The Marriage Medallion Read online

  "It's madness."

  "You keep saying that."

  "I won't be a part of it."

  "Oh, no? Then what."

  "I am going back to the village. Now. You are coming with me."

  "No. I'm not. Go back by yourself if you think you have to, but—"

  He put up a hand. There was silence. Somewhere in the trees behind them, a bird warbled out a brief, bright song. At last he spoke. "What, by all the frozen towers of Hel, is a man to do with you?"

  "Eric."

  He didn't really answer, just made a low, furious sound and muttered what must have been a truly bad Gullandrian oath, though he spoke too low for her to make out the words.

  "It's the only way," she said.

  "It's not—and I have it. You'll stay here. I'll go down and—"

  "No. It has to be me he sees. He might or might not attack you for any number of reasons. But if he tries to shoot me, well, the only reason he'd do that is because he—and most likely Jorund Sorenson—is part of the plot to get rid of me."

  Something happened in his eyes.

  "Don't," she said.

  He was utterly still.

  "I mean it, Eric. If you try to … stop me now, if you do something to physically restrain me from going down there, you will only be putting off the inevitable. I'm going to go. And if you mess with me now, I'll just end up doing it alone as soon as I can escape you."

  The look on his face at that moment was frightening. And then, in a movement so tiny she barely saw it even though she was looking straight at him, he shook his head. Or maybe not shook it, exactly. Just gave it a sharp, minute jerk to the left. It might have been a twitch—except that Eric Greyfell was not a man prone to twitching.

  She didn't dare turn from him, didn't trust him not to try to knock her out, or jump her for her own good. But she was absolutely certain that there was someone behind her, and that Eric had just signaled that someone—in the negative.

  Like a bright light exploding on in darkness, she got it. "Valbrand?" she asked Eric quietly. He only went on looking at her, barely controlled fury in his eyes. So she spoke, still not turning, to the presence behind her. "Valbrand. It's you, isn't it?"

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

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  No one answered—until Eric said, "You're mistaken. There's no one there."

  It was true, of course. There was no longer anyone behind her. She had a clear sense that whoever it was had melted back into the trees. She turned and saw exactly what she expected to see: nothing but bare ground and, a little farther on, tall, thick evergreens. She turned to Eric again. "So then," she said cheerfully, "we do have backup—the, uh, Dark Raider would be my guess."

  "I said there is no one." He was really, really mad.

  She strove to keep it light. "Well, yes. You did. But just because you said it doesn't make it true."

  He hooked the binoculars to his belt beneath his jacket and reached for his rifle. "If you're determined to do this, let's go." He remained utterly furious. It occurred to her that she'd never seen him so enraged. And all at once, she had the hollow, awful feeling that he would never forgive her for forcing him to do this.

  Heartsickness, all the more powerful for being totally unanticipated, washed over her in a heavy, dragging wave. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm. "Do you have to be so angry?"

  He froze. His hand was on the rifle. She clutched his coat and the hard forearm beneath it. He looked down at her grasping fingers as if they repulsed him. Then he said, very quietly, "As much as I crave your touch, now is not the time."

  She knew he was right. She shouldn't have touched him. She let go. He looked in her face then, his eyes green ice. She stared into those eyes and discovered something about herself she would have preferred not to know.

  She wanted—yearned—to give in to him. To let him lead her away from the precipice, back to the safety of his aunt's friendly village. To say what women have said since the beginning of time: Yes, all right. You're bigger and stronger and you want to take care of me. We'll do it your way…

  She yearned to.

  But she couldn't. It wasn't in her to follow—not when she was certain that she was in the right. Yes, it was dangerous. But not to take the chance would leave them with their suspicions and their theories and not much else. This way, they might inch a fraction closer to discovering who their real enemies were.

  "Can't you see, Eric? We have to do this."

  He gave her no answer. His face remained closed against her. He would only say, again, "Let's go."

  * * *

  Eric on point, Brit right behind him, they made their way down slowly, watching where they put their feet, catching branches before they ran into them, pushing them aside, releasing them gently, exercising constant vigilance to make as little sound as possible. Careless footfalls could dislodge rocks and pebbles that would tumble to the gorge below, gathering momentum, collecting other bits of debris as they went and signaling their presence to the men with the guns.

  The trail was narrow—hardly more than a sliver of ledge in places—cut raggedly into the rocky side of the hill. Luckily for them, rather than the bare black rock that rimmed so much of the fjord, here, the trees grew close all around, providing cover from seeking eyes.

  The farther they got without incident, the more certain Brit became that something very bad was going to happen any second now. Her whole body felt prickly, the skin tight and twitchy at the back of her neck. She was wet beneath the arms—and it wasn't all that warm out. No, this was the sweat of pure animal fear. She knew it was coming—from behind or above: someone would jump on her or shoot her or throw a knife, thwack, right between her shoulder-blades.

  Still they kept moving. Nobody attacked them.

  She tried not to obsess on that other guy, the fourth guard they'd never spotted, the one Eric had said had to be around there somewhere. Really, where else would be as logical as lurking close to the trail?

  But the miracle happened: nothing. They kept moving downward. They were almost to the bottom, perhaps fifty yards from where the ground flattened out. Very soon now they'd be closing in on that cohort of Jorund's—that is, if he was anywhere near where he'd been when they pinpointed his location from above.

  She heard rustling—ten or twelve yards up and behind her. She stopped, stood absolutely still. So did Eric. They waited—straining to see. But the trees were too thick.

  And then—in a few seconds that only seemed like a lifetime—the rustling stopped.

  They waited some more. Brit wondered if the Dark Raider had just taken on that mysterious fourth guard—or if it was only some unwary creature, scrabbling along the hillside.

  They went on, stopping dead again when Brit stepped on a rock wrong and it went sliding off down the hill. But fortune smiled on them. The rock caught in an exposed tree root before it really got rolling.

  Silence. They went on.

  At last they reached the floor of the gorge. There were maybe twenty yards of forest ahead of them. And then the open rocky ground, her plane and, farther on, the jewel-blue fjord waters.

  Now, to find Jorund's associate before the associate found them. Eric gestured for her to follow. They left the trail and moved into the trees, creeping along, every slight crunch at each footfall sounding loud as cannon fire.

  Eric stopped, ducked, signaled her down. She crouched beside him. He pointed.

  She picked out the combat boots and the fatigues tucked into them—maybe twenty feet from them, facing away. Way close. Way scary. Her heart pounded in her ears. The boots began to move, turning with agonizing slowness, as if the man who wore them had heard something and was cautiously seeking the source of the sound.

  Brit held her breath—realized she was doing it—let it out with slow care. The boots had stopped, blunt toes facing their direction, as if the agent knew they were lurking there.

  Thank God for Eric ordering her down—crouched as they were, the m
an must be looking right over their heads. The boots began to move again. In a few seconds she and Eric stared once more at the heels.

  Eric touched her, the slightest brush of his hand against her good shoulder, to get her attention. She looked at him and he gestured, a circular movement, tracing in the air the path he would take through the trees to get around to the other side of the owner of the heavy boots.

  It seemed such a long, long way to go soundlessly. The crack of a broken branch or a foot placed wrong, and the man who wore the boots might spot him, open fire…

  Eric could die doing this.

  The simple sentence ricocheted its way around her brain.

  She had known it before, of course she had. As she had known that she herself might die.

  But right now, it was … too real, too imminent. It was the sweat beneath her arms, the shiver down her back, the too-loud, too-fast, hurtful beating of her heart…

  Eric could die.

  And how would she bear it?

  He looked at her. And she looked back at him.

  She knew that he knew how close she was … to shaking her head. To mouthing, No. Let's not do this, after all. Let's just go back.

  But somehow she didn't shake her head. She didn't mouth anything. She only looked into his eyes until the moment passed.

  And then, very deliberately, she nodded.

  He began to creep away from her. It was incredible, how quietly he could move. He wove his way through the trees, his steps without sound. She alternately watched him … and the boots. The boots did move, this way and that. The movements of a man on guard with no perceived danger nearby.

  Too soon, she couldn't see Eric anymore.

  She crouched there, watching the boots, her pulse a tattoo in her ears, reminding herself now and then to breathe, slowly realizing she had no clue when she ought to make her move.

  Was Eric in position yet—was there even a position for him to get into? A tree big enough to hide behind, a crouch low enough that the man in the heavy boots wouldn't look down and see him?

  Silently she railed at herself. It was a bad plan. An exceedingly stupid plan. It was so bad and so stupid it was no plan at all. Eric would die and she would either die right after him—or wish she had.

  Oh, why hadn't she listened to him? Why had she insisted her way was the only way?

  She swallowed. And then, carefully, silently, she reached under her jacket and wrapped her fingers around the grip of her SIG.

  No. She let it go, smoothed her jacket down to cover it. Its weight might feel reassuring in her hand, but she couldn't be carrying it in plain sight when she hailed the agent. He mustn't feel threatened. And if he saw the gun, how else would he feel? He might shoot her just because he thought she was planning to shoot him.

  And then what would they learn from executing this bad, stupid plan of hers?

  She strained all her senses, listening.

  Nothing but a slight wind whispering in the trees, a bird calling far off. The boots faced the other way—not moving.

  Were those boots … too still?

  She thought, He's seen something, in the trees. Let it not be Eric.

  And surely Eric must be in position—whatever that meant—by now.

  And the boots … the boots were starting to move, cautiously, away.

  It was the moment to act. She knew it. She didn't know exactly how she knew. But this was no time to question her instincts.

  Right now her instincts were just about all she had.

  As quietly as she could, she crept forward, bent at the waist, but up on her feet. Each step took an eternity, yet somehow, between one breath and the next, she was there. Close enough that three more steps would bring her to where she could reach out and touch the man with the rifle, in the combat boots and the camo fatigues. He had his back to her, his rifle ready in his hands. He had heard something. He peered into the trees.

  Time to do it.

  She stood to her height and boldly stepped forward. "Ahem."

  The agent went still—and then he turned. He saw her, standing no more than six feet from him. The close-set eyes widened. The small mouth formed an O. Under less scary circumstances, his expression might have brought a chuckle.

  Now, though, she didn't feel like laughing at all. She had to force a wide grin. "Hey. Am I ever glad to see you."

  The agent blinked. "Your Highness?"

  "You bet."

  The agent raised his rifle.

  So much for my ally at the NIB, she thought. And then everything happened at once, in that strangely slow way that things tend to happen when you have to act and act fast—or die.

  She ducked—well, that was the bad, stupid plan, wasn't it? And Eric rose soundlessly from behind the agent, seeming to materialize out of thin air with the butt of his rifle held high in both strong hands. He slammed the rifle butt into the back of the agent's head before the agent could readjust his aim and fire down at her.

  There was the awful thick sound of the something hard connecting with the agent's skull. And the man dropped like a safe, without managing to get off a shot. His rifle fell with him, unfired, to the forest floor.

  Slowly she straightened and stared down at the slack face below her. There—his chest moved. Yes! Still alive. Her bad, stupid plan had worked perfectly. They knew what they needed to know and everyone was still breathing.

  She didn't get all that much time to pat herself on the back, though. It appeared that things weren't so perfect, after all. Eric had dropped to a crouch, set his rifle aside and whipped something thin and black from his boot. Snick. A gleaming blade shot from the black handle.

  Sheesh. Hauk had a knife like that. She hadn't had a clue that Eric had one, too.

  Brit stared down, not quite believing what she was seeing as Eric hooked the unconscious man beneath the chin, yanking his head farther back, knocking his watch cap off in the process—and exposing a too-vulnerable expanse of bare neck.

  "No!" Brit whispered the word with such force it echoed in her ears like a shout. She went to her haunches and grabbed Eric's knife arm before he could slit the unconscious agent's throat. "Nobody dies."

  Eric's eyes glittered with a feral light. "That's the second time you've grabbed me when you had no business doing it."

  She didn't let go this time. She couldn't. "Eric. I beg you. Don't kill him."

  His lip curled, wolflike. "He would have killed you."

  "But he didn't. Eric. Please."

  For a terrible moment she was certain there was no way she could stop him. He would shake her off and slit the unconscious man's throat.

  But then, with a low grunt of pure disgust, he flicked the blade back into the knife handle and let go of the man's chin. There was blood, on his pants, at the knee, where the agent's head had pressed against him. She wondered if the fellow would survive in any case.

  The knife disappeared in Eric's boot. He grabbed his waiting rifle, then took the agent's pistol from its shoulder holster, dropped out the clip and threw it into the trees. He tossed the pistol in the opposite direction. Then he picked up the man's rifle and shoved it at Brit. She took it.

  "We dare not linger," he muttered. His fury was palpable, like the beating of hot wings on the chill air. "The others will be on us." He turned without another word and headed for the trail.

  She put the safety on the rifle and followed.

  * * *

  The unconscious man groaned. He was waking at last from his abrupt, unwelcome sleep.

  Valbrand, safe behind the mask, crouched a few feet from the man's boots. He had two lengths of cord and a gag at his side and the traitor's own pistol, loaded again and pointed at the traitor's heart, in his hand. It had been approximately fifteen minutes since his bold and cheeky little sister and his angry bloodbound friend had strode off toward the trail. By now they should be almost at their waiting horses. And safe.

  Yes, there was another agent, up higher on the trail. But he would present no challenge
to them. Valbrand had considered killing him, but in the end had left him alive, unarmed, gagged and tied to a tree, for his colleagues to find—if something with sharp teeth and claws didn't get to him first. If he lived, that traitor would have an interesting story to tell.

  Behind the mask Valbrand smiled. He knew his smile, once thought the most charming in all of the land, was hideous now. He could feel the ugliness of it, ruined flesh pulling in the most bizarre ways. That was the wonder of the mask. The ugliness hidden behind smooth black leather.

  Would the bound agent on the hillside dare to tell his comrades that the Dark Raider had attacked him? Would they think he'd gone mad if he did?

  Valbrand had an intimate knowledge of madness. For a long while, until Eric had found him and begun the endless, unhappy process of luring him back to the bleak world of sanity, he'd found a certain wild comfort in madness.

  But then, being mad was not the same as merely having others believe you to be. More frustrating, most likely. Less … consuming.

  And, since Valbrand had decided to let the man before him live as well, this one and the agent on the hill could corroborate each other's stories. That made them at least a fraction more likely to be believed. Less likely to be thought out of their mutual minds.

  And that was good.

  Let them all believe and let them fear and wonder…

  Let whoever lurked—a puppet master pulling lethal strings—behind these recent deadly games, beware.

  The time was coming. Valbrand knew it and hated that he knew it. And yes, Eric had it right: Valbrand dreaded facing his father and his people. It would be a thousand times more difficult than the bleak horror of what had gone before.

  But he would do it. Somehow. When the time was right.

  For now, though, there was the consoling feel of the mask against his ruined face. And this traitor, groaning at his feet.