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.
A collective murmur went through the group—apparently they hadn’t yet realized he was an ironsmith. Never mind the coin in his purse… His weapons were worth far more. The only problem was that they’d have to pry them from his cold, dead hands, and as Wren had seen firsthand, Julian was no craftsman. He was a warrior. Even without the element of surprise, he could likely mow down half this group. The fact that he didn’t want to was evident to Wren, if not these others, but she didn’t have time to puzzle out why. The bandits were tightening their circle, pressing closer, and many of their stares fixed on Wren now too. When was the last time they’d seen a bonesmith this side of the Border Wall?
“I don’t have the coin on me,” Julian said, remaining poised despite the threat, while Wren’s gaze darted from side to side as she scrambled for a solution. Something was tugging at her mind, and she tried to steady the distracting pulse of her heart to discern it. It felt like bones, but it was not the pull of the palisade they’d left behind. No, it was something much nearer.
“We can’t accept coin that doesn’t actually exist,” said another of the raiders, and laughter broke out.
Wren gave Julian a look. Whatever his plan was, it wasn’t working. “What are you doing?” she whispered, but he ignored her.
“It exists,” Julian said, his expression determined as he spoke over their jeers. “And it’s in the Iron Citadel’s coffers. Perhaps you’d be willing to accept a payment from there?”
The laughter died out. The Iron Citadel was the House of Iron’s main holding, their seat of power, and the place they used to train ironsmiths.
And it was supposed to be uninhabited. Abandoned during the Uprising. The way Julian spoke… Was the Citadel functioning again? And most pressing of all… was it ruling over these lands? Perhaps the ironsmiths were not as defeated as everyone west of the Wall seemed to think.
“He’s bluffing,” someone said, and those around them nodded their agreement.
The first man with the pirate’s hat stepped forward. “Maybe,” he said gruffly, peering at Julian closely. “Or maybe we take him with us and find out. See what else the regent might offer us in exchange for his head.”
A regent? Living at the Iron Citadel?
Julian darted a look in Wren’s direction, and she wondered if he was concerned about his impending kidnapping… or what she’d overheard. What she could report back to the Breachfort.
Of course, none of that would matter if they didn’t survive this mess, and while Julian might be worth something to the alleged regent, Wren held no such value.