The Ursuper

'You know what they say about plans?' Orrade interrupted. 'They're only good if the enemy follows them.'

Byren grinned. 'It was mostly your plan.'

Orrade grinned back. 'It was mostly to convince Florin we knew what we were doing. Convince her to stay behind.'

Byren rubbed his top lip, hiding a grin.

Orrade stiffened. 'They're coming.'

Byren joined Orrade on his side of the window. Waterford's tavern faced the stream from which the town took its name. Dark horses and riders flowed across the shallow ford in pairs, riding up into the town square in front of the tavern. Byren counted sixteen pairs. Cobalt was not in the lead pair, or the second pair. After that the space in front of the tavern became too congested to get a clear view as they arrived.

The keeper came out with a lantern. There was much shouting as the men dismounted and the horses were led around back to the stable, which would not be large enough to cope.

Byren searched the milling men for Cobalt's profile. Last time he'd seen him, his cousin had affected the Ostronite style of clothing, with padded shoulders, a nipped-in waist, and his hair loose, curling down his back. Cobalt probably wore Rolencian clothes now — or, more likely, Merofynian.

The men parted, shoving two youths forwards to confront a tall, dark-haired man, who stood with his back to Byren.

Since everyone was black-haired Byren could only go by the man's height and bearing. It could be Cobalt. The right sleeve swung loose.

'Prisoners,' Orrade whispered, disgustedly. 'This is going to get ugly.'

Byren agreed, as a sick feeling of dread settled in his stomach. 'Boys of no more than sixteen by the look of them.' He frowned. 'The one on the right is familiar.'

'Probably served you wine or held your horse in Rolenton,' Orrade said.

As they were shoved to their knees, the tall skinny youth's fur cap fell off, revealing a head with no more than a finger joint's length of dark hair. Unless he'd been shorn because of fever, he was a monk.

Byren shifted uncomfortably. This could be Fyn's fate if he tried to reach the camp.

With a gesture, the man who could be Cobalt indicated the second youth's cap was to be removed. His hair was also cropped short. One of the men parted his hair, looking for abbey tattoos.

'They're monks, alright,' the man reported, his voice carrying easily to Byren.

'Perhaps they know where the other kingsheir is,' the leader said. 'Bring them inside.' As he turned to walk into the tavern, his features were clearly revealed for the first time. But Byren already knew by his voice that he wasn't Cobalt, just a Merofynian masquerading as his cousin.

Orrade swore. 'It's a set-up to trap you, and they're going to torture the boys.'

Byren swallowed. He should leave now, but he could not abandon the youths. 'Besides,' he said. 'It's clear the boys were headed this way to join me. They must know the camp's whereabouts. We have to — '

'Kill them or rescue them,' Orrade finished for him.

Byren met his eyes. 'I'm not killing them.'

'I know. So how do you propose we rescue them?'

'A diversion.'

'The horses?' Orrade's eyes gleamed. 'There's too many for the stable. They'll be in the holding yard. We could turn them loose and set fire to the stable.'

'The tavern keeper won't be pleased.'

'When you're king you can build him another stable.' Orrade opened the window. Night had fallen while they spoke and stars silvered the thatch. 'Don't make your move until I come back.'

Byren nodded, fully intending to slip down the stairs and watch from the shadows. He didn't want the boys killed before he could rescue them.

Orrade frowned. 'I know you, you'll — '

'Just go. Time's a wasting. They could be losing fingers while we talk.'

With Orrade gone, he went to the door. No one had brought the Merofynian leader's travel kit upstairs. They were probably too intent on the prisoners.

Opening the door a fraction, Byren peered down the short hallway. Only two other rooms gave off it on the other side. When they didn't have customers, the tavern keeper and his family slept up here. Tonight they would sleep under the kitchen table, if they slept at all. Byren hoped they and the other villagers escaped this night unscathed.

He went to open the door fully, just as the tavern keeper's son came up the stairs with several travel kits slung over his shoulders.

The boy caught Byren's eye, stiffened, then kept coming. He slipped into the room, divesting himself of the largest travelling kit.

'Lord Cobalt has two prisoners, both monks,' the boy reported, then shuddered. 'He's ordered the tap-room fire built up.'

'That's not Cobalt,' Byren said. 'And don't you worry about the monks. When the fighting starts, get out. Hide in the hills. Tell the villagers.'

He nodded and left. Byren waited for a moment, then headed for the stairs. Voices speaking Merofynian drifted up to him. He silently thanked his mother for making sure he spoke the languages of both Rolencia's trading partners.

From what Byren could hear, the Merofynians had begun drinking already. Pity they weren't about to drink themselves senseless. No, they'd be too eager to discover what the monks knew.

He shuffled lower, coming to the last bend, only six steps stretching below him to the tap-room. From up here, he couldn't see much, mainly men's backs. They faced the open fireplace. Presumably the monks were being held in front of it. The men-at-arms' rough, mocking voices told him they enjoyed baiting the two youths.

How long must he wait for Orrade to organise the others?

Byren fingered his sword hilt, reminded of how he'd had to leave Elina in Palatyne's bed while Dovecote's defenders prepared to strike. That had sorely tested him, and even though he did not know the monks this was no easier.

A shout from the rear of the tavern reached Byren, but the Merofynians were too engrossed to notice.

'Lord Cobalt, Lord Cobalt?' The tavern keeper himself came running in. 'There's a problem with the horses. Something spooked them. They've broken through the fence!'

Byren could imagine the Merofynian leader's annoyance. The man masquerading as Cobalt sent half the men out to catch the horses. It was clear from his voice that he did not realise this was an attack.

Now that there were fewer men, Byren could see the Merofynian leader seated on the end of a long table, one boot swinging, as one of his men added fuel to the fire. 'Yes, build it up. Get that poker nice and hot. I want it glowing.'

The shouts from outside changed tone, becoming more frantic. A man came running into the tap room. 'The stable's on fire.'

The Merofynian leader shoved himself to his feet. 'The kingsheir has made his move. Come on.'

All of them raced out, leaving Byren a clear view of the two monks tied to chairs in front of the fire. The moment the Merofynians left, the monks began to struggle against their bonds. They broke off to stare at Byren as he came down the stairs, crossing the tap-room.

'Byren Kingsheir?' the familiar one gasped. 'Am I glad to see you!'

Byren grinned and knelt beside him to cut the ropes, then dealt with the other one's bonds.

Someone charged through the kitchen, throwing the door open.

Byren spun to his feet, sword drawn. He couldn't believe his eyes. 'Florin?'

'There you are!' She darted between the tables and scattered chairs, unabashed. 'Quick, out the front door. Orrie has sent them on a mad goose chase, so our people can ambush them in the trees, but some stayed behind to rescue horses from the stables, and the leader took some men and went in search of you. He'll be back when he can't find you.'