milked this morning.
That was odd. Was everyone down with a terrible winter fever? That might explain the silence and the neglect of the animals.
Byren went over to the horse. He let it nuzzle his hand, threaded his fingers through its mane and walked it back towards the archway that led to the animals' pens.
As he entered the arch's shadow he spotted several monks crouched in a circle as though inspecting a sick animal. Perhaps that was the problem.
Byren pulled the royal emblem from under his shirt. 'I need to see the abbot on king's business.'
The men stared at him.
Words of jest died on Byren's lips as his eyes adjusted and he realised these were not pious monks, but hard-faced warriors. They wore no surcoats to identify who they served so they were swords-for-hire.
They looked pale and bleary-eyed. None carried weapons other than their knives. As one tucked something in his pocket Byren recognised the wyvern symbol, tattooed on the man's forearm.
Merofynians. They must be escorting a wealthy merchant who had sought traveller's ease at the abbey. This made things difficult for, even though they were now the enemy, he could not confront them while they were under the protection of the abbey.
As he grappled with the ramifications, Byren caught the leader's signal to surround him. The men fanned out to cut him off. Escorts did not launch unprovoked attacks.
With a cry, Byren shouldered the closest warrior aside. The horse reared, making the two on the other side back off. A man lunged for Byren, caught the foenix symbol and tugged. With a jerk, the chain broke. Byren pulled away even as something thudded into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.
One man grabbed him from behind. Clenching his fist, Byren drove the point of his elbow into the man's midriff and heard a satisfying grunt of pain as he broke a rib or two. A warrior lunged forwards, slashing with a hunting knife. Byren sidestepped, caught the man's knife arm, twisted, snapped his wrist and took the knife as it fell from his fingers.
With no time to draw his own weapons and no chance of defeating so many armed attackers, Byren thrust the injured man on top of his companions and ran a few steps. He threw his arm over the horse's neck and leaped across its back.
It danced sideways, frightened by the violence and smell of blood. Byren urged the horse out into the sunshine of the courtyard, crossing the stone paving. The Merofynians followed him, shouting a warning.
Byren turned the horse towards the abbey proper. He'd ride straight up the main steps and tell the abbot the men he had given sanctuary to had raised arms at a kingson!
Merofynian warriors charged out of the abbey's central archway.
'Cut him off. It's the kingson!' a warrior from the stables cried.
Blinking in the bright winter sun, the second lot of Merofynians fumbled for absent weapons. Byren knew the signs. They'd been up all night drinking, celebrating. The only explanation was that the abbey had fallen, impossible as it seemed.
He'd been lucky. In another day, they would have set guards and organised defences.
Even as this flashed through his mind, he was turning his horse and racing for the gate, where the gate keepers finally stepped out to block him. More Merofynian warriors.
Urging his horse to a gallop, Byren kicked one man, slashed at another and charged a third, who leaped aside at the last minute.
The terrified horse galloped down the steep slope, missed the first bend and ploughed through a knee-high snow bank, venturing into the pine forest. Byren would have urged it back onto the path, but he heard shouts behind him as the invaders organised pursuit.
His head buzzed. It hurt when he breathed. Why was his side sticky and hot? He felt his ribs and his hand came away bright with blood.
Byren cursed. He could not afford an injury, not with the Merofynians after him.
How had they taken the abbey, and where was Fyn?
No time to think. He let the frightened horse have its head. The snow banks and steep slope meant his mount could go no faster than a canter. Still, he had to clench his teeth as the rhythm of its hooves made his side throb.
Soon the silence of the evergreen forest closed around him. The snow was thick, mantling the trees and meeting the ground like a trailing cloak. Only patches of the trees' deep blue-green foliage could be seen. It was impossible to tell where the deep snow drifts were. One moment his horse was fetlock-deep, next the snow came up to its belly or higher as it fought its way through. The poor beast would be winded in no time.
Speaking gently, he soothed his mount and it slowed, picking its way through the trees. Soon he was out of the pines and in open, rolling farm country.
Clenching his teeth in anticipation of the pain, Byren twisted from the waist and looked back.
What he saw made him curse. The horse had left a clear path in the snow. Worse than that, his blood was a bright marker.
Grey moths fluttered across Byren's vision. He knew the signs and panic tightened his belly. He must not pass out.
He was injured and alone. The only advantage he had was local knowledge. Wasn't there a small stream not far from here that fed into the lake?
Oddly enough, after wrestling with the Merofynians, he still had his skates.
His pursuers were searching for a man on horseback. Byren looked for a suitable spot to dismount and hide his tracks. There, a steep slope of stone stretched off to one side of the path. From the looks of it there was a ravine below. Wind had scoured the rocky slope free of snow. He guided the horse towards it.
Slipping out of the saddle, he almost fell as his legs took his weight. The icy stone was slippery, but he held onto the horse's mane with one hand and hugged his side with the other to stop the bleeding. He led the horse a little way along the scree, then sent it off with a slap on the rump. It clambered up, eager to get off the treacherous rocks, leaving the slope by a different place from where they had entered. Let his pursuers think he had thought better of travelling this way.
Byren gritted his teeth and edged crablike across the steep, exposed stone. Snow had settled in the few crevices but it was mostly iced-over rock and dangerous. If he fell into the ravine he would break his leg and lie there until he froze to death, if he was lucky. If he was unlucky the ulfr pack would find him and make a meal of him. If he was really unlucky the Merofynians would find him.
But he had always been light on his feet. Lence used to resent the way he only had to go through a dance once to get the steps. Lence… grief wound its finger through his gut and twisted sharply. He must not think of his twin.
He had to warn his father. The Merofynians had dishonoured the code of war when they took the abbey. How could they capture it? The abbey contained at least six hundred trained warrior monks. Were the monks all dead? Where was Fyn?
His head spun.
First he must save himself. The steepness of the rocky scree eased and he made better time as he picked his way down the slope into the ravine. At the base, he found he was right. There was an iced-over stream. Perched on a rock, he strapped on his skates and had to rest to catch his breath. He'd bled again. He turned the snow over to hide the signs, smoothing it with his sleeve. It would fool a man but not a tracking dog.
Then he stood. With this injury, he had no hope of reaching Rolenhold in the normal three days' skate. Frustration ate at him, for he had no warrior monks to bring to his father's aid, only bad news. He would be confirming the Merofynian invasion and bringing news of the abbey's capture. But worst of all, he had to tell his parents of Lence's death. And they had only his word for how it had happened. No doubt Cobalt would try to twist all this to his advantage.
Somehow, Byren had to avoid capture by the Merofynians and expose his cousin for the traitor he was.
He headed for Rolenhold, trying not to think of the long haul down Viridian Lake, through the connecting canals and across Sapphire Lake.
Driving his legs, he glided out onto the lake and bent forwards to get up speed. But this tugged on his wound and made him pitch onto his knees, coughing. Sparks swam in his vision. When they cleared he saw a fine spray of
