‘You didn’t tell me you brought beer,’ Mark continued, softly, ‘or were you thoughtless enough to lob empty cans through? Typical – God, but I could use a cold one now.’
Steven surprised himself by managing a laugh, but the moment passed when he felt the tip of Sallax’s blade in his back again.
It was early evening by the time they reached their destination: the forest surrounding Riverend Palace. Stopping at the edge of the palace grounds, Sallax pushed his prisoners to their knees, ‘We wait here until dark,’ he said curtly, leaning against a large maple tree.
Mark looked beyond the trees to the crumbling palace in the distance. ‘Why not now?’ he asked, more to observe their captors’ reaction than expecting an answer.
‘Mind your rutting business,’ Sallax said.
Garec came to sit near the two prisoners. ‘It’s several hundred paces of exposed ground between here and the palace. If you’re really Malakasian spies, then you’ll understand why we wait here. I’m afraid you also understand why we can’t allow you to leave with that information.’ His tone was almost apologetic.
‘We’re not spies,’ Steven told him, trying to remain calm. ‘We already explained-’
‘Yes,’ Garec interrupted, ‘you said a magic cloth transported you to our forest from Coloridio or someplace. Surely you understand our hesitation in believing such a story.’
‘But it’s true,’ Steven tried again. ‘We were in our own home last night. Look at our clothes: it’s much colder where we live.’
‘Yes,’ Garec agreed, ‘it is much colder in Malakasia.’
Steven and Mark looked at each other and shrugged. They mutely agreed to try again after they reached the old castle. It was clear, even from this distance, that Riverend Palace was in ruins, the moat dry and the outer battlements crumbling in numerous places along the wall. Once an architectural monument to Rona’s royal family, it was a dismal reminder of a more prosperous time. Mark could see that the roof over several wings of the sprawling stone structure had caved in.
Looking to Garec, he said, ‘I love what you’ve done with the place.’
‘Time, weather, nomads, even local masons needing stone have all contributed to its disrepair. Legend has it the palace was once a grand residence. I sometimes enjoy imagining what it must have looked like,’ Garec mused, almost to himself.
‘Who lives there?’ Steven asked.
‘Lived,’ Garec corrected. ‘The Ronan royal family used to live here. Of course, they haven’t been around for the past nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons.’ Steven and Mark exchanged a curious glance. ‘But don’t pretend this is all new to you.’ Garec was suddenly angry. ‘It’s your rutting horsecock of a prince who keeps us in this situation. I have to sneak about the forests of my own country. Palace grounds are forbidden, forbidden for Ronans to visit. They should be a monument, a national treasure, but instead they rot out there while we sneak around under the heavy hand of your murdering dog tyrant leader Malagon.’ Garec glared at them then rose and walked to the edge of the long meadow separating them from the palace.
Mark pieced the information together and risked a quick exchange with Steven in English. ‘So, this is Rona. They’re enemies with MalaMalasomething, wherever that is, and Mala- Malasomethingelse is the prince who rules with, and I’m guessing here, a bit of a heavy hand.’ He would have continued, but Sallax hit him hard across the temple with the back of his hand.
‘I told you to use Common,’ he ordered. ‘You wait: if Gilmour says you die, I will be especially pleased to cut your heart out and feed it to a village dog.’
Mark shook the ringing from his head. He’d had enough. He lashed out at Sallax’s legs: a wide, sweeping kick caught him behind one knee, knocking him to the ground. In an instant Mark was on him. Although he couldn’t free his hands, he did manage a fierce blow to Sallax’s nose with his forehead before Garec pulled him away.
Blood ran across Sallax’s face as he stood, breathing deeply, and drew his rapier. ‘We only need one spy for interrogations,’ he growled, seething with rage as he moved deliberately towards Mark. ‘Say good night, my friend.’
Mark tried to slither out of his way, but as Sallax raised his blade to strike, Garec stepped between the two men, wrapping his arms firmly around his friend in an attempt to pin the bigger man’s rapier to his side.
‘No, Sallax. This isn’t war; this is murder. We don’t kill unarmed prisoners. We are Ronans, remember?’
Sallax was too angry to speak; Garec continued, ‘Here, wipe your nose. Have a drink.’ He drew a wineskin from his pack. Mark crawled back to Steven’s side, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid a brutal kick to his ribs.
‘This is far from over, spy,’ Sallax growled.
‘Untie me, you big bastard,’ Mark taunted Sallax between laboured breaths. ‘Set me free and we’ll see how tough you are, shithead. I’ll make you swallow that sword, motherfucker.’
‘Mark, calm down,’ Steven whispered, trying to stop his friend railing at the now-impassive Ronan. ‘You’ll get us both killed, and I’m pretty sure if we’re dead here, we’re dead at home too. For God’s sake, shut up.’
Finally, Mark gave up cursing and fell back to the ground, coughing violently and fighting to catch his breath.
Brexan woke with a powerful headache. She wasn’t sure how long she had been unconscious; just a few moments, she assumed. Sitting up in the sandy dirt, she rested her head in her hands until the pain subsided. She cast a curious glance around the forest, but saw nothing of the almor. ‘If it wanted me, I’d be dead,’ she said to herself and struggled to her feet. On the ground where she had fallen were the pages the merchant had given her earlier that morning. Retrieving them, she noticed the wax seal was broken. She looked around self-consciously before reading the message scrawled inside. The pages contained a detailed drawing of Riverend Palace and the surrounding forest. Arrows and symbols gave directions for an assault, by two platoons of soldiers, apparently, and outlined the direction from which they were to attack a large building inside the courtyard. It looked like Lieutenant Riskett’s platoon would approach from the south across the battlements and through a large window at the east end of the building, while Lieutenant Bronfio’s platoon – Brexan’s own – would attack from the north, through the portcullis gate, entering the building from the west.
Brexan folded the pages back up: it was obviously important Lieutenant Bronfio get them as quickly as possible. Ignoring her aching head, she began jogging through the southern forest towards the outskirts of Estrad Village. She wondered if the mysterious strangers she had seen on the beach earlier that morning were somehow involved, perhaps even the reason for the impending attack. She cursed her bad luck as she followed a game traiclass="underline" she must reach Lieutenant Bronfio by dawn tomorrow; failing to deliver the message and plans would put her fellow soldiers at risk – and end her career in Prince Malagon’s army. As one of only three women in Bronfio’s platoon, she already had to work much harder than her male counterparts to earn the respect and admiration of the officers. Losing her horse and failing to deliver critical espionage information would ruin any chance of promotion, even to the rank of corporal, for at least the next ten Twinmoons. She ran on, alone and afraid, hoping desperately to avoid any lurking Ronan partisans who might take her prisoner or, worse, kill her on the spot for being stupid and irresponsible enough to get separated from her unit this far into occupied lands.