Honor among thieves

Chapter Eighty-One

North of Helstrow, Croy took to the road.

It was risky, but it meant they covered far more ground every day. The barbarians seemed wholly uninterested in the land beyond the royal fortress. He had not seen any sign of patrols or even pickets for days. For that matter, he hadn’t seen any sign of life at all. The farmland that passed by on either side of the road was frozen solid, and if there were peasants still living in that cold region, they wisely stayed indoors. He was a bit worried by the fact that he hadn’t seen a smoking chimney for some time, but he assumed the locals were just being careful.

He should have followed their example.

Bethane had fallen asleep against his back, and he was paying more attention to making sure she didn’t fall off the horse than to the road. He was vaguely aware they were about to enter a copse of trees that narrowed the road on either side, but gave it little thought-until he heard someone cough.

He pulled up sharply on the reins. His horse bridled but dragged to a stop, just as Croy heard a taut rope being cut with a twang. A heavy log shot down from the treetops, swinging on the end of a line so it arced directly across the road at the height of Croy’s chest. Had he not stopped in time, it would have knocked him clear off the horse and left him sprawling and broken in the road.

Instead it collided with the rearing horse’s neck. Croy heard bones shatter and the horse scream, its hot breath lancing upward in the air. Beneath him he felt the animal falter and begin to collapse.

Ghostcutter jumped into his hand as he leapt to the ground, dancing backward to avoid the falling horse. Bethane, wakened by the horse’s pitiful cry, slid down and was nearly crushed by the dying animal. Croy had no time to get her clear as three monstrous shapes came rushing toward him out of the trees.

They were bundled so heavily in furs he could not get a sense of how big they really were or if they were even men. They wielded hatchets and hay forks with wickedly sharpened tines. One jabbed at him before he was fully ready, and he felt metal pierce his flesh.

Perhaps thinking they had him, the other two men moved in for the kill. Croy swung wildly with Ghostcutter and sheared through the haft of a fork. A hatchet came swinging down toward his face but he kicked out and caught its owner in the chest, knocking him back and off his feet.

The bloody fork swung low for another attack and Croy smashed it aside with the flat of his blade. His side sang with agony as he twisted at the waist to block another blow, but he ignored the pain and swung hard for the opponent who had wounded him. Ghostcutter bit deep through layers of fur until it found flesh and laid open the veins of the man’s neck.

The man let out a gurgling scream and dropped to his knees. Perhaps realizing that Croy was not such easy prey as they’d believed, the other two turned and ran for the trees.

Croy was breathing heavily as he stepped back toward the horse, intent on making sure Bethane was all right. His heart raced when he saw she was not there.

Casting about wildly, he saw a fourth man running away across an open field. Bethane was over the man’s shoulder, kicking and punching at him. He probably couldn’t even feel the blows through all that padding.

Croy gave chase but the kidnapper had a long lead on him, and the wound in his side slowed him so that he couldn’t sprint. He followed as best he could, desperately trying to keep his quarry in sight.

He nearly lost them-but then heard Bethane scream his name, and he raced toward the sound. The kidnapper had hurried toward a leafless orchard a quarter mile away. Croy pressed one hand against his side and ran into the trees. It could easily have been another trap, but he didn’t care. He would fight his way through whatever they sent him, or die in the attempt. He could not let them have the queen.

In the middle of the orchard stood a humble croft, a low house with a thatched roof that descended to within a foot of the ground. The entrance was more hatch than door. Croy found it locked, but he bashed in the latch with Ghostcutter’s pommel, threw open its panels and stumbled inside.

He nearly tripped and broke his leg. The house was mostly dug out of the ground and was accessed by a ladder leading down to a muddy floor. He had not expected that-he’d assumed the floor inside would be level with the ground outside-and he fell into the dugout room, the floor rushing up to meet his face. He managed to twist to the side-he felt his wound open wide as he did so-and crash down into a bin of moldering apples.

There were four people in the room. One was Bethane. Two others were holding her down while she struggled. The fourth held a rusty knife.

Croy rolled out of the bin and drove Ghostcutter straight into the heart of the knife-wielder. Before the others could react, he cut them down, groaning in pain as the wound in his side oozed blood. When they were all dead, he slumped down on the floor and could do nothing but listen to Bethane scream for a long time.

Eventually she stopped. Eventually she came over and lifted his cloak away. His side was clotted with blood. She cleaned his wound and bandaged it. He thanked her as best he could. He could not stand up.

Bethane went over to one of her kidnappers and started pulling furs away from the dead man’s face. Perhaps she wished to know if her attackers had been barbarians or men of Skrae. Croy didn’t have the strength to stop her.

“By the blessed hem of the Lady’s green robe,” the queen said. Croy looked over and saw the face of the thing he’d killed. It belonged to a boy. A child, not much older than Bethane herself. He’d slaughtered a child.

Perhaps it was his wound that kept him from feeling the guilt that honor demanded. He closed his eyes and tried to just breathe. His wound was deep and he feared it might have touched his vitals.

“But what could they have wanted from us?” Bethane asked. “They didn’t ask us for money. I would gladly have given them coin for safe passage.”

Croy didn’t answer. He was afraid he knew, but he couldn’t say it aloud.

It was only when Bethane approached a soup pot on the hearth that he found his voice again. He knew she was hungry-they’d eaten little but mushrooms and tree bark tea for days. The soup smelled divine, hearty and rich and well-spiced. It smelled of good fresh meat.

“Don’t,” he managed to say. “Don’t even look in that pot.”

Did she understand? He couldn’t tell. If he’d had the strength, he’d have made up some story about witch’s cauldrons and the foolish people who tasted their contents. Or about northern peasants being accustomed to a diet that would be too crude for a royal stomach to digest.

“Don’t look,” he said, which was all he could muster.

She stepped back from the pot and came to curl up by his side.