He led the mare out of the trees, towards a faint trail which he hoped led down to some sort of road. A road should help him get his bearings. As they reached the trail, he turned back to the mare. With a deep breath, he pulled himself up into the saddle, hissing at the deep ache in his shoulder and chest. He rubbed his side where the assassin had slashed at him not so long ago. Fortunately, the knife had not penetrated through to his skin. He had been lucky.
The chattering screech of rising birds in the trees behind him had Jerrol moving off with alacrity. He glanced back as the mare wended her way through the undergrowth, but the trees closed behind him, obscuring whatever had disturbed the birds.
Chapter 5
Marchwood Watch
He could have been anyone. A slight man, drably dressed in a muddy cloak and trousers, both of which had seen better days. The edges of his rough shirt were frayed and trapped the water dripping down the threads in the soft rain. His boots were thick with mud and well worn. A nondescript hat was pulled down over his face, offering some protection from the elements.
Over his shoulder was a burlap sack which might once have been waterproof but was now sadly waterlogged. His cloak, though, was dark and warm. How he had got hold of such a garment was yet to be told; it was the item of most value to those who stalked him.
The three commoners paused as they watched the man slog through the thick mud. He was an easy mark, a lonely figure who posed little threat and would not be missed, focused on keeping his feet in the treacherous conditions. In unison, they closed on him, daggers in hand, the squelching of mud betraying their position.
Forewarned, the man spun in one fluid move. The glint of steel carved an arc that sliced through the air. It came to a halt just in front of the lead man, a broad-chested, blond-haired man, who flailed desperately to avoid skewering himself on the vicious-looking blade. The man’s feet slid out from under him at his sudden change in momentum. He landed in the mud on his backside as the sword skimmed his lank hair and came to rest at his throat. The man gulped, the silver scar on his chin prominent, his blue eyes wide with fear.
Slate-grey eyes gleamed in the fading light and raked across the other two bandits as they slithered to an uncertain stop. “I could pierce you like a suckling pig.” The man’s voice was low and gravelly as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “If you were worth the effort.”
There was a muted whirr, and the man on the left cried out and dropped his knife. He hugged his hand to his chest as he stumbled away, squelching through the mud, and the other man scurried after him.
Jerrol scanned the undergrowth. His silent protector was still following him, then. At opportune moments help had appeared and as mysteriously disappeared before he had a chance to accost him. The man been following him since he left Old Vespers; who was it? “Show yourself. I know you’re there, so you may as well come out.”
He looked back at the man sinking into the gloopy mud. His sword followed the man’s slow descent as the glutinous muck restrained him better than any ropes could. A quick flick of the eyes confirmed that the others had turned tail and fled back into the dripping trees.
Glancing back at the bushes, Jerrol waited, and the lean, silver-eyed man from the temple gardens stepped out. His grey-green uniform was showing signs of wear and tear, but he looked nowhere near as disreputable as Jerrol.
“You’ve been following me for nearly a month. What do you want?”
The man’s alert eyes flitted around them before returning to the man in the mud. “I do the Lady’s bidding.”
“The Lady does not bid you kill innocent people.”
“No, only those trying to kill her Captain.”
“Do you think we can continue this conversation somewhere dry, and warmer?” the man stuck in the mud asked through chattering teeth.
Jerrol looked down and grinned. “Well, if you will consort with bandits, what do you expect?” He wiped his sword on his cloak and sheathed it, and then he began to chuckle. “Not the rendezvous I was expecting, Jennery,” he said as he reached out a hand to help pull his friend to his feet. The mud released Jennery with an enormous squelch; the iron grip inexorably pulled him up and out of the mucky suction. Jennery staggered as his legs took back his weight and trembled back to life. Looking down at his clothes, he scowled.
“Rendezvous,” he barked with laughter, “in this godforsaken place? You could drown in this, and no one would ever know!”
“There are worse fates, you know,” Jerrol replied as he moved to the firmer ground at the side of the road.
“Who is your friend? He won’t stick me with one of those arrows, will he?”
Jerrol flicked a glance at the man watching them. His bow was still strapped to his back. “Not unless you try to attack me again.”
“Jerrol!” Jennery followed him. “What happened? Why all the secrecy? And why are we flailing about in all this mud?”
Jerrol turned away. “Not here,” he said. “Let’s get out of the rain first. There’s a barn back aways down the track. It’s empty for now, and you can clean up.” He gestured to the silent bowman. “Will you join us?”
It wasn’t much of a barn, more a temporary shield from the rain. The
