and peered inside.
'Sveyto, servant to Scholar Veniamyn of Rolenton.' He glanced to the sled. 'You travel alone?'
'Byren, blacksmith of Rolenton.' Letting his tongue roll the Rs, Byren adopted the speech of the peasants. The borrowed cloak hid his good quality leather vest and he had five days' growth on his chin. 'Is your master headed over the pass?'
Sveyto, if that was his name, nodded. 'Hoping to get his family through before the spring melt makes travelling dangerous and the Merofynians close the pass.'
Byren's heart sank. So it was true. Rolenton had fallen.
'Who is it? Bring them out here where I can see them,' another man called, his voice heavy with the weight of command, but Byren could detect a hint of fear, and if he could, then so could the guide.
'Step out in the open, friend.' Sveyto gestured for Byren to pass him.
Byren instinctively distrusted anyone who used 'friend' in that way.
Without looking down at Rodien, who he hoped would remain quiet, Byren stepped out from under the cover of the snow-shrouded pine into a crisp early morning. Fingers of pale sunlight streamed horizontally through the evergreens, illuminating the travellers. A well-dressed scholar stood near a serviceable horse, laden with travelling bags, and a pretty girl of about ten. On the second horse two slightly older, but equally pretty, girls rode amidst more baggage. The last horse dragged a sled covered in belongings. There were no other sell-swords.
Sveyto had called himself a servant, but Byren knew a sell-sword when he met one. The sell-sword was the kind of man a merchant hired to provide protection for his goods. Scholar Veniamyn must have hired him to guide them through the foothills and over the pass, believing his family would be safer in Foenix Spar than in the captured city.
Byren's gaze returned to the scholar. The last time they had met was at the midwinter feast in his father's castle.
Byren ducked his head in a peasant's bow. 'Byren, blacksmith of Rolenton at your service, sor.'
Veniamyn's eyes widened only slightly as recognition hit him, but he did not reveal this, keeping up Byren's pretence. 'You look like a strong young man, blacksmith. Ride with us and share the journey's dangers. We heard a Lincis's hunting cry last night. I see your horse has been taken.'
'Pony,' Byren corrected. 'But I'm only going as far as Cedar tradepost.'
'That suits us.' The scholar cast his servant an acerbic glance. 'We seem to have lost our way and have been wandering in these woods for two days now.'
Byren understood his meaning. Veniamyn had paid Sveyto to guide them, only to have him lead them astray. The sell-sword was probably leading them towards his brigand friends. Those three pretty daughters would fetch a high price on the Utlands, higher still on Ostron Isle where slavery sustained the economy.
'Cedar tradepost is about one day's travel across the ridge.' Byren pointed. 'Be glad to show you the way. But there's something you must know. I'm not travelling alone.'
He ignored Sveyto as he returned to where Rodien was hiding. 'Come on, lad. We've found some fellow travellers.'
'Then we'll be safe from the Affinity beasts?' Rodien asked.
'Aye.' Though Byren suspected they would not be safe from human predators. He finished removing the food packs and retied the sled. 'We'll have to leave it. Miron might be able to come back for it sometime.'
Rodien shouldered his bag, obviously unworried about their belongings. 'When can we eat?'
'Soon.' As Byren turned to the gap in the branches, he felt a small hand slide into his and they stepped into the open.
No one spoke for a moment. The sell-sword frowned at him and Byren guessed Scholar Veniamyn was confused, for he knew Byren had no children.
'That boy's too small, Master Veniamyn,' Sveyto protested. 'The blacksmith's son will — '
'He's not my son. I fell in with him and his da. Ulfr pack took his da yesterday.'
'Oh, the poor boy!' the eldest of Veniamyn's daughters cried. She was about Piro's age, but more rounded and traditionally pretty. 'We can't leave him behind, Father.'
'He can ride with me, Papa,' the littlest girl offered, making room for him by shuffling back. 'I'll hold him.'
Veniamyn sent Byren a silent plea. See, these are good girls, kind girls. You are a good man, help me get them to safety.
'I thank you, little mistress,' Byren said, swinging Rodien up onto the horse in front of the ten-year-old.
She wrapped her arms around him protectively.
'I can hold on!' he protested.
Veniamyn laughed. Sveyto turned away in thinly disguised disgust.
'We'd best set off,' Byren announced. Suiting his actions to his words, he took the horse's reins from Veniamyn and headed off down the slope, the scholar falling into step with him while Sveyto led the sled horse.
Byren dug around in his food pack, finding one of last summer's apples and passing it back to Rodien. 'Eat this.'
'Thank you, Byren Kingson, for coming to my aid,' Scholar Veniamyn whispered.
'Blacksmith for now,' Byren corrected, casting the sell-word a swift look. For all he knew there was a price on his head. At least, it seemed Veniamyn had not heard about his disgrace. Perhaps all who knew of it had been killed when the castle fell.
What a terrible thing to be grateful for!
'I assumed you are headed into the mountains to raise an army. I would stay and fight with you, but what would become of my daughters? I don't want them living wild in caves like savages. Besides,' the scholar confessed, 'I am not a fighter.'
'Each man must do what his conscience tells him,' Byren agreed. But inside he wondered how he would raise an army to retake Rolencia.
Fyn woke with a lurch and the sense that time had passed, a lot of time. He lay very still, listening.
There were voices from the room beyond and the sound of furniture being moved. Light filtered through the single high window. Daylight.
He'd slept the night away.
Shame flooded him.
How could he?
His mouth went dry with anguish. It had been the perfect opportunity to kill Palatyne. Mortification ate at him. First he had failed the abbot, now this.
He waited, the voices faded.
Nothing.
He sat up and prepared to lower his weight, slinging the grappling hook and rope over his shoulder, then swinging his legs off the beam. He planned to lower himself until he hung by his arms, then drop to the floor which would be more than a body length below his feet.
The door opened without warning. Fyn froze, legs astride the beam.
'Empty,' a voice called to others in the far room.
'Good, the hold's full. If we find anything else, it can travel on the next ship. Palatyne won't miss it until he gets home.'
'Don't you bet on it,' the one in the doorway muttered. 'He'll inspect the stores, when he gets to Port Marchand. He knows every single thing he took out of the trophy room. He's as much of a pinch-purse as any merchant.' As the Merofynian closed the door Fyn heard him add, 'And I don't want him accusing me of feathering my own…'
Fyn swung his legs back up then lay full length again. He counted to a hundred, slowly, but there wasn't a sound. All the while, frustration grew — Palatyne was setting off for Port Marchand.
If the worst came to the worst he could barter a ride to the port and catch up with Palatyne there. This time he must not fail.
