Chapter 5

“Damn!” the woman replied. “The Al Cazar betrayed us. That weasel eyed son of a skunk. Where’s the old man? We’ve got to run for it!”

“I don’t know where he is,” Daynin answered. “He never came . . .”

Just then, the wagon lurched forward, throwing both of its passengers to the rear in a confused heap. Daynin fell face first into the woman’s lap, unable to cushion or redirect his fall. He looked up at Sabritha, a deep crimson tide of embarrassment flooding his whole body.

“Closest you been to a woman since you was birthed, eh plowboy?” she mocked.

Daynin was speechless. The momentum of the wagon was so great, he could not easily escape from his unsightly position. It hit him what Sabritha had just said, and another wave of embarrassment washed over him. He put his hands on her thighs and tried to push away, but fell forward again, face first, into her lap.

Sabritha laughed uproariously and said, “If this wasn’t so funny, I’d kick you all the way back to Halfwitway, or wherever it was you said you were from.”

“Hafdeway!” Daynin screeched. He finally managed to right himself, his mind instantly jumping from her warm lap to their more immediate plight. By now the wagon roared across the cobblestoned courtyard at breakneck speed. He still had no idea who or what was guiding it, but the image of his dream’s dark shadow suddenly popped into his head.

“Onward, Abaddon!” the Boozer hollered. “Drive for that gate my weathered old friend!”

Finally able to look out, Daynin couldn’t believe his eyes. The frail little man sat astride the horse’s back, lashing him for all he was worth. The magician’s long dirty hair and flowing robe made him look for all the world like a demon unleashed. The gatewatch must have thought so, too, for they scattered like a batch of chickens when the wagon roared through. The gate stood wide open, its portcullis raised just high enough to allow the wagon’s escape. A squadron of the Duke’s men, still horsed outside the gate, reeled in terror at the oncoming specter. They, too, scattered to avoid being run over by the hairy demon.

As the wagon passed through the group, the magician cast his bag to the ground. Its effect completed their escape. Before the gates of Tendalfief disappeared into the darkness behind them, Daynin watched with great amusement as the Duke’s horsemen tried in vain to control their animals.

“What was in the bag, Boozer?” Daynin cried out.

“Wasps, boy. No armor in the world’ll keep a mad wasp out. Those troops will be licking their wounds for a week,” he shouted over the roar of the wagon. “That’s leverage, boy, at its best. Mark it well.”

A half league away, he stopped to dismount Abaddon. Daynin had to admire the agility demonstrated by a man of his age. “How did you know to run for it when we did? How did you know the gate would be open?”

The magician climbed onto the seat and handed the reins to Daynin. “Simple, my boy. Leave nothing to chance and risk becomes your ally. I put a hard clout on the head of the gatekeeper. When the Duke’s men came, I opened the gate. The rest was a matter of momentum.”

“But how did you know the Duke’s men were coming?” Daynin persisted.

“Because the Stone would have been unloaded otherwise. Why unload that which you intend to move anyway? Simple deduction.”

“I’ll have to hand it to you, old man, you sure made the Duke’s men look like a gang of drunken minstrels,” Sabritha said, laughingly.

“Aye, but they’ll be untangled and after us by daylight,” the Boozer warned. “We’ve got to run for Briarhenge. The more people and roads the better. They’ll have a hard time tracking us once we reach the Great Circle. Then on to the border. We’ll be out of the Duke’s reach there.”

“The border?!” Daynin yelled. “But I have to get back to Hafdeway.”

The Boozer put his hand on the back of Daynin’s neck and said, “You best be forgettin’ about that for now, lad. There’s nothin’ but a gallows waitin’ for you there. We get the booty for the Stone, then you can go back as someone else—a prince of Scotia mayhaps, or some such ruse. But your life as Daynin McKinnon ended in that bloody tavern.”

“But what about my grandfather? He won’t know what’s happened to me. He’ll probably come looking for us. Then I’ll never find him.”

“Never is a word that loser’s use, boy, and you ain’t no loser. We’ve got time and momentum on our side. And we’ve got the Stone. Now lay on those reins and let’s get on to the Circle. We’ll mingle with the pilgrims, then disappear like we were never on this earth. Upon that, you have my pledge as a member of the magician’s guild.”

“That certainly makes me feel secure,” Sabritha said sarcastically, instantly drawing a quiet, but angry look from Daynin.

Just before daylight, the magician’s wagon passed through the first encampment south of Briarhenge. Pilgrims from the whole of Britain had come for the Rites of Spring festival at the Great Circle. Thousands of travelers, hundreds of wagons, and more animals than could be counted were clogging all the roads leading into Briarhenge.

Sunrise over the forests of Briarhenge seemed more brilliant than any Daynin could recall. Perhaps he realized how narrowly they had just escaped from an eternal darkness. Or maybe it was the realization that five leagues from them lay the border of his ancestral land, and safety.

While his mind raced along through images of the night’s escapades, it kept stopping at the same place—with Sabritha. He thought of her coal black hair, her long, shapely legs, and the beautiful smile that seemed to beckon his closer attention. He remembered how she had laughed at him, then why. A hint of flush came over him, thinking about being in her lap. The one thing he recalled most vividly about the night was how Sabritha had smelled when he was close to her.

Daynin had nothing to compare it to. He thought of the tea berry soap his mother had often used, but Sabritha’s smell was wonderfully different. There was a mixture of wood smoke and heather to it, or perhaps lavender and clover. He could not decide which, but he knew, somehow, that her smell would be with him forever.

Wheeling the magician’s wagon around a sharp bend in the road ahead, his reverie abruptly stopped. Standing square in the middle of the track was a man so large that at first, Daynin thought him to be a tree. He slowed the wagon, realizing that he could not pass the man on either side. A quick glance into the back of the wagon told him that the Boozer and Sabritha were both sound asleep. Rather than wake the old man, he decided to stop.

“Hold!” came a shout from the stranger in the road.

“You’re blocking the road!” Daynin replied. “Move aside!”

“A moment of your time, kind sir, if you will,” the stranger said.

“I’ve no time to stop,” Daynin replied, sharply.

From out of nowhere, another man, small, wiry and covered with hair, appeared and jumped onto the side of the wagon. “Mayhaps this here blade’ll be changin’ yer mind, boy,” he slurred.

A long, lancet of a knife flashed in the corner of Daynin’s eye. He froze in terror. With the man less than an arm span from him before he could react, Daynin stuttered, “Wha-aat do you want? We have nothing! We uhh, we’re pilgrims. On our way to the, uhh, Circle.”

“Pilgrims, aye,” the wiry little man hissed. “It’s pilgrims we seek, boy. Them what’s got the goods to make our days some’at easier here in these woods. Now, you be easin’ them reins down and we’ll be havin’ a look in this ‘ere wagon of yours.”

The tree man grabbed old Abaddon’s trace chain and steadied the animal while the knife man climbed inside the wagon. Another man came out of the woods on the right side of the road and disappeared around the back of the wagon. Daynin could do little but submit to the knife man and his woodland band. He could only hope that the magician would once again display his wit to help them escape this new threat.

The Boozer awoke to find the third man climbing into the back of his wagon. He reached for his dirk, but was stopped by the knife man climbing through the front of the wagon.

“Hold yer piece, there, old sot,” the knife man ordered. “We’ll be lookin’ through yer plunder, here, and that ain’t worth dyin’ for. You just take out that there frog sticker and hand it over, and nobody’ll get hurt. Otherwise, this here blonde haired cherub’ll be feedin’ the worms some’at sooner than ye might wish. Understood?”

“Yes,” the Boozer snapped. He glanced at the woman, completely covered by a blanket, obviously realizing that she, too, was at risk. He pulled his dirk very slowly and handed it to the knife man. “We’ve nothing of value, but if it’s food you want, I can give you whatever we have.”

“Value’s in the eyes of the beholder, as it were,” the knife man said. He climbed over the Boozer and began to rummage through the bundles and bags at the front of the wagon. He pulled a large woolen cloak from the pile and tossed it out of the front of the wagon. Next he took a small wooden box without opening it and disposed of it similarly. Finally, he reached for the blanket.

The man in the back and the knife man both whooped at the same instant. “Value, says he!” the knife man hollered. “Guess where he comes from, they don’t hold much with women, eh Tom?”

Tom’s eyes were as large as silver talens, his filthy face broad with a smirk of delight. “May-be she ain’t worth nothin’ to them, Blackjack. But wenches is hard to come by in these parts—especially them what’s got the looks of this ‘ere beast.”

“Leave her alone!” Daynin snapped. “She’s very ill. That’s why we’re bringing her to the Circle—to find a healer.”

“Or to bury her,” the Boozer added. “That’s to be her headstone, there in the back. The mage at Tendalfief told us to keep her away from others. She’s got a fever, so he told us. If I were you, I would . . .”

“Ohhhh, ohhhh,” Sabritha groaned aloud. “Where am I? Is this the other side?” she moaned, adding her part to the charade.

The two bandits fell back in horror as the woman reached out and flailed her arms at them blindly. Tom tumbled toward the open back end, while Blackjack grabbed for the Boozer to steady himself in the close quarters. “Damned pilgrims! Ye’ve all got some kinda disease. Get thee gone from here, afore I light up this whole pestilent wagon.”

Before the knife man could extricate himself from the front of the wagon, a great commotion erupted in the back. Tom had suddenly been jerked completely out of the wagon by an unseen adversary. A brief struggle ended in a loud “thump” as poor Tom’s head received a bashing from his attacker’s staff.

The tree man at the front of the wagon ran to help Tom but was met half way by Tom’s attacker. Blackjack grabbed his plunder, took a quick look at the lopsided battle at the side of the wagon and charged off into the woods. The tree man went down from one swing of the stranger’s staff, collapsing in agony on the side of the road with his kneecap shattered. In a matter of seconds, the fray was over.

Daynin had watched in amazement as the stranger dispatched his much larger opponent with nothing more than a hickory staff. He cheered wildly when the giant went down, urging Boozer to come and watch the spectacle before it ended. Sabritha, too, scrambled for a better vantage point, but missed most of the action.

“Who are you?” Daynin cried out excitedly. “Where are you from?”

“Never mind that,” the stranger replied. “We should go before they come back with more men. Everyone in the wagon, now, quickly!”

Sabritha jumped back into the wagon hurriedly, offering her hand to the stocky, tartan-clad stranger. A musky, but not unpleasant odor accompanied the highlander. Her eyes lingered on the man’s muscular frame as he climbed over her in the close quarters. Perhaps it was the shaggy mop of blondish hair that caught her attention, or the flash in his eyes.

Whatever it was, Daynin didn’t like it. He lashed at Abaddon and off they went until reaching the edge of the next encampment. Feeling safe there, the Boozer ordered a stop.