Chapter 7

Ebbwater, Dunwics Reach, Kingsheart

Tom Fletcher heaved another log from the cart, his muscles straining under the weight. He tossed it on the pile with the other logs, the sound loud and echoey in the empty woodshed. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold evening air, a testament to the hours he’d spent catching up on work.

He paused, straightening his back and wiping his forehead with a calloused hand. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon; the purples and blues of twilight all but faded into black. In the distance, raucous laughter drifted from the direction of the inn, where men spent their day’s hard-earned coin on ale and companionship.

“Ought to be getting home,” Tom muttered to himself, thinking of his wife.

She’d been on edge ever since he’d returned from the rebellion, wary of every shadow and loud sound, as if she expected danger to leap out at any moment. He’d tried to reassure her, but the last year had aged her. Worry lines that had not been there the previous winter were now firmly etched into her face.

She’d relax eventually. He hated that he’d put her through this, but it had been the right thing to do. He’d actually done it as much for her as anyone else. But it was all done now. The rebellion was over and the people had returned to their homes. The king had accepted their terms and many of the barons had thrown their support behind him, which had to make it harder for the king to come after him now. He knew Duke Aldric had remained silent, his support secret for now, and understood why, but enough nobles had spoken out to guarantee his and everyone else who had been involved’s safety.

Peace, or at least something close to it, had settled over the kingdom again. He was just Tom the woodcutter again. No more, no less. The fact that he was here alone, long after the other workers had gone home, was proof enough of how thoroughly he’d been forgotten. No one waited to hear tales of his exploits or buy him a drink anymore. He was just Tom, and he had a lot of work to do.

He had picked up the rear end of a log from his cart and was about to heft it up when a soft thud near the front of the shed drew his attention. He set down the log he had been about to stack and wiped his hands on his breeches.

“Dalson?” Tom called out, taking a few steps toward the front of the shed.

He thought he had seen the man ahead of him when he had come back in, but there had been no sign of him when Tom had arrived and his cart was empty, sitting in the spot where he always left it, so Tom had just thought he had beaten him here. But maybe he had taken a different cart today.

Tom had just reached the front of the shed when a figure emerged from the shadows, a curved knife reflecting a bit of torchlight. Tom’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the man’s hawk-like features. He had a cruel look about him that jogged something in the back of Tom’s mind. Something about the man was familiar.

Not that it mattered. The knife made his intentions clear. Although brigands coming for a lumber shed made no sense. Yes, it was on the edge of the village, but there was nothing of value here, unless they wanted to carry some lumber away, which seemed more work than it was worth.

Tom took an instinctive step backward. Whoever he was, he was dangerous. He turned to flee out the rear of the shed to get help, when more men materialized, blocking his escape route. He was trapped.

His eyes darted to the woodpile where his axe lay, frustratingly out of reach.

The hawk-faced man’s lips curled into a sneer. “Thomas Fletcher. Did you truly believe your actions would go unpunished?”

“Who are you?” Tom demanded, tensing up.

“The king’s justice, Fletcher. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Tom’s mouth went dry.

He lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t know what this is about. The rebellion’s over. I’ve done nothing since then but cut wood and mind my business.”

A harsh laugh escaped the hawk-faced man. “Rebellion against the king isn’t so easily forgiven, Fletcher.”

“Have you come to arrest me, then?”

“Do we look like bailiffs? The price for your treason is far steeper than rotting in a dungeon.”

The man took a step toward him, the threat clear. There was no talking his way out of this. Tom lunged for his axe, desperation lending him speed. One of the men who had been creeping up behind him reached for it at the same moment. Their hands closed on the handle simultaneously.

They grappled, crashing into the cart hard as Tom tried to wrench the axe free, pulling both of them to the right, their struggle sending the cart of lumber crashing over. Logs thundered against the walls, the noise deafening in the enclosed space.

Tom was a strong man. A lifetime of felling trees had made him hardy. The man he faced was no weakling, to be sure. Wiry and cruel-looking, he was also half a head shorter than Tom, with significantly less bulk. Tom stopped trying to pull the axe away from him and reversed his force, which caught the man off guard, both of their efforts sending the axe back toward the man, driving the blunt end of the axe-head into his attacker’s face with a sickening crunch.

The man staggered back, blood streaming from his ruined nose. Tom’s moment of triumph was fleeting. White-hot agony erupted in his back as the hawk-faced man’s blade found its mark. Tom’s legs gave way. Feeling disappeared from his lower body, his legs giving out as if the strings holding him up were suddenly cut, sending him crumpling to the ground.

His fingers went numb. His arms. His limbs felt almost disconnected, as if they belonged to someone else.

Tom’s world narrowed as the feeling started to ebb out of him. He tried to move, to crawl, but his limbs refused to obey. Blood pooled beneath him, warm and sticky against the rough wooden planks.

Through blurred vision, he watched the hawk-faced man approach. The assassin’s boots stopped inches from Tom’s face as the man leaned over him. His features twisted into a cruel smile as he reached into his coat. Tom’s eyes struggled to focus as the man withdrew a folded piece of parchment.

“What...” Tom tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle escaped his lips.

“A parting gift from His Majesty. He wanted to ensure your ... legacy was properly remembered,” the man said, kneeling next to him.

With deliberate care, he tucked the paper into Tom’s shirt pocket, adjusting it so a corner peeked out. What was happening? A message? A false confession? He had to know.

Tom summoned every ounce of strength left in his failing body. His arm twitched, fingers scraping uselessly against the wooden floor as he tried to reach for the pocket. But it was no use. His body was betraying him, slipping away.

The hawk-faced man stood, brushing off his hands. Tom’s thoughts turned to his wife, waiting at home. She’d be wondering where he was, probably pacing by the hearth. He imagined her face, lined with worry. He’d never see her again. Never hold her, never tell her how much he loved her.

The assassins began to file out. Tom could hear their muffled voices but couldn’t make out the words. His world was growing dim, sounds becoming distant and muted.

The hawk-faced man paused at the door, turning back, a satisfied smile on his face. Then he was gone, leaving Tom alone with the encroaching darkness.

And then all was silent.

Soriveau, Lynese

William was happy to be inside where it was warm and dry again after two days in the saddle clearing the remainder of the Avan forest and some of the plains just south. Although the ground was still white and the temperatures cold, the snows were melting, causing everything and anything used outside to quickly become damp and sodden.

He used to love this time of year when he was home, back in Starhaven, watching the roofs turn from white to dark tile again, but here in the field, standing in snow and mud, it lost much of its allure.

Still, things were going well. Pembroke had marched east and, between his forces and Sir Alistair’s, they controlled a line all the way to the mountains while William’s own forces held the forest to the Lysmir River, with everything north of that line clear of Lynesian soldiers and under their control.

If William had his druthers, he would march south on the capital now and end this war. The Lynesians were weak. He had thousands of their soldiers under guard and thousands more were dead. They had men returning from the coast as the maw season came to an end, but that would not make up for their massive losses or being cut off from the northern ports.

Now was the time to strike. Or at least it should have been.

Unfortunately, Pembroke had found reason to wait. They needed to bring in their ships to cut off Dawnstar Lake, preventing the city from resupplying across the water, but that could not be done until winter ended. Even this far north, the creatures released into the oceans prowled the sea, and many were slow to return to their birthplace as the maw closed. Which made Pembroke right once again, no matter how much William wanted to ignore him.