchel. She used her staff and the
hasten
spell to teleport herself down the mountain in a trice. Since she was a healer rather than a mage, her ability with spells was limited.
Hasten
, for example, was a low-level travel spell only suitable for short distances. Though it tended to leave her rather dizzy, it made life easier sometimes.

Whooshing back into materiality near the bottom of the forest path, she immediately winced at the stench near the battlefield.

She peeked out of the woods to check on Thaydor’s whereabouts before taking her burdens over to the wagon. Fortunately, he was standing by the men out in the middle of the field.

The villagers were working on digging the mass grave in which the Urms would be burned before their bones were covered over. She grimaced, glad to be getting out of here. The whole field now stank terribly of death, and it wouldn’t get much better until the fire had consumed all that was left of the monsters.

As she carefully hefted her two packages into the wagon, she saw there was still plenty of room in back to hide her things. The real trick would be getting her armor loaded into it without Thaydor noticing. If he saw that, he would know she was up to something. Whispering the
hasten
spell once more, she banged her staff on the ground again and returned to materiality up by her bower.

Her armor was stored in a compact leather trunk and was not anywhere near as elaborate as Thaydor’s. She hadn’t even worn it since the ceremonial day of her class’s graduation from their training at the Bastion, for even the young women who pledged a few years or a whole lifetime of service to Ilios were taught the rudiments of warfare. As they well knew, the forces of good must always be ready to do battle against the forces of evil. Everyone had a part to play.

Opening the case to make sure her armor was still in good order, she closed it again, and just as quickly conveyed it down the mountain. She tucked it in the wagon and hid it somewhat from view amid all the baggage and supplies.

He’ll never notice,
she thought, glancing back out at the field.

Thaydor hadn’t moved. Arms folded across his chest, he stood in a kingly pose, chatting away with his rustic compatriots.

She shook her head fondly, impressed at how the warrior son of an earl and heir to one of Veraidel’s most prestigious families could get along with anyone. Then she whisked back up the mountain and made a last visit to her garden.

When Thaydor had finally returned, saddled Avalanche, and was ready to go, Wrynne closed and locked the wooden shutters all around her bower, her heart pounding.

The time had come.

She had put the fairies in charge of her garden and made them promise to let the villagers know they could take from it what they needed when it bloomed. There was nothing left to do.

“Ready?” Thaydor asked with a smile, suspecting nothing.

She nodded wistfully. “I think so.”

She looked around at her bower one last time and said a silent goodbye to it, to the peace and safety she had known here. She didn’t know when she’d be back.

If ever.

Then she joined him. They walked down the mountain path together, he leading his horse rather than taxing the stallion with a steep downhill ride. When they reached the field at the bottom, Thaydor tied Avalanche to the back of the cart, then handed Wrynne up onto the driver’s box. He checked Polly’s harness one last time, then vaulted up onto the seat beside Wrynne and took up the reins.

And so they set out for Toad Hollow, rolling along in the clunky jug of a wagon.

The sadness of leaving her home wore off quickly in the excitement of the road ahead. She was a young woman on an adventure. The day was bright and clear, she was with the man she was fairly sure she had already half fallen in love with, and now she could personally make sure he stayed safe.

The farther down the road they rolled, with Avalanche trotting along behind, the lighter Wrynne’s heart lifted. She noticed that Thaydor kept a couple of weapons close to hand, though—Hallowsmite sheathed at his side and the hilt of a dagger peeking out the top of his boot. He was obviously ready to deal with enemies, but, trusting soul that he was, he did not think to look inside her satchel. Otherwise, he might have discovered that his traveling companion was equipped for a much longer journey than a mere day’s trip to the market town.

Having got this far, Wrynne was already growing a trifle anxious about how and when to make her request about continuing on with him. She didn’t want him to get angry… Perhaps during their meal at the Blind Badger?

There was one approach that would probably work, though she hated to manipulate him. Since he was going to Pleiburg anyway, she could probably charm him into taking her to the city under the pretense of going home to visit her parents. After all that upsetting business with the Urmugoths, of course, he would understand.

And since he insisted on seeing her as a damsel in distress anyway, he wouldn’t think twice if she implied that she needed her mother’s comforting embrace. But she wasn’t sure she
wanted
a man of such courage and strength to view her that way—weak and needy—especially after she had shown him how strong she could be. His opinion of her mattered a great deal to her, she had to admit, given her own enormous admiration of him.

Unsure yet how to gain his agreement, she pushed the matter out of her mind for now and just enjoyed being with him at this, the official start of their quest.

Leaving the green shadows of the woods, they followed the dusty lane as it meandered through the patchwork countryside. A small, lively river ran parallel to the road and widened as it went, and farms nestled in the dips between the hills. At length, they reached a fingerpost pointing the way:
TOAD HOLLOW – 1 MILE.

“How exciting,” Thaydor jested.

“Not really,” Wrynne drawled, making him chuckle. “You’ll see.”

Outside the provincial town, a riverside mill kept its waterwheel busily churning. Beside it, gray wisps rose from the pointed roof of a little round smokehouse where some delicious-smelling meat was curing.

The town was alive with sound as loud, metallic blows rang out rhythmically from the blacksmith’s forge and livestock lowed and bleated in a nearby pen. On the water, three men poled a ferry downriver, crates and barrels piled atop the low, flat barge.

They entered the town by driving over a stone bridge and through open gates overlooked by a single sturdy tower. Toad Hollow was not large, but it was busy, a warren of winding, cobbled lanes with a jumble of half-timbered houses and all manner of shops. In the middle of the largest intersection, the market vendors sold their wares from wooden stands and handcarts, shaded by a hodgepodge of draped canvas tents and colorful striped awnings.

“There’s the inn.” Wrynne pointed at the hanging wooden placard for the Blind Badger, an L-shaped coaching inn, painted white with black shutters. It had a tavern on the ground level and guest lodgings all around the galleried upper story.

“Looks good,” Thaydor replied with a nod. “We should get your shopping done first. Then we can leave your things in the wagon while we eat.”

She nodded vaguely, since she didn’t really need to buy anything. He drove the wagon into an out-of-the-way spot at the edge of the innyard. He gave the young attendant there a coin to watch the horses and the wagon so they could go peruse the market.

Suddenly feeling a bit guilty, Wrynne was beginning to rethink the wisdom of being less than forthright. The Paladin of Ilios probably had a stricter-than-average response to people telling him untruths.
Little late to worry about that now
.

“Let’s keep our eyes open, just in case,” he murmured, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

She nodded and stayed alert as she walked with him into the open-air market, wondering if she should come clean right then. Drifting among the vendor stalls and donkey carts, she noticed a few townsfolk looking curiously at Thaydor.

No wonder
, she thought. He stood a head taller than most of the men and was as beautiful as a demigod. The women eyed her enviously while the men simply stepped out of his way.

Oddly enough, it was a child who was the first to recognize him for who he was. “Mama, look!” The boy pointed. “It’s the Golden Knight!” The youngster broke away from his harried-looking mother, who was in the midst of haggling with a costermonger.

“Sir Thaydor!” The boy came barreling over to them, craning his neck to peer up the man. “I knew it was you! I saw you at the tournament last summer!”

“Did you, now?” Thaydor bent down and gave the lad a jovial smile. “Did I win?”

“Of course you did! You always win. You’re the royal champion! And guess what? The knight you beat in the joust is here, too—Sir Reynulf! Are you going to fight him again?”

Wrynne looked at him in alarm.

At that moment, a deep voice boomed across the square.
“Thaydor!”

The tone was anything but friendly.

Thaydor straightened up, bristling, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

The crowd parted to reveal the red knight in full armor.

“Reynulf,” he greeted his fellow paladin, his tone even.

The Bloodletter of Xoltheus wore the same smirk Wrynne remembered from her dream, his dark eyes blazing. Flanking Reynulf were a dozen of the king’s soldiers in round helmets, chain mail, and blue-and-white surcoats with the royal insignia.

Wrynne put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and murmured, “Go back to your mother.
Now.
” The child started to protest, then saw her blistering glance and fled.

Thaydor did not move. “Wrynne,” he said very calmly under his breath, “can you drive a wagon?”