Tomn flushed and leaned forward with a light whisper. “I could cut you loose and no one would know how or why. Don’t think I couldn’t. You could have stole a knife or something and waited until we were asleep. Right?”
Thealos felt a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad I have you looking out for me, Tomn. But I want to help you find that treasure. It could be worth a lot if the Sinew dragon is dead.”
“I thought you said the dragon killed that Wolfsman?”
“I’m pretty sure he did,” Thealos answered enigmatically. “But not many things can get the best of a Crimson Wolfsman. And a Lor is about as dangerous as they come.”
Tomn nodded. “Yeah, I heard they’re as good as the Sleepwalkers.”
“The what?”
“That’s right, you don’t let Sleepwalkers into Avisahn, do you?” He must have seen the confusion in Thealos’ eyes. “You’ve never heard of one? They dress in black and can walk in and out of a castle at midday without anyone even seeing their shadow on the ground. Trackers can’t find them. Kings hire them to find things that are stolen or to kill someone who is high up and protected.”
“Assassins?” Thealos probed.
“They do that too,” Tomn agreed. “Except I hear they use magic. That or they’re made out of magic. When they don’t want you to, you can’t see them.” He shook his head in wonder. “Not even a Knight of Owen Draw can take one down.”
“Is that so?” Thealos replied with a nod. “Tell me more, Tomn,” he probed, seeing the excitement in the cook’s eyes.
*
After midnight, Thealos lay quietly in the camp watching the dying embers of the fire wink out one by one. He had already worked out how he was going to escape.
VI
Dujahn shifted in his saddle, squinting against the night sky at the black tangles of the Shadows Wood. The air was warm and muggy, but cool breaths of wind teased his neck only to vanish beneath the hot dampness of the moors. He sat on a stolid bay mare out in the middle of the grasslands, silently, feeling sweat trickle down the sides of his face. He mopped it up on the back of his glove. “Where are you, Folkes?” he muttered, scanning the trees.
Twisting in the saddle, Dujahn turned around and stared up at Landmoor. It rose high on a lopsided hill, surrounded by misty ponds and protected on the west by a bend in the river. The moon bathed the marsh grass in blue and caused winks of light to dance on the pools. From high in the watchtowers, torches burned brightly, making the fortress shimmer with patches of yellow and orange. It was dark and he was too far away to see any of the sentries patrolling the outer walls, and he knew they couldn’t see him either. Even if they could – what was a lone horseman compared with an army poised within the forest? A mosquito buzzed near his ear, and he swatted it sharply. He wore a plain brown tunic over a shirt of embroidered leather, tight at the sleeves. His hair was also brown and his face had an ordinary shape. To some he looked lazy – to others he looked bored. It made him perfect as a spy.
Dujahn wiped his mouth, trying to count the number of months he had been on this assignment. His true employer, the Gray Legion, was a ring of mercenary spies that snooped into just about every kingdom’s affairs east and west of Dos-Aralon. They had a few well-placed spies in the court of Dos-Aralon, mostly women, and so far King don Rion had refused to hire any or even try and purge them from the realm. Dujahn didn’t exactly enjoy working for the Bandit Rebellion, but at least a Bandit commander was better than counting gnats for some regiment weasel. He smirked. The Bandit Rebellion needed spies and the Gray Legion needed a foot in the politics from these lands. He hoped that Lord Ballinaire would eventually ask for his services. Now that would be an interesting assignment! he thought.