laugh. Wiping tears from his eyes, Orrade grew serious. 'You know I'm not like Lence. You should never have compared us. I'll always be true to you, Byren.'
He was right. And Byren wanted to ask forgiveness for ever doubting him. He grabbed Orrade, pulled him against his chest, mock-wrestling. The boat rocked alarmingly. Orrade clutched him and they froze until the boat settled.
Orrade turned his face up towards him. He wanted a kiss.
Byren woke with a jerk, his head thumping, his body wracked with shivers. And it came back to him. He was a captive, about to be handed over to the Merofynians for a bag of gold, but first they had to get him down from the foothills and back to Rolenhold.
Dark trees speared up into the starry night above him, unfolding around him as the sled was drawn along. All he needed was a chance to escape. For now he had to rest and build his strength.
Dark silhouettes plodded along behind the sled. One went down and didn't get up. Instead, the body seemed to slide silently off the track into the trees.
Byren blinked and tried to focus but they turned a bend and that part of the track was lost. What had he just seen?
Were they being followed?
He listened for the sounds of pursuit. There were none but, whoever it was, they wouldn't want to give themselves away.
Nothing happened.
Perhaps his blurred sight had misled him.
Perhaps Veniamyn had not convinced the people at Cedar tradepost to come after him. Perhaps they would set off in the morning and hope to follow tracks. Perhaps the travellers at Cedar tradepost were concentrating on getting to safety and couldn't be bothered with a kingson.
He didn't know. His head ached and he couldn't keep his eyes open.
Chapter Twenty
At some point the sled stopped moving. Byren was woken by the thump as the brigands released the shafts and it came to rest on the snow. They lit a fire, making camp for the night. The fire's heat barely reached the nearest side of him and he shivered with cold. The ulfr fur was pinned under him and gave no protection from the icy air.
His head felt a little clearer. Concentrating, he watched the brigands. There seemed to be no leader. Sveyto told them what to do and they did it… if they agreed. Right now they confronted Sveyto, shouting something about men going missing.
Byren tried to focus, counting five not eight men, so he hadn't been mistaken. He took hope.
'…all they had to do was follow the sled,' Sveyto said, voice hard and flat. 'If they lost the track that's their problem. Besides, a five-way split means all the more gold for us!'
Appeased with this cold logic, the others opened their provisions to heat food. The smell of onions and salted pork made Byren's stomach rumble and his mouth water.
'How about some food?' he called. He had to repeat it twice before they heard him.
Sveyto came over, chewing on some crackling. He took a bite, then held it under Byren's nose, moving it before Byren could get his teeth into it. 'Not so high and mighty now, eh, kingson?'
Byren studied him, as much as he could, with the fire at his back, Sveyto's face was in shadow. If they'd only let him up to pee, he might get away. He knew these foothills. 'I need to take a piss.'
'Too bad.'
'If I piss my pants my trews will freeze. Without a blanket I'll be dead of cold by morning.'
Sveyto considered this, then called over two of the brigands, the same burly ones who had manhandled him down the slope to the sled. They complained as they left the fire circle.
His eyes on the other two, Byren didn't notice what Sveyto was doing, until the sell-sword lunged in and the knife plunged into his belly. He gave a grunt of pain.
'There. You won't be running far with that.'
'It'll kill him,' one of the brigands protested.
'In a few days,' Sveyto replied, untroubled. 'By then he'll belong to the Merofynians. If they want him alive, they can set their mystic healers on him. Help him up.'
Stiff with cold and bent double with pain, Byren hung between the two brigands, weak as a day-old kitten. Blood ran down his legs as they propped him up to pee. Nothing came out.
Soon, he was back on the sled, arms tied above his head. A blanket was thrown over him, right over his face. He was as good as dead.
Yet his mind still raced, refusing to give up hope. Through the smelly, coarse weave of the blanket, he could just make out the glow of the campfire and the silhouettes of the remaining five brigands.
He hated them. Hated everything they represented, unbridled greed and cruelty. This was why King Rolence the First had taken the valley, to impose law on lawless men. This was why he and Lence had ridden the Divide, stamping out brigand nests and putting down rogue Affinity beasts.
If he had the chance, he would throttle Sveyto. Just let them free him from this sled. Even with his arms bound at the wrists, his hands were big enough to circle the sell-sword's neck and choke the life from him.
But for now, he was a captive with a belly wound that leaked his blood and body warmth into the night. What if Sveyto had miscalculated and he froze to death?
The Merofynians would probably pay up either way.
The rage evaporated, leaving him feeling light-headed and thirsty. He called for water, but they didn't hear him, or else were ignoring him.
He must have slept, or passed out, because he woke to shouts, then screams. The fire had died down. He could see nothing but a dull blur of dark bodies against the snow-shrouded pine trees.
Hope animated him.
His rescuers must have picked off Sveyto's brigands and bided their time, until the watch dozed. He would congratulate their leader and thank Veniamyn.
Someone yelped. He hoped his rescuers didn't pay too dearly for saving him. Especially if they couldn't get him to a healer in time.
The fighting ceased.
Silence stretched. He flexed his arms and legs, trying to regain circulation. His numb fingers tingled painfully. The blanket twitched, then slid down and across his body. Cold air hit his face. He blinked and sneezed. The sneeze tore at his stomach and he groaned, panting his way through the pain.
Something damp touched his temple. He inhaled, smelling…
Ulfr?
His eyes flew open. At least five silky-furred Affinity beasts stood around the sled where he lay prone.
Byren tensed, expecting to be torn to shreds before his next breath.
Nothing happened.
Something damp and warm nuzzled his face. Hot ulfr breath huffed over his cold cheeks. Byren opened his eyes to look into the silvery depths of the pack leader's own eyes.
Too stunned to speak, he could only gasp as the ulfr nudged him, as though urging him to get up.
'Can't,' Byren grunted, jerking his arms and ankles. 'Tied down.'
And, amazingly, the beast moved to where his hands were tied above his head, fixed to the frame. He felt tugs, then, as sensation returned, hot breath and soft fur on his fingers.
Once his hands were free, the beast moved to his legs, performing the same service on those leather straps. Its razor-sharp teeth chewed through the bindings in a heartbeat.
Byren tried to sit up, but couldn't. Tried to roll to one side and fell off the sled onto the snow. He huddled there, panting. So thirsty. He scooped snow into his mouth and sucked on it, knowing it was the wrong thing to do. He was already losing too much body heat.
