Théâtre des Abominations.

Had Elias not emerged from amongst the tents before the nobles went from sight, he might not have seen the covered wagon in near darkness sitting back from the encampment as it had not upon his arrival at Sevier. But as the patrons filed inside, light poured from the rear door, evidencing that except for the wagon’s immense size, it was nondescript. On the outside. Inside was where the perverse satisfied their appetite for the less than nondescript, of which Hart numbered.

Hopefully, somewhere beyond the wagon Theo kept watch—all the more imperative since Elias had only one of Otto’s men-at-arms, the other two so full up in their cups there had been no reason to rouse them.

Elias looked to the night sky across which a blanket of clouds moved, blocking much of the moon’s light. It was of benefit, aiding in concealing him and the man-at-arms, but a watch had to be kept for breaks in the cover that could reveal them.

Returning his regard to the wagon, he considered further obstacles besides having no other sword arms to command. At least two of the troupe were in the wagon, one likely the woman Theo had described, the other the performer who escorted the nobles there. Of immediate concern was the one who guarded the wagon’s rear entrance.

Elias was of good height, but this man was unnaturally tall and broad. Much of his extra width was fat, as told by the way it moved when he paced, but it was supported by muscle that would easily heft the sword he wore.

Still, Elias was confident two trained at arms could overwhelm those set over the wagon, and more quickly were Theo near enough to make it three. But as much as Elias longed to attack now, he dared not lest the little ones were harmed in the attempt to free them.

Thus, patience. Once the nobles departed, there would be time to end what was an abomination only with regard to what the children suffered. If it proved impossible to hide from Costain what transpired, the Lord of Sevier would simply have to understand. And Otto.

Shortly, the wagon’s door opened and the nobles exited, several shaking their heads, one exclaiming he would not believe it had he not seen it, another crossing herself as if she had looked upon the devil.

Elias did not like the thoughts and imaginings crowding his head and tightening his hands. They tempted him to act from a place of emotion rather than reason as the Wulfriths would have him do. Barring immediate danger to the children, he must await the best opportunity to free them.

As the nobles started across the meadow toward the tents, the man who had escorted them stepped from the wagon but remained on its landing, and coming behind was the woman. Red-headed and garbed in colorful scarves, she held a babe whose size and half-hearted cries revealed were it not yet walking it would soon.

Though Elias longed to signal the man-at-arms hunkering in the tall grass twenty feet distant, he held. And hoped when the woman turned back into the wagon he would glimpse his son.

In a graveled voice that revealed she was of a good age, she said something to the two men and pivoted. Scarves fluttering in the breeze, making it impossible to see what lay inside the wagon, she closed the door, once more making shadows of the men outside.

Good odds, Elias allowed, providing he and the man-at-arms incapacitated the two before the woman was alerted. Were she alone with the children, Elias ought to be able to kick in the door and overpower her before she harmed any. Hopefully, she would no longer be holding the babe.

The nobles having moved past Elias, he waited for them to disappear amid the tents, then signaled.

Staying low, the two advanced through the tall grass. And gained a dozen steps before movement past the man-at-arms and what sounded like grumbling returned both to their haunches.

The one approaching the wagon appeared to have a hunched back, but when he shouted, “Inès!” and the wagon door opened, the light spilling past the woman revealed it was Jake the Jack and he carried something over his shoulder. When that something began pounding on his back and naming him a devil, Elias knew it for a boy. Hart?

All of him straining to snatch his sword from its scabbard, he commanded himself to reason. The advantage of moments earlier was past. As they had waited out the nobles’ retreat, they could wait out this man’s.

But when Jake ascended the steps, dropped his burden to the landing, and dealt the boy a blow, Elias bellowed, drew sword and dagger, and ran. As did the man-at-arms.

The garishly costumed, brightly-painted performer wrenched up the boy and thrust him at Inès, then jumped to the ground. As he drew batons from beneath his belt, the enormous man placed himself to the left of Jake and pulled his sword, while the one who had escorted the nobles stepped to the right and drew a long knife.

The woman named Inès pushed the boy behind her but remained in the wagon’s doorway as if to provide light by which to do battle.

“Honore!” a cry sounded from within.

Hart, Elias acknowledged with relief, then moved his mind to wielding sword and dagger.

“Theo!” The boy’s voice again, and though the name jolted Elias, there was no time to ponder how it was possible it came off Hart’s lips. Of greater import was his squire be near enough to answer the call. Though what was to come would draw the notice of the castle garrison, as remiss as they were in their duties that had allowed Elias and the man-at-arms to depart the castle without being questioned, it could be too late for them to give aid.

Seeing the three outside the wagon were ready for those converging on them, Elias shouted to the man-at-arms, “Take the one on the right,” and set himself at the one on the left. Though he did not doubt Jake’s batons could incapacitate—even kill—it was usually best to first eliminate blades most adept at bleeding a man and spilling innards.

Angling the Wulfrith dagger just above his head, Elias swept up his sword. When the big man lunged, Elias arced the blade of the latter high to counter his opponent’s downward stroke. As sword met sword, he slashed the dagger downward. It was not yet known if his opponent possessed great facility with the sword, but the man was unprepared to deal with two blades that simultaneously parried and attacked. He roared when blood was taken from his shoulder.

Hearing the cries of frightened children, Elias adjusted his stance for the next meeting of blades and noted his opponent was, indeed, two hands taller. But the fat he carried slowed him.

A glance at Otto’s man-at-arms revealed that though his sword had a much longer reach than the knife, his opponent defended himself well. As for Jake, he appeared prepared to defend himself, but seemed disinclined to aid his own men.

Poltroon, Elias silently named him. Though the fight would be more challenging three against two, it was preferable to Jake retreating to the wagon and using the children as defense.

Elias set himself at the big man again, and they traded several blows before the Wulfrith dagger once more spilled blood, a thrust to the man’s chest going through fat and muscle and between ribs.

“Jake!” Inès called as Elias’s opponent stumbled back and drew a hand from his chest to look upon crimson. “Aid Georges!”

“Do you require help, wee Georges?” Elias taunted. “A nursemaid, perhaps?”

The man’s blade came down on Elias’s just above his head, and in that moment of meeting, the Wulfrith dagger thrust again, piercing the abdomen.

Georges cried out and, as feared, Jake turned toward the wagon.

“Certes, you will get no aid from the boy who plays with sticks,” Elias shouted. “See how the poltroon runs!”

That made Jake halt and look around.

Taking the opportunity to sooner ensure he did not make it inside the wagon, Elias knocked aside Georges’s wavering blade, arced down and up again, and what his dagger left unfinished his sword did not.

As the big man dropped to his knees, Elias glanced at his father’s man who had yet to put down his opponent. Whether he had more drink in him than thought or was derelict in keeping his sword skill honed, there would be changes when Otto’s lands passed to his heir.

“Fight him!” Inès cried, though now Jake had no choice with Elias lunging at him.

“Get the wagon away!” the miscreant shouted, then whirled, swept up his batons, and crossed them before him.

Elias swung his sword with only as much force as was necessary to cut the nearest stick in two. When steel struck steel rather than wood, he knew he had violated the lesson to be prepared for the worst and later rejoice if it proved the best.

The impact for which he was not braced made him lurch backward, giving his opponent time and space to strike. Elias bent to the steel baton’s punch to the gut, nearly went down when the second baton struck his upper arm that would have been his head had he not jerked up his shoulder.

Despite the pain reverberating down his dagger-wielding arm, he kept hold of the hilt and dropped back a stride. It was not enough to keep Jake from landing another blow, this one to Elias’s outer thigh.

The pain was terrible, but not as much as Elias made it appear across the mask he slapped on. Lurching back, putting space between him and his opponent, he glanced at the man-at-arms. No help from that quarter, nor from Theo who, it seemed, had been unable to track the woman in the doorway. Or perhaps he had found her and now lay dead…

“Leave, Inès!” Jake commanded again. “I am near done with him.”

“But the light!”

“Go!”

The door slammed. The only light that of the clouded moon and the glow cast by Sevier’s torches and the camp fires, all became little more than shadow and would remain so until eyes once more adjusted to the dim.

Hence, again I go to the cellar, Elias told himself and consciously engaged all his senses as taught him by Everard in that darkness beneath Wulfen’s hall.

Aching in too many places, he readied himself, but then a shout of pain sounded across the meadow.

Was it of death? And whose?

Unlike Theo who commanded Honore to stay put when they came around the tent beside which more beads were scattered, she could only stare at the scene across the meadow. The wagon and battling bodies in the light cast from its doorway were no longer visible, but the men had been there and still were as evidenced by the cry of one in pain.

“Not Elias,” she gasped. “Pray, not him!”

Light again, but less intense where it shone from the front of the wagon and lasting only seconds. But it was enough to count three men—and the fourth that was Theo moving toward them.

Then the snap of a whip, the whinny of horses, and the bump of wheels moving over uneven ground.

“Hart!” Honore snatched up her skirts and ran. If Elias yet lived, he surely fought to remain so, and his squire would aid his lord before the children in the wagon. Thus, it fell to her.

“Please, Lord,” she gasped between breaths needed to drive her body forward over unseen ground. Though her eyes were fairly accustomed to the dark, it was more the din of men battling and the rumbling wagon that guided her forward—and the cries of frightened children.

Her heart leapt when she heard a shouted command from one who sounded like Elias, but knowing she would be of more use to the children than a warrior, she veered away.

“Non, Honore!” That she heard clearly, and though she rejoiced it was Elias’s voice, she did not slow.

Moments after skirting those who grunted and cursed amid the peal of blades, the clouds let the moon be. The light it cast provided enough to see the shape of the wagon picking up speed. And a man in close pursuit.

One of those Elias had fought? Or Theo, Elias having commanded him to the wagon? That possibility nearly caused her to give heart and lungs the respite they demanded. But she would not lose her boy again.

The figure well ahead drew alongside the wagon, and moments later he was at the front leaping onto the seat.

The wagon lurched, slowed, and Honore heard a woman scream.

Theo then, but still she ran. And loosed a scream of her own when the wagon careened opposite and tilted onto two wheels before slamming back to earth.

The cries of the children louder and pitched higher, Honore found more strength she had not known she possessed and reached her legs longer. Still, if not for Theo’s efforts to slow the wagon, she could not have overtaken it.

She closed one hand around the rail alongside the steps, reached with the other, set her teeth against the pain of splinters sliding into her palms, and cried out when her shins slammed into the lower step.

As the wagon tilted again, she held on and swung to the side.

“I am here!” she called to the children.

When the wagon righted and slowed further, she got a foot on the step, then the other, but as she wrenched herself forward, she glimpsed a rider coming from the wood.

Ears filled with the children’s cries and the woman’s screams, Honore ascended to the landing. Keeping one hand on the railing, she reached for the door with the other, turned the handle, and pulled. It gave, but only at its middle and lower portions. It was fastened at the top where a child could not reach.

“I am here, Hart!” she called through the seam and yanked at the door. The ribbon of light widened, but the latch held.

“Help us, Honore!”

She wrenched again, heard the crack of wood, but she had not enough strength nor time. The rider came alongside, and as he leapt off his horse onto the landing, she recognized him.