Daggerspell - Katharine Kerr [38]
Husbanding every scrap of food, scrounging what fodder he could for his horse, Galrion made his way east through the forest for two days. He stayed close to the road and tried to calculate where the Falcon’s party might be, because he’d made up his mind to intercept it. Late one afternoon, he risked coming out onto the road and riding up to the crest of a low hill. Far away, hanging over the road, was a faint pall of dust—horses coming. Hurriedly he pulled back into the forest and waited, but the Falcon’s party never rode past. With Brangwen and her maidservants along, they would be making early camps to spare the women’s strength. As it grew dark, Galrion led the bay through the forest and worked his way toward the camp. From the top of the next hill he saw it: not just Lord Gerraent and his retainers, but the King’s entire warband.
“May every god curse them,” Galrion whispered. “They knew she’d be the best bait to draw me.”
Galrion tied his horse securely in the woods, then ran across the road and began making his cautious way to the camp. Every snap of a twig under his foot made him freeze and wait. Halfway downhill, the trees thinned somewhat, giving him a good look at the sprawling, disorganized camp. In the clearing along the stream, horses were tethered; nearby, the warband was gathered round two fires. Off to one side among the trees stood a high-peaked canvas tent, doubtless for Brangwen’s privacy, away from the ill-mannered riders.
The true and dangerous question, of course, was where Gerraent might be. The firelight below shone too dim for Galrion to make out anyone’s face. He lay flat in the underbrush and watched until after about an hour a blond man came out of the tent and strolled over to one of the fires. No man but her brother would have been allowed in that tent in the first place. As soon as Gerraent was safely occupied with his dinner, Galrion got up, drawing his dagger, then circled through the underbrush, moving downhill and heading for the tent. The warband was laughing and talking, making blessed noise to cover his approach.
Galrion slit the tent down the back with his dagger, a rip of taut cloth. He heard someone moving inside.
“Galrion?” Brangwen whispered.
“It is.”
Galrion slipped back into cover. Wearing only her long nightdress, her golden hair loose over her shoulders, Brangwen crawled out the rip and crept to join him.
“I knew you’d come for me,” she whispered. “We’ve got to go right now.”
“Ah, ye gods! Will you come with me?”
“Did you ever doubt it? I’d follow you anywhere. I don’t care what you’ve done.”
“But you don’t even have a scrap of extra clothing.”
“Do you think that matters to me?”
Galrion felt as if he’d never truly looked at her before: his poor weak child, grinning like a berserker at the thought of riding away with an exile.
“Forgive me,” Galrion said. “Come along—I’ve got a horse.”
Then Galrion heard the sound, the softest crack of a branch.
“Run!” Brangwen screamed.
Galrion swirled round—too late. The guards sprang out of the trees and circled him like a cornered stag. Galrion dropped to a fighting crouch, raised the dagger, and promised himself he’d get one of them before he died. A man shoved his way through the pack of guards.
“That’ll do you no good, lad,” Adoryc said.
Galrion straightened up—he could never kill his own father. When he threw the dagger onto the ground at Adoryc’s feet, the King stooped and retrieved it, his smile as cold as the winter wind. Galrion heard Brangwen behind him, weeping in long