“Hey,” Zurron called out, drawing everyone’s attention. The elf stood near the leader he had managed to incapacitate. “This one’s still alive. What do we do with him?”
“Truss him up and wait until he wakes,” Gordon replied. “I want to hear what that message from me mum really said.” His gaze slid to the rest of the dead guards. “I suppose we should bury them.”
“Bastards dinnae deserve to be resting on the Goddess’ bosom after what they attempted,” Zurron growled. “I reckon we burn them. Let their souls be lost in the ether.”
“I’m nae sure I want to be responsible for that.”
The elf shrugged. “You’re the crown prince, but I reckon they committed treason trying to take down the ambassador, nae matter their reasoning.”
Gordon scrubbed at his chin, burrowing his fingers deep into his beard. “That is true. But we’ve nae the wood or the manpower to make a pyre big or hot enough for seven men.”
“Give me some time to recuperate,” Darshan said. “Along with nourishment, and I shall be able to do it.” They would still need fuel to burn—it was always easier that way—but once the pyre got underway, keeping it at a high temperature would take very little effort.
“Fair enough,” Gordon grumbled. “You were the one to suffer the most out of all this.” He shook his head, mumbling inaudibly to himself. “Come on, there ought to be plenty of food in the tower for you.”
“And perhaps some fresh clothes?”
Gordon grunted. “These sods sure dinnae need it anymore.” He pointed a finger at Sean. “Secure the horses and be sure he—” Gordon jerked a thumb at the unconscious leader. “Stays put until we’re ready to talk to him. And let us ken when he wakes up.”
Sean snapped a salute and set about his task as Gordon waved Darshan into the tower. After the sun-soaked forest, the inside of the tower was dark and smelt faintly of mould. That didn’t bode well when it came to the condition of their food.
Nevertheless, Darshan raided the entirety of the outpost’s larder whilst Gordon and Hamish picked through the guards’ chests in search of clothing and answers.
What they hadn’t found was any sign of a message from Queen Fiona.
Darshan pondered over the absence as he sat in the warmth of the doorway, toasty in his new—although admittedly slightly oversized—attire and munching on his haul whilst the rest waited for the leader of these men to awaken. His meal consisted of simple fair; mostly stale bread, cheese that had gone hard around the edges, a few smoked sausages that hadn’t looked terribly suspect and the wizened lump of an apple.
He intended to consume every last bite.
If there had been any message, it could only have reached here via messenger pigeon. Even if there were no signs of the feathered rats within the tower. Anything reaching by foot was preposterous. The lack had to mean the leader had disposed of it. Had that been part of the queen’s orders? Leaving no trace of suspicious, and possibly illegal, acts.
Hamish stepped through the doorway, his arms full of firewood, forcing Darshan to scrunch against the door pillar. “This is the last of it,” his lover declared, dumping his haul beside a pile near the charred remains of the guard Darshan had already halfway cremated.
Rather than move the bones—an act not even Darshan was willing to attempt—the others had piled the bodies, along with the split wood from within the tower, atop the remains. All it would take to ignite was a little push from his magic.
They just had to wait now.
“Do you think the queen ordered a hunt?” Sean murmured to his elven companion, shaking his head. “I cannae believe she would suggest such a thing, but do you?”
“Maybe nae her,” Zurron growled. “But they clearly had nae qualms. Still…” He glanced towards the charred remains of a guard. “They got theirs. Should’ve been flogged for even suggesting it, but the punishment fits.”
“What is this hunt?” Darshan asked between bites of the last sausage. One of the guards had mentioned it before the leader had ordered their attack.
Heavy silence followed in the wake of his question. Hamish looked as though he might vomit at any moment, whilst the rest of them all looked at each other as if trying to decide which amongst them would be the unfortunate one to answer him.
Sighing, Gordon scratched at his cheek with a thumb. “It’s an archaic form of punishment. Something from the ancient scriptures. You ken of them?”
Darshan raised a brow at that. Were these the same scriptures Hamish claimed Queen Fiona followed? “I have heard them mentioned,” he admitted. Dread seethed in the depths of his mind, backed by a slow-burning anger.
“Were you also told what those scriptures entail? What they used to do to men like you?”
Darshan shook his head. The conversation he’d had with Hamish atop that disused castle tower—a time that seemed an eternity ago—had moved on and he had forgotten to ask. He could guess readily enough, though. All this time, he had thought the gathering of spellsters had been a gentle thing. But to hunt them like animals?
“Gor,” Hamish warned. “Dinnae you dare tell him what those bastards used to do.”
“He deserves to ken,” Gordon snapped back at his brother. “I’ll be brief. The scriptures hold the laws of the clans. Of what should be obeyed for a happy life. Much of it has been scrubbed from the new version, but the old one was… nae kind to people like you. They were seen as detrimental to the Goddess’ will.”
“Spellsters?” He could see how the people wouldn’t want entire families of magically gifted folk, but they were used as healers and were considered as vital resources during plague.
Hamish shook his head. “He means
