She gestured at Noel casually, as though he had ceased to matter. “Just a stray casualty on the battlefield, not dead, and ready to cause us trouble. I thought you would be grateful to me for finding him.”
“Kill him,” said Demetrius. He drew his dagger and tossed it to the youth, who caught the hilt deftly. “Too many mouths to feed. And that Albanian howling every minute about ransom and consequences… enough to drive a man mad.”
“He’s a scribe,” said Elena. “A coward and a liar too. He did his best to talk us into letting him go, but we caught him easily.”
“No talking, Yani,” said Demetrius impatiently. “Just kill him. Take him over there past the rocks where the blood won’t spook the horses.”
Noel’s heartbeat quickened. His breath came shorter. All over, he could feel his body tense, ready to fight, ready to run. Although Demetrius had tossed Yani a dagger, the boy was wearing another thrust through his belt. If Noel could seize that…
“Watch him,” said Thaddeus in warning. “He’s tricky. Damned near broke me leg.”
Yani smiled, and his gaze ran briefly over the dwarf before returning to Noel. The resemblance between him and Elena was strong enough to leave no doubt they were brother and sister. He was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, built wiry and quick like the girl, with fiery red hair and a smattering of freckles across his cheekbones. There was high intelligence in his face and eyes.
“Strange,” he said. “This man has not the look of a Byzantine.”
“Neither does Lord Theodore,” said Elena.
Demetrius shrugged. “Theodore is a damned Albanian. What does it matter? Kill this knave and be done with it. I want you to take a message to-”
“That message can wait,” said Yani sharply. “We promised Sir Magnin we’d delay until nightfall. We shall keep our word.”
“Lose a whole day waiting on him,” grumbled Demetrius. He pointed at Noel. “Be rid of him! Elena, get yourself in proper clothes. Thaddeus and George, take the goats out and stake them in good grass. Move!”
Now, with everyone scattering, was the time. Noel spun around to run. Only then did he see the sentry crouched atop a rocky escarpment above the narrow pass leading into the camp, which was situated at the bottom of a deep ravine. With the sheer rock walls surrounding him on three sides and a bowman at the only exit, Noel hadn’t a chance.
He hesitated, his shoulders drooping. Damn. The only option left to him was to fight the boy and get one of those daggers, since his own had been taken by George. He turned his head slightly as Yani walked around to face him again. He looked at Yani, then away, not trusting himself to keep his intentions from his face.
Yani was no fool. He stood beyond reach, the borrowed dagger held ready in his hand. “No, no, my friend,” he said softly. “There is no escape from here, except to your Father in heaven.”
Noel swallowed hard. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. He was as tense as wire.
“Elena said you are a scribe. Is that true?”
Noel looked at him and shook his head.
“Ah. I did not see a pouch to hold vellum, ink, and pens,” said Yani. He paused until Noel’s gaze met his. “I know how to read and write.”
“Congratulations,” said Noel dryly.
He said it in Latin, which he could speak on his own without the translator’s assistance. His tone was clear enough to the boy. A swift tide of color spread from Yani’s collar to his hairline. He frowned, his air of friendliness gone.
“You are arrogant for a prisoner. Why do you speak Latin? Are you trying to insult me?”
Noel shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Your accent is deplorable,” said Yani, showing off by switching to medieval Latin in midsentence.
“Dead men tell no tales,” said Noel with a flippancy he did not really feel. He was tired of this cat-and-mouse game. If they wanted to kill him, then he was ready to get the whole business over and done with.
“I do not understand this saying,” said Yani. “Is it from your country?”
“You might say that.”
“What is your name?”
“What does it matter?”
“Are you trying to provoke me into killing you?”
Noel sighed. “Look, you have your orders. I-”
“I don’t always do what my big brother says.” Yani’s lips curled into a brief, secretive smile.
Noel felt a burst of hope, but he remained suspicious. “What’s the deal?” he demanded. “What do you want from me in exchange for not following your brother’s orders?”
“You are a quick one.”
“Let’s say I’m not stupid.”
“Are you Albanian?”
“No,” snapped Noel, irritated with that tangent question.
“Your name is-”
“Never mind what my name is. It’s irrelevant.” A rule of traveling was to avoid stating names whenever possible. A traveler was supposed to blend in with the local crowds, to observe and record, not to participate.
Yani’s hand closed on his shoulder. “You should not-”
Noel moved quicker than thought, stepping in close to the boy to force Yani’s knife hand up while he grabbed the second dagger from Yani’s belt. Yani shouted an alarm and swung at Noel, but Noel blocked the blow with his shoulder. Sliding one foot between Yani’s, he tripped the boy and used his impetus to flip him through the air. Whirling, his gaze taking note of the sentry who was nocking an arrow to his bow, Noel ran for the pile of rocks near the mouth of the ravine.
They had spilled down from a past avalanche, leaving a sloped scar on the cliff face above. Noel thought he might be able to climb out that way, although his back would make a good target for the sentry.
Right now it didn’t matter. He had to take any chance, no matter how slim. Ducking his head, he concentrated on running a fast zigzag course, ignoring the bruising pain of his bare foot upon the rocky ground.
More shouts alerted the camp. An arrow whistled past him, missing by inches. Noel grinned to himself, sucking in air. He sprang up the rock pile, going on all fours where necessary, praying there were no snakes sunning themselves. Another arrow sliced through his cloak and bumped his side awkwardly with the fletching. Thank God for bad shots.
Noel reached the top of the rock pile and slithered over it, making sure he kept his body as low to the rocks as possible. This was not the time to stand erect.
He never heard it, never sensed it. There was no rush of air, no whisper of sound although there should have been something to warn him.
The projectile hit the back of his skull with a force that felt as though the mountain had fallen on top of him. He stumbled, feeling his body go slack in midstep, feeling his arms fly up of their own volition, feeling himself fall. Glaring sheets of red and yellow flared inside his skull, blinding him. Then the pain rushed over him in a sticky, nauseating wave. Behind it came an awful blackness, one he wasn’t sure he could escape.
He fell, and never felt the ground.
CHAPTER 4
Noel awakened by degrees, gradually becoming aware of intense, uncomfortable heat and overwhelming thirst. When he finally managed to drag open his eyes, he found himself lying on the ground. Sunlight beat harshly down. Heat radiated off the dusty ground and the cliff face towering above him.
Dim noises of other voices and the sounds of activity filtered in, none of it intrusive enough to bother him. Thoughts, drifting like puff clouds in his brain, slowly came together and began to make sense.
He remembered running. He remembered being shot in the back of the head. With effort he raised his hand and groped along the base of his throbbing skull. He touched a spot soggy with clotted blood, and his head exploded
