Tyrant’s Blood

‘Really? Blindfolded?’

‘What?’ Freath exclaimed, nearly choking on his ale.

The man laughed easily. ‘That’s the point. Best you stay here and well behind him, Master Scribe, as those shortened arrows can be flung anywhere from that fellow’s wild throw.’

‘Lo, save me. Is this his invention?’

The man snorted. ‘No. The proper game requires the throwers to get as close to the middle of that spot as possible. You bet against each other on three throws.’ He finished his mug of ale. ‘The game’s developed, though, over the last decade. Quite a few people in the north play it and some have worked out a system of marking. You throw the arrows at rings painted on the barrel. The middle point is the highest and the further out you go from the middle the lower the score. It’s more complicated than that but I myself have never played it so I don’t fully understand the scoring. It’s popular, though. Mark my words, Master Scribe, you lot will be playing this in the city and as far as Droste before you know it.’

‘I dare say,’ Freath said, watching with great interest as the huge man allowed himself to be blindfolded.

‘Now the bets will be taken,’ his bearded companion said.

As if on cue, pandemonium broke out among the patrons as the innkeeper gleefully watched money exchanging hands furiously.

‘The innkeeper gets a cut of all the money laid down,’ Freath’s new friend explained.

Freath nodded, eyes riveted on the big man, who was being turned on his heels several times.

‘Lo’s breath! He could throw it our way,’ he exclaimed.

‘As I warned.’

Freath watched as the arrow-thrower, now appropriately giddy, was baited by his audience to choose his position. The big man roared his intention and then turned slowly, lurching once, before planting his feet solidly. The crowd stifled its laughter, and silence reigned as the big man took aim at the wooden counter, the innkeeper rolling his eyes and ducking below it for safety. The real target sat forlornly forgotten and as the arrow hit timber with a dull thud, the room erupted into hilarity, hats flung in the air, mugs clanked against each other, voices yelling and just about everyone on his feet.

In the midst of the noise, Freath’s friend stood up and grabbed Freath’s jacket-front. ‘What the—?’ Freath spluttered.

‘Let’s go, Freath. Time is of the essence.’

‘But—?’ Freath found himself being dragged out of the inn, unnoticed amidst all the cheering as men surged to their feet to watch the contest. The giant took his second shot as they exited, and Freath was convinced the second arrow landed in the door as it closed behind them. And before he could digest that, he found himself being hauled up onto a horse by a stranger.

‘Hold on,’ the stranger growled and within moments Freath was being galloped out of the town. Another horse, presumably with his companion from the inn, gave chase, but he dared not risk a look because his seating was already unsteady behind the rider. A fall at his age and from this height—and at this speed—would mean broken bones and a lot of explanation. No, he would not take the chance, so he closed his eyes and clung on as the horse he was sharing began to slow and climb. Presumably these were Faris’s men. He would have to trust his instincts. The noise of all the hooves died away until he was sure there were just two beasts.

‘Didn’t mean to frighten you,’ a familiar voice said, drawing alongside.

Freath opened his eyes, expecting to see his acquaintance from the inn. Although the clothes were identical, he would not have recognised the man. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ his companion explained, seeing Freath’s shock at his transformation.

‘Your disguise is impressive,’ Freath said, watching as the man pulled padding from around his girth and shoulders to reveal a much leaner frame. The gingery sideburns and reddish grey beard had already disappeared, along with the bright mop of auburn hair. ‘You’ve forgotten your eyebrows,’ he added.

‘We’re here,’ the man said, glancing over Freath’s shoulder as he dealt with the last of his disguise.

‘Here?’ Freath repeated, looking around. He saw nothing but a thickly wooded area, which was dark and foreboding now that the moonlight had been obliterated by clouds scudding over it. ‘Where?’ he asked.

His companion grinned. ‘This is where we shall talk,’ came the reply. ‘You can get off your horse, for we go no further.’

Freath obediently slid off his mount, ignoring his fellow rider’s hand of help.

‘This is Tern,’ his host introduced.

‘Obliged I’m sure,’ Freath said somewhat ungraciously to the man who had abducted him. ‘And who are you? I had hoped to meet the outlaw Kilt F—’

‘I’m Faris.’

Freath felt something coalesce inside into an excitement he had not permitted himself so far. ‘How can I be sure of that?’ he asked.

‘Because I am a man of my word.’

Freath saw that the man called Tern was busying himself with some sort of shelter that was hidden in the trees.

Faris noted his gaze. ‘It is a hideout. You will forgive us our low light. We are always careful this close to a town.’

‘But we must be miles from Francham.’

‘Nevertheless—’

‘You can never be too careful,’ Freath said at the same time as Faris.

The outlaw smiled. ‘Join us, Master Freath. I can offer you something to warm old bones.’

Freath ducked into the small space created by a cunning canopy of slim branches woven together, their leaves creating a dense wall. Small stools were placed inside and tiny candles had been lit to offer a small measure of comfort. ‘Must be tough in the cold months,’ he commented.

‘We are never this far down in the blow,’ Faris replied. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he offered dryly.

Freath perched on one of the low stools. ‘Was the inn not rough enough for you?’

Faris gave a low chuckle. ‘Speaking of Rough, let me invite you to try some.’

‘I’d rather not,’ Freath replied.

‘A small nip will not hurt you,’ Faris said, taking tiny shot cups that Tern had miraculously produced. A small flask appeared as well from a saddle-bag. ‘It is a custom in this part of the realm to take Rough together.’

‘This is no realm, Master Faris. We live in a compass,’ Freath said, his mouth twisting into a shape of disgust, ‘or hadn’t you realised?’

‘I answer to a king, Master Freath, not an emperor.’

Freath’s belly flipped. ‘How can I know you are not an impostor? That this whole thing has not been a clever charade?’

‘Why would anyone go to the trouble?’

Freath frowned.

Faris sighed. He removed a chain from around his neck. ‘Do you recognise this?’

The low light made no difference. Freath could clearly see that the man was holding Queen Iselda’s chain and locket. ‘Where did you get that?’ he demanded.

‘From a king.’

‘Which one?’ Freath breathed.