They ascended the hill at the crouch, dropping to a crawl at the summit. The wolf had sunk to its haunches, waiting no more than a few feet away, still regarding Frentis with the same blank scrutiny.
“What a fool the man must be,” Frentis breathed, staring at the scene before them. The camp sat in open ground, the rear flank covered by a shallow stream, pickets patrolling the perimeter but not far enough out. The scent of smoke and horse sweat was richer now, campfires threw dozens of grey columns into the air, only partly obscuring the banner that rose from the centre of the camp: an eagle on a red-and-white-cheque background.
Five hundred men at most, Frentis mused, eyes scanning the camp. And Banders’s army stands unnoticed between him and Varinshold. “Take Illian,” he told Davoka. “Tell Banders I’ll lead them to Lirkan’s Spur. Master Sollis knows the way.”
“She can go,” Davoka said. “You shouldn’t do this alone.”
He shook his head, grinning as he nodded at the wolf. “Seems I’m not alone. Ride fast.”
? ? ?
He waited a good hour after their departure, watching the camp as scouts came and went, small groups of men with hunting dogs reporting in or galloping off in a fresh direction. He thought we’d make for Nilsael, Frentis decided, seeing how most of the scouts rode off to the north or the west. Didn’t consider we’d try for Renfael, his own land, the people so fiercely loyal. He shook his head, wondering if Darnel’s mind was truly that of a fool or if the man wasn’t in fact just a barking loon.
It took the best part of another hour before a scouting party came their way, two riders and a clutch of dogs making directly for their hill. The wolf rose when they had begun to climb the slope, the riders immediately dragging their mounts to a halt whilst the hounds milled about, whining in fear as their masters whipped at them, uttering curses and threats.
And the wolf howled.
Frentis shrank from the vastness of the sound, sinking to the earth, eyes clamped tight shut and hands over his ears as it soared across the fields and hills, the force of it cutting through him like a ragged saw-blade. Not since the long years of the binding had he felt so helpless, so small.
He opened his eyes as the howl faded, finding the wolf staring down at him, green eyes meeting his and birthing a realisation that it knew him, knew his every secret, every hidden scrap of guilt. It dipped its head, a rough tongue scraping over Frentis’s forehead, drawing a whimper and leaving something new. A message. It wasn’t a voice, more a certainty, a clear and bright surety shining in his mind: you must forgive yourself.
Frentis felt a laugh escape him as the wolf drew back, blinked again, then turned to lope away. Frentis stood to watch it run, a silver streak through the twisting grass, disappearing in a heartbeat.
The whinny of a panicked horse brought him back to his senses, turning to find the two riders staring at him in shock, their dogs a good distance away, yelping in fear as they raced for the camp. Frentis chose the rider on the left, palmed a throwing knife and sent it into his throat. He fell from his horse, blood frothing from his mouth as he clutched at his neck. His companion’s wide-eyed gaze shifted to Frentis and back again, hands twitching on his reins, his sword untouched at his side.
“You have a report to make,” Frentis told him. “Give Lord Darnel the Red Brother’s regards.”
? ? ?
He remounted and guided his horse to the crest of the hill, sitting and watching as the huntsman galloped back to camp. It took no longer than the space of a few heartbeats before it convulsed, knights struggling into armour and running to their horses, tents falling as squires packed up, and a single rider emerged from the burgeoning dust cloud, blue armour gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. Frentis raised a hand in a friendly wave, lingering long enough to ensure Darnel had seen it, then turned and galloped towards the east.
He led them on a winding course, buying time for Banders to get his people moving. He would gallop east for a time, halt, and watch Darnel’s pursuit for a few moments, then strike out towards the south. Darnel edged closer with every pause, but his horse and those of his knights were too burdened by their riders’ armour to mount an effective pursuit. Frentis would wave every time he stopped, the last time leaving it long enough to ensure Darnel saw his mocking bow.
He came to Lirkan’s Spur some two hours into the chase, a narrow thumb-shaped spit of grassland jutting into the broad waters of the Brinewash. The river was shallow here, fordable even this late in the year with open country to the north and a tall, rocky hill some three hundred paces south, shielding the eastern bank from view. He pulled his horse to a halt and scanned the surroundings, finding no evidence of any ally.