He shook his head and held up his hands. “I didn’t know he would be here, and no, I did not arrange that little discussion. I feared he would try to talk us out of attempting to rescue your father, and I wasn’t going to sit still for that. We came all this way for a reason.” Staring into her eyes, his gaze intent, he said, “Your father is coming back. I promise you he will.”
“Don’t make promises, Fallon,” she said. “We will both try. But there is a lot of ground to cover and we have no horses. It won’t be easy.”
“No, I don’t imagine it will be. One of the things I learned from Morwenna is that she promised Dragan he would be allowed to come to this world. He was eager for it. The laws are crumbling in this place. There is no trust. The kings look after their own self-interest, and the nobles squabble among—”
There were loud cracking sounds in the woods on either side of them. Fallon stopped talking, but they did not slow their stride. Dark shapes began to emerge from behind the trees on both sides of the road. Fallon halted, sizing up the situation. Trynne followed suit.
“What do I see?” said one of the rabble. The man was wearing mismatched leather armor and holding a crossbow. His tunic was muddy and ripped, the once-white fabric a dingy gray, and the brown-and-red cross-shaped design in tatters.
“I think we caught us another pair of mastons,” said another man in a dangerous tone. The word was said with such contempt and hate, it filled Trynne with unease.
“They’re not the first we’ve caught,” the first said, leering at her.
“And they’ll meet the same fate as the others.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hunted
Trynne heard the subtle noise of grating metal as Fallon drew his sword. She quickly followed suit, crossing her arms and drawing both of her blades.
“Oh, ho ho!” one of the brigands crooned. “They have some fight in them! Most start babbling and sniveling before they die.”
Fallon pitched his voice low for her. “Do you want to take the ones on the right?”
“Yes,” she answered. “But let them attack first.” Her magic was strongest when she was acting in defense. There were at least a dozen men coming at them, and a few more were ghosting through the trees. If they remained still for too long, they’d be boxed in.
Fallon flourished his blade, cutting two sharp circles through the air. “I anticipate some blood, lads. Ours or yours is the question.”
The grimy-faced attackers continued to converge. “He’s got a mouth on him. Bold as a rooster. Pluck him, then. Now!”
The man with the crossbow hefted it to his shoulder, aiming at Fallon first. Trynne stepped forward, putting herself in the line of fire.
The crossbow twanged and time seemed to turn sluggish. She saw the shaft streaking toward her, then arced her blade to intercept it,
deflecting it off its course. It struck an oak tree with a loud thunk. The marauders raised their battered weapons in stunned surprise. The swords all had nicks and dents and clearly hadn’t touched a whetstone in ages. The men shuffled forward and roared in challenge, attacking as a mass.
Trynne lunged forward, ducked the first swipe at her neck, and scissored her blades in front of her, slashing her assailant’s armor open and following up with a swipe of her boot to send him crashing down. Her training with Captain Staeli rushed into her mind, along with the memories and experiences of Oath Maidens from the past.
She’d defeated greater odds than this. She and Fallon fought back-to-back, protecting each other from the onslaught.
Fallon smashed the pommel of his sword into a man’s skull, dropping him like a stone. Every now and then, there was enough of a lull in her own battle for her to glance back at him. He’d proven himself more than a match for his foes. There was a graceful elegance in his attack, the sign of a man who had trained in his craft for years. But he was also not afraid to use brute force when the need arose. She watched as he stomped on a man’s boot and then cocked the brigand’s head back with an elbow strike that literally sent him spinning into the grass.
Trynne used both her weapons equally, cutting at wrists and hands to disarm rather than slay her opponents. They were bumbling fools, accustomed to winning through sheer force of numbers.
“Flee!”
The shout was quickly taken up, and the ill-trained men scattered like roaches caught feasting at the dregs on a table.
Trynne and Fallon stood side by side, watching their assailants flee.
“Get the sheriff, get the hounds!” one of the men shouted as the group melted away into the woods.