Maids with Blades 2, page 71
A thief might be tempted to pilfer Dougal’s only weapon for its jewels.
Steal the valuable clothes off his back.
Take him captive with an eye toward ransom.
This time, before he made a mossy bed under a sprawling ash tree, Dougal took extra precautions. It was dangerous enough to be pursued by an angry clan. He wasn’t about to be surprised by a band of outlaws.
Feiyan woke with a start.
“Oh, for shite’s sake,” she muttered.
Her wee nap had turned into an all-day drowse. The sun was long gone. The moon peered through the pines with its pale, round eye, and midnight mist clung to the forest floor.
How much distance had the villain gained while she slumbered on, blissfully unaware? Had he stuck to the path or turned off at some point? She’d wasted the daylight. By night and in the fog, he’d be doubly hard to track.
At least she was fully alert now. If need be, she could pursue him all night.
She hurried along the path. Perhaps she could catch the villain sleeping.
A few hours later, she spotted a scrap of beeswax-coated linen beside the trail, the kind of cloth one wrapped around cheese. Near it were crumbs of pastry. And next to that was a depression in the leafy bank, roughly the size of a knight’s hindquarters.
He had eaten here. How long ago, she couldn’t tell. But this time he’d apparently procured something more palatable than a raw rodent.
This close to the river, the mud was damp and yielding. She could easily discern the tracks of his crack-heeled boot. The food must have invigorated him, for his stride had lengthened. She had to take three steps for his two.
A few times she hesitated, startled by the scuffling of mice or the chirring of a nightjar. But the rising fog muffled her steps as she crept through the woods in the hours after midnight.
Indeed, she was so focused on stealth and speed, intent on closing the distance between her and her prey, when she finally spotted him, she almost sailed past.
Her heart leaped into her throat when she suddenly glimpsed a dark shape in the gray mist, several yards off the path, beneath an enormous tree. For an instant, she thought it was a wolf or a boar, and she clapped a hand to her shoudao.
Then she heard a loud, ragged snore, and she soundlessly drew her blade.
It was him. The monster. She had him now. He was utterly helpless.
As silent as a spider, she approached.
With her sharp blade of folded steel, she could slash his throat. Stab him through the heart. Chop off his head.
But as she came closer—five yards away, four, three—doubt began to filter through her thoughts.
What if this was the wrong man?
She’d never actually seen his face or even gotten a good look at his armor. This man didn’t have a shield or a helm. All she recalled about the brute at Creagor was that he was large and dark and menacing.
What if she’d followed the wrong set of tracks into the wood?
What if the man she sought had abandoned his horse at the croft and then climbed onto the back of a hay cart and gone back the way he’d come?
What if he’d given away his crack-heeled boots, as he had his charger, as a “gift”?
She hesitated, gazing down at the slumbering bulk.
Once she saw his face, she’d know. She’d recognize the manic violence in his cold eyes. The dead and ruthless twist to his mouth. His empty, insatiable hunger. There was no hiding the disturbed countenance of a man capable of thoughtless savagery.
She’d wake him. Poke him with the slanted point of her sword, keeping it at the ready. If he lunged toward her, she’d stop him swiftly. Do what must be done.
She edged closer, wary of triggering any small animal snares he might have set in the night.
His snores were even now. Peaceful. Almost soothing. They didn’t seem like the snores of a demon.
She halfway hoped she was wrong. That this wasn’t the right man.
Hearing the soft sawing of his breath, she knew it would be no simple feat to extinguish it. Taking a life wasn’t easy.
It wasn’t that killing was physically difficult. Even at her young age, she’d been forced to take a handful of lives in wartime. With her skill and fine weaponry, all it required was will, good aim, and opportunity. In the heat of battle, killing was a necessary evil, a matter of slaying or being slain.
But the thought of ending the life of a defenseless man, a man who was the son of a mother, who might well be the sweetheart of a maid, the father of children…slaying someone outside the chaos of war… That was not so easy.
And no matter how much this devil deserved to be dispatched back to hell, Feiyan couldn’t send him there without being absolutely certain he was the demon she believed him to be.
In her moment of hesitation, the man stirred and rolled from his side onto his back. She froze as his features were revealed in the milky blue moonlight.
And then her heart tripped.
He was more eye-catching than she’d expected. Surprisingly handsome. Curiously captivating. As magnificent, wild, and noble as his destrier.
Locks of black hair tumbled across his troubled brow. His cheek was swarthy with several days’ growth of beard. His face was lean and angular, with a straight, elegant nose. His mouth was soft with slumber.
And he was young. Much younger than she’d imagined. Probably not much older than her.
She gulped. Was she making a mistake? Surely this dark Adonis wasn’t the savage who’d ravaged the knights at Creagor.
Flustered, she realized she had to extricate herself from this awkward situation until she was sure. She had no wish to explain to a handsome young nobleman innocently hunting in the forest why she was stalking him in the middle of the night.
Carefully sheathing her sword, she retreated, taking a step backwards.
All at once, she heard a snap, and something slithered around her ankle. Before she could draw in a gasp, she was yanked off her feet. The world abruptly flipped upside down. She found herself dangling by her ankle, swaying at the end of a rope.
In one painful instant of clarity, her heart leaped into her throat. She’d been trapped like a coney in a snare.
Whatever qualms she had about harming the sleeping stranger vanished into thin air. He was no guileless gentleman. She had indeed found the cunning devil of mac Darragh.
Chapter 5
Dougal was jerked out of a dead sleep. He instinctively clapped the ground beside him, where he usually kept his claymore. It wasn’t there.
Memory flooded back as he blinked awake in the misty moonlight. He remembered now. He was in the woods. Fleeing Creagor. Pursued by mac Girics. And he’d left his claymore behind.
A dark shape suddenly swung through the shadows above him. He ducked, half expecting a giant owl had swooped at his head.
Then he remembered the snare.
Scrambling to his feet, he backed away from the swinging captive.
It appeared the cart driver was right. The woods were teeming with thieves. It was a good thing he’d set the trap.
“Who goes there?” he demanded.
There was no reply. The robber swung past a few more times, curling the fog in his wake, before Dougal reached out a hand to stop him.
The inverted thief’s cloak fell over his face like great wings, making him look more like a bat than an owl. From what Dougal could see of the culprit, he was either a very large bird or a rather small human. But he had a very dangerous weapon. A sword was belted around his hips.
The thief was at a clear disadvantage, strung up and dangling by one leg. But his hands were free. If he drew his blade, he could do some damage.
Before that could happen, Dougal loosened the leather belt around the lad’s hips.
“I’ll take that,” he said.
There was a furious, strangling sound from the thief as his suddenly liberated tabard fell even farther over his head, revealing a pair of dark-stockinged legs and pale linen braies. The robber jerked in frustration at the end of the rope.
Dougal unsheathed the sword. It was an unusual single-edged weapon with an angled point, a small oval guard, and an iron ring in place of a pommel. Why a common thief would have such a unique sword, he didn’t know. He sliced once through the air, impressed by the way the light blade whistled as it passed.
“So are your minions close by?” Dougal asked. “Or are ye just robbin’ folk on your own?”
There was no reply, but the thief went still, as if considering the best answer.
“Perhaps I’ll leave ye strung up here as bait and catch the rest o’ your band of outlaws.”
The thief squirmed at that. Was he afraid that his fellows would be killed? Or that they’d leave him alone to die?
Dougal would do neither, of course. He knew about the desperation of poor folk and what drove a youth to a life of robbery. If no one came out of the trees in the next few moments, Dougal would give the lad a dire warning, box his ears, cut him down, and send him on his way.
That was his plan. Unfortunately, the thief had other ideas.
While Dougal swished the curious blade through the air once more, marveling at the way its sharp edge sliced through the fog, the lad took quick action.
Like a great spider reeling itself back up its silky web, the thief seized the rope above his ankle and clambered up into the ash tree.
As Dougal watched with his jaw agape, the outlaw loosened the noose and slipped free. Then, issuing a hiss of frustration, the lad leaped off one branch and onto another. He disappeared into the misty forest, as silent as he’d arrived.
Dougal was mystified. What the hell had just happened?
He glanced again at the sword. He felt like he was in some fantastical tale where he’d thwarted a dark faerie, and this shining talisman was his reward.
Surely the thief wouldn’t just let him keep the thing. It was far too valuable.
He’d probably left to fetch his fellows and return in full force to reclaim his weapon.
Whatever the outlaw and his cohorts intended, Dougal was wide awake now. He might as well travel onward. It made no difference whether the lad and his band of outlaws were following him. What was one more foe when he was being pursued by an entire army?
Feiyan was furious.
Mostly with herself.
Furious for being caught. For surrendering her sword. For not killing the lout as he lay sleeping. No matter how innocent he appeared.
At least she’d escaped. And she’d managed to hold on to the rest of her weapons, which were tightly secured in the folds of her gambeson. But now that the knave had her shoudao, she had all the more reason to stay on his trail.
The conniving villain would assume she was long gone. But she intended to stick close. Keep an eye on him. Watch for an opportunity to reclaim her blade. Reclaim it and stab him with it.
Next time, she wouldn’t hesitate. Meanwhile, her blunder had cost her the element of surprise. Now that he was alerted to her presence, he would be more wary. And she would have to be more cautious.
Fortunately, she was bloody good at concealment. She would shadow him, steal silently through the trees until he grew careless.
Retrieving her sword might not be easy. She’d seen the way he handled the shoudao. Dangling from the rope, she’d caught a glimpse of him testing the blade. He was no inelegant mercenary. He had the bearing of a skilled warrior.
But she was no ordinary outlaw. And she wasn’t about to let him get away with stealing her favorite weapon.
She tracked him for hours, avoiding detection by alternating her strategy. Sometimes she traveled through the underbrush, sometimes through the canopy. For a mile she would trail him at a distance, then surge ahead to lead the way. At some times she’d watch him through a dense thicket of trees. At others, she’d hide behind a boulder so close to the trail that she felt the breeze of his passing.
As for mac Darragh, he strode with confidence and purpose, not at all what she would have expected from a shiftless, mayhem-making vagabond. His forthright manner belied his capacity for irrational violence.
Of course, Feiyan knew better. She might have glimpsed the Westlander’s handsome face. But she’d also seen his dark heart. And she let that memory inform her as she screwed up the courage to do what she knew must ultimately be done.
She saw no need to linger over the deed. She had no stomach for torture. Once she had her shoudao back in her possession, she’d commit his soul to the afterlife swiftly and surely, just as he’d felled Hallie with one blow.
Meanwhile, he continued on, ignorant of her dire intentions. Indeed, he seemed completely oblivious to her presence, a fact reinforced when he stopped on the trail, unceremoniously loosened his trews, and relieved himself behind the very tree in which she was perched.
She averted her eyes—mostly.
Hitching up his trews, he continued on, but it was a long while before she worked up the nerve to follow.
Gradually the fog lifted. The sky, visible between the spires of pines, grew light. The stars slowly dissolved. Like a woad-dyed kirtle that softened with each washing, the heavens faded from indigo to azure to cerulean as the sun cast its light on the waking world.
Feiyan could no longer rely on the shadows and the mist for cover. She drew up the green hood to conceal her hair and masked the lower part of her face, leaving a slit for her eyes, rendering her imperceptible.
The day brought a new camouflage of sound. Larks and sparrows twittered madly for mates. Woodpeckers knocked at oak trees. Families of quail and scampering coneys skittered through the leaf-fall. Squirrels and crows scolded one another from the branches.
It was midday when the man turned from the path, taking a winding deer trail that led down to the river. Here the water rushed past at great speed, frothing over rocks and coiling into deep currents along the shore. As Feiyan took cover in the rushes, the whisper and roar thankfully disguised the rumbling in her belly.
In her haste to escape, she’d been forced to leave behind the last of her food. Now she was beginning to feel pangs of hunger.
He must have been hungry as well. Making his way along the edge of the riverbank, he located a large boulder where an eddy swirled above a dark and shady pool. It was a perfect spot for trout.
He broke a long, finger-thick branch from an alder and used his dagger to strip off the twigs. Tying together several fibrous reeds, he made a fishing line. One end he tied to the pole. To the other, he attached a hook he carved out of wood. Then he dug in the mud until he found a lively earthworm to use for bait.
After that, he stood on the bank for a long while, dribbling his line into the water while Feiyan quietly climbed a nearby oak to observe.
From her perch on the oak limb, she could study every detail of his appearance, every nuance of his movement, every expression in his face. She hoped to work up a good loathing for the man so that killing him would be easy.
But as she watched him, it was difficult to imagine him as the demon who had charged through her clansmen. While he had the size and strength of the man who’d tried to single-handedly cut down an entire company of knights, his behavior as he fished was far different. Peaceful. Measured. Coaxing. Patient.
She studied his clothing. Somewhere along the way, he’d discarded his armor, his shield, and his helm. What remained was practical, but well-made, not at all the attire she’d expect of a feral madman.
His boots were of finely tooled black leather. His jeweled dagger was tucked into a sheath secured with a leather tie around his waist. His quilted black gambeson fit him closely, hugging his broad chest and clinging to his hips, split at the legs and extending just past his knees. Beneath his gambeson, the loose folds of a muted black-and-grey plaid hung nearly to the ground. And knotted around it all, to her exasperation, was her own sword belt and her precious shoudao.
His gaze was pensive as he stared into the water. Occasionally his brow would crease and his eyes would dim. Was he feeling the weight of guilt for what he’d done? Or only wishing something would nibble at his line?
She wished something would nibble at his line. She intended to let him land a nice, fat trout before she dispatched him and stole his supper.
A half hour later, he still hadn’t caught anything and decided to change his strategy. He stepped onto the boulder to attack the pool from a different angle.
Feiyan settled back against the trunk of the oak. Now she had an even clearer view of him as he hunkered down atop the rock with the sun shining on his face.
She tried to force his countenance into that of a villain.
The locks slashing across his neck and falling in reckless tangles over his brow were as black as sin. His hollow cheeks and square chin were grave-grim. His nose was sharp, like a reaper’s scythe. His brow was as dark as death. His eyes reminded her of a deep loch—bright and blue on the surface, with murky and menacing currents beneath. When he’d spoken before, his lips had twisted into a wry, wicked curve. And his voice with its slight Highland cadence had rolled out like thunder, low and threatening.
Yet no matter how she tried to mold mac Darragh’s features into those of Lucifer himself, she couldn’t deny the fact that if he was a devil, he was a handsome devil indeed.
“There ye are.”
His sudden words nearly startled her out of the tree.
But he wasn’t speaking to her. He was staring intently at the water. Something was tugging at his line. As it bent the branch of his fishing pole, he came to his feet. Feiyan held her breath, as eager as he was for a fish to take the bait.
It continued pulling on the line, and Feiyan could see by the bend in the rod it must be of a considerable size. She tightened her fists, as if she could will the man to set the hook quickly before his catch swam away.
Finally he did, giving his wrist a quick, firm jerk. Man and fish grappled for a few moments. But when he tried to pull the trout from the water, it proved too heavy for the pole. The last foot of the branch snapped off.
