Luck in the Shadows, Page 2

  “That’s better,” murmured Rolan. Getting to his knees, he moved out as far as the leg chains allowed, then leaned forward until the manacles drew his arms back tautly. Morden raised his head, watching with dull curiosity.

  “It’s no use. You’ll only bring the guards back,” Alec hissed, wishing the man would keep still.

  Rolan surprised him with a wink, then began to flex his hands, spreading the fingers and straining the thumbs about. From across the cell Alec heard the soft, sickening snap of joints separating. Rolan’s hands slipped free of the manacle rings. Falling forward, he caught himself on one elbow and quickly relocated the joints at the base of each thumb.

  He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the end of one tippet. “There, and now the feet.” Pulling down the top of his left boot, he extracted a long, bodkinlike instrument from an inner seam. A moment’s work on each of the leg iron locks and he was free. Taking up Morden’s water cup and his own, he came over to Alec.

  “Drink this. Slowly now, slowly. What’s your name?”

  “Alec of Kerry.” He sipped gratefully at the extra ration, hardly believing what he’d just seen. For the first time since his capture, he felt the beginnings of hope.

  Rolan watched him closely, looking as if he’d reached a not entirely agreeable decision. At last he sighed and said, “I suppose you’d better come with me.” Pushing his hair impatiently back from his eyes, he turned to Morden with a thin, unfriendly smile.

  “But you, my friend, you seem to set remarkably small value on your life.”

  “Good sir,” Morden stammered, cowering back, “I’m only a humble peasant but I’m certain my life means as much to me—”

  Rolan cut him off with an impatient gesture, then reached forward to thrust his hand into the neck of the man’s grimy jerkin. He yanked out a thin silver chain and dangled it in Morden’s face.

  “You’re not very convincing, you know. Louts though they are, Asengai’s men are far too thorough to miss a bauble like this.”

  His voice is different! Alec thought, watching the strange confrontation in confusion. Rolan wasn’t lisping at all now; he just sounded dangerous.

  “I should also tell you, by way of instruction, that tortured men are usually extremely thirsty,” the bard continued. “Unless they smell of ale, as you do. I trust you and the guards had a pleasant supper together? I wonder what sort of blood is it you’re smeared with?”

  “Your mother’s moon flow!” Morden snarled, his simple expression vanishing as he pulled a small dagger from his legging and lunged at Rolan. The bard dodged the attack and drove his clenched fist against Morden’s throat, crushing his larynx. A swift jab of his elbow to Morden’s temple felled the man like an ox; he collapsed in the straw at Rolan’s feet, blood flowing from his mouth and ear.

  “You killed him!” Alec said faintly. .

  Rolan pressed a finger to Morden’s throat, then nodded. “Seems I did. The fool should’ve yelled for the guards.”

  Alec cringed back against the clammy stone as Rolan turned to him.

  “Steady now,” the man said, and Alec was surprised to see he was smiling. “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

  Alec managed a mute nod, then sat rigidly while Rolan unlocked his chains. When he’d finished he went back to Morden’s body.

  “Now let’s see who you were.” Sliding the dead man’s dagger into his boot, Rolan pulled up the soiled jerkin to examine the hairy torso beneath.

  “Hmm, that’s no great surprise,” he muttered, probing at the left armpit.

  Curious in spite of his fear, Alec crept just close enough to peer over Rolan’s shoulder.

  “See here?” Rolan showed him a triangle of three tiny blue circles tattooed into the pale skin where the arm joined the body.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s a guild mark. He was a Juggler.”

  “A mountebank?”

  “No,” Rolan snorted. “A keek, a ferret. The Jugglers carry out any sort of dirty mischief for the right price. They swarm around petty lords like Asengai the way blow flies gather on a midden.” Tugging the dead man’s jerkin off, he thrust it into Alec’s hands. “Here, put this on. And hurry! I’ll say this just once; fall behind and you’re on your own!”

  The garment was filthy and soaked with blood at the neck, but Alec obeyed quickly, pulling it on with a shudder of revulsion. By the time he’d gotten it on, Rolan was already at work on the lock.

  “Rusty son of a whore,” he remarked, spitting into the keyhole. The lock gave way at last and he opened the door a crack, peering out.

  “Looks clear,” he whispered. “Stay close and do what I tell you.”

  Alec’s heart hammered in his ears as he followed Rolan out into the corridor. Several yards down lay the room where Asengai’s men carried out their tortures. Beyond that, the door to the warder’s room stood open and they could hear the noise of a rowdy game of some sort in progress.

  Rolan’s boots made no more noise than Alec’s bare feet as the two of them crept up to the open doorway. Rolan cocked his head, then held up four fingers. With a quick motion he indicated that Alec should cross the doorway quickly and quietly.

  Alec stole a glance inside. Four guards were kneeling around a cloak on the floor. One cast the knucklebones and coins changed hands amid much good-natured cursing.

  Waiting until their attention was focused on the next toss, Alec slipped across to the other side. Rolan joined him soundlessly and they hurried around a corner and down a stairway. A lamp burned in a shallow niche at the bottom. Rolan took it and set off again.

  Alec knew nothing of the lay of the place and quickly lost all sense of direction as they made their way along a succession of twisting passageways. Halting at last, Rolan opened a narrow door and disappeared into the darkness beyond, whispering for Alec to watch his step just in time to save the boy from tumbling down more stairs that descended less than a pace from the door.

  It was colder down here, and damp. The wavering circle of light from Rolan’s lamp skimmed across lichen-stained stonework. The floor was stone as well, rough and broken with neglect.

  A final, crumbling set of stairs brought them to a low, iron-strapped door. The paving beneath Alec’s bare feet was frigid. His breath puffed out in rapid little clouds. Handing him the lamp, Rolan went to work on the heavy lock that hung from a staple in the door frame.

  “There,” Rolan whispered as it came free. “Blow out the light and leave it.”

  They slipped out into the shadows of a walled yard. The lopsided moon was low in the west; the sky behind the stars showed the first hint of predawn indigo. A thick rime of frost coated everything in the yard: wood stack, well, farrier’s forge—all glinted softly in the moonlight. Winter was coming early this year, Alec thought. He could smell it on the air.

  “This is the lower stable yard,” Rolan whispered. “There’s a gate beyond that wood stack, with a postern beside it. Damn, but it’s cold!”

  Scrubbing a hand back through his ridiculous curls, he looked Alec over again; except for the filthy jerkin, the boy was all but naked. “You can’t go traveling all over the country like that. Get to the side door and open it. There shouldn’t be a guard, but keep your eyes open and be silent! I’ll be right back.”

  Before Alec could protest, he’d ghosted away in the direction of the stables.

  Alec crouched by the doorway for a moment, hugging himself against the cold. Alone in the darkness, he felt his brief burst of confidence ebbing away. A glance at the stables showed no sign of his strange companion. Genuine fear stirred just below the fragile threshold of his resolve.

  Fighting it down, he forced himself to concentrate on gauging the distance to the dark side of the wood stack. I haven’t come this far to be abandoned for weakness, he berated himself. Maker Dalna, hold your hand over me now!

  Drawing in a deep, silent breath, he darted forward. He got within arm’s length of the wood stack before a tall figure ste
pped from the shadow of the forge a scant few feet away.

  “Who’s that?” the man demanded, pulling something from his belt. “Stand and speak, you!”

  Alec dove for the stack, throwing himself down behind it. Something hard dug into his chest as he landed. Grabbing at it, he closed his hand around the smooth haft of an ax. Then he was rolling to avoid the heavy club the man was swinging at his head. Gripping the ax like a quarter staff, Alec managed to deflect the sentry’s arcing swing. He was badly overmatched, however, and what little strength he had left after days of mistreatment soon faded as blow after blow rained down. Leaping back, he caught sight of Rolan near the stable door. Instead of coming to his aid, however, the bard faded back into the shadows.

  That’s it then, he thought. I got into trouble and he’s left me.

  Driven by fury born of utter despair, Alec flew at the startled sentry, driving the man back with wild swings of the ax’s double blade. If he was going to die in this terrible place, he’d go down fighting under an open sky.

  His adversary recovered quickly and was pressing in for the kill when they were both surprised by a clattering uproar nearby. The stable door slammed back and Rolan burst out mounted bareback on an enormous black horse. A pack of ostlers, stable boys, and guards spilled out after him, raising the alarm.

  “The gate, damn it! Open the gate!” Rolan shouted, leading his pursuers in a fool’s chase around the courtyard.

  Distracted, the sentry made a clumsy parry and Alec sprang under his guard with a savage swing. The blade struck home and the man went down screaming. Dropping the ax, Alec dashed to the gate, heaved the heavy bar out of its brackets, and pushed the doors wide.

  Now what?

  Looking around, he found Rolan occupied at the far end of the yard.

  A guard had him by one ankle, and a stable hand was leaping for the horse’s bridle. Spotting the open gate, he reined the horse back on its haunches and kicked the beast into a furious gallop straight across the yard. His mount sprang effortlessly over the well and bolted for the gate. Hauling back on the reins, Rolan twisted the fingers of one hand into the black’s mane and leaned over its neck, other arm extended.

  “Come on!” he yelled.

  Alec reached up just in time. Rolan’s fingers clamped around his wrist, wrenching him off his feet and across the horse’s broad back. Clambering upright, he locked his arms around Rolan’s waist as they thundered though the gate and down the road beyond.

  They skirted the little village nestled against the walls of the keep and flew on along the road down the wooded mountainside below Asengai’s domain.

  After several miles, Rolan left the road and plunged into the thick forest that flanked it. Safe among the trees, he reined their mount to a halt.

  “Here, take these,” he whispered, shoving a bundle of some sort into Alec’s hands.

  It was a cloak. The coarse fabric smelled rankly of the stable but the boy wrapped himself in it gratefully, drawing his bare feet up against the horse’s steaming sides to warm them.

  They sat in silence, and after a moment Alec realized that they must be waiting for something. Presently they heard the clatter of hooves approaching. It was too dark to count the riders as they passed, but judging by the sound, there were at least half a dozen. Waiting until they were all well past, Rolan turned the black again to the road and started back in the direction of the keep.

  “We’re going the wrong way,” Alec whispered, tugging at Rolan’s sleeve.

  “Don’t worry,” his companion replied with a soft chuckle.

  A few moments later he turned aside from the main road, this time onto a badly overgrown track. The ground fell away sharply, and branches whipped at their faces as they cantered along under the cover of the trees. Halting again, Rolan claimed the cloak and threw it over the horse’s head to keep the beast quiet. They soon heard the riders again, moving slower now and calling back and forth to one another. Two riders ventured down the track, passing within ten yards of where Rolan and Alec stood holding their breath.

  “He must’ve been a wizard, I tell you!” one was saying. “Killing that southern bastard the way he did, disappearing out of the cell, and now this!”

  “Wizard be damned,” the other retorted angrily. “You’ll wish you was a wizard if Berin don’t catch up with ’em down the road. Lord Asengai’ll skin the whole bunch of us!”

  A horse stumbled and reared.

  “Bilairy’s Guts! This way’s hopeless in the dark. They’d have broke their necks by now,” the lead man grumbled. Giving up, the riders turned back the way they’d come.

  Waiting until all was quiet, Rolan mounted in front of Alec and handed him back the cloak.

  “What do we do now?” whispered Alec as they headed down the mountain track again.

  “I left some supplies a few miles from here. I just hope they’re still there. Hang on tight. We’ve got a rough ride ahead of us.”

  2

  ACROSS THE DOWNS

  Alec opened his eyes to the noonday light. For a drowsy moment he blinked up at the branches overhead, trying to recall where he was and wondering why the scratchy roughness of the blankets felt so good against his skin.

  Then a sudden onslaught of memories slapped him fully awake. Scrambling to his knees, he pulled the blankets around him and looked about in alarm.

  Rolan was nowhere in sight, but their stolen horse was still in the little clearing, along with the bay mare and the battered leather pack Rolan had cached here before venturing into Asengai’s domain. Burrowing back beneath the blankets, Alec closed his eyes again and waited for his heartbeat to slow.

  He was amazed that Rolan had been able to find his way back here at all. To Alec, exhausted beyond measure, the ride had seemed one long, impossible series of difficulties: thickets, streams, and a skree field they’d crossed on foot. Never faltering, Rolan had urged him on with promises of hot food and warm blankets. By the time they’d reached the clearing, Alec had been too tired and cold to do more than collapse onto the bracken pallet that lay ready beneath the shelter of a thick fir.

  The last thing he remembered was listening to Rolan curse the cold as he joined him beneath their shared pile of blankets and cloaks.

  It was bitterly cold now, despite the brightness of the sun. Long crystals of frost thrust up through the mossy loam next to his pallet, like bundles of tiny glass blades. Overhead, mackerel-striped clouds ribbed the hazy sky. There’d be snow soon, the first of the year.

  Their camp lay next to a small waterfall, and the sound of it had gotten into his dreams. Pulling the stolen cloak around his shoulders, he went into the bushes to relieve his bladder, then walked down to the edge of the pool below the falls. Every bruise and welt protested as he dipped up a handful of icy water, but he was too happy to care; he was alive and he was free! Whoever, whatever this Rolan Silverleaf was, Alec owed him his life.

  But where was the man?

  Branches rattled on the opposite side of the pool as a doe stepped from the trees to drink. Alec’s fingers itched for the taut pull of a bowstring.

  “Maker keep you fat until we meet again!” he called softly. Startled, the deer sprang away on slender legs and Alec set off to see what he could forage.

  It was an old forest. Towering firs had long since choked out all but the most persistent undergrowth, so that a man could easily have driven a cart between their thick, straight trunks. High overhead, the dense canopy of interlaced boughs filtered the sunlight to muted underwater tones. Moss-crusted boulders studded the slope. Between them, patches of dead ferns whispered dryly as he passed. Finding a few late mushrooms, he gathered them, nibbling at one as he went along.

  As he passed a large boulder, he was surprised to find a rabbit dead in a snare. Hoping this was Rolan’s work, he freed the carcass and sniffed it. It was fresh. Mouth watering at the first prospect of hot meat in days, he headed eagerly back to the camp. As he neared the clearing he heard the knock of steel against a fl
int and hurried on to show Rolan their breakfast.

  Stepping from the shelter of the trees, he froze in terror.

  O Dalna, they found us!

  A rough-clad stranger was standing with his back to Alec, looking out over the pool. His tunic of green homespun and leather breeches were unremarkable; it was the long scabbard slung low on the intruder’s left hip that caught the boy’s attention.

  Alec’s first thought was to melt back into the woods, find Rolan. As he took a cautious step back, however, his heel struck a dry stick. It snapped loudly and the man whirled about, sword drawn. Dropping the rabbit and the mushrooms, Alec turned to bolt. A familiar voice behind him brought him to a halt.

  “It’s all right. It’s me. It’s Rolan.”

  Still poised to run, Alec took a wary look back and realized his mistake. It was Rolan, after all, though he bore little resemblance to the foppish coxcomb of the night before.

  “Good morning,” Rolan called. “You’d better go get that coney you dropped. I’ve only got one other and I’m famished!”

  Alec’s cheeks flushed hotly as he hastily gathered up the rabbit and mushrooms and brought them to the fire.

  “I didn’t recognize you,” he exclaimed. “How can you look so different?”

  “Just changed my clothes.” Rolan pushed back the thick brown hair that hung now in damp waves over his shoulders. “I don’t suppose you got a very good look at me before, racing around in the dark as we did.”

  This was true, Alec reflected, sizing his companion up. Rolan somehow seemed taller in the daylight, though he was not a large man at all. Rather, he was slender and fine-featured, with large grey eyes set over high cheekbones and a long, narrow nose. His mouth was fine, almost thin, and tilted at the moment in a lopsided grin that made him look younger than Alec would have guessed before.

  “I don’t know, Rolan—”

  “Oh, and about the name.” The grin tilted a bit higher. “It isn’t actually Rolan Silverleaf.”

  “What do I call you, then?” asked Alec, not particularly surprised.