The Archer's Daughter (5 page)

Win or die. Those were the only choices.

The pair scurried through the trees, leaping over fallen branches and deflecting low lying tree limbs as they made their way to safety.

Pausing to catch her breath, Cate kneeled beside an old decaying log slick with green moss. “What of your men, my lord? Do you not fear for their safety? Or yours?” She wiped her brow with the sleeve of her tunic, staining it a muddy red.

Owen collapsed beside her. “They are trained well enough to regroup and fight. And what of your men?”

Cate rose, standing tall above Owen. “This is where our leadership differs. We fight to survive, to protect one another at all costs.” The tip of her sword balanced precariously close to his chest. “At all costs.”

At the sight
of her men emerging from within the refuge of the trees, Cate withdrew her sword, stepping away from Owen. “I am sorry for this.” Her lips tightened into a slight frown. “If only we were to have met under
different
circumstances.” She sprinted toward her men, pausing for a moment to glance back at the defeated Owen. He hung his head between his knees, and both arms were slung loosely at his sides. She had bested him.

The breath burst from her lungs as she dashed from the small clearing in which she had parted ways with Owen. Running alongside her, Wallace huffed his moans and groans as he struggled to keep pace. The joyful embraces and thankful prayers would have to wait until they cleared the forest and gained a substantial amount of ground in fleeing from the enemy.

With every push forward, men sprung from the forest, joining Cate in retreat. Worthy men, young and old, from the surrounding villages had joined with Wallace — for her freedom. Some faces she recognized… once young boys were now young men toting steel and string, while others were strangers. Simple farmers banding together for a united cause.

For a brief moment, a full-bodied euphoria consumed her. She had survived to live another day, granted a second chance to resume the hunt for her father’s murderer. She
would
see him avenged. Flashes of deep crimson, the color of the Royal Guard uniform caught her eye, and Cate tugged Wallace to a halt. She motioned for the others to lower to the ground as she did, hiding in the tall grasses. Several voices echoed through the trees, bouncing off rock and limb in skewed directions. Needing to know just how many they faced, Cate whispered to Wallace, “Wait here.”

Rising to her elbows, she crawled through the underbrush, closer to the enemy guardsmen. The men argued, their attentions on one another rather than their surroundings, and to Cate’s favor. To her dismay, two of Owen’s men — the trackers sent after Wallace — bickered with several of the painted head hunters. Stunned by the betrayal, Cate could not move. Instead, she listened. If they were to reveal any semblance of a plan, she wanted to know of it.

“How is it they are not dead?” one whispered harshly.

Cate recognized the voice. He’d been wary of her, never making full eye contact, but had always kept one eye on her at all times.

“I do not know, sir,” was the feeble reply.

“Because your men shoot as straight as they piss!” The frustration evident in the strain of his voice, the guard growled orders. “Tell your men if they do not bring me both of their heads, it will be their
own
on pikes!”

“Yes, sir!” Boots shuffled through the bracken. Horses snorted their discontent as the men mounted, the leather tack squeaking under the new weight.

Wafts of sweat, leather, and beast tingled in Cate’s nostrils, leaving her with the overwhelming instinct to run. She crept backward, careful as to not disturb the tall plants disguising her position. A dull panic rooted in her gut, threatening to slither its way to her throat in the form of a cry.

Two heads
. The guards were plotting to kill Owen. He’d put his trust in them — in her — and even she had betrayed him. Although she swore him no duty or honor, she owed him this one thing. Owen put his life in the hands of his men willingly. She knew not why they wanted his life ended, but he did not deserve to die at the hands of treachery from his own men. Men whom he fought with, broke bread with. She must warn him of their devious ways. It was the least she could do as repayment for his kindness.

Reaching Wallace, Cate inhaled a wavering breath. “Wallace, listen to me. Take the others and return home to Hawkhurst. There is a matter I must attend to, and I must face it alone. I will be along with haste.” She clenched his shoulder with her fingers, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Cate.” Wallace sighed her name, his disappointment evident by the deep crease in his brow and the frown contorting his usually joyful features.

She would not be deterred. “I know how much you have risked, and I am truly grateful, but I must warn him.”

“The guardsman who took ye prisoner? He is our enemy!”

“A life for a life. He saved mine, and I must repay the debt. His men plot against him, Wallace. You would do the same for any one of us. I won’t be long.” Cate wished she could make her friend understand just how much she needed this, for her own conscience. “Besides,” she added, attempting to lighten the situation, “that fool has my armor.” She smiled when Wallace chuckled. Turning to the man nearest her, she outstretched her hand. “Lend me your bow?” The man nodded, passing her the weapon and a quiver full of arrows.

“The best of luck to ye, Cate. We shall be rid of this nonsense by the morn, and we will laugh about it over whisky. Lots and lots of whisky.” Wallace motioned for the group to bank to the left, to travel deeper into the trees to evade the opposition.

Once clear of the guards, Cate wasted no time sprinting back toward what she had fought so hard to escape. The pounding of her heart propelled her forward. Nearing a small overlook of the access road, she crouched low. She surveyed the chaos below. Bodies littered the ground, mostly comprised of the head hunters, and in mass quantity.

Surrounded on all sides, several of her countrymen still battled against the enemy, standing their ground as best they could with little means of escape. A tinge of guilt panged her, as she had left them behind to die. Her eyes sought Owen, and a sliver of hope inside her wished he still lived. She spotted him near the trees where they had parted ways, battling more men than even the greatest of warriors could defeat in the best of circumstances.

A choice must be made. Cate counted the arrows in her quiver. Did she clear a path for those taking up arms for her or help in the escape of the one who’d condemned her? Whatever her reasoning, she didn’t possess enough arrows to accomplish both. “Father, guide me and I shall follow.” She crossed herself before removing the bow slung over her shoulder. Nocking her first arrow, she aimed at those attacking her fellow villagers. The first attacker fell to the ground just before delivering what would have been a death blow to a young lad barely big enough to swing a sword. Wasting no time, she drew again, then released the bowstring with fervid determination.

The second enemy dropped close to the first, which drew attention to her whereabouts. “Run!” she commanded to the others, while skidding down the embankment. Cate paused, her bow rising in harmony with her breathing. She plucked off another arrow before pulling her focus toward Owen. She rushed across the road, her boots slipping on the loose dirt stirred up by horses and the fighting. Leaping over a fallen comrade, she drew an arrow, briefly stopping to launch it into the back of a head hunter closing in on Owen. Sprinting closer to the grouping of trees in which she had last set eyes on him, Cate glimpsed behind her, catching a hurried look at the others she attempted to save. To her surprise, the skirmish had diminished, and the last few men darted to the thick cover of the forest.

Cate turned around just in time to crash into the outstretched fist of a bellowing head hunter. The blow pummeled Cate to her back, hurling the breath from her lungs. The arrows spilled from the sheath as she hit the ground, and her bow took to flight, landing out of reach. She kicked at his torso, attempting to remove the weapon from his grip. The man caught her foot and pulled, dragging Cate several paces backward. Her nails dug into the soft earth. Dirt and grass filled her empty hands.

Feeling the shaft of an arrow brush along the tips of her fingers, Cate scrambled for it. Now clutching it firmly in her palm, she struggled against the strength of the man. As her attacker leaned in for a murderous blow, Cate swung the arrow wildly, plunging it deep into the man’s neck. Blood spurt from the wound, and he gargled a sickening death cry. She pushed him back with full force and rolled from beneath the body before it collapsed in a crumpled heap of flesh and leather.

She wavered to her feet. She must reach Owen. Cate picked up a sword to finish off a badly wounded man crawling toward Owen. With a quick jab to the chest, the attacker was silenced. Their deaths temporarily averted, she dropped the blade where she stood and stumbled to him. “Aren’t you a sorry sight?” she said, drawing in a heavy breath.

Cate chuckled at the bloodied state of Owen. Perhaps she had expected him to be made of stone, as she was momentarily surprised to see he bled red. A fresh gash oozed along his right thigh, his breeches soiled in a bloody mud mixture. Droplets of crimson were splattered about his tunic and skin and smeared in ruddy streaks as sweat dripped from his brow.

“Have you come to finish me off, Cate Archer? Put an arrow in my skull as well?” Owen halfheartedly swung his sword in jest, waving it about with what little strength he could muster. He let out an abrupt laugh, which ended in a sigh.

“I would rather destroy the colored glass of the Holy Church than a pretty face such as yours. However… we must stop meeting like this.” Cate hooked her arm around Owen’s. “Oh, come now. There is hope for you yet.” She helped him to stand.

He muttered a curse while regaining his footing, slow to straighten fully.

“It seems they have taken a fancy to your head as well, my lord.”

Owen tested his steps, taking a cautious shuffle forward. He grimaced and his eyes clamped shut as his movements ceased. “How many remain?” he asked.

“Very few. They disperse at the present.” Owen wavered before her. “You must rest,” she said, helping him to sit down beside a fallen tree. A safe spot and away from immediate danger, it would have to do while they took a rest for a spell. After a few tense moments, and a few long breaths, Cate blurted, “I will find a horse.” She found Owen a sword and left it by his side. “I will return.” She turned to leave, pondering the thought of where, exactly, she was to find a horse.

“Catherine.”

Her given name brought her to a sudden halt. The thick, fluidic smoothness of his voice rushed through her. She turned, twisting at the hips to face him.

“Thank you.” A tenderness enveloped his words. Soft and full-bodied, his genuine spirit overtook her.

A slight smile parted her lips. “I may be a murderous bitch in the eyes of some, but I still have an honorable heart, despite what His Majesty might have told you. He knows not my reasons nor of my life.”

Locating a horse was proving to be a more difficult task than Cate had anticipated. Most had fled the area, claimed by whatever party was privy to its location at the time of clearing the battle site, or had been mortally wounded. Finding herself in the same area where her mount went down, Cate stepped over the bodies she and Owen had fought together. How quickly the fates had turned. Just hours before, she’d thought she had little chance of survival. The shackles lay cold in the dirt, mixed with bits of torn grass and blood. The fight seemed ages old.

She reached for the saddle bags — still attached to the slain horse — hoping they would contain enough supplies to keep them through the night. As she circled the horse, it nickered, its head rising at the sight of her.

Injured and bleeding, it clung to life, not willing to succumb to its inevitable fate. Cate paused a moment to admire its spirit before deciding that if she could manage to get it up on all four legs and walking, the people of her village would feast like kings tomorrow. She unfastened the girth and loosened the saddle, hoping the release of added weight and restriction would help it to rise. Taking it by the bridle, she gave the horse a tug. “Come on now,” she coaxed. “Up you go.” The horse released a squeal in protestation, tossing its head about. In turn, Cate walked to its rump and gave it a hefty slap. “Get up, you stubborn beast!” She tugged again, and this time, the animal rolled from its side, attempting to stand. “Give it a go, then,” she chuckled, allowing the horse room to kick out its front legs.

It pitched forward, shaking free of the saddle and padding. The animal quivered, the flesh pulsating around the entrance wounds of the two arrows protruding from its neck and hindquarters. On further inspection, Cate took notice of the damage. The neck wound was more of a graze, and she easily pulled the arrow free. The arrow in the back end, however, was lodged deep in the muscle, and dislodging it would only cause further harm. She broke the shaft as close as she could without inflicting more pain, and gave the horse a good pat for keeping relatively still.

Taking up the saddle bags, Cate took a peek inside. To her surprise, her armor was rolled neatly in one of the leather pouches. Let the devil take him, that Owen Grey. Her precious leathers had been within reach the entire time. A wave of panic spread over her. Just the thought of Owen having sliced it to treat her wound left her stomach in knots. She decided to leave it in the pouch and deal with it later. He needed her help, and she could do him no good festering over the state of her brigandine.

Cate slung the bags over the horse and took up the reins. After taking several steps forward, she paused, doubled back to the saddle, and heaved it up to her side, balancing it precariously on her hip and forearm, adjusting its weight frequently. She urged the horse forward, matching its stumbling steps pace for pace. The saddle was heavy and cumbersome, but she walked at a slow enough pace so that she could manage its weight. The thought of utilizing the horse for toting the saddle briefly crossed her mind, but guilt weighed heavily on her mind. The poor thing had suffered enough already so she may live, so Cate decided to carry the burden this once.