blousy shirt, its full sleeves collected loosely at the wrists. Baggy black trousers were tucked into his soft, laced top-boots. A gray fur vest lay over the shirt, and a brimless hat of the same material sat at a jaunty angle atop his head.
His longish brown hair escaped the hat’s bottom here and there, and he wore a neatly trimmed, matching goatee. His sharp jawline and dark eyes glinted in the moonlight. Several gold chains adorned his chest, and many of his fingers bore glittering rings. His free hand rested loosely on a curved hip dagger, its leather scabbard accented with silver filigree. A matching sword dangled from his left hip. The weapons seemed to be a natural part of the man’s persona, showing that he knew how to use them.
Tristan suddenly realized that despite not knowing the fellow’s name, he understood his heritage. The intruder was a Eutracian highlander. As their eyes met in a contest of wills, Tristan tried to remember what Wigg had once said about them.
The highlanders were as much myth as reality. Living in colorful wagons, they were reputed to be marvelous horsemen. The men did whatever fighting was called for, while their women stealthily performed the thieving and duping of unsuspecting innocents as their caravans traveled from town to town. It was often said that a highlander maid could easily steal a man’s purse, horse, and heart all in the same night. The legend went on to warn that the man’s purse would be taken surreptitiously, his horse taken quietly, and his heart taken willingly.
It was also rumored that besides speaking Eutracian, these nomads conversed in another language all their own. Their women were said to be remarkably beautiful and intensely sexual beings, possessing notoriously free spirits. The highlanders were rumored to live in tightly knit clans that often warred among each other, usually over territory and ill-gotten spoils that none of them could rightfully claim. Still standing on the riverbank, Tristan glared into the highlander’s dark eyes.
“Turn around,” the man said. “Put your hands behind your back.”
Knowing he had no choice, Tristan did as he was told. He soon felt his wrists being bound. He turned back to glare at his captor.
“What happens now?” he demanded.
“We return to your poorly guarded campsite,” the man said. He again pointed Tristan’s dreggan at him. “A surprise awaits you. Move, dango!”
Tristan scowled. “What did you just call me?” he demanded.
“Dango,”the highlander answered with another smile. “In our world it means ‘city dweller.’ And if you’re thinking it’s an insult, you’re right.”
Cursing himself for letting the Minions rest rather than sending scout patrols aloft, Tristan reluctantly walked the remaining way up the riverbank. After retrieving the dreggan baldric from the ground, Tristan’s flamboyant captor prodded the prince forward. Clambering down from the ridge, the other highlanders followed. Tristan saw no women among them.
As they reached the top of the ridge, Tristan couldn’t believe his eyes. Although not one looked injured, all twenty Minion warriors had somehow been overcome. Their hands, feet, and wings bound tightly with harsh rope, they sat glumly on the ground around the campfire.
More highlander men surrounded the captured warriors. Laughing at the Minions’ expense, they eagerly tested the warriors’ unusual akulee and hungrily ate purloined elk meat. All of the warriors’ weapons lay nearby in a ramshackle pile. A strange-looking heap of what looked like coarse netting lay beside the captured Minion weapons, along with a loose collection of colorful arrows.
The highlander leader walked up alongside Tristan. “Those flying creatures are yours, I presume?” he asked.
Tristan nodded angrily. “How did you capture them?”
The highlander raised an arm. “Do you see that pile of netting?” he asked. “After sneaking up the ridge, my men attached arrows to the nets, then shot them over your fighters. The arrows carried the nets to the ridge’s other side, then buried themselves deep into the ground. We use the same technique to capture herds of deer. Your warriors started to cut their way free, but as they did they were told that we already had you. We described you, then warned them that if they didn’t surrender, you would be killed.” As the highlander leader turned toward Tristan, a look of respect flashed across his eyes.
“Whatever those winged things are, they’re certainly loyal to you,” he said. “They collectively offered up their lives so that you might go free.” He let go a sudden, short laugh. “I’m not so sure I could say the same for my clansmen!” he added.
“You’re highlanders, aren’t you?” Tristan asked. “What is your name?”
Smiling, the man bowed sarcastically. As he did, many of his followers laughed uproariously at the prince’s expense.
“I am Rafe of Clan Kilbourne,” he answered. “Chieftain of the clan. All told, we number just under three thousand. We are camped not more than two leagues away. Had you traveled just a bit farther, you would have flown right over us.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “And just who are you, may I ask?”
Tristan suddenly regretted having asked Rafe’s identity. He was about to lie when another of the highlanders rushed forward.
“I know who thisdango is!” the man growled.
The highlander was huge-almost as big as Scars. But where Scars was muscled, this man was grotesquely fat. He was as colorfully dressed as Rafe, and at least twenty years older. A gray, downward-dropping mustache covered his top lip, and unruly gray hair graced either shoulder. His calloused hands looked the size of small hams. Smiling, he arrogantly placed them on his hips.
“Tell us, Balthazar,” Rafe said.
Walking closer, the highlander named Balthazar searched Tristan’s face.
“He’s Prince Tristan, that’s who!” Balthazar shouted. “I’m sure of it! I saw him once in Tammerland. He was younger then, but there is no doubt.” Scratching his chin, he looked back at Rafe.
“We should keep this one,” he added slyly. “Rumor has it that he commands several wizards. They would surely pay to get him back.”
Rafe laughed. “Is that so?” he asked. “My, but thishas been a fortuitous day!”
Looking down at the captured warriors, the highlander leader thought for a moment then looked back at the prince. “I was going to rob you, then set you and your fighters free,” he said. “But I see that you’re too valuable to release so easily. It seems you’re coming with us.”
Rafe came closer and reached out to lift the still-wet Paragon and gold medallion from Tristan’s chest. The prince tensed. For several anxious moments the rapacious highlander eyed them hungrily as they lay twinkling in his palm.
Tristan’s mind raced. Should he tell him about them? Or would that only pique the bastard’s curiosity and make him want them more? Hoping against hope that he was doing the right thing, Tristan remained silent. To the prince’s relief, Rafe finally let the jewel and the disc fall back to Tristan’s chest. Rafe nodded.
“You must be royalty,” he said. “Who else would wear a medallion that carries the heraldry of the House of Galland, eh? I stand convinced. You may keep your baubles, Your Highness. I sense that they will pale in comparison with what your ransom will bring.” The highlander chieftain looked at his clansmen.
“We ride back to camp!” he shouted. “There is much to celebrate tonight! We will bring the winged ones along, as well! Ugly as they are, they should be worth something in trade!”
Rafe placed his face only inches from Tristan’s. “Nothing is to happen to this one,” he added quietly. “It seems he’s worth his royal weight in gold.”
Amid his men’s shouting and cheering, Rafe prodded Tristan toward the ridge’s other side. About fifty meters away, hundreds of horses saddled with colorful tack grazed quietly on the emerald fields. When Tristan and the highlanders reached them, the prince was relieved to see Balthazar single out Shadow. To Tristan’s surprise, Rafe drew his curved dagger and cut the prince’s bonds. Rubbing his wrists, Tristan looked at Rafe curiously.
“I’m not worried about you escaping, Your Highness,” he said. “As we ride, we will be all around you. Where can you possibly go?”
Tristan scowled. “I see your point,” he answered angrily.
Turning to Balthazar, Rafe heartily slapped a hand down atop his friend’s shoulder. “See to it that the winged ones are brought along,” he ordered. “Have them walk back, and be sure to bring their weapons-we can always use more. Keep the warriors bound, my friend, and do not underestimate them. We tricked them once. But by the
