Crown of Three (23 page)

It was over.

A shadow passed over Tarlan. Looking up, he saw Nasheen soaring overhead. The wound on her white breast still looked bad, but she was flying straight and level, her wings beating as powerfully as they ever had. Caraway's poultice was clearly doing its job. Though she'd been awake when the fighting had started, Tarlan had ordered her to remain in the woods, partly to regain her strength, partly to keep watch over the sick tigron cub.

“Nasheen!” Tarlan called, his heart filled with joy at the sight of her. “Are you all right?”

“Filos,” said the thorrod. “Awake.”

Tarlan grinned. The news just kept getting better.

Soon we'll be able to leave!

“Good!” he said. “Go back to her. Keep her safe. It's nearly over here. We'll be with you shortly.”

“Tired,” said Theeta, gazing at Nasheen as she headed back toward the thicket.

Tarlan patted her neck. “I'm sure you are, my friend. If anyone's earned a rest, you have. Put me down.”

Theeta landed in front of the mill, where the villagers were busy covering the dead with sacking and carrying the wounded away on wooden litters. Tarlan slipped down from the thorrod's back and touched his hand to her beak, aware of the awed expressions of the onlookers.

Lady Darrand's chariot appeared from behind the mill. The warrior woman was standing at the reins, a fierce smile on her face, her bloodied sword held high. When she saw Tarlan, she let out a guttural cry.

“Go to the others,” said Tarlan to Theeta. “Get your rest. I'll be with you soon.”

The thorrod flew off just as Lady Darrand's chariot drew to a halt beside Tarlan. He stroked the horses, sensing their stress from the battle.

“It's over,” said Tarlan.

“And we are grateful to you, thorrod rider,” said Lady Darrand. “This village is free of Vicerin's rats once and for all.” She eyed him steadily. “I do not know what fate brought you to us, but I'm glad it did. The times are dark in Toronia. May you travel safely.”

Tarlan nodded. “We will. I hope you get your daughter back.”

Lady Darrand raised her helmet in farewell.

She drove her chariot onward and Tarlan started walking back to the thicket where his pack was waiting.

“Please!” a voice called. “Please, wait one moment!”

Tarlan turned. A man in a dirty cloak was hurrying up to him.

“You'll be hungry on the road,” the man said. “Won't you take some food for yourself and your friends? I don't have much, but I want you to have it. You saved my home, you see.”

Tarlan hesitated. He'd happily eat whatever he and his pack caught on their travels. Still, the man looked so eager that he found himself agreeing.

“Why not?” he said with a grin. “Lead the way.”

  •  •  •  

“This is where I keep my supplies,” the man said. They had come to a barn tucked away from the rest of the village in a shallow vale. The man opened the door and ushered Tarlan through it. “Whatever you find in here is yours.”

Tarlan strode inside. The barn was gloomy. Thick dust hung in the air from the hay bales stacked by one of the walls. In the far corner was a barrel next to a stack of crates.
Must be where the food is
, he thought.

He went over and lifted the lid of the first crate.

Empty.

The next crate was empty too, and the barrel.

“Hey!” Tarlan called. “What's going on?”

The man was inside the barn now too—and closing the door.

Then movement caught Tarlan's eye. On the wall, flickering behind the hay bales, were shadows.

It's a trap. . . .

Enraged, Tarlan raised his sword as five Vicerin soldiers burst through the hay bales. Straw showered everywhere. The man who'd lured him here threw off his cloak, revealing his blue Vicerin colors beneath. His blade clanged against Tarlan's.

Tarlan dodged and swung at him. It was too close quarters to use his bow, and the unfamiliar weapon felt slow and heavy; Tarlan grimly wished he had something more effective at hand.

A thorrod's beak, for example.

Laughing, the soldier parried Tarlan's clumsy thrust, the force of it shoving Tarlan all the way back through the door and out into the sunlight. He stumbled, looking around for Lady Darrand's soldiers. But the Vicerin soldier had chosen this barn for good reason—there was no one in sight.

I'm alone.

Recovering his balance, Tarlan sidestepped another blow, then lunged with his sword again. Another soldier fended him off, this time forcing Tarlan to his knees. Then the soldier pulled a small, curved knife from his belt and slashed at Tarlan's face. Tarlan recoiled and the blade whistled past a hairbreadth away. His feet tangled together and he fell, dropping his sword.

His vision faltered. His ears filled up with a low, dull roar.

Get up
, he told himself.
Come on!

But the man with the knife had fallen on him. He planted his knees on Tarlan's chest and all the breath whooshed out of him. He clawed in vain in the dirt for his sword, then felt cold steel at his throat.

Tarlan froze.

“Don't kill him!” came a voice from the barn.

“Why not?” said Tarlan's opponent.

“Lord Vicerin wants us to take the kids alive, remember?”

The soldier removed his knees from Tarlan's chest and grabbed his arms. Another pair of hands seized his legs. Before he could even draw breath, he was being dragged back into the barn.

“Take his bow! Tie him up and cover his head!”

A moment later, Tarlan found himself facedown in the dirt. Hasty fingers tied thick rope around his wrists and ankles. Someone put a rag in his mouth and drew a coarse canvas bag over his head. Everything went dark. He was lifted, then dropped. His body felt like a lump of dead prey.

“Theeta!” he tried to yell. But the rag turned his shout into a meaningless groan.

Something hit his head and the world went black.

  •  •  •  

Tarlan woke to the sound of creaking. His head—aching from the blow he'd received—was still covered, and his arms and legs were tied. Trussed like a mountain fowl, he was lying on a wooden floor that swayed to and fro as he struggled to free himself. Something heavy pressed down on him, hampering his movements. He remembered Mirith talking about boats. Was he at sea?

Trying to spit the rag out of his mouth, he cursed himself for being captured again. He felt hot and stifled, and yearned for the cold, clean air of his homeland.

Yalasti. Ritherlee. Is there anywhere I can really be safe?

Tarlan's fear for himself was quickly overwhelmed by a greater concern:

What's become of my pack?

The swaying stopped. Somewhere nearby, a horse whinnied. Not a boat, then, but a cart.

The weight was lifted from his body, and a hand snatched away the hood. Tarlan blinked against the sudden rush of light. Hands fumbled with the knots around his ankles. As soon as they were free, he kicked out, only to find a knife at his ribs.

“Calm yourself, bird boy,” said the soldier. “Now, I'm going to remove your gag. Are you going to be quiet, or am I going to stick you?”

Tarlan glared at his captor.

“Take it off,” said the soldier who'd untied his legs. “He's got nowhere to go.”

As soon as the rags were unwrapped from his face, Tarlan spat out the gag and worked his jaw, gulping down the fresh air as a parched man might swallow water.

“Come on,” said the first soldier. “Lord Vicerin will be happy to have another hostage.”

“There's no prison built that can keep me,” Tarlan snapped back. “What happened to Theeta?”

“Who?”

“The thorrod, you idiot.”

The soldier's tone hardened. “Why should I care about that monster? Now shut up, or I'll put this sack right back over your head.”

For all his pent-up frustration, Tarlan was too weary to put up a fight. He felt detached from his body, and the effects of Caraway's poultice were wearing off, leaving his injured shoulder feeling hot and sore. Better to bide his time and regain his strength. He'd escaped captivity before; he could do it again.

Except . . . last time he'd had the thorrods to help him.

Now he was on his own.

The cart had stopped beneath a high castle wall built from fine red stone. Slender towers punctuated the wall's gentle curve at regular intervals. Patterned blue flags flew from masts set high on their sloping roofs.

The soldiers dragged Tarlan through a small gate in the castle wall. Beyond it was a narrow thoroughfare, and then another wall. A second gate led to a yard where rows and rows of vegetables grew. Tired-looking gardeners tended the plants; none looked up as the soldiers hauled Tarlan past. But the sentry standing in the corner watched their every move.

So much food!
Tarlan thought, unable to take his eyes off the bounty of crops.

Through a decorative wrought-iron gate set in an arched doorway, Tarlan glimpsed a group of children playing some kind of chase game. Elegant women stood nearby, talking as they watched over their brood. They held parasols and fanned themselves. A servant stood to one side holding a silver tray laden with goblets.

Tarlan couldn't imagine a scene more different from the simple rustic reality of the village he'd been helping to defend. And it was a whole world away from what he'd known in icy, barren Yalasti. The deeper he delved into the affairs of humans, the more complex they became. So much for keeping his distance.

At the far end of the kitchen garden was another wall, this one overgrown with ivy. The soldiers took him through a narrow door and into a dark corridor. Here, the walls were black and smelled of damp. For the first time since arriving in Ritherlee, Tarlan shivered with cold.

The deeper the soldiers led him into the castle, the more Tarlan felt the impulse to escape. He wondered if Theeta and the rest of his pack were searching for him.

If so, they'll never find me in here.

The corridor opened onto a long room lined with cells. In the middle of the room, with his back to Tarlan, a man was sitting on a stool. His clothes were fine: purple robes and white furs. But it wasn't he who caught Tarlan's attention.

There were children in the cells.

They huddled in small groups, perhaps a dozen in total. Their faces were dirty and many of them looked as if they'd been crying. So these were the hostages his captors had mentioned. Tarlan wondered if Sorelle, Lady Darrand's daughter, was among them.

Near the door, chained to the wall, lay a wolf. It looked bony, with patchy fur, and was clearly malnourished. As they entered, it sat up and whined pitifully, tugging listlessly at the chain, which was far too tight. One of the guards kicked it aside; Tarlan bit his lip, barely restraining himself from lashing out in retaliation.

The man on the stool spoke.

“Is anyone going to answer my question?” His voice was high for a man's. His head turned slowly from one side to the other. Tarlan wished he could see the man's face. “What do you think Gretiana found at the end of the path?”

The trapped children stared listlessly back at him.

“Very well—I will tell you.” The man raised a scroll from his lap and read from it. “‘At the end of the path, Gretiana found a cottage made of bread and bones. Green smoke rose from the chimney, and a black cat sat on the step. After wandering in the woods for a day and a night, she was right back where she had started: in the clutches of the evil witch.'”

One of the boys began to cry.

Spotting Tarlan and the soldiers, the man stopped reading and rolled up the scroll.

“Enough for today, children,” he said.

A single groan of disappointment came from the cells. All the other children looked relieved. Tarlan saw one small girl elbow another in the ribs. Her companion piped up:

“Please, sir, can we go out today?”

The man who'd been reading smiled indulgently. “I am sorry, children, but you know the rules. I would love to let you play outside in the sunshine, but I have to keep you safe. No, it is better—far better—that you are protected. You have food. You have stories. Nothing can harm you here. And you are happy, are you not?”

“Yes, Lord Vicerin,” chorused several of the children. The others glowered.

So that's him!
thought Tarlan. He'd been expecting some kind of warlord or tyrant, not a finely dressed dandy.

“Why are you keeping them prisoner?” Tarlan demanded, unable to stop himself.

Lord Vicerin turned slowly to face him. “Forgive me,” he said. “I did not hear your name.”

“Never mind my name. You can't keep them here like this!”

The guards tightened their grip on his arms.

“The children are happy. Did you not hear?”

Tarlan regarded the line of anxious faces pressed up against the bars.

“They don't
look
very happy to me.”

Lord Vicerin came close. His skin was smooth, and smelled faintly of flowers. “I suppose you do not know fear?”

He nodded to the soldiers, who shoved Tarlan to his knees in front of the wolf. At once, the mangy creature lurched to its feet and bared a vicious set of yellow teeth. Several of the children cried out.

“No creature scares me.” Tarlan leaned in close to the snapping wolf. “It's all right,” he murmured. “Everything's all right.”

Just as the tigron had, the wolf seemed to understand his words. It stopped snarling. Tarlan could sense the creature's pain, its hunger. Looking into its eyes, he knew it sensed something of him, too.

Remaining still, he allowed the animal to sniff his face. It nuzzled his hair and licked his cheek. Tarlan heard one of the children gasp.

Theeta. Filos. Now you.