The voice mage seized Briar’s frizzy hair before she could take two steps.
Pratford sneered at Archer, showing off his yellow teeth. “Think you’re the only thieving bastard who knows about that wall, eh?”
“He is still an amateur, for all his cheek,” said Mage Radner calmly.
The mage had a fistful of Briar’s hair. Archer didn’t dare advance. Radner wasn’t using his magic yet, but one wrong move … Radner’s hand raised, pulling Briar’s hair taut. She let out a whimper.
“Let her go.” Archer stepped forward. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“And I’m the king’s twin brother,” scoffed Pratford. He pointed the wicked crescent blade of his halberd at Archer, forcing him to stop. “Lord Barden will want to speak with both of you.”
Archer caught Briar’s eye, hoping she had another trick up her sleeve, but her eyes were fearful, rimmed with silver tears, and her hands were empty. Out of nowhere, he remembered sweeping her onto the back of his horse, her arms wrapping tight around his waist.
Pratford noticed where Archer was looking and swung his halberd to point at Briar instead. He grinned triumphantly, as if he’d discovered a weakness to exploit. Before Pratford could even voice the threat, Archer heaved the bundle of paints at his face, knocking him flat.
Then he tackled Mage Radner.
The mage was too surprised to utter more than a gasp as Archer crashed into him. They hit the ground hard, Briar crying out as she was pulled down by her hair. Archer punched her captor in his ugly, pinched face, forcing him to release his hold on the girl. Then he kept punching, blind rage scorching through him, lending his fists strength.
“Come on!” Briar shouted, grabbing his arm. “Archer, more are coming.”
Archer realized the mage was unconscious beneath him and his knuckles were covered in blood. He scrambled back, reeling from the sudden flare of rage.
He reached for the sack of paints he’d thrown, but Pratford grabbed it at the same moment with a wordless snarl. Archer tried to wrench the bundle out of his hands to no avail. They tugged the burlap between them, locking eyes like wolves fighting over carrion. Then came a ripping sound, the crunch of jars striking the ground.
Briar appeared at Archer’s side and hurled a large rock at Pratford’s face. He toppled backward, his grip on the bag of paints loosening, and he hit the ground, out cold.
“We have to go!” Briar shouted.
“The bag ripped.” Archer struggled with the bundle, trying to keep more paints from tumbling out.
“Here, use this.” Briar undid the clasp on Mage Radner’s well-worn cloak and yanked it out from under his unconscious body. Archer avoided looking at Radner’s pulverized face as he and Briar tied the cloak around the ripped bag of paints and brushes. It had been a long time since he’d lost control like that.
Boots pounded and halberds clattered at the mouth of the alley. A wave of mustard brown and steel surged toward them.
“Good enough.” Archer hoisted the new bundle on his shoulder, and he and Briar bolted for the other end of the alley.
Their two attackers remained lying in the dirt behind them.
“What kind of curse did you use on that rock?” Archer asked as he and Briar cleared the alley and raced toward the town boundary.
“I didn’t have time for a curse,” Briar said. “I just threw it really hard.”
The Mud Market churned like a kicked anthill, the sounds of scattered fighting echoing across the town. Archer and Briar managed to evade Barden’s men as they hurtled through the darkening streets, passed the stone plinth at the town’s border, and slipped into the countryside unseen. Archer would no doubt be implicated in the chaos anyway. It might do his reputation as a dreaded outlaw some good.
They didn’t slow to catch their breaths until they reached the woods, and even when the trees enveloped them, they didn’t dare stop. They walked with hands outstretched, feeling their way into the welcoming arms of the night-dark forest.
Archer couldn’t believe the day had gone so poorly. He should never have left Briar at the Dandelion to go see Kurt. The churl had called the town watchman before Archer had even finished his pint, using Archer’s personal history to buy himself a shot at the reward. So much for honor among thieves.
Archer had concocted elaborate epithets to describe his lousy excuse for a friend while he’d been locked in the stocks. The arrival of Lord Barden’s cronies had been just another blow in the beating. Kurt had said something unexpected, though, and Archer hadn’t been able to get it out of his head, even with all the excitement.
“I heard Drake and his team made it into the castle a week ago, and she wasn’t there. Dunno where else Larke would keep her. Oh, look, it’s the watchman. I wonder what he’s doing here.”
Archer had been too busy getting arrested and shoved into the stocks to ask more, but the news troubled him. If anyone could retrieve Lady Mae before he could, it was Horatio Drake’s band of mercenaries. Archer had hoped to reach the castle first, but if Drake had already been into the tower and emerged empty-handed, was it possible they had all gotten something important wrong, namely the location of Lady Mae’s prison? She wasn’t there, Kurt had said. Dunno where else Larke would keep her.
Archer felt a horrible sinking sensation, like a castle-sized hole opening in the pit of his stomach. Kurt and Drake may not know any other place apart from Larke Castle where Mae could be, but Archer did. That location would be far more difficult to crack, maybe impossible.
He contemplated the new destination as he and Briar traveled deeper into the woods, becoming more and more certain Larke would consider it a better hiding place for the kidnapped girl than his primary castle. Archer had nearly made a terrible mistake.
The moon rose overhead, dappling the forest floor with light and making it easier to find
