Alliances

Breetan glared at the bodies, now decently covered with their own cloaks. More than the Black Hall must know of this outrage. She would have to send word to the Knights’ headquarters in Jelek. Unfortunately, her return to Alderhelm would have to be delayed until morning. A night march through hostile territory was too dangerous. They would have to pass the night here.

The decision was not popular with the men. Numbers and a stone stronghold hadn’t saved their comrades. They clamored to return to the fort at once, but Breetan wouldn’t consider it. She ordered half the company, led by the sergeant, to stand guard while the others rested. The fire would be kept burning throughout the night and, an hour after midnight, the sleepers would relieve those on guard.

Breetan placed her bedroll below the east face of the great boulder, so the first rays of the morning sun would wake her. She set her helmet and crossbow within easy reach and settled in. It wasn’t the first night she’d bedded down in full armor. The bonfire and alert eyes of the watchers eased the worry of ambush. Bright embers drifted skyward with the smoke. Breetan fell asleep watching them wink out like dying stars.

She had positioned her bedroll just right. The light of the rising sun, filtered through the forest, fell on her face. As was her way, she went immediately from sleep to wakefulness. The smell of wood smoke hung heavy in the muggy morning air. Above, the sky was cloudless and blue as a robin’s egg. Birds trilled in the trees. What Breetan did not hear was the bustle of a soldiers’ camp coming to life. The rough voices of her company were completely absent.

Carefully, she stretched out a hand and felt the stock of her crossbow. She eased the weapon to her but suffered an unpleasant surprise. The bowstring was cut, the bolt gone.

She rolled to her knees, groping for her sword. Her scabbard was empty. Astonishingly, her blackhanded dagger had been taken from her boot sheath without awaking her. Her helmet was just where she’d left it, but it sported a new decoration: the bolt from her crossbow pierced it.

With a curse, Breetan jumped to her feet and put her back against Shattered Rock. Jeralund and her twenty men were gone. The clearing was littered with blankets, utensils, and dropped weapons. A confusion of footprints covered the road, giving no clue to what had happened. Even Breetan’s horse was gone. Every living soul had been spirited away in the night and she had heard nothing, though she had always been a light sleeper.

“Yes, you’re alone.”

The male voice, coming from behind and above, sent her whirling away from the boulder. Atop the landmark rock stood a weird figure. A patched and faded brown robe covered his thin body. His head was enveloped by the robe’s hood, and his face was further concealed by a close-fitting cloth mask that covered everything but two eyes, light in color, but cold and hard as a draconian’s.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“A ghost. Who might you be?”

“Breetan Everride, Knight of the Lily!”

“Any relation to Burnond Everride, by chance?”

She blinked, surprised out of her hauteur, and claimed the kinship. The masked man said, “A bold and fierce campaigner. He never would have allowed himself to be taken like this.”

The taunt angered her, but she reined in her emotions. His cultured voice and knowledge of her illustrious warlord father meant the fellow was no illiterate forest bandit.

Breetan saw no sword or other weapon on him and considered rushing him. With a running jump, she could reach his ankles, drag him off the boulder, and thrash the impudence from his voice. The memory of the dead soldiers hanging in the trees caused her to hesitate. One person could hardly have wreaked all that havoc. The wretch must have followers nearby. Why else would he be so confident?

“What do you want?”

He gestured with a gloved hand. “You. I knew if I made enough trouble, the humans would send someone like you. Not a warrior, but an enforcer.”

She scowled at him, but her thoughts were racing. The humans, he had said, so he wasn’t human himself. An elf then. Perhaps a Qualinesti not driven out with the rest of his kind.

“I want you to deliver a message to your masters,” he added. “A simple one: The forest is mine. From here to Ahlanost, where the trees meet the mountains, it is mine. You and your Order will depart or be destroyed.”

She laughed. “A few rogue elves with a Qualinesti lordling at their head? The Order does not flee from trash like you!”

Her shot yielded fruit. For the first time, her words penetrated his shield of amused condescension. Thrusting a finger at her, he spoke in a loud, trembling voice. “Do not befoul the name of Qualinesti or speak to me of trash! You, with a lineage like a mongrel dog, aren’t fit to judge even the least of my kind!”