2
NORTH of the Alfar Mountains the ground fell precipitously into a jumble of foothills and river valleys. At this time of year, that place where late summer slumbered into early autumn, the roads were as good as they’d ever be and the weather remained pleasant except for the occasional drenching thunder-shower. They kept up a brisk pace, traveling as many as six leagues in a day. There were just enough day laborers on the road looking for the last bits of harvest work that their little group didn’t seem too conspicuous, as long as they didn’t draw attention to themselves.
It was a silent journey for the most part.
When they passed folk coming from the north, Sanglant asked questions, but the local folk, when he could understand their accent, claimed to have no knowledge of the movements of the king. Nor was there any reason they should have. But he heard one day from a trio of passing fraters that the king and his entourage had been expected in Wertburg, so at the crossroads just past the ferry crossing over the eastern arm of the Vierwald Lake, they took the northeast fork that led through the lush fields of upper Wayland toward the Malnin River valley. In such rich countryside, more people were to be found on the roads, going about their business.
Still, it was with some surprise that, about twelve days after the conflagration at Verna and less than seven days’ travel past the lake crossing, they met outriders at midday where forest gave way to a well-tended orchard.
“Halt!”
A zealous young fellow seated on a swaybacked mare rode forward to block the road. He held a spear in one hand as he looked them over. No doubt they appeared a strange sight: a tall, broad-shouldered man outfitted like a common man-at-arms and carrying a swaddled baby on his back but riding a noble gelding whose lines and tackle were fit for a prince, and a woman whose exotic features might make any soldier pause. The pony and the goat, at least, were unremarkable. Luckily, the young man couldn’t see Jerna, who had darted away to conceal herself in the boughs of an apple tree.
He stared for a bit, mostly at the woman, then found his voice. “Have you wanderers come to petition the king?”
“So we have,” said Sanglant, keeping his voice calm although his heart hammered alarmingly. “Is the king nearby?”
“The court’s in residence at Angenheim, but it’s a long wait for petitioners. Many have come—”
“Here, now, Matto, what are these two?” The sergeant in charge rode up. His shield bore the sigil of Wendar at its center, Lion, Eagle, and Dragon, marking him as a member of the king’s personal retinue. He had the look of a terrier about him: ready to worry any stray rat to pieces.
“They come up the road like any others,” protested Matto.
“So might the devil. They might be the Enemy’s cousins, by the look of their faces. As foreign as you please, I’ll thank you to notice, lad. I’d like to know how they come by that fine nobleman’s horse. We’re looking for bandits, Matto. You’ve got to stay alert.”
“Trouble, Sergeant?” asked another soldier, riding over.
There were half a dozen men-at-arms in sight, scattered along the road. None were soldiers Sanglant recognized. New recruits, maybe, given sentry duty. They looked bored.
Boredom always spelled trouble, and it wasn’t only these men-at-arms who were bored. Sanglant glanced at his mother. Even after twelve days in her company, he still found her disconcerting. She gazed at young Matto with the look of a panther considering its next meal, and she even licked her lips thoughtfully, as though the air brought her a taste of his sweet flesh.
Sanglant knew how to make quick decisions. If he didn’t recognize these men, then it was likely they’d come to court after he and Liath had left so precipitously over a year ago and so wouldn’t recognize him in their turn. He turned to the sergeant. “Take me to Captain Fulk, and I promise you’ll be well rewarded.”
“Huh!” grunted the sergeant, taken aback. “How’d you know Captain Fulk returned to the king’s progress just a fortnight ago?”
“We were separated.” Sanglant leaned sideways so that the man could see Blessing’s sweet little face peeping from the swaddling bound to his back.
“Ah.” The sergeant’s gaze was drawn to Sanglant’s mother, but he looked away as quickly, as though something in her expression unsettled him. As well it might. “This is your wife, then?”
Sanglant laughed sharply, not without anger. “Nay. This woman is—” He could not bring himself to speak a title she had not earned. “This woman is a relative to me, a companion on the road. She’s a foreigner, as you see. My father is Wendish.”