Wren (The Romany Epistles) (23 page)

“The man you harmed was my friend, Lord Hiller. A noble.”

He and his mount circled us. Trader followed their movements
without my instruction.

“Lord Hiller should have stayed home, keeping to his
brother’s leading strings. This valley is none of his concern.”

Beyond Hawthorne, I caught a glimpse of Wren. No falcons
were with her, which meant they were airborne and could attack any moment. I
couldn’t risk a glance upwards.
Please don’t let them mistake me for an
enemy, Lord. Above all, spare her.

Seeing my distraction, Hawthorne charged.

~~~~~

My birds still circled above, but they hadn’t attempted an
attack since Iolani’s dive at Hawthorne’s head. Below them, chaos swelled
through the crowd and ranks. When Hawthorne drew his sword, his troops reacted.
Metal blades scraped from sheathes. Orac’s force didn’t hesitate to follow.
Within moments Svhen, myself and our eleven companions stood between two forces
intent on battle. Only the lack of a signal held their fervor at bay.

“Back to back,” Svhen ordered.

The mock prisoners dropped their chains and gripped their
swords.

I drew my borrowed weapon and paired up with Jadet, my
closest match height wise. Glancing around, I tried to assess the situation.

I faced a wall of men, sunlight glinting across
breastplates, shields, and swords. Suddenly feeling woefully unprepared in my
leather and cloth, I struggled to swallow and adjusted my grip on the steel in
my hand, testing the weight with a few swings. I drew one of my knives with my
left hand for backup.

I might be seeing you, Deus, sooner than I planned. Have
mercy on my soul, my Lord and God. Please allow me to fight with honor and
bravery for Your glory, my King. If it be Your will, spare Tourth. He has so
much left to do.

The tension snapped. I didn’t see or hear the signal, but
Hawthorne’s waiting army did. Cries echoed up and down the ranks. The first
wave of men rushed forward, swords drawn, yelling a battle cry I couldn’t
discern. The answering yells of Orac’s mounted warriors at my back drowned all
other sound.

My stomach knotted itself into a rock and my lungs refused
to take in air. Plowing through the panic growing in my chest, I forced air
into my lungs.
I am ready to die,
I reminded myself. My Deus-given faith
rose to the challenge, peace flooding in its wake. I was here for a purpose. I
intended to fulfill His destiny by His strength and grace.

A throaty bellow brought my full concentration to the
heavily bearded young warrior bearing down on me. His eyes intent on mine,
sword raised to take a swipe at my head and shield guarding his middle. His
technique left no weak point for a knife. Despite the fact he weighed almost
two of me, I saw no option but to engage him. Instinct and memory from matches
with my brothers brought up my arm. I would defend myself as best I knew how
and pray for mercy.

My sword barely deflected his swing at my head. I attempted
to puncture his leather jerkin with my knife as he rounded for another attempt.
The point encountered the mail beneath. Not a surprise. Still my heart burned
in defeat.

We sprang apart. I planted my feet and waited for his next
attack. He turned leisurely as though certain of his superior might and armor.
I could use that against him.

His next charge was easy to sidestep with a brief touch of
metal and fancy footwork. Despite the glancing blow, the force of his swing
traveled up my arm with enough force to cause discomfort. I would lose my sword
with the first encounter might to might. He would come to the same conclusion
soon. I needed an alternative, now.

His slow turn gave me an instant to think. That was when I
saw my hope. One more exchange and I would have him.

I glanced at his face. Cold hatred and purpose met me in his
eyes. He knew. My chest constricted.
Lord, please make it quick.

He lunged.

Hawthorne was not a warrior, despite his pretense. My
response to his first assault lost him his horse. It galloped off.

I dismounted as required to continue the confrontation. He
attacked before my last foot left the stirrup, gaining him the first blood, a
small gash on my left arm. Its lack of depth indicated his lack of strength.

I retaliated. Within three swipes I knocked his sword from
his hands.

He produced a knife. His handling of the smaller weapon
revealed experience with it, but I still easily disarmed him with a bone-crushing
blow to the back of his hand with the flat of my sword. The knife joined the
sword in the mud, only a few feet away, but well out of reach.

He fell to his knees cradling broken fingers. One point in
his favor, small though it was, he didn’t cower. Instead he attacked with his
words. First he used profanity that should have scorched his lips. Finally he
gave up on the foul language and attempted a more personal assault.

“You look just like your father, standing there all
self-righteous and pompous. He refused to strike an unarmed man too. Idiot! You
realize I will probably never hold a sword again!” He spat at me.

How could he know how my father looked? When did he meet
my father?
Anger followed on the heels of my momentary confusion as I
remembered he was possibly the man who killed my parents.

“I have a feeling that being able to wield a sword again is
going to be the least of your worries.”

“He was a coward you know.”

I didn’t need to ask who he spoke of. My anger blazed into
hatred. “Why do you say that?”

“He begged for your mother’s life. Fool even offered his
life in her place. Little did he know she died a breath after him.” A manic
laugh broke forth from his garishly twisted mouth ending in a ragged cough.

Fighting the instinct to cut him down where he crouched, my
fingers flexed on the hilt of my sword. It would be so simple. The madness
rose, urging me to raise my arm. One simple stroke and it would be over. He
couldn’t hurt another person and my parent’s death would be avenged.
Vengeance
is mine sayeth Deus.

The verse doused my rage like a bucket of ice water leaving
only grief in its wake. It was not for me to take this man’s life. A lump of
unshed tears blocked my throat. If only….

Someone moved at my side, just out of sight.

“So, you are confessing to the murder? That makes things so
much easier.” Philon’s voice cut through my concentration.

What was he doing here?

Philon laid his hand on my shoulder. Probably to restrain
any foolish inclinations I might have. Little could he know Deus already doused
that fire.

“Would you be willing to confess to treason as well?” Lord
Portan approached from the left. Behind him, King Orac watched in silence
behind an impressive honor guard. “You appear so eager to die. I believe the attempted
assassination of your king is a hanging offense.”

“King, ha!” Hawthorne spat in the mud at Portan’s feet. His
eyes glittered strangely. “He is nothing but a pretender to a false crown.
Everyone knows the valley nobles hold the real power.”

Portan ignored Hawthorne. “My Lord Eyrant.” He inclined his
head respectfully. “You wish to bring a charge against this man?”

“If my king pleases, I wish to call for a battlefield
tribunal to try this man right here. I have little patience in regards to
bringing this....”

“Traitor?” Iscarus offered as he stepped to his brother’s
side.

Warrick approached and offered another alternative which
earned him both of his brothers’ glares.

“…traitor to justice.” Philon finished.

Lord Portan turned to King Orac. “My Liege?”

“It pleases me, Portan. Summon a scribe.”

One of the armed honor guards turned, claimed a horse and
trotted back toward the king’s caravan already making camp along the edge of
the last field.

Skirmishes still continued up and down the field, but the
gaps between the knots of men indicated that most of the fighting was over.
Judging by the proliferation of men in Philon’s colors and the king’s men
herding groups of Hawthorne’s men away from a growing pile of weapons, I
guessed our side came out victorious.

“Good to be among the triumphant again, isn’t it?” Philon
commented as he joined me again.

“I am not sure. It barely felt like a fight.”

“It was a mockery.” Warrick sheathed his sword in disgust.
He at least had the sense to keep his voice low. “Orac’s men held their shield
wall and left the bloody grunt work to us and the farmers. There is no glory in
picking off trapped fools. Half of the Tarins threw down their weapons after
our first offensive and they saw they were outnumbered once we arrived. The rest
started surrendering when the enforcer lost to you. The Tarins aren’t fools.
Most mercenaries don’t keep up the pretense of loyalty after the motivation of
payment is gone.” He jutted his chin toward a melee still convulsing farther
down the field. “That bunch probably took something personally.”

My first thought was for Wren. I last spotted her in the
midst of the fray at least an hour ago. I scanned the crowds of men for her
dark head and slender form. I had to warn her about Keilvey.

A screech pierced the air. The small brown body of a falcon
plummeted from the sky swooping above the remaining fray and scattering men in
its wake.

“Wren!” I whistled for Trader. The horse pulled away from
the man holding the mounts of the king and his party. I swung up into the
saddle while he was still in motion and urged him into a gallop.

As I approached the heaving mass of men, I spotted Svhen’s
blond head in the midst. Wren wasn’t visible. Fear reared its head.
Please,
Lord, protect her.
I jumped to the ground running, unsheathing my sword mid
sprint.

A second falcon, this one the white female, dove and
attacked, carrying away a leather helmet and effectively clearing men from the
central battle. I spotted Wren’s dark head for the first time.

She went down on one knee, clutching her side.

Her opponent lifted his sword.

I pushed my leaden legs to plow forward as I shoved men out
of the way. I had to reach her. The need pressed against my chest wall,
crushing my lungs.

The sword descended.

A man lunged across my path, momentarily blocking my view as
a dark object hurled through the air over our heads.

A male scream tore at my ears as I struggled to shove aside
the buffoon in my path. I barely restrained the instinct to simply attack him
instead. Finally free, I stumbled through the suddenly subdued mob and out into
the open space cleared by the bird only to encounter Svhen arriving from the
opposite direction.

Wren lay on the ground at my feet, remains of her braid
twisted about her body and stray hair obscuring her face. The growing puddle of
blood beneath her ripped my heart down the center.

Svhen grunted. “You check her. I will deal with him.”

I dropped to the ground next to her. “Get a healer,” I
ordered the closest man. I vaguely recognized him as one of Hiller’s men.

“Already on the way,” he replied.

“We need to stop the bleeding. Anyone have clean cloth?” It
was a ludicrous thing to request on the battlefield, but I wasn’t thinking
about that.

I brushed her hair away from her face and worked at finding
a pulse. She stirred at my touch.

“Here.” A wad of brown cloth was shoved in my face.

I took it and began searching for the wound. When I found
it, I breathed more easily. A gash in her hip, clean, but deep, it cut through
muscle, but nothing vital. Barring infection, she would heal. Easing her
clothing away from the wound, I pulled the skin together and applied pressure.
She groaned and tried to move away.

“Easy,” I whispered.

“How is she?” Svhen hunkered down on her other side.

“You are blocking the light.”

“Sorry.” He moved around to my right shoulder. “How is she?”

“If this is the worst of it, she will live.”

“Good. She deserves it after that fight.”

“The bastard that attacked her?” I asked.

“She crippled him before her birds got to his face. One of
the other men put him out of his misery after that brown falcon took him down.
You don’t want to look.”

“I will trust you on that.”

Wren’s face contorted in pain, her hand moving toward her
hip. The touch of her fingertips on the back of my hand made my gut tighten.
Thank
you for sparing her, Lord.
She opened her eyes and looked up at me.

“What were you thinking taking on a man twice your size?” I
asked.

She grimaced. “He didn’t give me a choice.”

“Hmm…” I adjusted the pressure. Suddenly remembering
Keilvey, I looked up at Svhen. “Hawthorne ordered Keilvey to kill Wren. We need
to make sure he doesn’t get a chance to finish what this guy started.”

“Understood.” He rose and immediately started rounding up
the curious onlookers and organizing a search.

“Hawthorne?”

I looked down to find Wren studying my face, worry clouding
her brown eyes. I was eager to observe all the colors her eyes were capable of.
So far I noticed a golden hue when she wasn’t particularly emotive, the worried
brown, and the amused amber. I wondered what color they would change to if I
kissed her.

“Tourth, what happened with Hawthorne?”

“In custody.” I mentally shook myself. These were not
appropriate thoughts for the battlefield. However, I had every intention of
following them up, thoroughly. “Lord Eyrant petitioned King Orac for a
battlefield tribunal and it was granted. The scribe should be arriving just
about now.”

As though summoned by my words, a soldier in Orac’s colors
arrived with an agitated young healer in tow. Upon seeing Wren, the healer’s
face flushed bright red. “I have never treated a woman before,” he haltingly
admitted.