Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(24)
Two arrows fly right past my head. The guy’s a quick shot, but my movements are too erratic for him to keep up.
I shoot one back at him. It misses, but it takes his attention away from Lirra, giving her a chance to get a dozen paces closer to them than I am currently. She’s half the distance to the carriage. A dozen more paces and she’ll be upon them.
Providing another distraction, I shoot two arrows into the side of the carriage, knowing it won’t go through the panel. The girls inside start screaming. The man using the black-haired girl as a shield edges back toward the carriage, while Lord Conklin stays out of sight behind the horses. My third arrow is aimed at the archer, but again it misses because his eye is trained on my movement.
He doesn’t see Lirra sneak up until her blade is thrust between his ribs. Lirra pulls her blade out, swipes it on the fallen man’s tunic, and turns toward the remaining men. I stare at her, shocked by the ease of her brutality. Fighting and survival are a part of my job. Though Britta was trained alongside me, it was always hard for her to stomach death. Even while hunting, she’d offer a prayer of thanks to any prey she took down, always mindful and grateful for the life around her. But Lirra, she’s killed men before. The effortlessness in her movements proves as much. Maybe that’s what it takes to be the Archtraitor’s daughter.
Since the remaining two men aren’t armed with a bow, I move in. Lirra’s switched blades to a long sword, holding it out at the man hiding behind the young girl. “Let the girls go, and I’ll spare your life.”
The man spits on the ground.
Thunder rocks the forest. It’s the sound of at least a half-dozen horses. The man hears it and shoves the girl forward before he darts behind the carriage. The girl stumbles over her feet and crashes into Lirra. Both girls trip back.
The man jumps into the seat and the carriage takes off. Lord Conklin must’ve entered the carriage on the other side, because he’s nowhere in sight. I watch them splatter mud as they drive away quicker than any of us can follow without our horses. I want to spit a slew of curses. How many more girls were in that carriage? What is Lord Conklin going to do with them?
Bloody seeds and stars.
Now it’s just me, Lirra, the young girl, and the pounding of hooves drawing closer.
“We have to get out of here,” I yell, rushing back to Finn’s side. With Finn down, I don’t want a standoff against half a dozen Shaerdanian men—even if they’re a local ragtag group of men. They’ll be able to see through Finn’s awful Shaerdanian lilt before he finishes saying his first word. We’re dead men if we stay here.
“What about her?” Lirra has her arm around the girl’s shoulders.
I glance back at the trees where birds are taking flight. “Bring her. Hurry.”
Lirra rushes the girl forward, and the four of us dash northward. I whistle for the horses and pray to every god that hasn’t forsaken me that the Shaerdanians won’t follow our tracks. That they’ll keep on the carriage trail leading east. We’re two Malamian men with two Shaerdanian girls. No matter what the girls say on our behalf, no kinsman with his blood up would believe their story.
Finn winces with each jostle from the horse, and the young girl silently sobs as we stay on a due east course, hoping like hell we’re riding toward freedom.
Chapter
11
Aodren
I FINISH COMPOSING MISSIVES FOR EINER’S AND Nicolas’s families. Not that a handful of words can ease their loss, but I want to give their loved ones what peace can be gained, knowing their men were valued by me. I press my signet ring into the hot wax of the seal, then place the missives in my coat pocket and lean back, attempting to rest in my father’s chair. This room has the comfort and warmth of a cave with its dark mahogany furniture, bear-and wolf-skin rugs, and heavy, dark draperies that block the light. Everything in here is hard, cold, or dead.
My shoulder itches where the arrow skimmed me. I don’t scratch, because that would tear off the fresh scab. The itching drives me half-mad. Pathetic. Two men, two good men, lost their lives today. A scrape is nothing.
I push the chair back and stand.
I can still sense Britta through our strange connection. She’s a faded echo. When I first realized the bond Britta forged when she healed me, it was bewildering. I was off-kilter when she was around, lonely when she was gone. Now, my reaction is more controlled. But one thing remains constant: the draw to Britta grows daily.
I leave my quarters—a rarity these days during daylight hours. Since Jamis’s deception, I’ve found myself distrusting of others and wanting to avoid them altogether, only attending meetings when necessary. I walk toward Britta’s pull. It leads me down the stairs, through the halls, and down another staircase like a dog on a leash. Halfway through Neart’s guts, the connection disappears completely.
What am I doing?
Britta’s left the castle. The guard, Leif, should already be headed for her home. And I’ve two letters that need to be delivered to grieving families.
Even so, I consider having a horse saddled up so I personally can verify she’s made it back to her cottage safely. Only, the rumors circulating about my temporary madness keep me en route to Captain Omar instead. Tongues will wag enough when I announce Britta’s ascension to nobility at the ball. It wouldn’t be prudent to encourage more damning tales.