The Crowded Shadows (3 page)

“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.

T
he 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 dilemma 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.

I
t 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.

And then again, what if this was not the cavalry at all, but some group of as yet unknown protagonists in Alberon’s complex dealings.

Wynter sighed and ran her hand over her face. Could nothing be simple?
All right
, she decided.
I’ll go have a look, then make my decision
.

She regretted having to leave Ozkar saddled up, but she promised him that as soon as she had satisfied her curiosity they would camp for the night. With a last fond scrub between his eyes, she tethered him to a long line and ran in the direction of the sounds.

It rapidly became clear that this site had been very well chosen. It would be next to impossible to get close without being seen. Wynter came to a frustrated halt, her back against a broad oak. The sounds from the camp were much clearer now, and she could occasionally hear men calling to each other in what sounded very much like Hadrish. This was not the cavalry.