(Chapter 12: The Chief, cont.)

  The others crowded around. The chief’s gaze flickered to them, then back to Ean. “A man came to Grayview, the largest town in the borderlands. He summoned the chiefs of every Wildmen tribe and paid each of us twenty gold just to hear his offer. He said we were to be on the lookout for a traveling party, that the Prince of Eastmere would be among them. We were to take the Prince, alive if possible, and transport him to Westenvale.”

  “This man, who was he?”

  “A messenger himself.”

  Ean scoffed. “But he was trusted with that much gold?”

  “He traveled with a guild-member of the tax collectors of Bormoor. It was he who held the coin, but he was not privy to the meeting.”

  “Who else knew of the meeting?” Roarke asked.

  “No one,” said the chief.

  “How did you know to follow us?” Flora asked. “Why didn’t you follow both groups?”

  The chief laughed. Ean slapped his wounded shoulder and he stopped with a grunt. “We were given his picture. We memorized his face. Our scouts weren’t fooled by your attempt at disguise. We’ve seen such ploys before—rich men dressing their servants in fancy clothes so that we hold them for ransom by mistake. We’ve never been tricked.”

  Roarke gave a thoughtful grunt, then he nodded at Ean. “We’ve gotten all we need.”

  Ean sheathed his knife and followed the others back to camp.

  “A tax collector of Bormoor,” Roarke mused.

  “Westenvale’s reach is growing,” Asali said.

  “So it would seem.”

  Ean eased himself down by the fire and Flora refreshed the tea in his cup.

  “You weren’t really going to hurt him,” she said, then paused. “Right?”

  In all honesty, Ean had been prepared to cut the chief if needed. He said instead, “I typically don’t need to do more than pull a knife.”

  Flora let out a relieved sigh. Asali and Roarke looked at him and read the truth, but said nothing.

  “A thousand gold coins, Shadow-walker!” the chief shouted. “That’s what we were promised. I’ll give it all to you!”

  “A thousand gold coins,” Asali said. “That’s quite the fortune. What would you spend it on?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Ean. “I’ve never had more than ten gold to spend.”

  “Here’s your chance to find out then.”

  Ean laughed, appreciating her dark humor.

  “That’s not funny,” Flora said, hugging her arms close and frowning at them.

  “What do you say, shadow-walker?” the bandit implored.

  “Shut your mouth or I’ll sew it shut!” Ean snapped.

  “I have money of my own as well!” the chief promised. “You could be a rich man. You could—”

  Ean grabbed Asali’s bow, nocked an arrow, rolled to his feet, and fired.

  Dark stars, it was a glorious bow. The string practically sang as the arrow flew. It struck the chief between his legs, ripping the crotch of his trousers. He shut up, fast, which was a pity. Ean wanted to shoot the bow again.

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  Asali snatched it from him, her face angry. “Get your own bow.”

  She strode to the chief and yanked the arrow out of the ground, still pissed, which was fair. If Ean had her bow, he wouldn’t let anyone touch it either. He smiled, sat back down, and then winced. His hand went to his side where there was a new throbbing.

  “What did you do?” Flora asked.

  “I might have ripped a stitch or two.”

  Flora sighed, as put upon as an old fishmonger’s wife. She gathered her medical supplies and re-stitched his side, lecturing all the while. Ean bowed his head in a show of contrition, but he wasn’t truly sorry.

  “Go back to bed,” she said when she was finished.

  “Might take a bath first.” His wounds had been cleaned, but the rest of him was still grimy. Blood had dried in the creases of his knuckles and other hard to reach spots. His hair could use a wash as well.

  “You can’t get your stitches wet.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  He grabbed his pack and headed down the slope of the hill where the river met the land in a shallow bank. The river was fast and loud, but a collection of rocks along the shore formed an eddy of stiller water. He stripped down, pulled the ties from his braids, and gingerly stepped in. The water was ice-cold.

  Bathing without getting his stitches wet was difficult, but not insurmountable. Washing his hair was more arduous. He was sure he looked something like a duck, bending forward to plunge his head under the water. By the time he finished, he was shivering, exhausted, and in a good amount pain. He dressed, skipped his braids, and headed back to camp to take Flora’s advice of a nap.

  *   *   *

  A scream.

  Ean jerked out of bed, dropping a wrist knife into the palm of his hand, and burst out of the tent. He blinked into the light of the afternoon sun, the figures in front of him shifting into alarming focus.

  The Wildmen chief was free of his ropes. He stood at the edge of the cliff, Flora caught in his arms, a knife at her neck. Leo and Roarke were on their feet, several paces away, both unarmed. Asali and Chadwick were further back, at the campfire. Chadwick’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, and Asali had her bow, but no arrow was nocked. They’d been caught by surprise.

  “Let her go,” Leo said, his hands out in surrender.

  The chief backed up, his heels hanging over the edge of the cliff. He glanced down. Ean knew he was judging his chance of survival if he went over the side. Flora sucked in a breath, her face going white at the thought of falling into the river. Her hands smoked. The chief tightened his grip, the knife dug in deeper. Blood slipped down her neck.

  “Stop, or I slit your throat,” he growled.

  Flora whimpered, in pain and fear. Ean took an immediate step forward, as did the others.

  “Stay back!” the chief shouted. “All of you, or I swear I’ll kill her!”

  Ean stopped. He was the farthest away of everyone, and there was nothing he could do from this position. He wondered, for a split second, if he could slip out of camp and loop around, see if it was possible to scale the cliff and come up from behind the chief, but he discarded the thought. Whatever would happen here would happen quickly.

  The chief scanned the party. His eyes lingered on Asali’s bow, and then Ean. “Put your weapons down!”

  Ean tossed his knives to the ground—he was out of range to throw them anyway—and used the movement as an excuse to take two steps forward.

  The chief’s eyes cut to Asali, who still hadn’t complied. “I said put the weapons down!”

  Spittle flew from his mouth. Flora’s eyes squeezed shut. Asali reluctantly lowered her bow and Ean snuck another step forward. He was still too far away.

  “We have met your demands,” Roarke said, drawing the bandit’s attention. “Now let us negotiate the terms of our friend’s release.”

  The chief bared his teeth. “I want the Prince.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Asali said, even as Leo advanced, ready to make the exchange.

  Ean clenched his empty hands. Leo’s nobility was edging into stupidity. As Prince, he was far more valuable than Flora. If the chief took him hostage, they’d be entirely out of options.

  Roarke must have felt the same way because he inched nearer, in arm’s length of the Prince. “There is no need for further bloodshed.”

  “That’s only possible if you give me the Prince!” The chief’s voice broke over the shout. Desperation was setting in. Ean risked another inch forward, not liking the wild panic in his eyes.

  “I’m right here,” Leo said evenly. He took one more step toward the chief.

  The bandit glanced from him to the river below, and Ean saw Flora make her make her decision. Her lips snarled and her hands sparked with flames. She grabbed the chief’s arm.

  That was Ean’s cue. He charged for the cliff, but everything happened too quickly. The chief screamed and lost his grip on Flora. She staggered away, her back exposed. The chief raised his knife. The Prince jumped forward, and Ean immediately knew he was going to insert himself between the knife and Flora, even though he wore no armor and had no blade of his own. The knife was going to hit him, and it was going to be bad, and Ean could do nothing but keep running, already knowing he was going to be too late.

  But Roarke moved faster than the Prince had. He reached out, not for Flora or the bandit or the knife, but for the Prince’s tunic. He yanked Leo back by his collar. The Prince fell; Roarke leapt over him. The knife swung down, right as Roarke reached the chief. The blade disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of Roarke’s chest. They grappled for a brief moment, and then the chief slipped backwards, his hand twisted in Roarke’s jerkin. They both toppled over the cliff.