Thirty-two

Cathal spent most of the first two days in a tree.

He could have wished for a better season. The evergreens were the only trees that would hide his presence, and it was difficult to go very far up them without breaking the branches. He settled for a point about halfway up that offered a keen lookout for anyone coming. There he sat, or lay with his face pressed to the branch, and waited.

He’d passed more interesting days. In his youth, he’d learned stillness, and at least how patience could serve a man on a hunt or a battlefield, and he was glad of both. Cathal watched the flight of birds: the owls that were now waking up from their winter sleep, the smaller birds that were beginning to arrive back, and the grouse that simply sought warmth in one location or another. He noted squirrels, when they’d woken up, and once saw a deer at the very outskirts of the clearing, though he wasn’t surprised when it moved no closer. They were as nervy as horses about smell, even when he was in human form.

When the first night fell and he could be certain that nobody would see him, he killed one of the grouse—caught it quickly, broke its neck, and risked a very small fire to roast it, then buried the remnants with the ashes. As a dragon, he could have eaten it raw and whole, but he judged that course of action riskier than the fire.

He woke on the second day with a crick in his neck and bark in his hair, and it started to rain midway through the afternoon. Sheltered by the branches, and thinking the weather would keep most men inside, woodcutter and hunter alike, he broke a small branch from higher up the tree and began idly to carve it. Cathal had no object in mind, either of use or of decoration, and yet it came as no surprise when the lines of the branch turned into a gowned human figure beneath his knife, and the face took on Sophia’s expression of delighted curiosity.

Wondering about her whereabouts, or her safety, was useless. He found that he could stop himself from doing so. It took slightly more effort than had been necessary when he waited for reports back from scouts, but he had practice. He didn’t expect other reactions.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but Cathal missed her.

He heard her voice in his head, commenting on or questioning everything that happened, be it the flight of an owl, the sunset, or the way pine felt beneath his knife. More than that, he found himself explaining such things, putting them into words as if she was there and he would interest her by so doing, making a gift of his observations and knowing that she’d appreciate them.

He was not a man used to loneliness. From time to time he’d had companions, male and female alike, but he’d spent long stretches of his life fundamentally alone, and he’d never felt the lack of company. His family, like Loch Arach, was something to return to every so often, but he’d never wanted to stay there, nor with any of them, for very long.

It was passing strange to feel an absence where he’d never even known there was a presence. He gave the carved figure two slim hands, clasped about a goblet with unknown contents, and wondered what Sophia would think of it.

The sun was sinking behind the hills as Cathal finished the carving’s hands, and his own hands went still, along with the rest of him, when he heard men approaching along the nearby road. More than one came, he could tell, and their pace was too regular for peasants out hunting. These were soldiers. Quickly, he pulled himself upward to a branch that would give him more cover and still hold his weight, and then listened as three of the men came closer, until he could hear their voices over the light rain.

“Damn well better have kept it up, if they know what’s best for them.”

“And if they weren’t lazy buggers, they’d be here with us. Doesn’t matter. What matters is I don’t want his lordship coming down that road and getting stuck behind a deadfall…or his carriage overturning on account of a hole. And neither do you, if you like your skin.”

“Then we take the road around.”

“That’s not orders. Orders are we take this one, get back three days quicker, unless there’s reason to do anything else. Which means your orders are to scout ahead, smart-like, and let me know what’s in the way. Or I can tell the captain about that nice set of jewels you’ve got hidden in your saddlebags… Such a shame the house caught fire before we could loot it proper, aye?”

Curses in several languages followed. The scout didn’t sound like an educated man, but he was a worldly one. His footsteps went forward down the road. The others stayed behind, and Cathal swore in a few languages himself, if only in the back of his head.

Sophia hadn’t even been gone half the allotted time. She was quick, but he doubted she could find what she needed in two days. She was subtle, but Cathal didn’t like to think of her spending any more time in Valerius’s proximity if he could prevent it.

The hours between sunset and full dark felt very long. He watched the glow of campfires a distance down the road, heard drinking songs and brawls begin, and then slipped down out of the tree, thanking God that the night was cloudy again. He stayed human for a while nonetheless, pushing himself to run for four hours into the forest—double that time for a mortal man on foot—before he changed and took to the sky, skimming low atop the trees.

Before long he picked out the spot where he and Sophia had arranged to meet: midway toward the castle, about half a day’s journey for a lone man on foot, twice that for a group of soldiers—and who knew how long Valerius’s carriage and possessions would take? The village was still an hour or two off; the scout on the road ahead of him, making sure all was in readiness.

Cathal folded his wings, dropped, and waited in the darkness, watching through slit eyelids so that even that light wouldn’t give his presence away. He saw the scout in the distance: a tall, skinny man with the hardened look of a man who’d killed a few times for pay—a look that, for the first time, it was disconcerting to recognize on himself.

He grew old, perhaps.

The man reached the edge of the village, turned, and headed back, unable to run but still keeping up a good pace. Cathal watched him round a bend in the road, then crept out and began the first part of his plan.

Large as he was, and wet as the road was, it was no great challenge to scoop out a hole. Feeling a bit like a boy playing in the mud, he made it big enough and deep enough to truly ruin a rider’s day, then dragged branches close to it and smoothed down the nearby dirt. Valerius’s men would likely notice before the hole did any serious damage, but it did no harm to try.

Sneaking away, he crept further back toward the castle, found an old tree, and gave it a shove—more of a determined lean, really, for that was all it needed. It crashed most satisfactorily to the ground. Sitting back and surveying it, Cathal was confident that no horse and none but the skinniest of men would be able to get around it.

The soldiers could shift the log and fill the hole. That would take time, though—more perhaps than the three days of the longer road, if they ran afoul of either obstacle—and if Valerius had any magical means of travel, Cathal doubted he’d have subjected himself to a spring journey by road, even if it was in a carriage. Both obstacles could have come about naturally; the earth was wet, the trees were old, and one man on foot might miss a hole that would cripple a horse or break a carriage.

Knowing Valerius even as little as he did, Cathal did wince for the scout and his likely fate—but that was war. He’d done worse, and more directly, to men a thousand times over in his life. Nobody lived forever, not even the MacAlasdairs. He’d bought Sophia half a week free of Valerius and his men, possibly more than that.

That was, if she stayed so long in the village. She’d likely used the same road. If she came back early to their meeting place, she was likely to walk right into the arms of Valerius’s men.

Cathal hissed, breath steaming in the night air. Going back further would mean crossing paths with Valerius himself, and Douglas might be right—the wizard might well be able to sense Cathal’s presence and to have planned for just such an occasion.

Yet Cathal couldn’t stand by and wait any longer. He’d been resigned to Douglas’s instructions when the original plan held, in part because Sophia had seconded them. Plans changed when the enemy made contact. Any soldier knew that.

He folded himself back into human shape and started running again—toward the castle this time, and at an angle away from the road.

He had no idea where Sophia had ended up; nor was there a man or woman in this blighted land that he’d trust to send a message. He’d have to rely on his own senses—and hope he got to Sophia before Valerius’s men did.