Wrai's Main Skill Comes into Play -- Stealing

Reitz pulled his horse up beneath the drooping branches of a stand of big oaks. "Ayla and Patul can go to the inn while I show you the house. We'll be off as soon as you lift the medal," he said.

"Not so fast." Wrai turned his horse to gaze at the town in the darkening shade. "You know where the house is so that means you've been there before."

"Of course. We tried to buy the thing," Patul said. "It's an elderly widow. I hoped that she'd be glad of the gold, but she wouldn't even talk about selling. We wrote to her first and then went to her home."

"All three of you?"

Patul shook his head. "No, I was afraid all three of us showing up with frighten her so I went by myself. Maybe I should have taken Ayla with me. The woman wouldn't let me past the door."

"And you don't suppose she might connect this medal disappearing to the stranger who showed up at her door and just happened to be at the inn when it disappeared?" Wrai turned back to the three and gave them a searing look. "I intend to come out of this little venture alive and with my hands still attached. So I'll give the orders when it comes to stealing."

Reitz cleared his throat and shifted in his saddle. He had the good sense not to argue though.

Patul lifted a pacifying hand. "You're the one who knows this business."

"Good. So you went to her house. What's it like?"

"A sturdy cottage, really. Yard filled with rose bushes. Tidily kept." Patul's eyes narrowed as he thought. "Too tidy for her to do all of the work, I'd say though she seemed a sturdy body. She answered the door herself and I didn't see any sign of anyone else around."

"Any barking? No sign of a dog?"

Patul shook his head again. "Nothing like that."

"And it's a small house, you say?"

"Nothing more than a cottage."

"Most likely she has a girl come in to help occasionally then. Not likely to have a servant live in besides having to feed and clothe them. If she's not rich..." Wrai tilted his head as he considered it. Sounded likely but he'd have to see the place. "No stopping at the inn. Once it's full dark, you'll show me the place and ride through to the other side of town. Find the first stand of trees and keep out of sight until I join you."

"That makes sense." Reitz sounded reluctant, but by now the light had faded enough that Wrai couldn't make out his face. "The moon will be at half tonight."

They dismounted and let the horses crop at the sparse weeds under the trees. Wrai pulled his black jerkin, breeches, and an old worn hat out of a saddlebag to change. A cool breeze came up rustling the branches together, and the moon rose to cast its greenish light over the landscape. They rode at a steady walk up the Whorlton road and through the little town. They passed a couple of townsmen making their way into the local inn; otherwise, the street was still. It was a nice enough town with stone cottages spaced along the street, most with gardens and outhouses. Wrai had ridden through a couple of times on his way to somewhere more profitable.

In the moonlight, he could make out the jumbled lines of the slate roofs and a few trees shading the yards. About halfway through the town, Patul made a sound in his throat and nodded toward a cottage. Wrai slid from the saddle and tossed Patul his reins. By the time they had ridden a horse's length past, he was already in the dark recesses of the garden in the deep black shadows under an oak tree.

The scent of sweet damp and old roses clung to the garden air. A tiny glint of light peeked through the closed shutters. He slid around to the rear of the house and squatted within the arch of a vine-covered trellis to watch, tipping his hat to be sure no light would catch his face.

The back door opened, the glimmer of a candle showing a plump wrinkled face. "Out you go, you old rascal," a high wavering voice said. Then the house went dark. A cat nosed at him and he scratched a ragged ear. It purred, winding around his leg. All he needed was a cat following him into the house. He pushed it away, and after a while, it slunk into the night, no doubt to find a rat for its dinner. From a nearby house, the sound of a squalling baby broke the night. Wrai dropped to a knee to make himself more comfortable and flexed his shoulders as they began to cramp.

A drunken voice shouted an oath followed by the sound of wood shattering. "Stupid goat lover."

Another crash followed and the sound of running footsteps. There was a clatter of hobnail boots and a jangle of armor as the watch came running up the way. The torch they carried made wavering shapes in the night. Wrai caught his breath, ducking his head to be sure the shine of his eyes was hidden. Damn, the last thing he needed was the watch to see him lurking.

"Halt!"

A sound of blows and groans followed, then they dragged a dark shape between them back up the road. Breathing a sigh of relief, Wrai waited. The town quieted. An owl hooted. A couple of cats tangled, yowling. After a while, there was nothing but the rustle of the wind in the trees.

Wrai rose and slipped across the narrow space of the yard to the window. He studied the shutters and, as he expected, they were closed by a bar. He could raise it but there was always a chance that would make noise. He frowned. If the door bolted too, he wouldn't have any choice but to chance it. He knelt to examine the lock in the moonlight and smiled. Large and sturdy. Just the kind an old widow would think would protect her treasures. The heavy old thing gave way in a few second.

Cracking open the door, he listened. The house was still until a snorting came from another room. He slipped inside only to find the blasted cat twisted around his ankles, purring at him again. He stopped a stumble with a hand on the wall and silently chuckled. He'd certainly lost his touch in the years since he gave up the trade if a damnable cat could trip him up.

The room smelled of rising dough and herbs and under it the scent of beeswax polish. He reached up to brush his fingers over a bunch of herbs that hung from the rafters. Another snort came from the left side of the house. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he made out the shape of a doorway ahead toward the house front. He would hope that the old body didn't keep her treasures in her bedroom. With the cat determinedly rubbing at his ankles no matter how he shoved it away with a foot, he made his way into the other room.

Here the floor was polished to a glow in moonlight that peeked in through the shutters. Tables swathed in cloths sat everywhere interspersed with spindly chairs. Each table was crowded with pendants and statuettes.

He couldn't help the sigh, and he rolled his eyes. How long in the blazes of Hedrin would it take to go through all these gewgaws? The stupid cat kept rubbing up against him as he eliminated first one table of folderol and then another. On the third, centered in front of the window he saw it, gleaming in a ray of moonlight. He scooped it up and hefted it. Not as heavy as he'd expected. Lighter than the others, but the rune was similar as well as he could see.

The woman gave a snort like she'd been stuck. He froze, heart pounding, but the bed creaked and she settled back to a rhythmic snore. He shook his head at his jumpy nerves. Dumb bastard. Been out of the game too long to be doing this.

Slipping the medal into his tunic, he stood still for a moment to be sure she had settled into a deep slumber before he moved toward the door. She'd miss the thing as soon as she woke. He had no doubt of it, so he strode steadily through the dark streets until he was past the last house. The moon lit the road before him until a bulk of trees rose on the side.

Reitz called out, "Here."

Wrai vaulted into the saddle and handed the piece over to Patul with a grimace. What business did he or these mages have stealing from some old widow? Faceless Goddess help him, this wasn't a night he'd be proud of. He'd take money from someone who risked it, and he'd rolled more than a few honey-fat noblemen. But curse him if he could see a reason why rich mages should be stealing from some old biddy.

Pah. She was probably a mean old shrew who kicked puppies. He shrugged but still frowned.

"Let's get out of here." He glared at Patul and jerked the reins of his horse.

"Wait," Reitz said. Hoofbeats clattered in the distance accompanied by the clatter of harness.

Bollocks. Surely, the woman hadn't found her loss so soon. Ayla sucked in her breath, and he laid a hand on her arm. "Shhh..."

Militia cantered the road, the low light glinting off their armor and weapons. The lord's banner snapped as one held it aloft.

Wrai's breath caught in his chest. A coincidence? Normal patrol? They'd seen several on their way, but it wasn't a risk he cared to roll on.

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Andrew Discovers the Terrible Price of Defeat: Freedom's Sword

CHAPTER SIX

The morning dawned with a muggy heaviness. Sweat gathered under the iron bracelets on Andrew's wrists, stinging in the open sores they'd rubbed. A length of chain no more than two feet in length ran between the irons on his ankles. His hair, dank and matted, hung in his eyes. At full daylight, with fifty other prisoners, he was herded towards the rutted dirt road by a handful of mounted men-at-arms. His hands got clammy and cold as he wondered where they were being taken through the shadowy pinewoods. He pictured the piles of bodies after the battle and someone dragging Brian by the feet leaving a crimson track in the dirt. His stomach turned and he gagged.

This was the first time he and his father had been moved since they were taken prisoner. His father... the earls of Atholl and Buchan... and two hundred or so of their men... the ones who hadn't died in the fighting.

Back bruised black and stiff from the blow he'd taken, stripped of his armor, clad in a penitent's rough brown sackcloth, Andrew awaited the will of the conquering English king. Until now, the only change had been when Sir William Douglas, taken prisoner after the slaughter of the city of Berwick-upon-Tweed, had been added to their number.

A grassy hill opened before them and in the center stood Strachthro Church. Prodded by the pikes, he tramped toward the gray stone building, exchanging puzzled glances with the other men. Manacles rattling, he climbed the steps. His father stumbled over the chains on his ankles, and Andrew grabbed his arm.

Inside, a man-at-arms used the butt of his pike to jostle Andrew against the cold stone of the wall. As his father was pushed back, he gave Andrew a dazed look. His father had not been clear-headed since the blow that had split open his scalp in the battle. Blackened blood matted his streaky blond hair. None of the prisoners made a sound as they were shoved against the walls.

From outside came the sound of clanking armor and stamping, snorting horses. The doors were thrown open and a shaft of July sun made a golden carpet across the polished floor.

A huge bay destrier tossed its head as its rider, gray-haired and heavy jowled, dressed in steel armor etched with gold, rode through the doorway. Iron-shod hooves struck sparks, scoring the granite. Bareheaded, he rode. His helm with its golden coronet hung from his saddle. Hoof falls, clanging, echoed from the narrow walls and high-beamed ceiling as King Edward of England rode up the length of the church to the very altar steps, not glancing once at the prisoners lined up on the side.

Sweet Jesu... Andrew's heart pounded.

Behind the horseman strutted a fat man with a ponderous belly in shining half-armor over velvet hose and tunic. Then strode in men in armor covered with emblazoned surcoats, three dozen at least. The crests of Warrenne, Aymer de Valence, the Bishop of Durham, Percy, and Gloucester he recognized. The rest were strange to him, lesser lords and knights of England no doubt.

At the end of the tail of armored men strolled a blond man, shining armor under a sable cloak, broad shouldered and comely--Robert the Bruce, the younger, who had only months before inherited the earldom of Carrick. Though the Bruce was three years his elder, he'd been a friend once when they'd both been squires. No more. Andrew glared, but the Bruce stared down at his feet.

The bland-faced king of England pulled the warhorse up and in a half circle. It dropped a steaming plop of shit on the floor. His fleshy companion took a place, straddle-legged, at his stirrup, and the rest ranged on either side of the steps. The Bruce hung back near the doorway, frowning.

King Edward raised a hand. "Bring him in."

A chill went through Andrew at more clanking sounds from outside. Now they'd find out why they had been hustled to the church. Nearby, Sir William Douglas gave a low growl, his dark face flushed.

The first through the door was a man-at-arms, well-turned out in iron-studded leather, a sergeant perhaps. Over his shoulder ran a rope he grasped in both hands.

The rope led to a noose about King John de Balliol's neck; his shoulders slumped. Andrew dragged in a ragged breath, too horrified to move. His king. Bareheaded, King John was in a red velvet tunic and hose, but the sun shone off his cloth-of-gold tabard with the rampant lion of Scotland worked in rubies, dazzling the eye. On each side walked another guard.

King John lurched forward as the man-at-arms jerked on the rope. The shackles that bound his feet clamored. He stumbled, grasping something to his chest. One of the guards caught a shoulder and shoved him upright.

As John de Balliol, King of the Scots, shuffled into the middle of the church, the men around King Edward watched in silence. Andrew's father gave a cry, "Your grace!" No one else spoke. The man at King Edward's stirrup spat on the floor. Well to the side, Robert de Bruce looked once towards King John, his lip lifting into a sneer before he looked down once more.

King John continued his clanking way towards the mounted Edward of England. In King John's hands were the Royal Regalia of Scotland, the crown and the scepter.

The great warhorse stamped as the regally clad man stopped a stride away. King John craned his neck to stare upwards. Edward's blue glance swept the watchers before he lowered it to the man in chains before him.

King John made a choked sound and cleared his throat. "My Lord."

Edward's teeth bared in a grin. "Past time you remembered it." He glanced at his nearest companion. "Cressingham, see you to it."

The man at King Edward's stirrup stepped forward, his silver half-armor catching the light. He bowed towards King Edward before turning to the Scots king.

"John de Balliol, traitor. Miscreant." Cressinghim's rich voice was ragged with unveiled scorn. "I charge you in the name of the dread Lord Edward, King of England, of Wales and of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Guyenne and Lord Paramount of Scotland. I charge you with refusing his commands, renouncing your allegiance to your liege lord and raising arms against him in rebellion."

The man he addressed continued to stare silently upward at the English king.

"You have dealt openly with King Edward's enemies and consorted with traitors. In all things, you have failed in the submission due him. You have led astray the realm that our king, in his generosity, granted you."

At last, John de Balliol, white-faced, turned his head to gaze at Cressingham. "Granted me? A throne that was mine by right?"

Robert de Bruce coughed. His hot eyes stared at Balliol, and Andrew sucked in a breath. How much has that hatred cost?

"Continue," King Edward barked.

Cressingham took an angry step toward Balliol and thrust out a finger, jowls trembling. "You will say these words after me. Before these witnesses who were traitors with you. At your king's command."

Wildly, Andrew shoved away from the wall. With a shoulder, he rammed into the guard, hurling him out of the way. "No!" He stumbled on the shackles he'd forgotten. "You have no right." He shook off a hand grasping his arm as he stared into John de Balliol's face. "You can't!"

A shadow moved. He sensed an upswept movement, a weapon swinging. There was barely time for a dodge to the side and a half turn. The smash came on his shoulder with shattering pain and he groaned. Saw another blow coming.

He ducked under the pike's butt, but it caught his head. He was flat on the cold floor. A kick to the side of his head knocked him dizzy. Thoughts scattered and flew. They used their boots on arms, legs, stomach, and back. He curled up, arms over his head. A warm trickle ran down his face and dripped onto the stone.

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Tamra is warned of onrushing danger - Blood Duty

Tamra's pulse quickened when she glanced over her shoulder at Jessup, who was leaning back against the wall, unsmiling.

Someone who didn't know him so well might mistake that slouch for carelessness rather than a habit to disguise his coiled tension. Outside the inn, a coach had just pulled up, and the driver shouted for the stable boy. Bright afternoon sun poured through the window. She closed the polished oak shutters and the clamor sank to a murmur. She'd given the innkeeper orders they weren't to be bothered.

"A Faragund army?" She frowned. "After all these years of peace? It's hard to take in."

"It's there all right. And killing everyone they get near." He scowled and twitched his shoulders. "That torture stank of some kind of magic, too. Nasty."

She poured two mugs of ale from the pitcher and handed him one. The innkeeper brewed a fine dark one, so she took a slow sip. Anyway, it gave her time to think. Jessup looked a bit scruffy as always, sandy stubble covering his chin. He'd sent her a message at the keep as soon as he'd arrived. Well, of course he did. She felt the heat flush her cheeks. Their eyes locked, and she could almost feel the kiss they hadn't yet shared. It had always been like that with him.

Gods, she missed him when he was gone. But she hadn't expected him to talk war when he came back. Faragunds... She frowned. "You're sure they're marching toward Daggerfell Pass?"

He shrugged and pulled a chair from the table. He sat in it, tilting it back so it touched the wall. "No way to be sure unless I go into the camp and ask that king of theirs. And I saw what happened to the last scout they got hold of."

She sat on the edge of the table, taking another sip of the rich brew. "But?"

"But they were marching in this direction. Not fast. I'm weeks ahead, but they're moving. Burned three villages that I saw. No prisoners." His lips thinned in a grim look. "Just bodies."

She shook her head. "I don't understand that. I grew up on stories of the war. I heard about… oh, torture. Most people lost someone. My father's brother for one. It was bad, but they took prisoners. Traded prisoners… took ransom for them."

Jessup grunted. "That was then."

"I'll have to think about this. Tell my lady mother first." She bit her lip as she calculated how many guards she had and how many she'd need to hold the keep in a siege. Mostly the guards she led were for patrolling the roads, which her mother was charged with by the prince as levy for holding the keep.

"Telling her is your problem," Jessup said with a curl of his lip. "I don't curry favor with ladies and lordlings."

She gave a quick laugh. "You're more likely to insult them. No. I'll take care of that; you're right. But what about the prince? He needs to know."

Jessup set down his empty mug and let the front legs of the chair thump on the floor. "I came to tell you, not the prince. But all right. I'll report to the palace in Madrian. I'll be back afterwards. Shouldn't take more than two days. If they want to yap about it, they can do it without me." He uncoiled from the chair.

Enough of this. Tamra couldn't think straight when all she wanted to do was kiss the blasted man, so she set her mug down. One step, and she had her hand on his chest.

"About time," he said, voice gruff. He wrapped a hand around her blond braid, bending her head back as his mouth came down on hers.

Their mouths melded, and her blood hammered in her ears. Her body melted from internal fire. He moaned softly as his mouth went to her neck, kissing and nipping. She caressed the back of his neck and took a shuddering breath. This wasn't the place or the time, but it had been too long. As she pulled out of his arms, he rubbed his finger, callous- rough from his bow, along her chin. "Was that all I came back to, Captain?"

"Did you want more?" She grinned a little. "For a scout who never says when he'll be back, you expect a lot."

"Do I?" He grinned.

"Egotistical man." She ran her eyes over him hungrily. "Don't you ever shave?"

"I may—when I get back. And we'll talk. That fealty of yours..."

She kissed him quick and hard to shut him up. "Not now. But hurry back." She strolled out to lean against the wall of the whitewashed tavern as Jessup rode away.

His description of what he had seen on the other side of the mountains had her sufficiently distracted that she barely nodded at the stable boy as she tossed him a coin and mounted. Her horse cantered towards Wayfare Keep and its own stable with a bare twitch of the reins. Tamra looked across the valley with its mixed stands of pine and aspen, past the knot of lime-washed cottages with wood shingle roofs and the patchwork gardens and open fields where goats grazed. Above them on a stark crag rose the massive structure of gray stone keep. The trade road from the nearby mines to Madrian passed under its shadow.

A peasant in brown homespun stopped his goats beside the road. "Fine morning, Cap'n Tamra," he said as she passed.

She nodded and managed a smile. Tales of burned villages and soldiers trampled under the hooves of cavalry charges ran through her mind. She shuddered and shook off her imaginings. Reality was enough to deal with.

In the keep bailey, a bustling wagon train was delivering goods. Mule drivers shouted, and the smell of damp wool and leather mingled with that of animal dung underfoot. Tamra scanned and saw her older brother, Garris, neatly built with brown hair so dark it was almost black, across the bailey yard with his head bent as he talked to the merchant. Sharniz, the white-haired and wizened wagon-train master, was probably doing his best to diddle a few more coins for the goods out of Garris.

Tamra stepped close to one of the guards at the gate, a sturdy girl only recently recruited from one of the nearby farms, eager to escape marriage and farm drudgery. "Go find Farren for me. Tell him to attend me here straight away." As the girl dashed away, Tamra pushed her way through the jumble of workers unloading the wagons. She nodded to the merchant with a smile.

"Think you can beat him out of a few extra coins, Master Sharniz?"

The old man grunted and scowled. "That doesn't happen, Captain. He's a hard man, he is. Takes after his lady mother."

Tamra could happily disagree that her brother was hard, but that was hardly a subject for a merchant's ears.

Garris scraped a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. "I think we're through . I'll have your payment for you shortly."

Tamra grabbed Garris's elbow. "I need to talk to you—now," she said, keeping her voice low enough so that no one else could hear her over the clatter around them.

He gave her a puzzled half-smile. "Something wrong?"

She pointed with her chin towards the steps that led into the keep and led him in that direction until they were away from the crowd. "I just got some…" She frowned. "…some alarming news from Jessup. He was past the mountains. He says the Faragund army is on the move."

Garris gaped at her for a moment, speechless. "By the Light! On the move to where?" He blinked. "That's a stupid question. He couldn't know that. Did he have a guess though?"

"This direction, he says. It doesn't make much sense to me, any of it. He said they're killing prisoners—torturing them. I don't know what to think."

"But you trust his word on it."

"You know I do."

He crossed his arms over his chest and studied the stone steps where they stood as though they might tell him something. Finally, he sighed. "Mother has to know about this."

"It'll come better from you."

"But you're the one Jessup told."

Tamra met his eyes. "Since when did she listen to what I tell her?"

Garris looked as though he'd rather deny it but couldn't. He made an unhappy sound in his throat. "You're right. I'll tell her."

She put a hand on his arm. "Thanks, Garris. I knew I could count on you."

Garris shook his head. "Wish I knew what to think. Perhaps I should be glad that Lizza is gone."

She gave his arm a squeeze. He'd been like a lost puppy ever since his wife of a year had left to visit her family in the city of Rishard on the far side of the imperial capitol. "She's well away from any fighting, Garris. There's no way they'll ever get that far."

He nodded unhappily. Seeing her lieutenant wending his way through the drovers towards them, Tamra said, "I'll go over the list of our weapon stores with Farren. I want to make sure we're ready if it comes to a siege."

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Blood Duty - Chapter One

A scream echoed through the valley. Jessup stood in the copse of trees, barely breathing as he watched the camp of the Faragund army below teeming with movement. He pressed back against a tree. In the dense shadows of the forest, he would be impossible to spot. The scene down showed him what a bad idea being captured would be.

The wind brought the sound of the mages chanting. One of the scouts from Ilkasar hanged, bound by his hands from a tall stake, feet dangling a hand span above the ground. The muscles of Jessup's jaw knotted, but saving the man in the middle of an army that stretched nearly to the horizon wasn't a possibility.

Jessup felt fairly sure it was the Faragund king who stood before the prisoner. Five mages, covered from head to foot in flowing black robes, stood in a semi-circle near the king. The king was of no great height, but massively muscled with a vast chest and arms. His biceps bulged from his gold brocade vest which caught the bright sunlight. He wore no armor, but a gold scimitar hung from his belt. The man's blond hair flowed below his shoulders in a mass of braids. On each side of his face, scars ran from mouth to hairline. A long blond mustache drooped from corners of his mouth.

He raised a long ceremonial dagger and plunged it into the scout's arm. The man screamed. Blood gushed, and one of the mages rushed forward to catch the liquid in a bowl that glinted golden in the sunlight. For the entire day Jessup had watched the scout being bled. The ground below him was black with it. At first they had simply let the blood drip into the dirt while the prisoner had refused to scream. Now his head drooped, and he hardly seemed alive. With each slash, they poured blood onto the nearby stone altar.

Jessup stared past the camp into the thick oak forest to the east where giant trees reached toward the sky and a gentle dark settled between the columns of their trunks. He sucked in a deep breath to slow the pounding of his heart. He had seen horrors, from the day his own people had been slaughtered, but watching this twisted his guts.

Jessup forced his eyes back to the Faragund camp. The altar he recognized as one to the God Kanandra, but he wasn't sure what magic they were powering with their magic. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Khyle would want word of their movements, though. From the number of bodies decorating the camp, Jessup doubted that any of Khyle's scouts had escaped. The emperor's spymaster would be frantic for news. He had told Jessup that he feared the Faragund had gained enough power to attack the Ilkasar Empire again.

It had been twenty years since their last attack had failed, and the Faragund army was wiped out by the Ilkasar's Sharenta mages and the Ilkasar Imperial Army. The hatred between the Faragund god, Kanandra, and his twin, the Goddess Urthus, whom the Ilkasar worshipped, mirrored the hatred between their followers. Stories still circulated about the fierceness of the fighting. There were few families who hadn't lost someone to the Faragund.

One of the mages turned to the king and seemed to speak. The sound of the chanting changed, becoming softer but more insistent. Jessup shuddered. He had no magic but even he could feel the surge of power as the chants grew demanding. He sucked in his breath as the king plunged the dagger to the hilt into the scout's chest. Jessup gritted his teeth.

The mages' chanting again changed, growing faster and faster. Smoke swirled around the altar. The king ripped into the dead scout's chest with the dagger and jerked and sawed before pulling out the dripping heart. Jessup thought he removed other parts, but the king blocked his view of what was happening. The king turned to a smoking cauldron and raised both arms over his head. Blood ran in rivulets down his arms as the mages chanted on and on, getting louder with every heartbeat.

A roar from the smoke ripped the air. The chanting stopped. Smoke from the altar drifted on the breeze.

The king stood, motionless, watching the altar. He turned and struck one of the mages across the face, knocking the man to the ground. The conjuration, whatever it was supposed to do, hadn't made the king happy.

Jessup backed up a pace and slipped through the deep shadows under the copse's tall spruce trees. Time to put some space between him and this camp. His dun was tied just inside the edge of the woods on the other side of the slope. As he jerked the reins loose from the branch where they were looped, he heard a snap behind him.

He whirled, drawing his sword to find himself looking into the face of a Faragund warrior, the tip of the man's scimitar swinging toward him. Jessup met it with his own in a clash of metal. Their blades caught fast. Jessup leaned in with all his strength. The Faragund spat in his face. Jessup smiled. The warrior twisted his blade down Jessup's, leaving a line of blood dripping down his arm. They broke apart and moved in a circle, blades low and ready. The warrior brought his scimitar up to slice downward; in less than a breath Jessup dodged to the side, bringing a sweeping backhand cut to hack through the man's neck. Blood gushed as the warrior fell.

Jessup leapt onto his horse and jabbed his heels to its flanks. Taking word of this to Khyle would repay an old debt. But the Faragund army was a long march from Ilkasar. He had plenty of time to get there and something more important to take care of first—

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#SampleSunday Laying the Odds Ch 2

The by-blow.

Those words stung for a long time. The fact was he hadn’t gone hungry, not much anyway. His mother had a beautiful voice. She’d joined a new company of players and they’d traveled from city to city. When that one went under, they’d joined another. But a singer’s voice doesn’t last forever or her looks.

Five years later, she’d led him back one more time after she caught him cutting a purse to buy food, and she slapped him so hard his ears rang. This time they really had gone hungry.

He'd wandered around the study and admired the tapestries, the sheen of the polished furniture, and then the tall cabinet with beautiful silver pieces on the shelves, his eyes drawn to that medal.

His father didn’t even say a word. He stood at the door while two of his men grabbed Wrai and his mother and dragged them out the door. The two of them landed on the gravel walkway in front of the stone steps. The door slammed and the bar thudded into place.

He hadn’t meant to go back. If he’d been a little older— But a fourteen-year-old boy... He’d been riding in horse races and had already taken to gambling. He lifted what he could get his hands on. It was never enough. Not enough so his mother ever had enough to eat or an apothecary when she got sick, coughing up blood. After she died, a panicked run from an inn when someone spotted him cheating left him with a black eye, a broken rib and everything he owned left behind.

He arrived in Krelton two days later, dirty, hurting and desperate. And there was his father’s house, so he went to the door and knocked. What had he expected? Not hugs and a welcome, but maybe a meal and a place to sleep for the night in the stable. He told the doorman who he was, and the man went to get the master. Wrai combed his hair with his fingers, tried to slick it back and straightened his torn shirt. His heart hammered with nerves.

He looked up to see his father step into the doorway with a hound at his heels, running a quirt through his fingers. An ugly smile curved his lips.

"I told you and that whore mother of yours not to come back," his father said.

Anger flushed through him like fire, but he stamped on it. "She’s dead. Listen, if you’d just help me get a start. Not much and I won’t bother you again. I promise." He cursed himself when he heard the pleading in his voice.

"This is all you’ll get and worse if you ever come here again." His father lunged and the quirt flicked at Wrai’s face.

Wrai yelped as the lash cut his eyelid, and he stumbled back. The gash burned. He ducked his head and brought up his arm so the next blow slashed across his hand. His father cursed and swung again but Wrai ran.

He had run as far and fast as he could, the sound of barking coming behind. He’d never told the tale to anyone. He still woke up in a cold sweat sometimes trying to figure out why it haunted him so. He rubbed the scar at the corner of his eye.

Shrugging away the memory, he opened his eyes and eased through the hallway, one hand on a wall. His soft soles were silent on floorboards. The next door was the study. The house was near black but he’d been in the dark long enough that he could make out faint shapes.

Inside the room, he slipped along the wall, feeling his way so as not to stumble over anything. Even after these years, the layout of the room hadn’t changed. He put his hand on the cabinet.

He knew what he’d take. He’d known from the second the innkeeper read the notice. That medal etched in the shape of a rune. He’d never seen a rune like it. His mother had drummed his letters into him. This was something different. There had been times in those first days after seeing it when it had spun through his dreams.

For a second his hand trembled, tempted to grab the whole lot. He owed the piece of dung—for his mother choking on her own blood as she died, for the scar beside his eye, for the old lady he’d knocked over for her few pence in the next town. And for the years he’d woken, sweating, wondering what was wrong with him that his father hated him. He shrugged. He’d take the one piece. It might not even be noticed for a while.

He ran his hand over the cabinet, searching for the medal in the dark. Not the platter, heavy silver. Not the vase, or the spoons, or the wine flagon. Where was it? Surely, it was still here. He sighed with relief when his hand fell on the stand that held it, pushed behind a tall vase. He ran a finger over the deeply incised marking. Yes, that was it. He tucked it into a pocket.

Every muscle in his body was tense from feeling his way in the dark. He slipped back the way he came. The sky in the east was lighter by the time he refastened the latch. He smiled and pictured his father’s fury when he discovered his loss.

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Laying the Odds, co-authored with C. R. Daems, is my new fantasy adventure available at Smashwords and Amazon. It is reduced from $2.99 to 99 Cents for June only in honor of Reader Appreciation Month.

Also please check out my historical novels set in medieval Scotland. Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon and Smashwords. A Kingdom's Cost is also available on Amazon and Smashwords.

Freedom's Sword -- Beginning of Chapter Four

Caitrina shook her head. Donnchadh said they had gone north and a little east along the pine forest. He pointed to the North Star, faint in the black velvet sky. She rubbed her arms, covered with goose bumps, as they trudged. Even in April, the night air was chill. But how far east had they come? How far did they have yet to go to reach Avoch Castle?

A trumpet called somewhere behind them and she froze. It came again. She grabbed Donnchadh's arm. He pulled her, running, towards a dark mass of thick brambles down slope that extended over the next rise. She stretched her leg to keep up. They pushed their way into the scratchy branches and sank down. Panting and heart hammering, she squeezed his hand. It grew silent again except for an owl hooting in the darkness.

"They won't see us in here," Donnchadh said, "but they might hear us. It's noisy pushing our way through."

"If we tried to stay in the brambles, it would take a long time, too." She listened. The horns, whatever they had meant, had stopped. "I think we have to take the risk."

They neared the top of the next rise and crouched to listen, keeping a nervous eye out for searchers. The English could come very close before they saw them in the dark. The night was silent so they kept going, pushing their way through the dense thicket, arms and legs stinging with welts from the thorns.

Caitrina stopped. A lighter area opened ahead in the moonlight--the road. She pointed, and Donnchadh motioned for them to lie down. Caitrina pointed again at a dense clump of gorse, thick enough to hide her. "Stay here," she whispered.

He grabbed for her hand but she was already creeping forward. From flat on the ground, she could see very little, just the dark night and the ground in front of her. After a few damp, tiring yards of crawling, she glanced back to see how far she'd come. Donnchadh's eyes gleamed in the moonlight. She went on.

She was sure she was near the road when she heard the beat of horses coming at a fast walk. She trembled, wanting to jump up and run. But if she did, of a certainty, they would see her. Don't move. Don't move. Donnchadh's eyes had shined in the dark, so she forced herself to stare at the layers of leaves on the ground. The horses came from her left. They were so close they almost seemed to ride right over her; the ground shook.

Her whole body shuddered with terror, but they kept going. Once the pounding hoof beats had passed, she dared a quick glance. They disappeared before she could count the dark shapes--at least ten or twelve of them. The hoof beats died away. She took a deep breath and crept into the spicy-smelling clump of gorse. She parted the spiky leaves and even in the moonlight, the road was scarred with hoof marks. Why were they riding east? Away from Edirdovar Castle? It wasn't enough to attack Avoch, surely. Were they looking for her?

She strained through to see along the road as far as she could without getting out in the open. Nothing. She jumped at a touch on her arm and gave a faint squeak.

"They're ahead of us now," she whispered and her stomach rumbled loudly.

Donnchadh gave her a weak grin. "Glad it didn't do that before."

Together, they crept away from the road and made their way through the firs. She had gotten blisters on the bottoms of both of her feet so she took off her shoes. The dirt and damp needles made a soft cushion underfoot. She needed to piss, but didn't want to tell Donnchadh. She couldn't make water while he watched. Finally, though she couldn't hold it any more and her belly ached from it, so he turned his back while she squatted.

The horizon was hidden by the fir trees, but slowly the sky turned from gray to blue. Caitrina stumbled over a root she hadn't seen and grabbed a trunk, the bark rough under her hand. "I don't think I can walk much more."

"We'll look for a place when it gets light. No way we'll make it to Avoch today, I don't think."

Caitrina nodded and kept her eyes on her feet trying not to stumble, putting one bare foot in front of another. Her stomach ached with emptiness. It had been a long time since the berries. Once she stumbled over a rock and landed hard on her knees.

Donnchadh gave her a hand to boost her erect. "Not much longer. We'll rest during the day and go on when it gets dark." They found a tumbled cairn grown over with brambles. He made a tunnel into it and pulled the bushes close so they were hidden. Caitrina was sure she wouldn’t sleep but the last thing she remembered was cradling her head in her arms and then Donnchadh gave her shoulder a shake.

The light was already waning in the clear spring sky and the world was turning gray. The brambles ended at the edge of a fir wood. Donnchadh grumbled that it would be hard to find their way under branches that hid the stars, but there wasn't a choice so they kept to the fragrant firs and climbed up a long brae. He led them down the other side and up the next gentle rise.

Caitrina sniffed. "I smell wood smoke."

Donnchadh pointed towards flickering light off to the right. Her stomach was so empty she felt sick and Donnchadh looked longingly towards the light.

"Maybe it's a croft," he said. "I don't have no siller to buy anything. Do you?"

"No." She worried at her lip with her teeth. "They could tell us how far to Avoch though and if they've seen riders. And maybe they'd spare an oat bannock if we ask."

Donnchadh frowned and shook his head. "But what if the riders stopped there?"

"I hadn't thought of that." She twisted her fingers together. "We better be careful."

They kept going in the dimming light that turned into twilight. Where the trees thinned, they slipped from bush to bush. Every few steps they stopped to listen. The light ahead was bright when she heard a horse snort and a man's voice. The smoky smell got stronger.

Donnchadh put his mouth against her ear. "You wait here."

She wanted to protest against being left but was afraid to with the English so near, so she sat down next to some thick brambles as he crept on his belly. Her stomach ached with hunger, but it couldn't be that far to Avoch. The once she had been there, it hadn't been a long a ride by road. She clasped her arms around her bent knees, shivering a little in the cooling night air. They could get there without food, she was sure, even walking. Then Donnchadh was creeping toward her. He shook his head and his lips were pressed so tight they were pale.

"What is it?"

"The riders that passed--they're there." His voice was choked sounding. "They've--they've killed the crofter--his family. The bodies..." He heaved and bent as he coughed up a string of bile. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and she waited, heart pounding. "They're just lying there in the dirt. Like--like old rags or--" His voice broke, and he stopped, choking back a sob. She had a sudden vision of Edirdovar Castle--her sister and mother and all the people she knew...

She pressed her hand to her mouth as Donnchadh sucked in gusty breaths through clinched teeth. He looked up, cheeks wet. "They didn't have a chance."