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  While Davon took no pleasure in going against the Lady’s wishes, he did derive some satisfaction that his rather underhanded actions would protect Hightower and two ladies that had come to mean more to him than he had intended when he had walked up to the doorstep four days ago.

  Again he sensed the will of the Eternal Flame pushing and pulling him where it needed him to go. Killing Lady Hightower’s husband for Emile’s tarnished honor had turned to one of his biggest regrets. Now came a chance, in some small way, to make restitution for his sins toward Lady Hightower, a most excellent woman.

  He gathered his coat, hat, and carving bag and faced Arianne, who folded her arms across her chest and regarded him severely.

  “I will expect you early tomorrow, Mr. Harper,” she stated flatly. “And I don’t want to hear another word about your plan. It is out of the question.”

  “What plan, Arianne?” Elaine interjected.

  “Never mind, Elaine. It is a private matter between Mr. Harper and me.”

  Davon bowed to them both. “I assure you, Lady Hightower, I won’t utter another word on the subject.” She eyed him suspiciously and he lowered his eyes to appear more defeated.

  “Very well,” she said after a searching pause. “Good evening to you, Mr. Harper.”

  The door closed and Davon hopped down the steps and waited for Mr. Garvis to arrive with the horse. His mind raced, nerves buzzing in anticipation of his journey. He would stop at Hightower’s taverns first, spreading the rumor that he was carrying a special package to Bellshire for Lady Hightower. With any luck, the news would travel quickly. He would leave that night and strike out on the road, cutting into the wilderness when day came. The only worry was the horse. His current mount didn’t possess the endurance of Ceril and might fail him in a pinch.

  “Here you are, Mr. Harper,” Mr. Garvis said, handing the reins to Davon.

  Davon mounted. “Is everything in place?”

  “Just as you asked for,” he answered. “I’ve packed some extra food in the bags and an extra waterskin for good measure. I am grateful you are willing to take this chance for the Lady.”

  “Ah! One moment!” Davon exclaimed, remembering something. Reaching into his carving bag he pulled out the two carved candles. “This one is for you and the other for Missa.”

  Garvis grabbed them eagerly, smile overspreading his face. “Now,” Davon continued, “if you concentrate…” But Garvis had jumped ahead of Davon’s thought and a flame sprung to life on the delicate wick that stayed steady, unaffected by the night’s breeze.

  Garvis passed his hand over it. “It doesn’t burn! This is extraordinary!” Davon forgotten, Mr. Garvis turned and eagerly returned to the house.

  Davon smiled at the retreating servant and set off down the short lane that led to the road. The moon hung just over the top of the tree lined hills, swollen and bright, providing ample light for a chilly night ride. Breathing in the crisp air, he coaxed the horse into a trot to warm him up. The trip to Bellshire normally took a solid two days; he wanted to trim that time.

  The road passed directly through the Hightower Township, and as he crested a low hill he caught sight of its lights punctuating the windows of the houses and businesses just two miles ahead. Again the troubling sensation of wrongness hit him like a bucket of cold water, and he jabbed his boot heels into his horse’s flanks. With a jolt it surged into a gallop, the air rushing by pushing the brim of his hat back.

  A shot rang out from somewhere to his left, the bullet whizzing just behind him as the horse tore through the night. This was more serious than he had imagined. They had staked out the road! They couldn’t know if he had the ledgers, but whoever stood to lose from the ledgers’ contents probably assumed the Queen’s Underclerk knew more than he should about whatever secrets they contained.

  He chanced a look behind him. Another shot. A muzzle flashed from a thicket just off the road behind him and a bullet ripped into his saddlebags. Davon hunkered down over the horse’s neck, every pulse of the beast’s legs inflating his chances of escape. The town’s lights steadily neared, bobbing up and down in his vision. The third report from the rifle sounded distant and was errant enough not to register any effect near him. In moments, the outer buildings of Hightower engulfed him and he relaxed his pace and his posture, the horse’s shod hooves sending up a racket on the cobblestone streets.

  His plans changed. He would not take the time to hang around in taverns, though he had to ensure the general public knew he had the ledgers so that any would be thieves or assassins would leave Hightower manor in peace. His recent run in provided him with an opportunity, and guiding his horse to the first tavern, he jumped off in a bustle and banged open the door of the Winsome Maid.

  “Someone shot at me!” he exclaimed to a surprised and subdued crowd. “I’m carrying a special package to Bellshire for Lady Hightower and I think someone’s trying to steal it! I’m not from here. Could someone tell me where the sheriff’s office is?”

  Several mumbled answers and contradictory pointing fingers from inebriated patrons informed him of exactly where it probably wasn’t, and he left, mounting his horse quickly. He had no intention of visiting the young Sheriff who would undoubtedly detain him while he investigated the matter. One more tavern stop to set rumors flying and he would continue his journey. The Horned Head waited down a side street and was, Davon suspected, the source of the intruder that had menaced Hightower the night before.

  He repeated his “I’m going to Bellshire with ledgers” routine to a more gruff and mean crowd that eyed him with suspicion and silence, despite what Davon figured was a well-executed attempt at appearing desperate and distressed. An awkward silence mingled with the stench of vomit and sweat for several moments when Davon caught sight of a pistol being raised underneath a table.

  He dove out of the tavern as a shot took a plug of wood out of the door and set his horse to rearing. His job was done. Clearly, someone had set in motion a plan to get the ledgers back after the previous night’s failure, and the deader the troublesome underclerk, the better. He hoped the murderous plots didn’t include Arianne, and the thought of her in danger smote his heart.

  Before more bullets could fly, he mounted the horse and rode, considering a return to Hightower. Were the sheriff’s men guarding the house trustworthy? Competent? If the villains behind the conspiracy believed he carried the ledgers, would they leave her be? He agonized for several moments before deciding he had to continue as he had originally planned. The ledgers were the key. Even if Arianne had some dangerous knowledge—which she didn’t—any accusations she might make would have no weight of proof behind them without the ledgers. Of course, the powers behind these attacks might not think so rationally.

  Resigned, he turned south and set off at a good clip until the lights of Hightower fell far behind and out of sight and the sound of his horse’s hooves echoed alone in the starlit night. Fearing another sentry south of the town, he didn’t slow his pace until several miles had passed without incident.

  Steady now. Steady and quiet the rest of the way.

  The next morning Davon snapped his head up and shook it. He had dozed in the saddle as he had several times in the dead of the night, but movement ahead of him pulled him from slumber. He had to rub his eyes before he would believe them. There in the predawn gray was a group of North People, the Aua’Catan, clustered on the side of the road near a stand of tall trees.

  There was one white haired woman and two bald men in leather pants and jerkins, and they seemed just as surprised to see him as he was to see them. Davon stopped the horse, and they hefted their packs, spears, and bows and darted away into the wilderness. While Bittermarchians didn’t hunt and kill the Aua’Catan like the Creetisians, most considered them savage and unrefined. Davon had been called that himself, so he didn’t put much stock in it. Still, it was odd that they were so far south.

  He pushed the horse forward again at an easy pace, glancing into the woods but findin
g no trace of the Aua’Catan he had seen. They were good in the wild, but he didn’t trust his vision at the moment. Even the sun’s brilliant blaze as it crested the Ice Fire Mountains to his left couldn’t keep his heavy eyelids from dropping closed. He stopped and splashed water from a trickling stream on his face and chewed some bread to wake himself, but after dozing off and nearly pitching himself from the saddle a few miles down the road, he decided he could not avoid resting. He had too far left to go.

  Resigned, he steered his horse through a break in a leafy hedge and into a dewy green field where mist still lingered. He needed a few hours rest, and he found a massive persimmon tree on a slight incline with a good view of the road. Staking out the horse near a rich tuft of broad spring grass, he leaned against the trunk facing away from the road and pulled his broad brimmed hat over his eyes. Accustomed to sleeping outdoors, he drifted off quickly…

  …only to be roused by a gun poking him in the shoulder.

  He startled awake and shoved his hat upwards, fearing he had been caught. The weathered, pruned face of a man holding a rifle and the bleating of sheep greeted him in the late morning light. Davon exhaled in relief. This was a shepherd and likely the owner or tenant of the field. His hard, dark eyes pinned Davon to his spot.

  “Been men up and down the road this morning lookin’ for someone what matches your description. Say he shot up a place in Hightower.”

  Davon tried to grin pleasantly, wishing he had the gift of charisma and charm that other Lords seemed to have in abundance. At least his recently trimmed beard and hair would lend him some respectability. “I assure you I’ve not shot anyone or anything in Hightower. I’m just a clerk.”

  The man snorted. “A clerk, are ya? A bit tan for a clerk. Big gun for a clerk.”

  “I always travel armed in case of brigands or predatory animals, as I can see you do.”

  He wasn’t convinced. “Liar. Too tan for a clerk. Too big, too. You’re a ruffian of some sort.”

  Hoof beats on the road a hundred yards behind the tree distracted them both, and the old shepherd leaned around the trunk to get a look. “There’s a couple of ‘em. You just stay put or I’ll blow a hole in yer chest wide enough to shake hands through.”

  Davon couldn’t believe his extraordinary ill luck. The shepherd stuck two dirty fingers in his mouth and whistled so loudly that Davon’s horse shied back in surprise. Frantically, Davon took stock of his situation. The saddlebags sat by the tree with his rifle. The horse, now spooked, pulled at its stake some thirty feet away. His captor had his eyes on the road and was waving his hand to the riders. From his reclined position, Davon couldn’t figure a way to stand and overpower the man quickly enough to avoid the promised cavernous hole in his chest.

  He needed a diversion, something to pull the old man’s attention away from his prisoner and his gun just for a few moments. The scars on his chest started to itch and he reached up to scratch them. The shepherd returned his malevolent attention back on his prisoner. Davon had just raised his hands in a gesture of innocence when a fierce growl and the screaming of terrified sheep unnerved them both.

  From the deep grass to his right, a sabercat tore into the field. In a heartbeat it had punctured the neck of a fat, slow sheep on the edge of the herd. The shepherd swore and raised his gun, firing off a poorly aimed round that drilled his injured sheep in the hindquarters. The report of the gun momentarily scared the wary cat, but as soon as the echo of the shot settled, it dove in and began pulling its victim back toward nearby trees.

  Davon didn’t waste the opportunity. Springing to his feet he easily separated the old man from his gun and chucked the weapon out into the field as far as he could.

  “Good day!” he said before sprinting for his saddlebags and his rifle. While the shepherd spouted off several different epithets that compared Davon to the offal of various domesticated animals, Davon collected his equipment and settled his horse. The riders still sat on the road watching, perhaps intimidated by the sound of the gun, but once they saw their quarry run for his horse, they spurred their own and charged onto the field, further upsetting the sheep which had fled in that direction.

  Davon undid the stake and left it, and without time to attach his saddlebags properly, he threw them over his lap as he thundered away to the south, following the line of the road and riding hard. Shouting and hoof beats followed him, echoing at a distance. Resting had been a mistake, after all. Someone was really, really desperate for the ledgers.

  The exposed fields and low hills stretched around him like a green sea with islands of trees and occasional flotillas of hedges and bushes. With a trained eye, Davon watched for small gullies worn by rain water and kept an eye out for low rock walls left by farmers who cleared the fields of debris in the past. Expertly, he guided his horse around and over every obstacle, widening the gap between him and his pursuers.

  Two dogged him from the rear, and from time to time he thought he heard more men in the direction of the road and even some off in the wilderness to his left, though he couldn’t be sure. After the initial sprint, the pace slowed as the terrain gradually turned more wild and difficult, pastures and fields giving way to untamed meadows and ever more expansive groupings of fir and aspen. The Ice Fire Mountains grew steadily in the west, and the inclines and declines of the hills more rocky and severe. Here Davon thought he had the advantage. Here he could get lost, hunker down, and perhaps get an idea of how many men trailed him.

  He stopped for a moment to get the saddlebags properly affixed. An afternoon storm gathered in the south, high gray clouds gradually washing northward like a dull, ponderous tide. A few distant cracks of thunder rumbled in the sky as he pushed forward out of a fragrant copse of green spruce and into a rock strewn meadow. Again, his nerves tingled in warning as they had done twice before. He jabbed his heels into his frothing horse again. Wind whipping by his ears, he barreled across the clearing with white-knuckled hands on the reins, weaving in and out of clumps of rocks that would trip the horse.

  A rifle report was all the warning Davon had before a bullet blasted into his horse’s head and then another into his thigh. The horse went limp and crumpled to the ground, sending Davon over the top. With reflexes he never knew he had, he tucked his shoulder and rolled, tumbling over the rough ground. When he and the horse settled, it took several moments for his bearings to return and the pain from his wounded thigh to register. Glancing back at the horse, a quick realization hit him: he was hit on the front of this thigh; the horse was struck on the left side of its head. He had ridden into a trap, and the riflemen were skilled. One gunman waited to his left and the other somewhere just in front of him.

  Staying low to the ground, he scooted back toward his own rifle and ammunition bag in the low grass to the left of his dead steed. A knee-high crumble of rocks provided scant cover from one gunman, and he edged toward the back of the fallen horse for some cover against the other. In moments, he suspected his pursuers would gallop up from behind with possibly more arriving from the road. He shoved a bullet in the breech loader as a shot from one of the gunman whizzed overhead and another thudded into the corpse of the horse.

  Rolling onto his belly, he propped his gun on the dead horse’s flanks and stared ahead, squinting. At about seventy yards he spotted him, the dome of a hat and the barrel of a gun sticking up above a fallen log in a small stand of trees. He was reloading. Davon waited for the head to rise just a few more inches.

  As he sighted the shot, the sound of a horse approaching from behind him begged for his attention. He kept his aim steady, waiting. At last, the head poked above the log and Davon squeezed the trigger, the bullet slamming into the forehead of the would-be assassin, sending him to the ground in a spray of red. Davon rolled off the horse and reloaded. Another bullet chipped the rocks to his right as the other sniper tried to pin him down. Gun loaded, Davon crawled up against the rocks and faced backwards. The horse and his rider had yet to emerge from the same copse he had passed throug
h before crossing the meadow.

  While he waited, the incoming clouds extinguished the last of the sunshine. The approaching horse came slowly now, the rider no doubt exercising caution after hearing gunfire. But come he did, dark horse emerging at a cautious pace from the shadows of the trees, the rider holding a pistol out and surveying the meadow for signs of danger. Davon dropped him with a shot to his heart. The horse reared and dumped its rider, running wildly into the field.

  Davon rolled onto his belly, noting the blood pooling by his thigh. With no proper bandages, he had to use one of his saber-tooth knives to cut a strip of cloth from his shirt. He bound his leg with it, all while trying not to raise his head above the level of the stones.

  The third gunman hadn’t fired a shot since Davon had managed to wedge himself against the rocks, which meant he was either very patient or repositioning himself. In either case, Davon knew he couldn’t stay put. The field provided only sporadic cover, and getting from one spot to the next would expose him for too long. Any man that could hit a horse in the head while it ran across a field could easily drop a man with a wounded leg as he stumbled for cover.

  Since the meadow was on an incline, sloping down to the road and away from the likely direction of the other shooter, he decided to crawl on his belly in that direction, doing his best to plan a path that included every tuft of grass taller than a rabbit and every rock of any size to crawl behind. The saddlebags were trapped irretrievably underneath the horse, so Davon took his loaded gun, carving bag, and ammunition pouch and set off on an uncomfortable and slow trek, his thigh screaming with each scraping pull forward.

  When another bullet thudded into the ground to Davon’s left, he knew his enemy had repositioned himself close to where the first gunman had died. Davon shuffled quickly behind a squat cairn of rocks and stopped, reaffixing the bandage that the dragging had pulled loose.