CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As the dirt road broke through the overhang of trees, they slowed their horses.
Deckard’s heart beat with the urgency of a ticking clock.
He scanned the distant village looking for any sign of disturbance or .
. . well, he wasn’t quite sure what he expected to see.
Some sign of whatever had waylaid Evylin and Auden this long, he supposed.
But the village appeared calm, the thinning fog drifting out over the nearby lake.
The horses snorted, grateful to exchange their race for a plodding pace.
Deckard’s hand twitched on the reins. The tingling of the Night Relic’s metal against his bare chest, tucked beneath the layers of his clothes to hide its glow, seemed only to heighten his agitation.
He hated being forced to slow down. He wanted to charge into the village, knocking down doors until he found Evylin.
He fought those urges, remaining alert to survey the buildings as they drew near.
“Sir,” Ethenn muttered, his unusually shaky tone betraying his unease, “I don’t mean to question you, but . . .”
Deckard glanced at him. “But you have a question?”
The young man nodded.
“Go ahead.”
Ethenn eyed the village, his keen hunter’s gaze picking up things Deckard was sure he’d missed. “I’m concerned that Thom was right,” Ethenn said. “This could be a trap, and walking in with only the two of us. . . .”
Deckard let the worried thought hang for only a moment. “Do you know why I chose to bring you with me, Loxley?”
The young soldier considered it. “No.”
“Because you’re a hunter. You can track, and you have stealth. If there’s a need, both will help us rescue Evylin and Auden; hopefully, without a fight.”
After a moment of consideration, Ethenn said, “We’d have to be very lucky.” He paused then and eyed Deckard warily. “I’m worried, sir. If we’re walking into a trap, I’m not sure you should be here.”
Deckard’s brow furrowed. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”
“You’re a Mage. You’re every bit as important as the Calders now.
And if we fail here, you could have helped Lady Calder obtain the Relics.
Instead, we’ll leave only one Mage and two non-magical people to complete our mission.
After our time in the other Keeps, I don’t see that small of a party succeeding. ”
Despite the logic in his argument, Deckard felt that it lacked understanding of the situation. “Whatever happens,” he said, meeting the man’s troubled stare, “I could never leave Evylin without knowing she’s safe. One day, when you have a wife, you’ll know what that’s like.”
Ethenn gave him a soldier’s nod of acceptance, though his expression remained disquieted.
They passed the first buildings, entering Dunneshead proper.
Guards patrolled the streets, scanning them.
Deckard kept a firm grip on the reins, trusting that his weapons were well hidden.
They’d both left behind their swords, keeping only concealable daggers and throwing knives upon their persons.
The village was still, windows were shut, and the streets were empty.
A few housewives swept their porches or hung laundry on lines, pausing to watch the strangers warily.
There was no ready sign of Evylin or Auden.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever marry,” Ethenn said under his breath, drawing Deckard’s attention back to him.
“Why not?” he asked, rather grateful for the distraction from the heady sensation of the Night Relic, which tugged with gentle pressure at his focus with its subliminal aggression.
With their hoods up, Deckard could hardly see Ethenn’s face, but when he caught a glance, he thought he recognized the dejected look there. “I’m not sure I was made for it.”
Unable to stop himself, Deckard chuckled. “How old are you, Loxley?”
“Twenty-one.”
Deckard let out a bemused puff of air at the eleven-year discrepancy between them. “Trust me, you have plenty of time to meet the right woman.”
Ethenn gave another of those agreeable nods, as though accepting his commanding officer’s orders regardless of his personal opinion. Then he glanced at Deckard warily. “Sir,” he said thinly, “do you—do you think it’s acceptable for a man to be younger than his wife?”
After overhearing the conversation between Ethenn and Ilain, Deckard found himself internally grimacing, knowing the intention behind the question. “While it isn’t common, I don’t see anything wrong with it,” he replied hesitantly. “However, I suppose that would depend on the woman in question.”
A moment passed as they came to the village’s center. Small shops, a smith, and a tavern filled the square. They dismounted, tying their horses to the hitching post. Still no sign of Evylin or Auden.
“Did you know it was Highlady Calder’s birthday yesterday?” Ethenn asked quietly.
Intent on the search for his wife, Deckard tried not to find the young man’s inquiry annoying. “I did not,” he said casually. “Seems it’s the week for birthdays. Evylin’s is in five days.”
Ethenn straightened his cloak to hang flat over his hatchet. “I believe they’re the same age,” he said. “Twenty-six, or . . . I suppose, twenty-seven with Evylin’s birthday coming.”
Deckard frowned as he scanned the streets. “It isn’t polite to discuss a woman’s age, Loxley.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ethenn said inattentively, then took a step toward the tavern. “Sir?”
Following the young man’s gaze, Deckard studied the tavern.
Its weathered stone walls and aged wooden shutters were worn down like most of the buildings he’d seen across Wauld.
It had two stories, and the top floor’s windows were all shut up.
The bubbled glass of the street-level window showed a warm, orange glow.
The hum of music and laughter emanated from the building.
But it was the noticeboard that caught the men’s attention.
On the side of the tavern was a writ of attachment, a warrant for the arrest of their troop, along with sketches of Auden, Ilain, and Evylin. Despite the mention of four other companions, the soldiers’ names were excluded. Deckard supposed Blount had not yet had the chance to learn them.
Fear coursed through Deckard’s veins, his heart beating faster. In all their caution and preparation, they hadn’t anticipated this. With a writ on them, there would be no moving freely through the settlements of Wauld anymore.
“I suppose we know what happened to them now,” Ethenn remarked dully. “Do you think we’re too late?”
Deckard shook his head with determination, forcing himself to move away from the writ to avoid appearing suspicious.
“No,” he insisted, leading them across the village center.
He wasn’t sure whom he was reassuring—Ethenn or himself.
“No, at most they could have only been taken two hours ago. And we don’t know if they were taken at all.
They could be hiding from their pursuers. ”
Eyes on the ground, Ethenn had instinctively begun to track. “There were no signs on the road of a large party leaving the village,” he said, even as he scanned the dirt. “Given the way the river encircles this settlement, there’d be no other way in or out. Which means they’re still here.”
“What if their party was small?” Deckard asked, tugging his hood lower as a damp breeze cut through, signaling another bout of rain.
Ethenn held up a hand to stop him, gaze still cast downward. His brow furrowed in concentration as he spoke. “It would take at least three men to subdue Evylin, and that’s only if they have the element of surprise. To take down Auden too . . . No, it had to be a large group.”
Deckard was impressed by the man’s reasoning. It was the exact reason he’d chosen the hunter’s aid. “Did you find something?” he asked at Ethenn’s prolonged pause.
The young man’s brow furrowed, then he looked up toward the smith’s shop. The pounding of a hammer on metal reverberated out to them. “This is going to sound odd,” he said. “But I can sense that they visited the smith.”
“Sense, how?” Deckard asked skeptically.
With a grimace, Ethenn glanced at him. “Call it hunter’s intuition?”
Though Deckard had never heard of such a thing before, he chose to trust the man. As they crossed the muddy street, the first drops of rain began to fall. They ducked under the awning as it intensified. The smith looked up, his thick arms belying his narrow frame.
Adopting his fake Waulden accent, Deckard greeted the smith.
“I’m looking for my wife and our comrade,” he said cheerfully.
“He’s about my height with bright red hair, and .
. .” He gestured toward the smith’s scraggly copper beard and chuckled.
“Well, I suppose that describes the lot of us, eh? But my wife is from the border with Ephrian heritage, a few generations back. She has dark hair and eyes and stands about, well—”
Deckard set a hand on Ethenn’s shoulder. “She’s about her brother’s height,” he concluded.
Ethenn shifted uncomfortably as the smith eyed him.
“They came into town to get tents for us and our band,” Deckard continued. “We wondered if they came here in their search.”
The smith turned his critical stare to Deckard. “Wh’ din’ yeh com’ wi’ yer wi’f?” he asked.
If Deckard hadn’t gone into town with Auden over the last couple of weeks, he wouldn’t have understood.
Thankfully, his grasp on the Waulden accent was growing stronger.
“It was our employer’s idea,” he said, stating their agreed-upon lie.
Every time they went into a settlement, the story was that they worked for a mercenary band, traveling on behalf of a Waulden noble who would prefer his cause to remain unknown.
As it turned out, such behavior was common in the country.
After a beat, the smith relaxed. He rattled off a broken string of words that Deckard managed to cobble into an explanation. Yes, they had been there about an hour ago. He gave them poles for the tents, sent them to his friend at the docks for the canvas and rope, and hadn’t seen them since.