Fenglem kept a hand on Lakkrid’s shoulder as they moved toward where Eranoric’s men walked drogue. Mainly, he wanted to ensure the boy didn’t slip in the mud and moss of the downward slope, but there was more. Something was off.
He couldn’t place what had shifted, but suddenly his senses were on high alert. He saw the faces of Alojz’s men, lightly armored and dour of aspect. Each seemed to be discomfited somehow. Here again, he couldn’t have said precisely why. It may have been no more than a reaction to the six-hour trudge they’d all been forced to endure today.
In the case of the children—a brother and sister of less than ten winters, he thought, both of Kovalunth descent—they were now no better than baggage. The storm had made orphans of them, if Alojz didn’t elect to account them as slaves.
Even as they came to the base of the hill, he kept his hand on Lakkrid’s shoulder, just in case. In case of what? He didn’t know, but he followed his instincts whenever he could. He was still alive to have such thoughts, so the policy had served him well thus far.
Before they made it all the way to the end of the line, Aderano stepped out of the trees and onto the path, grinning. Without a word, he gestured for the Gnoerks to follow. A moment later found them standing in a light grove to the west of the mud-pit that passed for a road.
Alusc sat on a stone, sharpening his dirk.
“News?” Eranoric’s voice. “Can’t be loud news in any case, c’n it?”
“Loud, no, but there’s some.”
Sulok was sitting against a tree with a chunk of ash wood and a knife that looked suspiciously like Eranoric’s—the one he occasionally used for whittling.
The only one missing was Hrothgian, and Feng thought he knew where that one was. Almost certainly, the man Eobum had long since referred to as Aderano’s Red Hound was standing watch on the road’s other side.
“Eranoric, what do you know about the Lord Alojz?”
Lakkrid looked up at him for a moment, then moved to sit down against a tree.
“Works for Edmund as ’is hand. Is seneschal back at camp.”
Fenglem nodded. “Know his family?”
Eranoric offered a grin. “’Course I do. Now let me see, he’s the son of Baron Natter of, oh what’s the name?” He snapped his fingers once, twice, then his eyes lit up in mock recognition, “Southwest Whingington! Tha’s over on Blue-Blood Commons if memory serves.” He sounded bright and cheerful as he delivered this inanity.
Aderano snorted as he exited their little grove to return to his watch. Sulok smirked, Alusc shook his head, and Lakkrid looked too distracted to much care.
Fenglem, however, cut across the byplay without a second thought, killing the light-hearted mood.
“His father was Baron Zikmund Černook…”
Eranoric’s head snapped up to gape at Fenglem, albeit briefly. Then he closed his mouth and bowed his head in a slow nod. “Černé oko … Hells haul the bastard home… Alojz’s father was that preening, posing…”
Fenglem offered a thin, humorless smile at that. He saw Sulok shoot a questioning look sidelong at Lakkrid, who shrugged in answer.
“Long ago, Lakkrid…” Feng met the boy’s eyes, then looked to Sulok before concluding, “Haiga was about Maksu’s age at the time.”
Lakkrid frowned, clearly trying to put pieces together. “Right after Istjuk?”
“We fled Istjuk in early Lessykli. This was harvest—Sigdemåne not too long passed.”
“The … the broken towers?”
“Aye, Lakkrid-boy, the very place. Saw the worst and best’a men ‘at day—cunning, cowardice, and courage. Don’t matter much. Long gone, and Alojz is ‘is own man. Can’t blame a boy for ’is da’s ills.” He offered a sudden and exaggerated smile as he mimicked Eobald. “Sure ya shouldn’t, at least.”
To Fenglem, it sounded like Eranoric meant to change topics to something—anything else. Sulok, however, was having none of that.
“What happened? Cunning and courage?”
“S’ancient history, my lord.”
“We’re just burning up the day here, anyway. Tell us…”
Eranoric looked as if he’d been about to try another deflection when the sound hit them. The peace of their little grove was shattered by a man’s cry of pain, the sounds of swords clearing sheaths, and clashing against one another from far too close at hand.
Eranoric was on his feet, as was Aldhelm. Feng turned toward the sounds of battle, dropping into a low stance, azhkast all but materializing in his bright fist.
Aderano was falling back through the trees, supporting Hrothgian in one arm, trying desperately to parry with the sword in his free hand.
The distance was short, and while Feng couldn’t make out his target’s face, there was more than enough of him to target. He didn’t wait. He hurled his azhkast. The weapon struck home with such force that Aderano’s harrier slid sideways, knocked off of his feet.
Fenglem’s sword was in his hand even as he’d released the spear. He moved over to support Hrothgian from the man’s other side, speeding up the process of retreat to the relative safety of the others.
Just before they’d gotten the wounded man down against a boulder, Fenglem saw who he’d killed—one of Alojz’s guards.
He was drawing in breath to ask what in the hells had happened when he heard more men crashing through the trees toward them.
“’Kout!” Alusc’s warning came just in the nick. Three men were beginning their charge on Fenglem’s blind side.
Feng gave a brief warning look to Lakkrid before running directly toward the three men, bellowing an inarticulate battle cry at the top of his lungs. The ploy worked. They faltered, if only for a moment.
Fenglem sliced at the faithless wretch on his right as he ran by, scoring a deep gash above the man’s bicep. Not slowing more than the blow demanded, he ran on toward the guard at the rear of their triad. As his sword arm finished clearing his first foe, he rolled his wrist, channeling his momentum into a hammer shot bound for the man’s bright shoulder.
It connected, but the armsman had been either well-trained or lucky. He’d dropped his stance, twisting his shoulder away and leaning back. The limp, fluid motion stole some of the blow’s ferocity and power. The mail shirt worn beneath his white kontusz absorbed the rest.
Feng didn’t want a straight, stand-up fight. There were far too many—at least another half-dozen among Alojz’s personal guard. He ran on, spinning to see if he was being followed—to make certain he was, in fact.
He needn’t have worried. The unwounded man and the sergeant who’d escaped their brief exchange unscathed had already turned to pursue… and they had help. Two more had joined the fray and were now giving chase. Fenglem had a moment to note their shared expressions. They weren’t angry or delighted. They looked… vacant-eyed. They were tracking his movement, running around and over objects without so much as a pause, but they seemed utterly detached from their actions.
Detached or not, they were coming for him. He turned on his heels and bolted. Men with swords had tried to hunt him before—had tried to kill him before. They had always been brave in their protective packs.
He would do as he always did when pale packs of hunters came after he and his. He would lead them on a merry chase, and slowly thin the herd… and hope Eranoric and his men could keep the boys—keep themselves safe. For now, hope was all he could give them. Their fortunes were in their own hands.
