The Rebel Prince (3 page)
Wynter’s sword-arm dropped to her side and she watched the King’s men die.
The magnificent cavalry horses staggered under a second hail of missiles. They fell, and their blood mingled with that of their riders, eddying out into the clear water to flood the river with scarlet. The stain rapidly filled the ford, swirling and flowing and stretching its arms outwards until it lapped in bright, sun-dappled wavelets on the shore and coloured the heedless stones at Wynter’s feet.
Behind her, Razi turned from this spectacle of death and knelt once again by the rebel soldier’s side. Wynter watched as he closed the poor fellow’s lifeless eyes. For the briefest of moments Christopher stayed at Wynter’s side, his arm a sympathetic warmth around her waist. Then he splashed out into the scarlet ford and began to help the Merron harvest their fallen arrows.
I
T WAS
very late in the evening, the forest shadows already deepening to gloom, when Christopher pulled his mare to a halt on the path ahead, blocking Wynter’s way. He cursed softly under his breath. Alarmed, Wynter urged her own horse up the narrow space between them and reined in at Christopher’s side. She peered through the foliage to see what had disturbed him. Around them, the air filled with the snort of horses and the irritated jangle of tack as the rest of the Merron riders came to a stop. There were mutterings and low exclamations of concern.
Leaning forward to get a better view, Wynter felt her heart sink. Only six or so feet ahead, the trees ended abruptly and the safety of their cover gave way to a wide patch of rocky ground – a break of perhaps twenty yards between this section of dense forest and the next. The open ground stretched away on either side, a long spine of rock cleaving the forest in two for as far as she could see from her limited perspective.
‘Oh Christopher, this is not good.’
Christopher nodded in agreement. ‘We’ll be vulnerable as babes if we cross here.’
Wynter glanced to the head of the travel party, where Razi had prime position next to Úlfnaor and Sól. All three were gazing out across the gap with similar expressions of concern.
‘I not like it,’ said Sólmundr quietly. ‘It feel bad. We should to go around.’
Úlfnaor exchanged a look with Razi, who curtly shook his head. ‘I say we cross.’
The Aoire nodded. ‘Then we cross,’ he said. ‘Wari, Coinín, Soma and Frangok will to watch our back while we pass over. Then follow when all is well.’ At Sólmundr’s disapproving look, Úlfnaor sighed. ‘Time grow short, Sól. We not risk changing our route. We trust judgement of Tabiyb. We cross
here
.’
Sólmundr glowered at Razi, who kept his eyes ahead, his face devoid of expression as he waited. After a moment, Sólmundr grunted his reluctant assent. Commands were given in Merron, and the guarding party drew their bows.
Wynter met Christopher’s eye as he loaded his crossbow.
‘I’m warning you, lass,’ he said solemnly. ‘If we get to the other side with no holes in us, I’m stealing seven Protector Lady Moorehawke kisses.’
He looked so sure of himself, so gravely confident and alive, that Wynter had to reach across the gap between their horses and take a fistful of his tunic. Smiling slightly, he let her pull him to her, and she pressed her lips to his, hard and fierce and protective. They stayed close at the kiss’s ending, their foreheads touching, their eyes half-closed.
‘You stay safe,’ she whispered.
‘If I do, you’ll owe me six more of those.’
She smiled. ‘Come across in one piece, Freeman, and I may just grant you more than kisses.’
His cheeks dimpled as his own smile grew. ‘So many promises to keep,’ he murmured.
They kissed again, the horses shifting beneath them. Then Wynter drew away, covered her face and, without looking back, pulled into formation with the advance party as they urged their horses into the glare of the late evening sun.
Glad to be free of the claustrophobic forest, the warhounds bounded ahead of their masters, their tongues lolling, their great tails lashing the air with joy. The Merron kept their eyes on them. When, halfway across the clearing, the enormous creatures abruptly stopped their happy exploring and froze, Úlfnaor immediately lifted his arm, and the advance party brought their mounts to a wary halt.
The warhounds lowered their heads, their attention focused on the forest ahead. Suddenly Boro howled and leapt forward, barking wildly at the trees. The other hounds followed suit.
Spooked by the dogs’ violent barking, Wynter’s horse threw his head and tried to turn back. Wynter sat down hard in the saddle.
‘Hold easy, Ozkar!’ she hissed.
Out of sight in the trees ahead, another horse whickered in fear, and Wynter scanned the shadows, searching for the riders she now knew were hidden there.
At Úlfnaor’s command, the warhounds came reluctantly to stand by the horses, where they milled in place, still barking. The noise was deafening.
‘
Ciúnas!
’ yelled Sólmundr, and the dogs instantly ceased their baying. Whining, they paced before their masters, their eyes fixed on the dark trees.
The forest ahead remained silent, the shadows impenetrable to Wynter’s sun-blasted eyes. All around her, the Merron sat in tense expectation. She had no doubt that at that very moment, hidden in the trees behind her, Christopher was drawing the lever on his crossbow. She resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder and tried not to imagine the whine of arrows flying through the air, nor the dull thud of them hitting home. She forced the memory of blood-laden water and dead bodies from her mind and inhaled the breeze for the telltale scent of slow-match. There was none. Good. At least no one in the trees was aiming a cannon at them. That was some small mercy.
To her right, Razi ducked his head and discreetly pulled his scarf higher on his face. Wynter blessed the glaring sunshine that had caused them all to tug their hats low, and the swarms of flies that made covering their faces seem less furtive. When Razi again straightened in his saddle, she was pleased to see that the combination of hat-shadow and scarf made it impossible to distinguish his dark skin. In his borrowed green cloak and with his remarkable height, her friend looked just like any other Merron warrior. Wynter hoped that her own lack of stature would not be too obvious.
A whistle cut the air, and Wynter’s heart leapt as she recognised the signal Alberon’s allies used to identify each other. Úlfnaor whistled the correct reply. There was a moment’s silence from the trees; then a cultured voice called out in Southlandast.
‘So far?’
The first part of Alberon’s password! Could they finally have reached their goal?
Úlfnaor called out the reply: ‘And not yet there?’
A rider detached himself from the shadows of the forest and brought his nervous horse to a halt by the huge boulder that edged the top of the path. He dipped his hat against the sunshine and squinted at the prowling dogs. This man wore no uniform, but his tack and weaponry were military issue and he rode a cavalry horse, which he handled well, despite it being white-eyed and skittish in the presence of the hounds. Wynter had no doubt that he was an officer of Jonathon’s army. She regarded him coolly from under the brim of her hat. An officer of Jonathon’s army, out of uniform and siding with Alberon against the King. How was she meant to feel about that?
The words
treacherous cur
sprang readily to mind, but then Wynter thought of the dead soldiers at the river – the rebel and the King’s men, their blood mingling in the water, their loyalties split on either side of the royal divide. Each had been as certain as the others of where their duty lay. Each was as irretrievably dead. She forced her animosity down.
Let us see what explanations this evening brings
, she thought.
Úlfnaor threw back his hat, allowing his long dark hair to fall across his shoulders. He shrugged back his cloak, revealing his tribal bracelets. Sólmundr drew his horse to his leader’s side and he too threw back his hat, shook loose his sandy hair, and bared his arms. For a terrible moment, Wynter thought that all the Merron would follow suit. But Hallvor and the red-headed brothers kept their faces covered and their hats on. Razi’s differences remained hidden.
Úlfnaor called out in his broken Hadrish: ‘I Úlfnaor, Aoire an Domhain, diplomatic envoy for Royal Princess, Marguerite Shirken of Northlands. I bring paper destined for Royal Prince, Alberon Kingsson. I seek safe passage to his camp.’
The officer tore his attention from the bristling war-hounds and regarded Úlfnaor closely. Then his gaze moved from rider to rider on the trail before him. Wynter stiffened as his eyes came to Razi, but the officer paid no more heed to her friend than to any of the others, and when it came to her turn, he passed over Wynter without pause.
He turned once more to Úlfnaor, and addressed him in excellent Hadrish. ‘You have men in the trees,’ he observed.
‘As does you,’ said Úlfnaor.
The officer huffed. ‘Quite the travel party for a common messenger,’ he said.
There was a moment’s silence from Úlfnaor. When he next spoke, his voice was laden with warning. ‘I
diplomatic
envoy
,’ he said. ‘I
High Lord
of the Merron peoples, entrusted by Royal Princess of Northlands’ peoples for to aid in her negotiations.’
Wynter eyed the officer carefully. Unless Alberon was running an intolerably sloppy camp, this man would have detailed instructions as to the treatment of each visitor: his attitude to Úlfnaor should be a calculatedly accurate reflection of the Prince’s.
‘Do forgive me,’ he murmured dryly. ‘No offence meant.’
Wynter did not like his tone. Úlfnaor regarded him coldly and did not reply.
The officer gestured over his shoulder, and another horseman emerged from the trees. ‘My lieutenant will accompany you to camp. By order of his Royal Highness Prince Alberon, you are granted safe passage. You may call your hidden guard to your side.’
Úlfnaor did no more than incline his head, and instantly the path behind Wynter came alive with the thud of hooves and the jangle of tack as the others emerged from hiding. She felt a rider draw close to her left side, their horse snorting and shaking its head. She glanced sideways. It was Christopher, his face covered, his eyes fixed on the trees.
At a nod from his superior, the lieutenant wheeled his horse about and the travel party followed as he led the way into the forest.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, and when they did, Wynter was startled to find that they were surrounded by soldiers. Fifteen or twenty well armed horsemen flanked the path, watching in silence as the Merron guided their horses through their ranks.
When the travellers had passed, half the soldiers turned their mounts to face the clearing. The other half began to follow the Merron, silently shadowing their progress through the trees. Wynter took careful note of their positions and weaponry; then she focused her attention on keeping track of the route.
They travelled upwards, the ground steepening sharply, the forest thickening so that the Merron found themselves strung out in vulnerable single file. The soldiers guarding them were nothing but stealthy shadows in the gloom; the man leading them, silent and removed. Light fell in heavy pillars through the trees and Wynter noticed that it kept changing direction: first slanting in from the right, it would seem to slowly swing around to the left, then gradually back to the right again.
We are being led in circles
, she thought. She looked behind her, taking in the depth of the shadows, the impenetrable nature of the forest. They would never find their way back through this. Not without a guide.
Christopher was riding behind her. He was slouched casually in his saddle, apparently paying little heed to his surroundings. But just as Wynter was about to face front again she saw him reach to his left and break a passing branch. It was a barely perceptible movement, but it left the branch hanging at an angle, pointed back the way they had come. Christopher met her startled gaze, and his eyes creased into an unmistakably sly grin.
