battle on to the Aerie in Toran’s absence. That would be ironic indeed, to waste his effort attacking its walls, when he already held its laird, and did not know it.
****
Though he fought to stay alert, Toran was nearly dozing from fatigue when the sudden flicker of shadows in the trees at the edge of the encampment caught his attention. Under half-closed eyelids, he began to study the perimeter of the camp, watching for the tiniest hint of movement in the weak sunlight of early afternoon.
Nothing happened. He began to think it had been only a stray breeze, when the leather thong binding him to the tree suddenly went slack. Donal’s familiar low whistle sounded behind him in the brush. Toran carefully studied the guards at their fire. They were paying no attention to the cluster of prisoners. The rest of the camp seemed quiet. It was time to go.
“Angus,” he hissed. “Tell Brodric to start.”
Angus straightened up and glanced around. “Donal?”
“Aye.” Donal’s whisper came from the brush at their backs.
Toran motioned for silence as a guard started in their direction. But after only a few paces, the man turned back to the fire, called by his compatriots to answer a question. Toran exhaled.
“Donal, send one of the men to cut the lines to their horses and lead them quietly into the trees,” Toran ordered. “Angus’s men will retrieve them. And stay put where ye are until I signal.”
“Already done, Lathan,” Donal responded dryly. In other circumstances, Toran would have chuckled. But there was too much at stake now.
“Always a step ahead of me, are ye?”
“Who trained ye, lad?” Donal answered simply.
At that moment, Brodric, only a dozen feet away from Toran, began to moan then doubled over, feigning agony. Others in the group called for a healer. Toran leaned back against the tree he was supposed to be tied to. One of the male healers approached with the same three guards.
“Here, now. What’s this?” the man demanded. He bent to examine his moaning patient, and Brodric’s cries of pain escalated. The healer sent one of the guards away and Toran’s pulse quickened. Angus slanted him a look, then went back to watching their drama play out. The healer continued his examination for another moment, then sat back on his heels, waiting, while Brodric writhed and moaned.
Soon she approached. The Healer. Toran’s senses went on immediate alert. He studied her as she hurried up, noting how the sunlight brightened the red in her hair, how gracefully she moved, even in haste. Even the guards by the fire turned to watch her pass, Toran noted. That worried him until most of them turned back to the fire, used to her presence.
As she passed under the trees, she flipped her heavy braid over her shoulder and down her back before kneeling by the groaning man. Toran’s palms itched with the desire to unbraid that wealth of hair and fill his hands with it. Mayhap he’d have the opportunity, once they returned to the Aerie. That thought cheered him as much as the knowledge that Donal waited behind him for the right moment to make his move.
Toran watched for long minutes as she ran her hands lightly over the torso of her patient, pausing as if to listen, before continuing her odd regimen of stroking, then pausing again, occasionally looking puzzled. It was a strange thing to see, but Brodric quieted as if she was having some effect, and she coaxed him to uncurl. Two guards, bored with the process, left. The male healer followed on their heels to the fire. Only one guard remained with the prisoners.
Toran nodded. Better and better.
Brodric sat up suddenly, red-cheeked and smiling. He reached out to grasp the Healer’s hand. If he was playacting, Toran thought, he excelled at it. He seemed genuinely relieved of pain. The Healer quickly pulled her hand away, frowned, and stepped out of his reach, but closer to Toran. “My pardon, lady,” he said. “I only meant to thank ye.”
She nodded and
****
Though he fought to stay alert, Toran was nearly dozing from fatigue when the sudden flicker of shadows in the trees at the edge of the encampment caught his attention. Under half-closed eyelids, he began to study the perimeter of the camp, watching for the tiniest hint of movement in the weak sunlight of early afternoon.
Nothing happened. He began to think it had been only a stray breeze, when the leather thong binding him to the tree suddenly went slack. Donal’s familiar low whistle sounded behind him in the brush. Toran carefully studied the guards at their fire. They were paying no attention to the cluster of prisoners. The rest of the camp seemed quiet. It was time to go.
“Angus,” he hissed. “Tell Brodric to start.”
Angus straightened up and glanced around. “Donal?”
“Aye.” Donal’s whisper came from the brush at their backs.
Toran motioned for silence as a guard started in their direction. But after only a few paces, the man turned back to the fire, called by his compatriots to answer a question. Toran exhaled.
“Donal, send one of the men to cut the lines to their horses and lead them quietly into the trees,” Toran ordered. “Angus’s men will retrieve them. And stay put where ye are until I signal.”
“Already done, Lathan,” Donal responded dryly. In other circumstances, Toran would have chuckled. But there was too much at stake now.
“Always a step ahead of me, are ye?”
“Who trained ye, lad?” Donal answered simply.
At that moment, Brodric, only a dozen feet away from Toran, began to moan then doubled over, feigning agony. Others in the group called for a healer. Toran leaned back against the tree he was supposed to be tied to. One of the male healers approached with the same three guards.
“Here, now. What’s this?” the man demanded. He bent to examine his moaning patient, and Brodric’s cries of pain escalated. The healer sent one of the guards away and Toran’s pulse quickened. Angus slanted him a look, then went back to watching their drama play out. The healer continued his examination for another moment, then sat back on his heels, waiting, while Brodric writhed and moaned.
Soon she approached. The Healer. Toran’s senses went on immediate alert. He studied her as she hurried up, noting how the sunlight brightened the red in her hair, how gracefully she moved, even in haste. Even the guards by the fire turned to watch her pass, Toran noted. That worried him until most of them turned back to the fire, used to her presence.
As she passed under the trees, she flipped her heavy braid over her shoulder and down her back before kneeling by the groaning man. Toran’s palms itched with the desire to unbraid that wealth of hair and fill his hands with it. Mayhap he’d have the opportunity, once they returned to the Aerie. That thought cheered him as much as the knowledge that Donal waited behind him for the right moment to make his move.
Toran watched for long minutes as she ran her hands lightly over the torso of her patient, pausing as if to listen, before continuing her odd regimen of stroking, then pausing again, occasionally looking puzzled. It was a strange thing to see, but Brodric quieted as if she was having some effect, and she coaxed him to uncurl. Two guards, bored with the process, left. The male healer followed on their heels to the fire. Only one guard remained with the prisoners.
Toran nodded. Better and better.
Brodric sat up suddenly, red-cheeked and smiling. He reached out to grasp the Healer’s hand. If he was playacting, Toran thought, he excelled at it. He seemed genuinely relieved of pain. The Healer quickly pulled her hand away, frowned, and stepped out of his reach, but closer to Toran. “My pardon, lady,” he said. “I only meant to thank ye.”
She nodded and
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