* * *
The Lower Branch Keep appeared tidy, but smelt as if improperly ventilated. The musty stench made Bronwyn turn up his nose. He walked down the aisle and stopped at the display of blades. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Alaura looking through the clothing rack.
Turning his attention back to the weapons, he picked up a sword a little shorter and much lighter than his own; the perfect size for her. He admired the shiny grey stone in the hilt and the simple design of loops. He gripped the well-crafted weapon in his left hand, turning it in a circle then balancing its mass across his index finger. It weighed about a pound and half.
Alaura was right-handed, so he shifted the weapon to his other hand. At first, it felt good, but then a strange feeling erupted. As if same poles of two magnets came together, his hand wanted to reject the weapon. He’d never before felt the sensation.
“Put it down.”
He whirled to find Alaura glaring at him.
“Put it down. Now!”
He held up the light sword. “This? It’s well-crafted. I thought you…”
She reached over and pushed his hand to the display case. “Let it go.”
Bronwyn released his hold. “What’s this about?”
“It possesses evil magic.” She shuddered as if shaking rain from her shoulder.
“You can sense that from over there?” He glanced at the keeper, busy with another customer.
She shook her head and pulled his hand to his face. “You held it with this hand,” she whispered. “It felt as if you sent the bad magic directly to my blood.”
“Is the spell supposed to do that?”
“I didn’t read anything about it in my book. I only know when you held the weapon in this hand, I felt the evil. I tried to push it away, reject it, but you held it tightly.”
“I felt a strong sensation urging it from my hand.”
“If you ever feel it again, get rid of the item. I don’t know what will happen if you use it.”
“Will it hurt you?”
She shrugged. “I’ll ask Beathas when we return. Until then remember the feeling, and do as I ask.”
Bronwyn nodded. The Transfer Spell had become more than either of them had anticipated. He picked up another narrow sword, but before shifting to his right hand, he looked at her. “Good?”
She waved her fingers over the weapon and nodded.
He tested the sword. Though sound it lacked the quality of the rejected weapon. “What do you think?”
Alaura took it and performed a few movements. “It’ll do.” She remained still as he strapped the scabbard around her waist.
He stood back and admired her. “You cut a fine silhouette.” He winked at her.
“Now it’s your turn.” She pointed in the direction of the clothing rack. “I’ve found a few items here you may be interested in.” She held up a vest, shirt and trousers. “Are they suitable?”
He shook his head. “My uniform is fine.”
“You won’t find many respecting it this far from the castle. In fact, it might do you more harm than good.”
“My uniform is important to me. It doesn’t matter how others view it.”
“Yes, it does,” she said. “Few men respect it. Others think, There’s one of Aruam Castle’s finest far from home. Let’s capture him! Let’s kill him!” When he attempted to walk away, she gave him that look. “Bronwyn, be reasonable. On The Trail there are all kinds. I know you’re proud of your uniform, but do you want to attract unwanted attention? You’re putting your own life at risk as well as mine.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. She was right, but he hesitated to admit it. He sighed. “We’ll take them.”
“You can pick out other garments, but these appear to be the best on the rack for your size.” She gave him a solemn look. “But you don’t have to take them.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re only clothes.”
Alaura frowned as he walked away. She took the clothes and set them, the light sword and the food they had picked out on the pay counter.
Bronwyn leant on the surface next to her as she paid for the goods. Maybe he did need clean clothes, ones not torn by weapons and travel. The vest she had chosen looked similar to his uniform vest, but had diamonds embroidered on it like Isla’s. He remembered the day his daughter received the vest from his sister. It made her happy to have one like his. Now, he had one like hers.
“Excuse me, sir.”
A small voice interrupted his thoughts, and he glanced down at a timid boy. The elf looked to be around the same age as Isla. “Hello.”
“Are you called Bronwyn?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do I know you?”
The boy shook his head. “I’m to give this to you.” He handed him a folded piece of paper; page seventeen from Isla’s book. She had scribbled, Bronwyn, keep – 36 miles – trail on the top of the page. He passed it to Alaura. They had planned to question the keeper once they paid for their supplies, but with this evidence he didn’t wait.
“Bairns. They’re always playing around,” said the large, dark-skinned human behind the counter. “Foolishness.” The keeper glared at the boy. “Mungo, get back to work.”
“Wait.” Bronwyn put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Did a hauflin girl give you this?”
The boy squished up his nose. “She said she was a girl, but a boy is what I saw.”
Bronwyn nodded. “Did she come inside the keep?”
“How would he know?” The keeper put his arms in the air, revealing a lengthy scar above his left elbow. “So many people pass through. He’s only a boy.”
“Did she?” Bronwyn asked again.
The elf nodded.
“Did she come with a hauflin man?” Again the boy nodded. “A dwarf? Gnome?”
“Both—all three.”
“Was she hurt?”
“Her eye was black and green. The dwarf, he dozed on the step. She…the boy had to shake him to move, and when he did walk, it was with her help.”
Bronwyn grimaced. The only sense of security Isla had depended on Tam. If he died, her fears would escalate. He looked back and found the keeper scowling at the young boy. “Keiron Ruckle kidnapped the child. We’ve trailed him from Maskil. If you are able to provide further information, I’d appreciate it.”
“What would the scoundrel want with a child?” The shop owner spoke low. “Let the boy get back to work before you bring him trouble you can’t imagine.”
Bronwyn looked at the scared child. “Thank you.” He watched him scramble to the backroom. He turned to the keeper. “You know the man we seek. Did he say where they headed?”
The keeper shook his head. “They didn’t stay long. They went towards Wirksworth.”
“About what time did they arrive?”
The keeper gave this particular thought. “I opened at six, and they showed up about an hour or two later. Can’t say for sure.”
“This morning?”
The keeper nodded.
Bronwyn was only four or five hours behind them. “Thank you.” He helped Alaura with the supplies and walked out. After packing the gear in the side bags, he mounted then reached down to give her a hand up.
A rugged man in a chair on the stoop spoke. “Appears the pony’s ‘bout to buckle under yer weight. I’ve a hawse out back I’m willin’ to trade. It’s more fittin’ fer yew.”
“No, thank you. I’m attached to the ol’ nag.” Bronwyn patted Clover and glanced at a second man resting against the wall. Both strangers appeared to have been drudged from a dirty pit.
“Shame. It’s a good lookin’ hawse.” The first man ogled Alaura. “She yer mate?” When Bronwyn nodded, he said, “Yew wanna sell ‘er?”
He half grinned. “I’m attached to that ol’ nag, too.” He felt Alaura pinch his leg.
“She’d make yew a fair price.” The stranger licked his bottom lip.
“I’m not interested.” Bronwyn asked Clover to move forward.
/> After travelling a distance from the keep, Alaura slapped him on the thigh. “I don’t like being talked about in such a manner. You made me appear vulnerable, as if I’m a person to be conquered and possessed. And I’m not your mate! Don’t mislead others into thinking I am.”
“What did you want me to say? Excuse me, good sir, you’re insulting my best friend with your vile mouth. Could you, please, reword your questions in an appropriate manner as to not offend her?” When she slapped him again, he chuckled. “Be careful. I was offered a fair price for you. I bet he’d honour it if I rode back and told him I had changed my mind.”
She pinched him in the butt, and he rose to escape her fingers. “Men such as he make my skin curl. They want only one thing. You should have spoken with respect to my being, and they may have sensed me to be a capable individual.”
“I’m not out here to reform anyone.” He smiled back at her. “But I will protect your virtues.”
“I’m capable of doing that myself.”
“So you are, Alaura of Niamh. So you are.” Bronwyn nudged Clover into a trot, hoping once away from the keep Alaura wouldn’t ask to get in front. She didn’t. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his waist and seemed to lose herself in thought.
An hour later, he halted Clover. “This is a good place for a break. I see a brook for water.”
Alaura dismounted. “You can change into the clothes we bought. I’ll feel better travelling without a target on my back.”
He wanted to keep his uniform but agreed with her logic. This far from Maskil, people didn’t respect the castle’s colours. Anyone who had a run in with a guard might try to take it out on him. He slid from the saddle and dug the new shirt, vest and trousers from the side bag.
“Hey.”
He turned in time to catch an object wrapped in cloth.
“Take the opportunity and wash before you don clean clothes.” She led Clover to the stream.
Bronwyn wondered if Beathas had taught Alaura to take command or if she came by it naturally. He carried his supplies to the brook then walked a short distance downstream for privacy. At a small pool he stripped and climbed into the cool water. The foamy bubbles from the soap she had given him smelt of lavender. He grimaced. He’d stink more when done than when he started! After lathering his hair, he slipped beneath the water’s surface to rinse.
The cool water refreshed his senses. It felt good to be clean. He glanced down at the claw marks on his side. The troglodyte wounds had begun to heal but they needed clean dressing and bandages.
The cool air brushed against his wet skin as he climbed onto the shore. A strange noise upstream made him cock his head to listen, but he didn’t hear anything further so continued to dry himself. He threw the soaked drying rag against a stone next to his tattered uniform. After donning his new clothes, he strapped on the scabbard then started upstream.
Bronwyn caught a glimpse of movement on the opposite side of the small clearing. He looked to see Alaura but instead found a man standing there, the same man who rested against the wall of the keep next to the stranger who had made the offer for Clover.
The man whirled around when he heard him approach. He drew his sword and prepared to fight.
Bronwyn looked around, desperate to find Alaura. As he advanced on the stranger with his weapon, he saw her. She lay still on the ground with her shirt ripped open beneath the vile man he had talked to at the keep. Seeing her in the awkward position with the man’s face buried in her chest made his blood boil. The surging rage felt unlike anything he’d previously experienced. He raised his sword and attacked, swinging with all his might at the human who stood between him and his best friend.
Although the man fell with the first strike, the dwarf swung several times more, slicing him in three pieces. When he looked at the beast who had violated his Alaura, he released a fierce roar and pounced. He sliced and swung until the man looked like a jigsaw puzzle.
Bronwyn dropped the bloody sword and knelt beside Alaura. They had beaten her about the face with a club. He felt helpless to erase the dirty deeds the men had inflicted on her. An ache grew in his chest and threatened to steal his breath. Where had the common goodness of all beings gone? Better to be killed outright than violated like this. Alaura stood for the essence of purity, and they had defiled her.
How could he help her heal? Water and soap. It would cleanse her of their filth. He ran to the stream and wet a rag. He found the lavender soap where he had dropped it and returned to her. With the decency and gentle hands of a mate, he bathed her chest to remove the attacker’s sweat and spit.
When he finished, he closed her shirt. He noticed several buttons missing and the sleeve torn. Rummaging through her rucksack he found his shirt—the same one she had worn on the day of the inquest. He wrapped her in it as if his shirt had the same power to protect her as he and his sword. It kept her warm, cradled her as a babe in his arms. Her trousers remained fastened which meant they hadn’t gotten too far. He placed a reassuring hand over the buttons. While he lived, no man but he would unfasten them.
When he surveyed the bloody scene, Bronwyn slowly realised what he’d done. Not only had he killed the two men, he had butchered them. In his rage, he had forgotten the virtue of decency. His thirst for revenge had taken control and created a monster. A spore of evil infected his blood. The honourable Sergeant Bronwyn Darrow of Maskil lived no longer. Life on The Trail had replaced him with a man of necessity.
Whirling, he stared at Alaura. What would she think if she woke and saw the slaughter? His pulse quickened. She couldn’t see this ugly side of him. He gathered their things in haste. When he scooped up his uniform, he froze. That which he had once worn as a symbol of honour had lost its importance, its smoothness and all its comfort. Winding up, he threw the bundle of clothes as far into the trees as he could muster. He straightened the blue vest Alaura had bought and went to her.
He lifted her into his arms and walked towards Clover. His determined steps made the pony jittery. When he reached for the pommel, it moved away.
“Damn it, nag! Stay still!” He grumbled when the mare stepped further away, nostrils flaring and ears pinned to its poll. He lowered Alaura to the ground and marched towards the animal. He’d punch it silly if need be to take control of it. It lurched when he grabbed the hackamore bridle, but he held it firm. His anger grew, and he pulled it to face him. Its wild eyes revealed its terror. It expected abuse from a man. He glanced at Alaura. She believed Clover to be a special creature and needed careful handling. If she woke and saw him commanding it like this, she’d be more shocked than by the mess of blood and guts.
“Here, girl.” He eased his grip, but did not release the bridle. He tried to stroke its muzzle, but it jerked away. “Clover, it’s me. I won’t hurt you.” He managed a stroke along her nose. “That’s it, girl. Calm down. We have to get Alaura to safety.” He soothed the mare with his voice as much as with his hand. With the pony back under his command, he released it.
Bracing Alaura against his left side, Bronwyn grasped the pommel with his right hand, put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself into the leather seat. He positioned her side-saddle in front of him. Her body fell limp against his chest. He cradled her with his right arm and guided Clover with the other.
By the time the sun sank low in the sky, he had a campsite set up. Alaura rested on her side, wrapped in a blanket near a crackling fire. She hadn’t yet stirred, causing him to worry. If she didn’t wake by tomorrow, he’d have to seek help. He had done everything he knew, including dusting her nostrils and tongue with what he jokingly called the wake-up herb. He and his dad had gathered the plant on many occasions, but he didn’t know how to use it until Alaura taught him.
Bronwyn fed the last piece of rutabaga to Clover, patted her side then walked to the fire. The half-eaten ration he had made sat on a nearby rock. He picked it up, stirred the food and sighed. He had to keep up his strength, but didn’t have an appetite. Exhaustion was a sneaky c
reature. One might run for days, and not feel tired, but in a moment of weakness, it pounced, draining the energy and dropping its victim like a stone. Be reasonable. Those were Alaura’s words. Eat. He spooned the ration into his mouth. It tasted cold and flavourless. Still, he cleaned the pot. Hunger, like exhaustion was a sneaky fiend.
With the camp secure, he settled behind Alaura. He grasped her hand and tried to connect with her through the Transfer Spell. He closed his eyes and searched for a sound, a feeling…anything. Alaura. Can you hear me? Nothing. He listened for a long time, but no voice came to him. It felt as if he stood outside on a calm night when darkness had not yet completely consumed the land but nothing, not a creature nor a breath of wind, broke the silence. Still, he felt life, vibes of energy floating in the air and entering his air passages. It meant she lived but little else.
Bronwyn spread both blankets over the two of them, wrapped his arm around her mid-section and pressed her back against his chest. He felt secure with his sword lying next to him and a dagger under his makeshift pillow. For a long time, he watched the fire dance into the night air, sending up small sparks into its heat spirals.
When sleep finally overtook him, wicked dreams haunted him. Like an erupting volcano, blood flowed freely. The rage he had felt when he butchered the vile men who hurt Alaura, resurfaced. He grabbed at the demon, but it ran, laughing at him. The evil teased him, wheedling him to follow into the darkness. He stumbled onward and found strange, unfamiliar faces watching him. They belonged to The Trail, deep caves and swamps. He didn’t want to obey, but felt he had no choice. Without an anchor to cling to, he pursued helplessly.