Vagabond's Dagger by Joyce Holt

Author:Joyce Holt [Holt, Joyce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2018-06-09T22:00:00+00:00

30 – Bags of Bones

"What are they saying?" Teg hissed, shaking Gwen's arm.

"What have you done to us?" Gwen keened back, her hand on Trystan's chest, feeling the rise and fall of his ribcage with each ragged breath, the low beat of his heart – and staring in horror at the wreck of his face.

"Illusion. Tell me what they say."

Gwen touched Trystan's cheek, and felt the skin firm as ever. Traced lightly up to his forehead, and ran fingers through thick hair, hair she knew must still be auburn, though now it glimmered silver in the torchlight. The lump, though – the lump was real.

Her own head throbbed. She blinked through the pain, took a deep breath, listened to the hard-edged words of the men. "Arguing over where to take us, where to take us to—" She gulped and braced her shoulders. "Where for the slaughter. Useless, they say. Too old—"

One of the towering, foul-smelling men leaned down and tipped Trystan's head from side to side. "No collar. No marks of a collar. The hag must be telling true. Look how long her hair. Not runaways at all. Newly down from some den in the hills." The broad-shouldered Angul yanked aside the coarse blanket Trystan had been wearing as a cloak and prodded at his limp arms. The Angul's touch lingered a moment on a wrist, felt briefly at the other – then he grabbed Gwen's forearm.

She stifled a yelp as he groped up to her shoulder, fingers digging painfully. She had to staunch an urge to lunge into attack. She could see a dagger hilt at his belt. Just let me lay hold on that, she thought, hunger for battle burning fierce inside.

"Back down," Teg ordered, voice low but harsh.

"They look like bags of bones, but they still have some muscle on them," the beefy lout said. "I'll take them and wring their last days out of 'em. Got lots of dunging to do in that new field of ours."

"Take 'em, then," the others agreed. "Plunder 'em for their riches, too."

"Yah, a fine hoard of fleas!" Laughter bellowed.

In a daze Gwen relayed to Teg their newly decided fate.

"Play along," the wisewoman ordered. "Settle back, girl. Don't think you can leap up and give them all battle, then make off with Trystan slung over your shoulder. Even you cannot do all that."

The burly Angul worked at Trystan's waist and wrested away his belt. "Scabbard for your fine new sword, Ubbi. Belt and knife for me. Nothing else of any worth on the wretch," he added after a quick pat about.

"Fine sword? Hah. An ancient relic, battered bronze. Looks older than the three scum. But it'll do, quaint shape though it be."

Gwen stared at her grandmother's sword with its graceful, leaf-tapered blade, in the hands of this grimy-faced barbarian, and thought what she could do if only she had it back. One against five. More than five now – seven, or maybe eight.

And now the great oaf pulled her cloak aside, nearly choking her, looking her over.

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