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“You traitors!” Callan screamed at the guards, hitting the bars before turning around to lean his back against the metal gate, sliding down until he was sitting, facing Joss and Henrik. “You’re all traitors,” he hissed, exhaustion softening him. He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands covering his face as he breathed out hard, angry and embarrassed that he wasn’t able to fight off these guards. It was the exhaustion making him weak, and he cursed again at how tired he was.
Joss winced at the words, but stayed quiet as she remained seated across from Henrik. She couldn’t quite see him, but she felt his defeat much like her own. The only sound they heard besides the wagon wheels was Callan’s hard breathing, a random slam of his fist as it struck the floorboard, his rage still very much present. A song was being passed around out in the night air, a victory song for a job well done.
No one in the wagon wanted to discuss what was coming. No one wanted to think about how the trial would go, if there was one. For Joss, she didn’t want to think about what kind of interrogation their executioner would perform, how many strikes it would take before doing the job, just to watch one of their own bleed. Or drown. Or burn.
It was a guess to which form of death they’d be granted, and all of it slowly reminded her of Flynn. He was the oldest in her family; the wisest, the gentlest. The way he was tortured after the botched execution was something she would always believe he didn’t deserve. He was supposed to have been executed, the first in her family to ever be put in such a situation, but he didn’t survive past the torture.
Now, here she was; about to be the second.
It wasn’t a guess, however, who the executioner would be, given the next town was Burnlyn. Putting the pieces together—the timing of the patrol’s arrival, the disappearance of Master Greyson the next morning—it wasn’t too far off to think he was the one to give them away.
Sitting with these thoughts, her stomach twisted, her anxiety keeping her company as the night drew out into dawn, the early morning light slowly drifting into the valley. The light reminded her of how much distance they had lost, all in one night.
“I should have just died there,” Callan whispered, the first thing he had said in all those hours since being captured.
There was no point to ask. Whether it was in battle or his previous execution, Joss figured he wouldn’t elaborate anyway. Besides, part of her didn’t even want to know, didn’t want to admit that maybe she should have gone through with the execution—ignored hearing that word “pardon” that had triggered her morals.
Maybe she should have listened to Aric.
That’s when they all heard it—one of the soldiers made a loud grunt, sounding like he had collapsed from his horse. The wagon lurched to an immediate halt, someone yelling, “Take cover!”
“What the hell?” Henrik questioned as someone else screamed, startling all of them.
“We’re under attack,” Callan announced, standing up and looking out the gate, trying to see anything. A small part of him hoped it was a real garrison who had come to rescue him, being led by that messenger boy he had sent off with his pardon. If only he could be so lucky.
“By whom? A gun wasn't fired,” Henrik reasoned just as someone rushed past the gate, a guard with his pistol out.
“Get to the trees!” the leader was demanding. The wagon bolted forward, tossing Joss and Henrik while Callan used the gate to keep his footing. As the wagon turned, bouncing across the uneven ground, they found they had reached a part of the road where the woods were thicker, clustering on either side of the road.
“That’s because they aren’t using guns,” Callan announced, and when Joss made her way to the gate, he pointed out to the body that was left behind, an arrow sticking out of him.
Her pulse quickened, Aric’s voice in her mind calling her name, and she gripped the bars harder to keep herself grounded.
“Your friend seems to have found us,” Callan remarked, and she wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a fact or an insult.
The shade of the trees dimmed the landscape as the wagon twisted and turned into the forest, coming to a stop that obstructed their view of the road.
They heard the leader barking orders, the scurrying of feet and weapons as they used the wagon as a shield. There was a painful moment of silence, and even the three in the wagon held their breaths.
“Get down,” Callan whispered, dropping to his knees in case a shoot out was about to erupt. Joss automatically reached for Henrik, who had come to her side, both following suit.
They all strained to listen, hearing a guard breathing and an occasional whispered tone from one of his companions. Branches rustled overhead from the wind, a small chirp of a passing bird, the scuff of boots against dirt.
“If it’s him,” Joss whispered, conjuring an image of Aric that she tried to ignore, “then you need to get away from the gate. Get behind us.”
A shot rang out, making them flinch as the shouting started, ricocheting from all directions. The wagon lurched forward as the horses became skittish, and that’s when a guard came around the back of the wagon, hiding and forgetting who was on the other side of the gate.
Callan swung his arm out between the bars, locking it around the man’s neck and pulling him closer, pinning him in place.
The guard flailed, the pistol in his hand dropping, replaced by gargling as more shots rang out, more yells overshadowing what was happening against the gate of the caged wagon. It took a moment, but eventually the guard became quiet, his arms falling to his side, his body going limp.
Callan called for Henrik. “See if he has any weapons,” he instructed, able to keep his hold firm as if he had done it before.
Henrik did what he was told, reaching past the bars and rummaging, finding only a knife.
Letting go of the body, they heard it fall to the ground as Callan asked for the blade. Henrik handed it over, and Callan bent down, placing it in the lock and maneuvering it meticulously, listening as he went. Henrik stood next to him, watching for anyone who might try to stop him.
As they worked, Joss listened to the battle, the yelling becoming less and less evident by how many of the guards had fallen. Something hit the side of the wagon with a thud, and she could only imagine it was an arrow or a knife that missed its mark. She felt helpless without her ax and pistol, not knowing how to help.
Click. Callan pulled the knife out and pushed the gate open. Jumping out, he turned, waited for Henrik to join him and then lifted his hand to Joss. Surprised, Joss took it as he helped her out. Once free, Callan grabbed the pistol and checked it, finding it was empty. Tossing it back to the ground, he leaned against the wagon, peering around to see where the attack was taking place.
“Every man for himself!” someone screamed, and without warning, the wagon jerked forward, taking their cover away.
The three ran to the nearest tree, ducking around it. Seeing no one else around, they peered from behind the tree, finding almost half the guards lying in their own blood in the grass. The wagon gained momentum, the remaining guards riding next to it, along with the stray horses that lost their riders, a habit they were trained to have.
Oddly, however, Drakon and Bluebelle remained nearby. Something moved in the background, and they could see that it was the prince’s bay horse, eyeing the group that had run off but seemingly uninterested in chasing after them. The grass around him was much more tempting.
Joss pressed her hand against the trunk of the tree, taking a small step closer for a better view. When she saw it, her eyes narrowed a little, confused.
Drakon was the only one tied to a tree, something he very much wasn’t appreciating by how he pawed at the ground. As he shifted around, she noticed the ax sticking out of the holder while the saddlebag remained in place.
“It’s a trap,” Callan breathed out, keeping his tone low. “Someone’s enticing us.”
Joss looked from the horses to Callan as he looked to the side, eyeing the other trees, Henrik right behind him doing the same. She glanced behind them hearing the river in the background. The undergrowth further in was overgrown in these parts, bushes and smaller trees filling in the gaps. Running would be noisy and slow, given how much vegetation they’d have to cross. Looking back at the horses, she observed how the bodies looked in the grass. That’s when she caught sight of the cape sprawled out, seeing the leader had been cut down as well, the whole reason his garrison had made a run for it.
“Are you sure?” Henrik asked, not hearing or seeing anyone around. The only sound besides the birds and squirrels was a very impatient Drakon, who had caught sight of his rider and was nickering to be released.
“Unfortunately, he’s right.”
Joss recognized that voice, the air catching in her lungs. She turned around, finding a hooded figure emerging from behind a distant tree, crossbow in hand and blood splattered on parts of his clothes. She recognized her father’s shirt specifically, along with the cloak, things she had given him. There was also a red streak across his cheek of someone else’s blood.
Callan gripped the knife, but paused when Joss and Henrik stepped in front of him, becoming a barrier between the prince and the assassin.
“Henrik,” Aric greeted as he pulled the hood off. He nodded to him before his eyes locked with Joss. “Jocelyn,” he said a tad softer, though he kept his composure matter-of-fact as he walked casually forward.
“I don’t need you defending me,” Callan hissed from behind, though neither Joss nor Henrik moved.
“How’s your shoulder?” Henrik called out, and by how he said it, Aric had to smile, remembering the last time they saw each other and how Henrik used his injury against him.
“It’s healing very well, thank you,” he complimented, unable to resist a glance at Joss again before finding his target. “Prince Callan Ronen,” he acknowledged with a slight bow as he moved to the side, causing the group to pivot with him. “I should ask how your shoulder is doing.”
“Never better,” Callan remarked. “So why don’t we end this, man to man? We don’t need more bloodshed here.”
“I agree completely.” Aric turned toward them then, his steps a little more aggressive, causing the three to stumble backwards from behind the comfort of the tree. Callan tried to push his way past the two, but Henrik shoved him back while Joss remained in front, the only one standing in the way.
“Aric, we saved you!” Henrik called out, and Aric’s pace slackened, eventually coming to a stop. “Let him go, for us,” the lad continued, coming a little closer to Joss but keeping himself pivoted to the prince in case he tried to make another move.
Aric looked from the lad to Joss, seeing how loud her silence was. She hadn’t said his name, hadn’t called out to him. She understood his reasons for being there, and he could see her remorse, the burden of knowing. He also saw something else too—anger, maybe?—that his guilty conscience picked up on.
“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, raising the crossbow and leveling it in their direction.
This was the second time he had done this to her, and Joss panicked upon seeing the arrow. She stared at it, and that’s when she saw the direction it was pointing.
Callan braced behind her, not a man to back away from a fight, even though his breathing was labored, fear edging into him. Henrik’s hand gripped her arm, about to pull her out of the way, but she flung herself out of his grasp and grabbed hold of his arm instead, holding him in place.
She knows. Aric took in a deep breath to keep himself focused.
Joss moved her eyes to meet his, taking in the way his grey and green eyes seemed to look past her, as one closed so he could take aim. There was a sudden shift in his stance, a sidestep that was so quick and fluid it was almost missed.
And then, he pulled the trigger.
