Go on, kill me if you can.
“For the love of God, I will!” he said, nearly pissing in his breeches.
Overhead, through the rising mist, came the sound of great wings flapping wildly. An owl, the same huge ruffled-feathered bird who had landed on the prisoner’s arm the night he’d been recaptured, settled onto one of the cripple’s shoulders.
“So ye’ve found me, Owain,” the magician said in his calm voice. He turned his haunted eyes to Connor and the soldier felt a shiver cold as death crawl through his bowels. “Give Holt a message,” the cripple commanded, spreading his arms wide, his wrists no longer bound, as the mist, like a thick curtain of fog, began to rise from the ferns and grass surrounding him. “Tell him that the Devil wants his due.”
The forest became engulfed in the icy haze and Connor let his arrow fly. He waited for the scream, or the sound of running feet, or the angry flap of huge wings, but silence greeted his ears and the fog was suddenly thick as Cook’s tasteless pea soup.
“Where are ye?” he called, striking out after the sorcerer, assured that he’d stumble across the man’s corpse. “Hey! Where are ye?” He walked across the clearing thrice before stopping to scratch his head and fight the dry fear that had settled in his mouth. His arrows never missed; his aim was straight and true. A split second before the mist rose, he’d had the sorcerer in his sights, but … Then he realized that not only had the man disappeared, but so had the owl and both horses as well. Without a sound, they’d been swallowed by the forest.
Unnerved, he whistled sharply, hoping his mount would respond, but there was no answering whinny, no snort of recognition, no pawing of a hoof against the forest floor. Nor was there any other sound. The shrouded woods were completely silent and he heard neither the call of a winter bird, the scramble of some rodent hurrying through the bracken, nor the whir of a single insect’s wings. No breeze rustled the dry leaves and no water splashed over stones in a nearby creek. ’Twas as if he were truly alone on the earth, and for the first time in years, fear—as dark as the middle of a winter night—bored deep into Connor’s black heart.
Walking backward, he expected the sorcerer to appear and kill him on the spot, and when he reached the edge of the clearing, he turned and ran, not knowing which direction he took and not caring. He knew only that if he was to escape with his life, he would have to run as far and as fast as his feet would carry him.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Odell’s smile stretched from one side of his craggy face to the other as Bjorn rode into the shifting circle of light thrown by the campfire. “Find us, did ye?”
“Where’s Wolf?” Bjorn demanded, blowing on his hands in an attempt to warm them, then motioning for Cayley to urge her horse forward and join him. He searched the faces of the men, looking for the man who had sent Cormick to his death.
“Ain’t ’e with you?”
“Nay.”
“But he and Jagger and Robin left days ago to find Lady Megan and collect the ransom. Leastwise, that’s what he claimed!” Odell’s grizzled face squinched and he scratched his bald head thoughtfully. “Where’s Cormick, and who’s the woman?” he asked as if suddenly suspicious. “Ye know the rule.”
“Aye, and I had no choice but to bring her,” Bjorn said, hopping lithely to the ground before trying to help Cayley from her saddle. She would have none of his assistance and he held up his hands as if in surrender and allowed her to dismount. Rubbing the kinks from his shoulders, he was grateful to have finally found camp and the men he knew and trusted. Women, especially rich women, were trouble to deal with and difficult to understand. He wanted to despise this headstrong blond woman he’d been forced to ride with, but he’d found, as they’d spent so many long hours together, that she’d proved herself stronger and quicker witted than he’d ever thought possible. “This, lads, is Lady Cayley, Megan of Dwyrain’s sister.”
“Another one!” Odell rolled his eyes as if searching for divine intervention.
Bjorn took the time to introduce each man, but Odell was impatient.
“Tell us all everything,” Odell demanded as Peter saw to the horses. “Sit down by the fire and I’ll get ye somethin’ to eat, but tell us what happened.”
The strips of eel and shanks of rabbit were far overcooked, but it had been long since Bjorn had eaten. As he gnawed on a rabbit bone, Bjorn told them of his capture, Cormick’s death, and his escape with Cayley. The men were grim-faced throughout and in the end, they voted, by throwing their knives into the fire, to seek vengeance for their comrade’s death.
“Holt will rue the day he killed one of us,” Odell crowed.
“Aye,” Heath agreed, the skin beneath his beard stretched tight. The thirst for vengeance glinted in his eyes.
As the men swapped stories about how they intended to find Wolf and kill Holt, Bjorn watched Cayley from the corner of his eye. She wasn’t repulsed by the outlaws’ promises of revenge. She ate heartily and without complaint.
When she was finished, she eyed each man, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it decisively. Bjorn swallowed a smile as she licked her greasy fingers, then wiped them on her mantle. She was a pretty one, though spoiled, and she’d been far less trouble than he’d expected. But her tongue—how she could give a man a lashing with it!
“I had trouble findin’ ye,” Bjorn admitted as Heath passed a jug of ale. Bjorn took a long swallow. The brew was bitter, but he was grateful for a draft and drank his fill before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He handed the jug to Cayley, who licked her lips and seemed about to decline. Then, gaze fastened to Bjorn’s, she hoisted the dirty vessel to her lips and took a swallow, only to end up coughing so hard she had trouble catching her breath and nearly dropped the jug.
“Careful!” Odell warned.
Tears streamed from her eyes, spilling on red cheeks. “What is that?” she asked.
Odell sniffed, offended. “ ’Tis me own brand of mead.”
“ ’Twill burn out yer insides if ye’re not careful,” Peter said.
“Even if you are,” she said, struggling with her voice.
“I don’t see ye passin’ the jug too often without takin’ more’n yer share, Peter,” Odell grumbled, his pride wounded.
“Shh. ’Tis of no matter.” Bjorn glanced at Cayley. “The lady is fine. Mayhap she’d like another sip.”