Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(40)

“I’m Wren, by the way,” she said.

He seemed to have been lost in thought, because he startled when she spoke. His dark eyes flicked in her direction.

“And you are…?” she pressed when he remained silent. “I heard them talking to you—before they tried to kill you, that is. James? Jules…” His face spasmed at that. “If you don’t give me a name, I’ll be forced to make one up, and I suspect that will only cause things to further deteriorate between us.”

“Julian,” he said with exasperation. “My name is Julian.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said. He shot her a glare. They had met under the worst circumstances imaginable.

With a shrug, she cast her gaze across the darkened landscape. There was less smoke out here, but fog had rolled in from the north, resulting in the same obscuring effect. She turned to Julian. “Now what? I assume you know what direction they traveled?”

“I know what direction they intended to travel, but as their plans have changed since then—namely with the attempt on my life—I don’t know if anything else has since been… adjusted.”

“Let’s assume their escape plans remain the same. They think you’re dead, so they have no reason to change them.”

His nostrils flared. “They will have gone south. They can’t risk any harm coming to the prince, and the coastal towns are the only places where they can safely stop for food and rest.”

“Then we head south,” Wren said, turning on her heel.

She had barely taken a step when a noise came from the hazy fog to her left. She froze.

They hadn’t been walking long, and Wren feared she had gotten turned around and somehow stumbled upon a patrol, though it made no sense this far from the palisade. There was movement in the darkness, and then a soft clip-clopping sound.

A horse materialized out of the shadows, making its casual way toward them. It was riderless but not dressed in any Breachfort tack.

Wren glanced at the ironsmith. Was it one of theirs? It could have taken off during the fighting, and his people either never saw where it went or didn’t bother to reclaim it.

It was exactly what they needed. Their targets were on horseback, and now Wren and Julian could be the same. It was perfect.

Too perfect?

But time was of the essence, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else around…

Wren stepped toward it, and Julian’s hand swiped at the air as he tried to stop her. “Wait. Don’t!”

“Why? What’s wrong?” she demanded.

He didn’t respond. Instead his head swiveled left and right.

“Come on! This is a lucky break, and we need to get moving.”

“This isn’t luck,” he said, before his gaze settled on something Wren couldn’t see. “It’s a trap.”

Wren heard it then—the clank and jangle of weapons.

Then out of the mist came ten, twenty people, lean and mean and raggedly dressed.

“Bandits,” Julian muttered, raising his staff in a two-handed grip.

Finally, one of the dangers Wren’s father and Odile had promised. She tensed as she withdrew her swords; she had never fought so many people—living people, anyway—and most of her fighting experience came from sparring with Inara in the sands.

As the bandits moved to surround them, the mists swirled and parted, and Wren saw an old signpost and what looked like the remains of a village. Beneath her feet the ground was smooth, suggesting this had been a well-traveled area once—likely belonging to the network of Old Roads that crisscrossed this part of the Dominions. Now it was a place for scavengers and thieves.

Upon closer inspection, the horse looked hungry and thin, just like his human counterparts. They must use him as bait, as a means to lure lost or unsuspecting travelers into their clutches.

“Just shut up and let me do the talking,” Julian muttered to Wren, lowering his staff and raising a single, gloved hand. “We mean you no harm,” he said, turning to the bandits. “Our party is traveling the Coastal Road, and we got separated. If you let us pass, we’ll be on our way.”

Wren cocked her head at him. Did he think that mention of the fact that they were allegedly part of a larger group would scare them off, or was he actually trying to appeal to their good nature?

“Coastal Road’s a long way from here, son,” one of them said, a man with what looked like a pirate’s tricorn hat over his head of long, matted hair. His voice was mocking, and Wren thought that if she could see his mouth through his tangled beard, he’d be grinning.

“Which means we’ve a lot of ground to cover,” Julian continued, voice steady. It had a cultured, imperious edge—the sort of calm assurance that said he was used to being listened to without having to raise his voice—which might have worked on farmers or small-town folk, but not here. “Your horse. I will buy it for twice the market value.”

As one, every head swiveled onto Julian’s person, looking for a fat coin purse that promised he actually carried such a sum. They’d have it—and the horse—before the night was through, and Wren and Julian would be nothing but corpses come morning.

Perhaps sensing their intentions, Julian adjusted his hold on his staff, and two iron blades sprang from each end, turning it into a deadly weapon.