The Curse of the Mistwraith

threat with complacency.

The drawn broadhead abruptly changed angle; Arithon jammed himself tight to the rock as the archer’s torso momentarily reared against the sky.

The man wore leather and undyed wolf pelts. Hair spiked with frost fringed the rim of his brindled cap and an impressive breadth of shoulders matched the recurve bow held poised at the rim of the abutment. Motionless, afraid to exhale lest the plume of his breath disclose his position, Arithon grinned outright as his adversary took painstaking aim down the defile.

‘Move away from the rocks!’ the archer called. ‘I have you covered.’ The moan of a rising gust drove him to urgency. ‘Move out! Now!’

The wind peaked. Snow sheeted in a blanketing shower and the barbarian fired blind. As the shaft slashed through his discarded cloak, Arithon scaled the rockface, sobered by discovery that clansmen balked at killing not at all. He kicked through a cleft and sought the lair of the bowman before his reckless ploy had time to backfire.

The gust passed and the air cleared. As the archer leaned out to account for his hit, the Master stalked, his footfalls silenced by snow.

The archer discovered his error, cursed and whirled to cover his back. He caught his erstwhile quarry in the act of a counter-ambush. Unfazed by surprise and fast for his bulk, he nocked another arrow. Arithon’s thrown dagger sliced his bowstring in mid-draw. The bow cracked straight in backlash. Snapped around by a severed end of cordage, the arrow raked the clansman’s wrist.

‘Fiends!’ the scout cursed. He disentangled his arm from his disabled recurve, not quite soon enough. Arithon closed his final stride and poised Alithiel for a fatal thrust through the throat.

Brown eyes met green through a tigerish instant of assessment. Though larger by a head and doubly muscled, the barbarian chose not to risk a grab for his dagger; the blade at his neck was too nervelessly steady.

‘Try not to be foolish,’ Arithon said. He looked up at his bulkier adversary with an expression implacably shuttered. ‘By the love of the mother who bore you, I urge you to think. Ask why I would do a thing, then forfeit all I had gained.’ Slowly, deliberately, he turned his blade and dropped it point downward between the cross-laced boots of his captive.

Steel sliced through snow and stood quivering, the dark metal with its striking silver tracery the dangerous invitation to a riddle. The clansman bridled fury with an effort. A moment passed, filled by the howl of wind and the wet swirl of snow, and the slow drip of blood from the fingers of a weapon-calloused hand. The smoke-dark steel in the drift stayed untouched amid gathering spatters of scarlet. Then, as if nothing untoward had just happened, the barbarian’s lips twisted into a vexed and humourless smile. ‘Move and you die,’ he told Arithon. ‘Behind you stand six of my companions, every one of them armed.’

Arithon felt a prick at his lower spine. At bay on the point of a javelin, his complacency remained unshaken. ‘I’m required to surrender twice?’

His unforced clarity of speech caused a stir through the band that had trapped him.

The bowman alone stayed unmoved. ‘Take the upstart,’ he snapped.

‘Grithen, you’re wrong,’ somebody protested; the voice sounded female. ‘This catch is certainly no townsman.’

‘You say?’ The red-headed ringleader swore. ‘Do you see clan identification anywhere on this bastard? Accents can be faked. If this man were clanborn but in league with the mayors, he’d know better than to leave town walls.’

Arithon looked at Grithen, calm through an uncomfortable blast of wind. ‘And if I am neither?’ His indecipherable expression stayed with him. ‘What then?’

‘Well, whoever values your foolhardy hide will pay us a bountiful ransom.’ Grithen signalled left-handedly and this time, his henchmen responded.

Arithon found himself pitched forward into the snow. Hands searched his person for weapons, found none and pinioned with a thoroughness that hurt. Arithon twisted his head sideways. ‘Furies of Sithaer!’ he exclaimed in derisive and blistering consternation. ‘Had I wanted a fight, don’t you think I’d have knifed something more than a bowstring?’

‘Then why trouble with decoy and ambush in the first place?’ Wolfishly contentious, Grithen exacted payment for the shame of his earlier misjudgement. ‘Bind him.’

Jerked to his feet, Arithon watched with a sailor’s appreciation as the scouts cut their rawhide laces and expertly tied up his wrists. Then he averted his gaze, spat blood from a cut lip and endured an ignominious interval while more cords were looped tight around his ankles. ‘The heart of the dilemma,’ he conceded to Grithen in a final, acid afterthought. ‘Did I act out of purpose or folly? You’d better figure out which, and quickly.’

Down the trail, Asandir’s party had successfully recovered their strays; they were starting back up the pass with obvious urgency and concern, and though no one appeared to watch them, their progress was covertly marked.

‘Suppose I had a companion too prideful to submit to a threat.’ Arithon looked keenly at his captor, who was frowning and flicking blood from his leathers. ‘Say my friend had no fear of danger and he forced you to harm him to make your capture. That might be a pity. His skin is pricelessly valuable.’

Grithen whistled and shot a triumphant glance at his henchmen, one of whom was indeed a scarred and grim- faced woman. Then his leonine beard parted in a grin of forthright appreciation. ‘Which one is he? I assure you, we’ll handle him as delicately as a flower.’

Arithon raised his brows. ‘Flower he isn’t, but don’t worry. If he doesn’t co-operate and surrender, my life will surely be forfeit.’

Grithen caught up the hilt of Arithon’s relinquished blade and tested the balance, his smile turned suddenly corrosive. ‘You’re a boy-lover,’ he concluded in disgust. ‘That’s why you gave yourself up. To protect your beloved.’

‘By Dharkaron,’ Arithon murmured, ‘how you’ll wish that was true.’ He showed no rancour at the insult; and at long last his barbarian captor saw past his hostage’s wooden expression. The wretch he ordered manhandled and tied and dragged toward the edge of the outcrop was desperately struggling not to laugh.