Into the Shadows by Linda K Hopkins
Chapter 8
The sound of crackling jerked Lark from her sleep and she opened her eyes to see a tree stump a few inches from her face. She was lying on her side, her face resting on the damp, mulchy ground, her cloak covering her body. She stared at the patterns in the bark as the events of the previous day raced through her mind. The memory of Elan lying dead on the ground brought her to full consciousness. It was her fault, she thought. If she had not left the palace, Elan would still be alive.
A sob rose in her throat and she choked it back, turning her thoughts to Pip – at least he was alive. He would have arrived back in Lenora last night with news of her death. Perhaps the commander had sent someone to recover her body, and even now, that searcher was following two pairs of footprints that led away from the river. The thought gave her a small glimmer of hope; maybe there was a chance she would be rescued.
The sound of movement had her turning until she winced in pain. Her head ached, and the binds still tying her hands chafed her skin as her muscles screamed in protest. Her wrists itched beneath the cuffs, and to top it off, she could feel the effects of the sun on her fair skin. It burned painfully, and she had no need of a mirror to know that it was an angry red. She took a deep breath and slowly rolled over, pushing herself into a sitting position. A dozen feet away a man was stirring a small pot over a fire, his back to her. She stared at him, wondering who he could be and where her captor had gone. He wore a pair of leather breeches and thick-soled boots, much like the Shadow Warrior had worn. His torso was bare, but a blue tunic was draped over a branch not far from where he hunched over the fire. A tattoo of a dragon crawled over his back, the front claws reaching around his side while the tail wrapped around his waist. The wings flared over his shoulder blades, while the neck disappeared around his shoulder.
“There’s water in the jar,” he said. He glanced at her over his shoulder, his dark gaze meeting hers before he turned back to the fire. She looked around to see the jar beside the stump, and wrapping both hands around the neck, she brought it to her mouth, swallowing greedily. Another need made itself known, but she ignored it as she returned her attention to the man.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“That doesn’t concern you,” he replied.
She frowned. “What are you doing here? And where is the Shadow Warrior?”
“He left you in my charge.”
“Why would he do that, when he’s just going to kill me?”
“Anxious to die, are you?”
“No, it’s just …” Her words trailed off. “I need a moment of privacy.” If she was not about to die, then she really needed to empty her bladder.
He rose and donned the tunic, before walking over and yanking her to her feet. She stumbled wildly, her tied arms flailing until she finally found her footing as he watched impassively. Her hair had escaped her braid, causing strands to fall across her face, and she used her shoulder to brush them away.
Turning, he led her to a clump of bushes a short distance away.
“This good enough for you, princess?” The inflection on the title made it clear it was not a compliment, but she ignored the intended insult.
“Go stand over there and turn around,” she directed.
He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Do you really think I have any interest in that body of yours?” he mocked. “The fat ass of a pampered, spoiled Lenorian who also has as much color as a wraith? I think I’d rather shag a dog!”
Her eyes narrowed as she bit back the retort that rose to her lips. “I need my hands free,” she snapped, holding out her wrists. Their gazes clashed before he stepped forward and undid the knot.
Spinning on her heel, she limped around a tree with as much dignity as she could muster. The train of her skirt was hanging in shreds, and she ripped it off.
“Don’t piss on your clothes,” she heard him call, and she ground her teeth in anger and humiliation. If she could just get the sword she had seen leaning against the tree, she could run him through and make her escape. He would certainly be easier to kill than the Shadow Warrior. Finishing her ablutions, she released her hair from the tie, quickly rebraiding it before turning and marching past her captor. It was obvious that he was Rhymer – his dark eyes and tan skin were clear clues, and while his head was shorn, the stubble around his chin showed that his hair was dark. He was taller than most Rhymers, who tended to be short and stocky, and his muscles rippled beneath his clothes. She slumped down on the stump and turned her attention to her feet. Loosening the laces of her boots, she eased them off one at a time, grimacing as they rubbed against her raw flesh, then breathed a sigh of relief as the cool air caressed her skin.
Rising from the fire, the Rhymer walked over to her, carrying a bowl of bread filled with stew. He held it out to her. “Eat,” he commanded.
She eyed the food suspiciously. “How do I know this isn’t poisoned?”
“You don’t. But since you’re about to die, at least your belly will be full.”
“Assuming your food is even edible,” she said.
“Very well, princess,” he said. “Starve, if you prefer. You’ll wish you’d eaten it when we start walking again.” He turned and headed back to the fire.
“Wait,” she said, “give it here.”
He paused for a moment then placed the bread on a stone near the smoldering embers. “I’m not one of your slaves,” he said. “Come and get it if you want it.”
She ground her teeth in annoyance, but her stomach rumbled and she rose and hobbled over to the fire, taking a seat on a fallen log as he watched her from the corner of his eye. Ignoring him, she grabbed the bread and began to spoon the food into her mouth. As soon as she had her first taste, she realized how hungry she was and quickly finished it off. She ignored the fact that the food was actually quite tasty, considering it had been cooked by a barbarian over a fire.
“Get your boots on,” he ordered. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”
She gave a silent groan, and he looked at her sharply. “You’d rather die than walk?”
“Yes, since every muscle aches, my feet are covered in blisters, and I have doubts that I’ll even be able to get my boots back on,” she spat.
“Then you should’ve worn better footwear, instead of those ridiculous things you call boots.”
“Oh, I’ll be sure to plan better for my kidnapping and execution next time.”
He glared at her, then rose and pulled something from the pack leaning against the tree. “Use this,” he said, tossing her a small jar.
She opened it and wrinkled her nose as a pungent smell rose from the green goo within. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Rub it on your feet. It’s bad enough that I have to take you with me, but I’ll be damned if I have to carry a fat, Lenorian princess. You will walk, and this will help.”
He turned away, his movements angry and jerky as he scraped out the last of the stew and packed away the pot. With an angry glare at his back, she hobbled over to the stump where she had left her boots, scooped out some of the foul-smelling paste, and rubbed it on her feet before gingerly pulling on her stockings and boots. Rising, she found that her feet were already feeling less achy than they had a few minutes before.
“You can use it on your burnt skin as well,” he said over his shoulder, not bothering to look at her.
She shot him an angry glare, but carefully smeared some of the goo over her burns, sighing with the relief that it brought.
She placed the jar back on the log where she had been sitting, watching as the Rhymer pulled a stone jar from his pack and took a deep swallow. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he returned it to his pack and scooped up the jar of ointment. Slinging his pack onto his back, he headed into the trees. “Come, or I’ll bind your wrists again. And don’t forget your cloak.” She glared at his back as she flung the cloak around her shoulders, then followed him into the trees.
They walked all morning beneath a canopy of trees, the Rhymer keeping a steady pace that had Lark almost running to keep up, her heart pounding furiously. He barely even looked her way, but she did not doubt that he would keep his word of binding her should she fall too far behind. Of the Shadow Warrior she saw no sign, and she wondered why he had left her with the Rhymer instead of just killing her.
“What was the Shadow Warrior doing so close to Lenora?” she asked.
“Serving my mistress.”
“And who, exactly, is your mistress?” He did not reply, and her mind turned back to the Shadow Warrior. Pip had said that the Warriors were stronger than any man, and from what she remembered of the creature, she could believe that it was true. Was he off now, killing men of the Crimson Guard? She shuddered at the thought.
The trees and the winding path had taken away Lark’s sense of direction, but the sun was nearly at the noonday mark when they reached a shallow stream that tumbled over rocks as it wound through the trees. Dropping his pack, the Rhymer stooped beside the water and scooped it into his mouth. He glanced at Lark. “Drink,” he ordered.
“And what will you do if I don’t?”
“I’ll kill you right here and leave your body for the wild animals to gnaw on. Now drink.”
She gave him a blistering glare but knelt down beside the stream and lifted the water to her mouth. She could see the pebbled bottom where water snails crept slowly over the stones. The water was cool and refreshing, and she drank deeply. Leaning back on her heels, she winced at the ache in her feet. The relief that the green paste gave her that morning had worn off, and the ache she had endured the previous day was back. Her boots were looking rather worse for wear as well – a couple of the hooks had snapped off, and the heel of one was loose. Sitting back, she gingerly pulled them off and placed her feet in the cool water, sighing with pleasure as she leaned back on her hands and closed her eyes. There was a movement beside her and she looked up to see the Rhymer holding out a hunk of bread and the jar of ointment. She stared at them for a moment as pride battled with common sense, before taking them from him with a nod of thanks.
“Why am I still alive?” she asked as she tore off a small piece of bread.
“I have my reasons.”
“And the Shadow Warrior?”
“He does, too.”
“I don’t understand why I’m being dragged all over the countryside, only to be killed at the end. Why not get it over and done with?”
“Do you know how many people will rejoice when you’re killed, the future Cambrian queen? A public execution will strengthen those who are fighting against the Crimson Guard and will humiliate both the prince and the commander.”
“You plan to make a public spectacle of me?” She pulled her feet from the water and rose hurriedly to stare at him, aghast.
“Of course. But first you will suffer, as the Rhymers have suffered. Do you know how much hardship your elite Crimson Guard have caused?”
“Only amongst those who are guilty!”
“To one of your Guardsmen, all Rhymers are guilty!”
“They probably are!”
They stared at each other angrily. He pointed at the jar of salve. “Put some of that on your feet.”
“No.” She grabbed her boots and moved away. “If my being able to walk makes things easier for you, I will not do it!”
“Very well,” he said, grabbing the jar, “suit yourself. But you will walk, and you will not slow me down. Now I need to piss, so if your delicate sensibilities can’t take that, turn around!”
With a snarl, she spun around and stalked a few feet away, her boots still clutched to her chest. Walking around a tree, she took care of her own needs, before tugging the boots back onto her feet. She had blisters on her toes and her heels, and she knew she would pay for her pride. But she had no intention of making things easy on the Rhymer. If he lost patience and killed her in the meantime, she was fine with that. At least she would not have to endure the public humiliation he had planned for her. The thought of what he might do made her draw in a shuddering breath. A quick death would be far preferable, she thought. Even better, she could grab his knife and drive it straight through his heart. She smiled grimly at the thought as she stepped around the tree to where he was waiting for her to continue the journey.
It was midafternoon when they left the forest behind and reached a sea of grassland. The grass was as high as Lark’s knee, a creamy buttery color, and the sun beat down on her skin. The occasional tree rose from the sea of yellow, the outstretched branches stark against the blue sky, while huge birds nested in the heights. With each step, pain lanced through Lark’s feet, forcing her to walk on the sides of her feet to try to find some relief. She watched the blades that the Rhymer carried as they walked. The sword on his back was inaccessible because of the pack he carried, but the blades at his waist were within easy reach, if only she could keep up with his pace. But she could barely manage to keep walking, let alone grab his knife and stab him. For the hundredth time, she wondered why the Shadow Warrior had left her with this barbarian Rhymer, instead of just killing her as he had intended at the river.
It was almost dusk when Lark saw a spiral of smoke weaving into the air, and a little while later the low buildings of a small town built on the banks of a shallow river, no more than ten feet wide. Beyond the buildings stood some cattle in pens, while a dog slunk around the fence. Lark followed the Rhymer into the town, along a narrow road that wound between houses built one on top of the next. The houses were painted a multitude of colors, with dark red roofs of clay tile. There was a slight shabbiness to the town that Lark could not help noticing – the paint on more than a few window and door frames was starting to peel, and some of the roof tiles were cracked and broken. Children played in the streets as their mothers chatted nearby, their skin olive in the lowering light and their black, glossy hair worn loose. Neta, thought Lark, would be horrified at the sight. They wore the cheerful colors that Rhymers preferred – bright reds, blues, and yellows.
They continued to follow the narrow road as it wound through the town, until suddenly, a large circular hall rose up before them. Lark knew that in days gone by, all Rhymer towns and villages had been built around a large Gathering Hall. The custom was falling away, but many of the smaller towns still had a Hall that stood at the center of the town’s community life, a place where people were entertained and justice was dispensed. Painted a dark blue, with the same clay roof as the houses, it stood at least two storeys high, with high windows. A large wooden door stood open. The Rhymer turned to Lark, and taking the binding that he had used the previous day, he grasped her wrists and tied them together as a feeling of dread washed over her. Had he brought her into this town to execute her before the other Rhymers?
“Like a lamb to the slaughter,” she said bitterly.
He frowned. “Keep your mouth shut,” was all he said before leading her into the hall.