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Authors: Rachel Rossano

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BOOK: Wren (The Romany Epistles)
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“The enforcer has a force at least a thousand strong.”

Arthus commented, “He will simply arrest the lot of us and
present our disembodied heads to Orac as an anniversary present. That would
certainly make Orac inclined to give him a title.”

Hiller’s sharp eyes flicked from Arthus’ face to mine. His
tongue leapt to life. “Where did he get so many men? I didn’t know there were
so many able bodied men in the valley. Besides most of the men are working on
his monstrosity of a castle. He certainly didn’t bring them with him. Our
sources only spotted a force one thousand strong when he arrived to take
office. It isn’t as though he plucked them out of the air.”

“Foreign mercenaries.” I filled my spoon. “I counted at
least a thousand Tarins. There could have been others, but the Tarins were
definitely a presence.”

Tourth leaned back and almost smiled. “Oh, Orac isn’t going
to like that. I suppose the enforcer plans to hide the Tarins among his
original troops. He isn’t going to want Orac getting wind of them.”

“Why?” He knew something I didn’t.

Iscarus explained. “Kilanore land law prohibits the
gathering a foreign mercenary force by any lord or vassal. It is the sole
prerogative of the King.”

Tourth rubbed his head. His brown hair stood up at crazy
angles. “If the enforcer doesn’t even know the basics of Kilanore law, how does
he expect to gain a noble title?”

Hiller smacked his palms on the tabletop. All the bowls
jumped. “The same way he managed to become enforcer: murder. In the midst of
the war, he handed Orac this valley on a platter with an heirless noble seat on
the side. Now he is after Svhen and Arthus, famed war criminals.”

“Hiller!” Iscarus protested too late.

My stomach clenched. My eyes flew to Tourth’s face.
Father,
is this the time?
I scanned his features for signs of anger. A deathly
silence settled over the company. All the men avoided looking at Tourth. I
alone studied his pallid face as the truth dawned on him.

“The enforcer murdered my parents?” He didn’t lift his head.

Iscarus shifted. “It isn’t completely clear.”

Hiller’s harsh, bitter laugh made Arthus jump. “I would say
eye witnesses are proof enough.”

“But not conclusive. They didn’t see him commit the act,”
his brother protested.

“Just crawling back under his rock after the deed was done.”

The brothers continued to bicker as the argument descended
into cheap shots.

I weighed the wisdom of breaking it up when Tourth met my
gaze. “Wren, is the enforcer capable of such a thing, killing with his own
hand? Having never met the man, I can’t judge that myself.”

Memories of our previous encounter came to mind. I closed my
eyes to shut them away from Tourth’s scrutiny. Bile churned in my stomach.
“Without a doubt.”

Hiller abruptly broke off his argument with Iscarus mid-sentence.
All four of them watched my face expectantly.

I pulled air through my nose in an effort to clear the sour
smell that always came with the memory. “I encountered the enforcer before.
Then he was going by Hawthorne and working as a bounty hunter. A year ago, when
I was just beginning to learn the unspoken rules of bounty work, we pursued the
same quarry. The hunt twisted around. The prey, a compulsive murderer, appeared
to be picking off the hunters. Then I found Hawthorne’s knife in the back of my
friend and fellow hunter.” I closed my eyes. I could still see the flashy hilt
of Hawthorne’s unbalanced blade imbedded in Woral’s back. My stomach rolled
over, threatening to spill its contents. “He will stop at nothing to get what
he wants.”

Silence. Not one of the men moved.

“Then we have him,” Arthus rasped.

Hiller groaned. “It all depends on Orac and his relationship
with his enforcer.”

“You are right,” Iscarus agreed. “Orac might know about the
enforcer’s plans and condone them.”

“I doubt that.” Despite his tight-lipped, horror-stricken
countenance, Tourth’s voice came across calm and certain.

Part of his mind was here with us and part wallowed in
memories and the agony of loss. I knew that feeling well. I shoved away the
memory of Woral’s death-dulled eyes.

Tourth continued. “Orac, whatever else he is, is a man of
the law.”

“What?” Hiller exclaimed. “You support the man?”

Tourth shook his head. “I am alive because the man believes
in the rule of law. I killed one of his sons at Catorna. Instead of executing
me out of hand, he satisfied himself with punishing me to the full extent of
the law. He paraded me through the capital in rags and chains before releasing
me to fend for myself.”

“And you expect this man to honor your claim on Iselyn?”
Hiller asked.

“I hope he will. I don’t have much choice do I?” Tourth met
Hiller’s shocked gaze. “So, we can’t march in through the gates. Arthus never
made it to the capital so Orac doesn’t even know that I am making a claim. Our
force is forty-five men strong. The enforcer claims the loyalty of over a
thousand. What is the new plan?”

Iscarus said, “Philon can send–”

“I have to stand on my own feet, Iscarus. I can’t run to
your brother for help. This valley needs a resourceful leader who can lead no
matter what the situation is.”

Voices came from the direction of the barrack bunks
signaling the coming crowd. Tourth sighed.

“I will entertain possible plans at the noon meal. For now,
I need to think.” He swung his legs over the bench and left by the outer door.

“Who’s going to keep an eye on him?” Iscarus asked.

I shoved my empty bowl across the table to him. “I will go.”
The door swung closed behind me before anyone else managed to speak. Tourth and
I needed to speak.

 

~~~~~

 

 
Chapter XVIII

 

Tourth

I knew she would follow me. The sympathy in her eyes could
only be born of similar circumstances. She had family, siblings, but she hardly
ever mentioned them. However, before Kat left, I caught her watching us as
though remembering something lost.

Snow turned the courtyard into a mess of slosh and muck. The
space didn’t welcome the kind of activity I intended. My hands itched to grasp
a weapon and everything in my being screamed that I should destroy something.
Not a safe state of mind for plotting logically or sitting still. I strode
through the slush to the heavy keep door. The great hall would work perfectly
for my short term plans, open area and shelter from the elements.

I turned back before opening the door. Wren was close on my
heels.

“Care for a round of sparring?”

Her strange eyes cleared from worried brown to an amused
amber. “Do you have an extra sword?”

I shook my head as I shoved the door. “I was thinking along
the lines of staffs or cudgels, something that won’t kill you if I miscalculate.”

“Miscalculate? You should be a bit more concerned about me
hurting you.” The wooden door closed behind her with a muffled thump. “Do you
want to be disturbed?” She indicated the repaired bolting system.

“Lock it. Let them wonder if we are killing each other.”

The worn stone floor, spread with rushes, lay empty. An old
trestle table dug out of storage rested against the far wall, and the
newly-beaten tapestries adorned the walls. I ignored them. Now was not the time
to dwell on the past. I needed to drive history from my mind, far from my mind.
Exercising until I was too exhausted to think would numb the pain. It would
distance the ache enough so I might progress beyond the inclination to kill the
enforcer slowly with my bare hands. He killed my parents!

“Weapons?” Wren’s voice cut through my thoughts at just the
right moment.

“Take your choice.” I indicated the rack of various
implements next to the trestle table. Walking to the far end, I shed layers of
clothing down to tunic and britches. “Are you sure you are up for this?”
Discarding the last overtunic on the heap, I shivered in the frigid air. I
welcomed the discomfort.

“Of course,” she said from right behind me. “On guard.”

A wooden club whizzed past my head. Striking the wall inches
past my shoulder, it clattered to the floor. I stared for a second. Gone was
the quiet, withdrawn woman I thought I knew. Hair wrapped around her head,
stripped to her leather jerkin, shirtsleeves, and leggings, she moved like a
sleek cat, feminine, yet deadly. Confidence radiated from her as she whipped
another cudgel into her dominant hand.

“Remember what I do for a living.”

She advanced and I retreated to the fallen weapon. Scooping
it into my hand, I swung it up into a defensive stance seconds before she struck
at my shoulder.

I retaliated with a series of strokes that should have
reduced her to begging for leniency. Instead, she met me hit for hit, backing
away into the center of the room. Although she gave ground, I grew wary. She
was holding back. Fury boiled in my belly.

I changed my attack. After feinting to the left, I jabbed at
her right. She took advantage of a small defensive weakness and landed the
first blow, a hard jar to the ribs. I renewed my onslaught, taking a risk. She
saw the move and sidestepped at the last moment, dancing out of my reach.
Breathing hard, we faced each other.

“The point of this was for me to work out some frustration.”

“I know.”

“This is hardly satisfying.”

She laughed, a clear sound that echoed in the rafters. “I am
not about to submit to a beating just to help your frustration level. I will
help you wear yourself out, though.” She leapt forward and attacked again.

Round two ended with my upper arm developing a bruise and
her nursing a sore finger. My muscles, weak from lack of training, ached
satisfyingly. Balanced on the balls of her feet, she still looked ready for
much more.

“You are holding back,” she accused.

“You forget what I have done in the past.”

Her eyes darkened slightly. “I haven’t forgotten. It was a
long time ago now. You are a different man.”

“True, but instincts rear their head at inopportune times.”

I attacked this time. Pushing my size advantage, I pressed
her backwards toward the opposite wall. She was difficult to pin down. Slight
and quick, she darted back and forth, trying to escape my advance or at least
turn me. Former training settled over me and my muscles remembered old moves.
Then she tripped on the uneven stone. She went down, weapon skittering across
the floor and out of her reach. Before she managed more than rolling to the
side, I pinned her on the floor, wooden club against her throat. Old instinct
flared, demanding the kill.

“I concede.” Her face flushed with exertion, sleek braid no
longer smooth, and eyes bright. For a moment, I had an incredible urge to kiss
her.

Where did that come from?

I blinked.

“Surrender. May I rise?”

“Of course,” I responded, climbing to my feet and offering
her a hand up. Her slender, but capable, hand in mine did things to my chest. I
struggled to regulate my breathing, suspicious the lack of oxygen was unrelated
with the activity of the past hour. As soon as she gained her feet, I moved
away. Distance would help.

She examined the spot where she tripped. “The floor is uneven
here.” She knelt to clear away the rushes. I knew what she would find. A stone
shifted in its bed so one corner rose barely an inch above those around it. My
hand fingered a divot in my scalp. The same stone gave me the scar. When I was
ten and tearing through the hall, my toe caught the lip. I fell and cracked my
head on a bench.

“Home advantage,” Wren said ruefully. She rubbed the
shoulder she landed on and reached to collect her weapon. I waved her off as
she assumed a defensive stance.

Grief gripped the handhold. I closed my eyes as memories of
my mother’s scent, apple blossoms, and the soft touch of her hands on my
forehead as she calmed my shuddering sobs pulled me under a wave of loss. The
murmur of her voice as she assured me all would be fine brought fresh tears. I
sank to the floor, resting my face in my hands. The ache of homesickness
settled in my chest as raw and powerful as the first day after I left for war.
One memory led to another. I followed helplessly. Cold seeped into my bones from
the stone below, but I didn’t care.

“This belt was my mother’s.” Wren’s voice pulled at my
attention. I blearily attempted to focus on the object in her hands as she
knelt beside me. Worn leather, old, but just as clearly well cared for, the
strap looked like an ordinary belt. Until now she wore it constantly. “A gift
from before she died, she said I would grow into it one day. It is all I have
of her.”

“How old were you when she passed?” I grasped at the
distraction.

“Young enough to not remember her well.” Tears glistened on
her cheeks. “You at least have your memories.”

“Do you have family?”

Bittersweet sadness slipped over her features. “Eight
siblings.”

“No father?”

“Died with my mother, murdered.”

The word hit too close to home. I couldn’t ask the question
that came next. Instead I asked, “So who taught you to fight someone larger
than you?”

She smiled. “Aiden and Arnan made certain I gave my all
every time. I am thankful they never handed me a win.”

A distraught yelling pulled my attention from her. It came
from the direction of the courtyard. The words I could catch did not sound
right and the voices unfamiliar. My chest constricted as panic grabbed hold.
Anger and alarm tinged the sounds. I gained my feet and started toward the
swords hanging along the rack. Wren moved even faster. Grabbing two from their
slots, she tossed one to me and pulled the second soundlessly from its
scabbard.

I reached the door first. Tilting my head, I listened. My
hand rested on the bolt, body tensing to face the nameless foe.

BOOK: Wren (The Romany Epistles)
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