Song of the Fairy Queen (19 page)

In the near distance a dust cloud rose behind Haerold’s trailing squad as if in warning, coming up and closing.

It would be a massacre, the numbers of Haerold’s forces were simply too great.

The leader of the rebels shouted, calling his people back but it was clear there wouldn’t be enough time for all of them to reach the safety of the forest.

Even then, Haerold’s forces would give chase.

Morgan was already on his feet, gesturing for his own horse. He ran for it even as one of his people came leading it at nearly a gallop.

Leaping, Morgan caught the pommel on the run and swung up into the saddle, turning the horse as much with his knees as his hands as Jessup tossed him the reins.

The numbers against them were bad, but Morgan couldn’t let those below be cut to shreds and they had an advantage…

Even now she streaked down out of the sky, wings sparkling, bow drawn.

Kyri’s wings snapped open even as she turned on a wingtip and let fly. She rolled over to catch the wind and soar upwards, then spiraled like a lark to dive downwards once again. She fired on the wing, a random shot with little hope of hitting anything, but it startled those at the front of the charge.

It was enough to slow the forward momentum, enough to buy Morgan’s Marshals and the rebels some time to prepare for the onslaught.

With a crash of steel on steel, with shouts and cries the two forces came together, Haerold’s troops caught between the Marshals and the rebels.

From above Kyri darted and dove, picking and choosing her shots, dancing on the air, her wings flared and stroked as she dodged arrows from below.

It was breathtakingly beautiful to watch and just as deadly.

Morgan had to force himself not to watch her out of the corner of his eye, although more than one of Haerold’s men paid the price for that self-same action.

There was no finesse to this fight, though, it was merely hack and slash as most of Haerold’s men lacked any but the most basic sword skills.

Morgan parried one blade, thrust it away and then drove his boot into the face of the man who tried to come beneath his sword from the ground. Whipping his blade across his body to slash through the helmet of another, he heard Caleb grunt with effort behind him.

One of Haerold’s Captains charged him, a glint of recognition in the eyes behind the helmet.

“Morgan!” the man shouted.

They came together in the middle of the melee and the other’s sword whipped toward Morgan’s head before abruptly altering its course to slash at his thigh.

Unlike these others this man had some skill.

Morgan caught the stroke on his own sword and flung it away as his own blade arced backhanded for the man’s abdomen. The other flung himself backward frantically, wrenching his own sword in an overhand slash. Morgan caught it, turned it aside and took the other’s throat.

There were reasons he’d been High Marshal, not the least of which had been his skill with a sword.

In mere moments it was over.

Not one of Haerold’s men surrendered; each had fought to the bitter end. None asked for quarter, their evident fear of not dying greater by far than their fear of dying, and so none had received it. Oddly, that in a way was the worst part of it, that they feared what Haerold would do to them more than they feared dying.

Silence fell, but for a moment only.

A dry voice said, “Morgan, I presume.”

Morgan turned in his saddle to look at the leader of the rebels as the man slowly rode up, his hands open.

“And you would be Detrick?”

Of slightly more than medium height, slender, wiry, dark of hair and skin, Detrick had a clever, sharp-boned foxy face and a quick intelligence that Morgan already appreciated.

His face bloodied by an elbow he hadn’t been able to avoid, Detrick grinned. “The same. How did you know about the outriders?”

In a flutter of wings, Kyri dropped out of the sky, light sparkling from her feathers, her shift floating around her shapely legs.

“Don’t shoot!” Morgan shouted, as a few of the nervous rebels turned their bows in her direction.

Lifting an eyebrow in mild amusement, she settled to stand on the bench seat of one of the wagons, her bow in her hand at her side.

“Detrick,” Morgan said, by way of introduction, seeing Detrick’s expression and giving Kyri a glance. He understood. She was beautiful. Astonishingly so. “Meet Kyriay, Queen of the Fair.”

There wasn’t a male eye, and one or two of the female, among the rebels that didn’t look at her appreciatively, not least among them Detrick’s.

With a sweeping bow, Detrick said, as he studied her with evident enthusiasm. “My pleasure, Your Highness.”

Putting her bow up, Kyri acknowledged his gesture with a curious nod and a small smile.

Even as Morgan recognized he already liked the man, he also felt an unexpected jolt of some other, darker emotion as he noted Detrick’s expression when he looked at Kyri, but he put it aside rather than examine it too closely. There was no time for that. And they need allies, not enemies.

“We need to talk,” Morgan said.

Nodding, Detrick said, “So we do. Why don’t you follow me and we’ll find someplace more comfortable to do it?”

Already more of Detrick’s people poured out from under the cover of the trees, many of them with handcarts that were quickly loaded with the contents of the wagons. Others threw oil and other flammables onto the wagons in preparation for destroying the evidence of their rebellion.

Morgan rode up to Kyri and offered her a hand so she could swing up behind him. As she settled at his back her hands dropped to his waist and rested there. He tried not to be aware of her slender body against him, or her body pressed against his back. His face showed none of it, but his body knew. Intensely. Maddeningly.

Nor was Kyri unmindful of him, of Morgan, of the sheer size of him, the solid strength of his body against hers. It was a surprising effort to stay aloof, her hands seemed determined to absorb the shape of him beneath them.

They took a winding path through the forest not unlike the one Kyri had led them along through in the Central Forest. Morgan was all too aware of hidden eyes on them, of bows pointed their way. Kyri stiffened a little behind him. Her head turned this way and that, seeking.

“Can you sense them?” he asked, his voice low.

“I know where each of them is,” she said softly. “I can take them.”

That was reassuring. If need be, they could get out.

As much as Morgan might have liked Detrick at first glance, he didn’t know him. Enemies could easily wear a friendly face for a time. Even good men could sometimes be on the wrong side. Treachery was still possible.

The rebel camp had clearly been hacked out of the underbrush. Dusty paths wandered this way and that through the trees. Small tents and open campsites – marked by the fire rings at their center – were scattered beneath the trees, clothing was draped over bushes to dry. The scent of wood fires carefully banked was sharp in the air. Eyes observed, some watchfully, some curiously and some dully.

Many were dressed in little more than rags.

Surveying the watchers, Detrick sighed. “Refugees. I can’t refuse them, as there’s nowhere else for them to go after Haerold burned their homes and confiscated their lands. Only some of them can fight…”

Morgan nodded. It was a problem everywhere.

They were all Oryan’s people though, and it was a constant effort for the King to try to find places for them, or to arrange aid.

Dismounting, Detrick led them into a slightly larger tent than that of the others.

Morgan gestured Caleb to remain outside.

Between himself and Kyri, he doubted Detrick could surprise and overcome them, but those outside definitely could. Numbers would tell.

Pulling up the only chair, Detrick pushed it back with one foot so he was canted back on two of the chair legs as he settled into it.

“So,” he said with a lift of his chin, “you’re here on behalf of the King. What do you want from me? Why should I answer his call when I can reign here on my own, and be my own man?”

Detrick’s eyes were even, revealing nothing, but Morgan already had a sense of the man –the kind of man who gave refuge to others when he could barely feed his own. Detrick was already theirs, he simply wanted to be convinced.

“Because he’s your rightful King,” Morgan said simply.

Detrick looked at him.

Hooking a thumb in his belt, Morgan examined the man.

Detrick didn’t flinch beneath his steady gaze.

Beside him, Morgan could sense Kyri as she stood watchful and silent, but curious as always.

This is Morgan’s play
, Kyri thought and she would let him make it.

“We can also offer you horses,” Morgan said. “You need them and don’t deny it, or more of your people would have been mounted. The draft horses are no good to you as they’re too slow. You raid the supply trains as much because you need the food as to disturb Haerold. Your people are well trained but Haerold was prepared for you and you weren’t for him. If we hadn’t arrived when we did it would have been you that had been slaughtered very likely. You should have had scouts out but you sacrificed them for the sake of having more people on the ground.”

Detrick didn’t flinch at the assessment, knowing Morgan was right. He merely waited.

So did Morgan.

The moment stretched.

Detrick couldn’t help it, his eyes shifted to the pretty Fairy at Morgan’s side.

That lovely face was still, but hardly impassive. Her large, long-lashed, liquid aquamarine eyes were curious as she watched the interplay. A small smile curved her lips. More so now that she found herself under his regard. Amusement flickered in those eyes, around that pretty mouth.

She was a fetching thing.

“What about the Fairy?”

Morgan studied the man levelly before turning to look at Kyri, restraining a smile.

She didn’t smile, but slanted him a look from those aqua eyes that sent a rush of heat through him before turning a cooler gaze on Detrick.

“What of the Fair? We’re allies to the King,” she said evenly. “Not Haerold, but your true King, Oryan. Allies, not vassals. If you want our aid as well, as scouts, Healers…”

“Healers?” Detrick said, and the front legs of the chair dropped down abruptly.

“We are few,” she said evenly, following Morgan’s lead.

Detrick hadn’t yet committed himself to Oryan’s cause.

It was true enough as well, there were only one or two Healers per glen, so herself, Galan, and another from the Fairy glen nearby were in great demand. There were one or two in the west. A few here in the South. Not many. She and Galan were the most skilled of all.

Kyri took her cue from Morgan, she simply watched and waited.

Morgan almost smiled.

“Oh, hell,” Detrick sighed. “I was a horse-trader before I was a rebel. Old habits die hard. All right. I’m the King’s man – Oryan, that is – and I always have been. Do I still get the damned horses?”

Relaxing, Morgan said. “Yes, and the aid. Advice, too, whether you like it or not.”