‘Nonsense, Garec,’ the woodsman replied with an amused chuckle. ‘Were you at the beer last night too? They’ve never been seen south of the Blackstones before, and it was a rutting feat they ever made it that far.’
‘Well, they’re out there now. Take a look at Rennie’s hindquarter if you need proof. We barely made it out with our hides intact.’ Garec shuddered and went on, ‘I killed one with a miracle shot, and one chased us right into the river. Lords’ luck for us they don’t swim well.’
‘Swim?’ Versen teased, ‘you had to swim away? Some Bringer of Death you turned out to be, huh?’
‘What do they look like?’ Brynne asked.
‘Like the unholy marriage of a mountain lion, a horse and a bear,’ Versen replied. ‘And they’re big, bigger than most horses. If they’re really about, we’ll have to let people know to be careful of their livestock, get them in at night and all.’
The well-dressed merchant stood and walked towards the bar. He was handsome, somewhat older than the small group of friends, and Brynne tried to avoid staring at him as he approached. Placing a few coins in front of Sallax, he commented, ‘I saw a group of them eat a farm wagon in Falkan once. They were so hungry – or so angry – I think they had it half-finished before they realised it wasn’t edible.’
He paused, then added to Brynne, ‘Sorry about the mess here this morning. Thanks again for that breakfast. I loved the local beer as well, my dear. Good day all.’ Brynne blushed and stole another glance at the good-looking stranger.
‘Do come again. We’ll try to provide a touch less violence next time,’ she said as he walked towards the front door. Before exiting he righted an overturned chair, gave a last smile to Brynne, then left without looking back.
‘Who’s he?’ Garec asked, watching through the window as he crossed Greentree Square.
‘I don’t know,’ Sallax answered, ‘he came in late last night. We stabled his horse out back. Big saddlebags. He must be peddling something in the city.’
Few travelling merchants came through Estrad any more. Prince Marek had closed the port and the southern forest five generations earlier and Estrad’s shipping activity had trickled away, unlike the other port towns around Rona. The rumour was that the prince had closed ports in Praga and the Eastlands because his navy was not extensive enough to patrol all the shipping lanes around the southeast peninsula – although some believed Marek just wanted to put a stranglehold on Rona because King Remond had chosen the southern nation as his home and established Estrad Village as the seat of the Eldarni monarchy. Marek’s Malakasian homeland lay far to the north and west, and shutting down Ronan trade helped shift loyalty to the new Eldarni capital in Pellia.
Today Malakasia was the only nation with a navy; even so, Estrad’s port had never been reopened. The lack of seagoing commerce had become a way of life.
Holding a compress to his swollen temple, Garec thought of the occupation army; he had a sense of foreboding. Something terrible was coming, and his anxiety grew as he pictured Gilmour out along the Merchants’ Highway. He was the one who had convinced them to build a partisan force, to start raiding caravans and amassing arms: to fight for control of their homeland. He was the one with the knowledge of Malakasian politics and Malagon’s armies. He was also the one who would know why the Greentree Tavern had been singled out this morning by a heavily armed platoon of Malakasian soldiers.
Garec looked out the window across Greentree Square: Renna was still tethered safely to the post in front of the mercantile exchange. With a quiet word of goodbye he rose to retrieve her. As he left the tavern, he felt a cool breeze blowing in from the coast. The southern Twinmoon was coming, and with it, strong winds and high tides.
Without thinking, he pulled his vest tight and felt a sudden sharp pain in his ribs. He had told Brynne he was certain Gilmour was not among the highwaymen killed last night. As he stepped out to cross the square, Garec hoped that was true.
North of the village, the Malakasian platoon made camp in a glade near the river. Their horses rested, cropping the grass, while the smell of hickory smoke and frying meat wafted through the camp. Oddly juxtaposed with the idyllic setting were the rigid and broken forms of six dead men, three in the bed of an open wagon, arrows protruding from their bodies, three others hanging from the limbs of a large oak tree on the edge of the glade, their necks neatly broken. The hanging bodies were motionless save for the gentle rocking of the great tree by the wind from the south.
The handsome merchant who had visited Greentree Tavern rode slowly into camp. ‘I need to see Lieutenant Bronfio immediately,’ he told the sentry.
‘And who are you then, my pretty?’
With blinding speed, the merchant reached out, grabbed the sentry’s left ear and began turning it violently, as if to tear it from the side of the guard’s head. Blood spurted from the wound and ran between the merchant’s fingers to the ground. The sentry, shocked by the merchant’s unexpected attack, found it impossible to move, or even speak. Slowly the merchant leaned over in his saddle and spoke calmly to his writhing victim. ‘I need to see Lieutenant Bronfio now – my pretty. Move it, or I’ll gut you like a freshly killed pig.’
Inside Bronfio’s field tent, the merchant berated the lieutenant. ‘You need to maintain better discipline among these men. I want that sentry punished. These people are on the verge of attacking our outposts. We cannot put down insurrection with behaviour like that.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the lieutenant answered, ‘I’ll see to it right away, sir.’ Then, frowning, he asked, ‘Did you discover anything at the tavern, sir?’
‘Yes, I did,’ the merchant answered. ‘I can confirm that the partisan group is using the abandoned palace as a meeting place and storage facility for their weapons and stolen funds. Thanks to your work this morning, they believe we are searching for three escaped raiders.’ He looked out between the tent flaps to where the captured criminals had been hanging since early that morning. ‘They will not suspect an attack as long as they believe we are otherwise occupied.’
He paused a moment, then continued, ‘Lieutenant, we will attack at sunrise of the Twinmoon. Send a runner to Lieutenant Riskett. Have his men join you here. I’ll be back the evening before, or I will contact you in the village with my orders.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Bronfio hesitated before asking, ‘Did you discover any news of the whereabouts of Gilmour, sir?’
‘That is none of your concern, Lieutenant,’ the merchant answered icily. ‘I will deal with Gilmour in my own good time. You are a promising young officer. Don’t ruin your career worrying about things that have nothing to do with you.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that there are rumours floating about that Prince Malagon is using… well, “other” means to locate Gilmour, sir,’ he said uncomfortably.
‘I don’t care for one instant what that rutting dog bastard is doing,’ the merchant said, his voice quiet but undeniably menacing. ‘ I will find Gilmour; I will kill Gilmour, and I will eat his heart from a hickory trencher at Malagon’s breakfast table. Do I make myself quite clear, Lieutenant?’
Bronfio hastily replied, ‘Yes, sir, of course. I will contact Lieutenant Riskett and have both platoons ready for your orders by Twinmoon’s Eve, sir.’
The merchant smiled, gave the younger man a friendly pat on the upper arm, and said, ‘Excellent, Lieutenant. The men are in your charge until I return or contact you with additional orders.’ Without waiting for a response, he left the officer’s tent, ignoring the stares of the Malakasian soldiers gathering outside, and rode back towards Estrad.
Malakasian master spy Jacrys Marseth adjusted the cuffs of his silk shirt as he rode back into the village. He had made a mistake referring to the prince in such profane terms with an entire platoon of soldiers listening outside the tent. He knew of many instances in which similar behaviour had been punished by hanging, or much worse… the prince did not take criticism from anyone. He would need to rid himself of this platoon fairly soon. He didn’t know how many would survive the coming attack on Riverend Palace, but those who did would never make it back to Malakasia. To start with, he would return to the camp this evening and slit the throat of the sentry who had spoken so sarcastically to him. Perhaps that would teach his comrades to see the value in holding their tongues and following orders.