unremembered.”
Mark didn’t believe it for a second, but he tried to act like he did.
“Either way, she wishes him back,” he insisted. “So come, Nathaniel. Let us return to your mother.”
“You can’t take him,” said Arthur. When Mark’s eyes flared, the grin on Arthur’s face only grew. “Not by yourself. You would bring the son of the Trifect along the northern road unprotected? He is far too precious a target for ransom. Let me send you some of my men as escort.”
Mark looked away and muttered. Arthur was testing him, his reactions, and he’d given away his thoughts plain as day. As he looked about, he saw two wagons loading up not far to the south.
“Where are they headed?” he asked.
“They?” asked Arthur. He followed his gaze, and then answered far too quickly, “I’m not sure, but they are of no matter to you. Let me get my men.”
“Veldaren,” said Nathaniel before Arthur could leave. “Every week, they bring gold for Veldaren.”
Mark shot the boy a wink, not caring that Arthur saw.
“Then I will ride with them,” he said. “Surely we will be safe amid a well-guarded caravan.”
Arthur’s grin faded.
“Very well. They will slow you down, so make sure Alyssa knows the reason for your delay falls upon you, and not me. I’ll tell the men you’ll be joining them. Nathaniel, go to the castle and pack your things. Hurry now! Do not keep lord Tullen waiting.”
Nathaniel bowed to both and then ran off. Mark watched him go.
“Not a smart child, but at least he is obedient,” Arthur said, walking away.
*
N athaniel rode in one of the two wagons while Mark trotted beside them on his horse. He’d purchased supplies from the tavern, not wishing to be a burden on the caravan. Though he’d stayed out of their way best he could, he made sure to sneak a glance at the cargo-crates of gold coins, all bearing the symbol of the Gemcroft family. Each wagon had a single crate.
“Why just one crate per wagon?” he asked the leader of the caravan, a fat man named Dave.
“Each wagon has its own driver, own guards, own cargo,” Dave answered. “Makes it harder for someone to get to plotting. That, and we’ll fill both wagons on the way back with supplies. You should see how many tools we run through. I swear, for every pound of gold we dig we break two pounds of iron.”
Come nightfall, they set up camp. Several of the guards had slept during their day ride, and so they wandered about, eating, drinking, and watching the roads. Mark took the time to find Nathaniel. The boy ate by himself, huddled in a blanket with his back to a fire.
“Cold?” Mark asked as he sat down beside him.
Nathaniel shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I can’t be. Arthur says that makes me look weak.”
Mark chuckled. “Even the greatest of leaders needs to wear boots in the snow, Nathaniel. You’re allowed to be human.”
The boy pulled the blanket tighter about him. He looked so similar to his mother, the same soft features, stubby nose, and startling red hair. He glanced back at Mark, and then a smile crept across his trembling lips.
“Maybe I’m a little cold.”
Mark laughed.
“Here then,” he said, wrapping his own blanket around the boy. “This should help. From here on out, anything Arthur told you, you double-check with me, all right?”
“Why?” Nathaniel asked, suddenly looking worried. “You saying he lies?”
“No, no,” Mark said, quicker than he meant. “He just…has a peculiar way of looking at the world. He doesn’t think people get cold, remember? I’d love to see him wander in his skivvies during a snowstorm. I bet he’d look like a blue ogre when he came back inside. What do you think? Or maybe a blue orc. Nah. He’s too skinny to be an orc.”
He yammered on, telling jokes both humorous and terrible. It didn’t matter. He watched Nathaniel slowly warm to him, and it relieved Mark tremendously. He’d worried Arthur’s words had wrapped a spell about the boy, turning him into some mindless stooge believing his every word. But Nathaniel was still a five year old boy, and given the chance, he wanted to laugh and joke as much as any other kid his age. Mark knew he might not be the most charming dinner guest, but at least he knew how to make a kid laugh.
Mark let him keep his blanket, instead borrowing another from the wagons. They slept beside the fire.
Come the next morning, Mark awoke with a chill seeped deep into his bones. When he stirred, he saw a thin layer of snow atop the world, including his blanket.
“About time,” said Dave, who was busy untethering their oxen. “You sleep like the dead, Mark.”
“Better to sleep like them than to be them,” he said, shaking off his blanket and looking for a fire.
“No fire,” said Dave. “We need to save the wood in case the snow picks up. Move about. Help us pack. You’ll warm up soon enough.”
He found Nathaniel sitting in one of the wagons, half-buried in blankets.
“I hate winter,” he said when he saw Mark.
“I hear you,” Mark said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Just try to endure. We’ll be home with your mother soon enough.”
The snowflakes were light as they traveled, just a slight nuisance that wet their skin and occasionally stung their eyes. By midday it had thickened, until at last Dave called a halt.
“The wagons might get stuck if it continues,” Mark told him.
“Better stuck on the road than in a ditch,” Dave shot back.
They used the wagons to block the wind, shoveled snow until they found cold, dry ground, and then built a fire. They gathered around it, their own bodies sheltering the fire from the wind that sneaked in.
“Come morning we’ll dig out and then continue,” Dave said as they huddled there. “Run this route plenty of times, and I have a feeling for how the weather works. We’ll have clear sky tomorrow. Assuming we don’t break a wheel, we should reach Felwood in a…”
He stopped, for amid the howling of the wind he heard something strange.
“Horses,” said Dave.
“Who would ride in this weather?” asked one of the guards.
Mark drew his sword and stood, and the rest did likewise. There were only four guards per wagon, and the eight hurried to the openings between them.
“It might be a messenger meant to reach us,” said Dave, just before a crossbow bolt pierced his arm.
“Shit,” he cried, snapping the shaft in half and tossing it. “Stay down, all of you!”
Horses thundered by either side, and as they passed the gap, many fired crossbows. Mark dove into one of the wagons as the bolts flew, dragging Nathaniel with him. The horses turned around, and at their return charge, he heard the sound of steel hitting steel.
“Stay down,” Mark said to Nathaniel. The boy sat huddled in blankets beside the crate of gold. His eyes were wide, rimmed with tears that refused to fall in the chill air.
“I’m scared,” Nathaniel said, and his whole body shook.
“I am too,” Mark said as bolts tore through the fabric of the wagon, thankfully missing. He kept his sword facing the back of the wagon and listened. He heard screams, plus Dave hollering like a madman. From where he stood he could only see a small portion of the combat. The guards had cut down two of the riders, but the rest continued their charge, hacking as they passed or firing more crossbow bolts.
Then he heard Dave cry something that made no sense, but at the same time, was certain to be true.
“Lord Hadfield? But why?”
He died soon after, or at least his orders stopped. The cries of pain lessened. Swords struck rarely, then stopped altogether. Mark pushed Nathaniel further into the wagon and tried to shrink down. He might be able to surprise one or two of them if they didn’t realize he was inside…
A man rode up before the wagon, a crossbow in hand. Mark lunged at him, extending his arm as far as it could go. His sword pierced the man’s breast, punching through his leather armor. As he bled out, the crossbow fired harmlessly into the air. Mark retreated into the wagon, his blood running cold. He recognized the symbol on that armor. It was Hadfield’s men, all right. But why? Why would he ambush his own wagons?
