Lord Rand of Targhe stood in the shadows and watched the trio as they settled down for sleep. His eyes were obscured and therefore his expression was inscrutable. He stood beside the trunk of a big tree, invisible to the people not twenty feet away from him. He was alone, a circumstance that would have bewildered Rafe yet further had he but known of it. His sword was drawn in his hand but his grip was loose, as though he had little intention of using it.
He stood there for a long time, turning the sword restlessly, but slowly, as though he found the movement therapeutic. He hadn’t been able to sleep. As he had lain next to the fire fatigue had fled and drowsiness had disappeared in the face of his encroaching thoughts. Eventually it had been too much, and he had risen from his bed and crept out of the camp. He had needed to see this warrior that he was following, and had known that he would not be able to rest until he had. This need had drawn him from the warmth of his furs, and through the damp darkness, to stand watching in the shadows of the forest.
Now here he couldn’t seem to leave. He was so close to her. He could have walked across the space that separated them and finish finally what his father had started all those years before. His face stretched into a smile that was made ghastly by the moonlight, eyes turning in to slits and his mouth becoming a black slash in his pale face.
Of course, he would have to do something about the warrior first. Even though he was curled up beneath the out crop, and made indistinct by the cloak covering him, Rand could still see him as he had appeared when fighting off the attack at the first camp. He would have trouble with him, and he had no wish to feel the cold kiss of steel. No, it would have to wait until another time, a time when he had numbers on his side.
Still he lingered, unable to tear himself away from his hiding place. His closeness to Adele, but his inability to get closer, was a sweet torment that both frustrated and yet excited him. Soon the time would come, his wait would not be long.
The wind picked up and sent a sighing breath of dampness through the trees. It blew on Rand at an angle, striking his left side and rippling up through his hair. One moment he was still before it, allowing it to flow across him, and the next he had spun sharply, sword no longer loose in his hand, but gripped strongly, and pressed against the throat of the man he had caught and pinned against the trunk of a tree.
For a second the figure clawed and struggled strenuously, but silently. His only reward was for Rand’s sword to press closer into the flesh of his neck. Abruptly the figure stopped struggling and sagged against the tree, breathing as deeply as Rand’s grip allowed. For a few moments Rand and the intruder remained thus as all around them the wind moaned and leaves stirred softly. Then Rand released him.
“You should know better than to startle me, Bron,” he reproved mildly.
Bron smoothed a hand over the skin of his neck which still tingled from the touch of Rand’s sword.
“I did not notice that you were much surprised, Master.”
Rand did not reply, but turned back to his contemplation of those beneath the shelter of the out crop.
“What the…?” Rand started, his attitude becoming more tense. “Can you see him?”
“See who, Master?”
“The warrior you fool!” spluttered Rand, seizing him by the arm and pulling him down to crouch against the roots of one of the large trees.
“Can you not see his place is empty?”
Bron looked across to the cave. The fire burnt brightly and there were still two figures wrapped up beside its warmth, deep in sleep. However, as Lord Rand had stated, the warrior was no longer there. The place where he had rested was noticeable only by the hastily flung back cloak, and small white hand and wrist which now lay uncovered in the open where the cloak was turned back.
Bron turned to Lord Rand, his mouth opening that he might make some remark to his master. Rand flung out a hand and gripped his shoulder tightly to silence him. Rand’s eyes scanned the darkness keenly; there was a full moon but the light that filtered down through the branches was not strong. Its eerie glow was fickle, playing tricks on his eyes. He wished he had at least an idea where the warrior might be, but he could see nothing of him in the gloom. They waited for endless moments, Rand’s posture becoming even more taut. His hand, as it clasped his sword, gripped with such fierceness that the sinews stood out from the bone.
He felt a light sensation on his neck and turned quickly, his sword swinging viciously through the air. There was naught to be seen and he had to suppose it had only been a leaf blown by the wind. Still, he was badly shaken and the adrenalin that had spread through his veins at the thought of imminent danger now disappeared, leaving him a strange quivering weakness in his stomach.
Bron’s hand clamped down onto his for a moment before he gestured back to the cave. The warrior was moving through the trees toward the fire, his progress silent but purposeful as his gaze swept restlessly over the surrounding area. He hesitated at the fireside, and then drove his sword into the ground and settled himself back into his previous position, careful not to disturb either of the ladies.
Rand began to relax, but caught his breath sharply as he noticed that the warrior remained upright, leaning against the rock and pulling from his belt a dagger. At the last moment he looked up and across to where Rand crouched. It seemed to Rand that in that instant their eyes met, that the warrior’s gaze had pierced the darkness that shrouded him.
He spent several seconds assuring himself that this could not be so, that the warrior’s eyes would be dazzled by the flames. It could only be happenchance that he had picked out the spot where they were hidden. Every reassurance disappeared as the warrior continued to stare him straight in the eye and one lid dropped slowly, covering the left orb for a few moments.
Rand heard Bron gasp beside him.
“He could not possibly… ” Bron swallowed. “No, no; ’tis just a trick of the light.”
Both looked back to the warrior. He lifted his hand and the dagger flew from his fingers. Rand and Bron parted before it and the knife struck the trunk of the tree behind them. The blade buried a good inch into the wood, its jewel encrusted handle protruding outwards between them both. Bron reached out a hand to it, but Rand stopped him pulling the weapon free.
“No, leave it, just in case it was a guess. If we leave it he will never know for sure.”
Bron nodded his agreement. The two of them retreated, silently making their way back to their camp. Despite his words it was a very unsettled Rand of Targhe that returned to his men that night.
------
Finan woke, the hairs on the back of his neck raised as he lay silent, he heard the sound of someone entering his tent. His hand strayed to his dagger, but the last confusing wisps of sleep disappeared from his brain and he realised that violence was not going to be necessary. The intruder was making no effort to be stealthy and had just tripped over a small stool. Finan listened as the prowler pulled himself upright and set the stool to rights.
“Finan, are you awake?” The voice was a breathy whisper.
“I hardly see how I could be expected to be asleep with you charging around like a bull,” replied Finan mildly. “What ails you, Fricka? Why are you not asleep like everyone else?”
Leofric bent over the embers of the fire and stoked them to life.
“Where is the wood kept?”
“Outside the door,” answered Finan, sitting up and stretching his tall frame.
Leofric disappeared through the tent flap, and Finan could hear him rummaging around making a noise, he thought with a smile, like a large mouse. Leofric returned and threw an armful of logs onto the fire in the centre of the tent. Then he pulled a stool close to where the first weak flames flickered around the wood. Finan pulled himself from his bed and dragged his cloak around his shoulders, before staggering to where Leofric crouched close to the heat.
“’Tis a cold night; ’twill be a hard winter I think.”
Leofric grunted in reply and continued to
stare at the flames.
Finan rubbed his hand over his face and neck, yawning.
“With Valrek so close to Mercia’s border it will mean the possibility of raids, we had best prepare the guard.”
Leofric ventured a nod but seemed too engrossed to attempt anything more. Finan watched him for some moments in silence as the flickering light of the flames played over his youthful features. His face was troubled, a rather harassed frown drawing his brows together,
and his lips clenched too tight.
“Come, Leofric lad,” observed Finan softly, “you’ve pulled me from my bed at a time heathens would shrink from; have you naught to say to me?”
Leofric started at the sound of his name and turned his long lashed eyes toward his friend. His face took on a guilty cast.
“Forgive me, Finan; t’was unthinking of me to wake you. What a pestilent fellow I am, I never even thought.”
“’Tis no matter, lad.”
“No, you never do think me pestilent or tiresome. You know, I believe that I have never heard you utter an impatient word, Finan.”
“I would not go so far as that, but my temper is easy; it has to be with Rafe coiled so tight.”
Leofric smiled, chuckling as he stamped on a spark.
“Rafe curses more than anyone I know. I think the worse the name he calls you by, the more pleased he is with what you have done.”
“I would he were here now, for after he had told you that you were the spawn of evil for dragging him out of bed, and berated you as a simple fool for wanting to sit in the cold of early morning, you would, I know, feel much better.”
Leofric smiled, but this time it was absentmindedly and his thoughts were obviously elsewhere.
“You have had another dream.”
It was a statement, not a question. Leofric stiffened and kept his face averted, but after a few moments he gave an abrupt nod. Finan gazed at his friend in sympathy, he well knew how Leofric had been troubled by unsettling dreams since his boyhood.
Finan remembered the first time he had met him. Finan himself had been fifteen, guarding over a nine year old Rafe. Leofric had been a small boy of four with large, dark fringed, eyes and a head of coppery curls. He had been fierce in his desire to be accepted by Rafe and Finan, and had been full of bravado and spunk. Yet that had been during the day.
At night it had been different. Leofric had writhed and cried out against the dreams that terrorised him, finally being jolted from sleep into the cold hours of darkness. His youngest foster brother had never told him the contents of these dreams but, after experiencing such nightmares, he was always unable to sleep again.
Since those far gone days it had become Leofric’s habit to seek out the company of those who he called friend. Many were the times that Finan had been roused from sleep to sit in the chill air of morning beside a silent and meditative Leofric.
Some men might have baulked at such an imposition, but Finan was easy going. He knew how hard Leofric’s lot in life had been. Even Rafe, who was acknowledged to be a rather warm tempered young man, had never failed Leofric at these times of need.
Leofric had tried so hard to pretend that he was not under stress, that anxiety did not exist for him. Yet both Rafe and Finan knew that their presence beside him in these moments calmed him, and allowed him to relax.
Chapter Twelve