Authors: Sarah McKerrigan
There
was a good chance he could achieve his goal this morn. If, as he suspected, the
robber was knowledgeable about the wedding guests, aware of their comings and
goings, he'd know the Mochries were an easy target. They'd won considerable
silver last night, gambling with Lord Gellir, and there were only two
men-at-arms in their party, so they'd not put up much of a fight. What thief
could resist such tempting prey?
There
were a dozen of them altogether—five maids, two men, three children, an old
woman, and himself. As they set off through the forest, the men took the fore
and rear of the line, with Rand in the middle, which greatly pleased the
infatuated maids. But after a quarter of an hour of listening to unceasing
prattle and jangling giggles, he almost wished he'd taken up a different post.
He could hardly hear himself think, much less listen for intruders.
He
nonetheless kept his gaze roving through the trees, alert to any shifting
shadow or telltale turn of a leaf. Twice he was fooled by startled quail
bursting from the underbrush. Once he thought he saw a suspicious flicker in
the branches, but it turned out to be a reflection off one of the women's
medallions.
As
time wore on, he began to doubt that he'd meet the robber. Perchance he'd
chosen the wrong clan. Mayhap The Shadow preferred to attack travelers who were
fewer in number. Perchance Rand should have followed the Lachanburns instead.
Then,
just as they passed through a sunlit glade, he heard the man at the head of the
line draw in a sharp breath. Rand's hand went instantly to his sword.
When
the man stopped walking, the line compacted, each traveler colliding with the
one in front, trapping Rand in the midst.
Rand
was not a man to draw hasty conclusions. Anything could have frozen the man in
his tracks. A wild boar. An English scout. A silver coin on the path.
But
before he could even poke his head around to see what lay before them, a
whisper of fearful awe traveled back like a fleet breath of chill wind.
'"Tis
The Shadow."
"Shadow."
"The
Shadow."
By
the time Rand extricated himself from the crowd of bodies and drew his sword,
the Mochrie man at the fore was already lying, belly down, on the ground.
Rand's
nostrils flared. God's blood! Was he dead?
Nay,
the fallen man's fingers scrabbled weakly in the mulch. He was only stunned.
And
standing over him, a purse already cut and clutched in his gloved fist, was the
outlaw known as The Shadow.
True
to legend, he was attired all in black, from his supple leather gloves to his
soft leather boots. His legs and arms were swathed in layers of black cloth,
which continued around his head, leaving one narrow slit for air and two more
for his eyes. Over it all, he wore a kind of close-fitting, sashed surcoat, a
deceptively made garment that might conceal a multitude of weapons.
But
Rand wasn't daunted. Though The Shadow bore a startling resemblance to the
Devil, 'twas clear he was a mortal, and a rather small-framed mortal at that.
"Halt!"
Rand barked, raising his sword.
The
thief glanced up long enough for Rand to glimpse a dark gleam in his shrouded
eyes. Then the man sprang with sudden, inexplicable agility, leaping and
swinging through the branches to land beside the man at the rear of the line.
Rand
wheeled about. The thief
was
fast. But Rand was surely faster. This time
he wouldn't wait for the knave to make a move. He charged forward, brandishing
his blade.
Before
he took two steps, The Shadow had waylaid the second Mochrie man as well,
twirling him halfway round to force his arm up behind him, then cutting his
purse and catching it before it dropped to the ground.
While
Rand watched in amazement, the robber shoved the man headfirst into a tree
trunk, knocking him out, tucking both purses into whatever pockets his strange
garb contained. Then he faced Rand, cocking his head as if to ask if Rand was
certain he wished to challenge him.
Rand
was no coward. The man might be fast, but he was small. His only weapon was a
slim dagger against Rand's broadsword. In this instance, brute force would
prevail.
"Stand
aside!" he commanded the women and children. 'Twas said that The Shadow
had never mortally injured anyone, but Rand didn't want to take any risks.
At
his order, the Mochries dutifully scattered to the sides of the path.
The
Shadow gave a slight nod then, almost a mocking salute, and Rand got the impression
that beneath the layers of black cloth, the man was grinning.
Rand
intended to smite that grin off the outlaw's face. With a grim scowl, he took a
step forward.
If
he'd blinked, he would have missed the swift kick that The Shadow aimed toward
his sword arm. Even so, he was barely able to retract his hand fast enough to
keep hold of his weapon as he felt the close brush of The Shadow's boot upon
his fingers.
There
was no time to be amazed. In the next instant, The Shadow advanced with a
forward punch that fell short of Rand's jaw only because he reflexively jerked
his head back.
The
next succession of blows Rand was unable to avoid. Like a quintain spinning
loose from its mooring, The Shadow's foot came around and caught him in the
ribs. Rand was folded forward by the impact, directly into a fist that clipped
him on the chin. Then the outlaw used both hands to shove him backward.
Somehow
Rand managed to stay on his feet, though he had to retreat to shake off the
rapid attack and collect himself.
Meanwhile,
The Shadow stood waiting like an insolent lad, his arms crossed over his chest
in smug challenge.
Rand
flipped the sword over in his grip. With a roar that usually sent men
scurrying, he swung the fiat of the blade forward with enough force to knock
the outlaw cold.
But
the agile thief dropped to the ground as the sword whistled past, and Rand was
almost spun around backward as his blade sailed through empty air.
Rand
slashed diagonally downward then, once, twice, but The Shadow leaped nimbly aside
both times.
Now
Rand's determination was aroused. This was absurd. Rand was an experienced
warrior. And the thief was not much bigger than a child. Rand had the advantage
of power and size and reach. Surely he could bring the outlaw to his knees.
With
a sharp exhalation, he began circling the robber, brandishing the blade before
him, calculating the best angle of attack.
In
transparent mockery, the thief whipped out his much smaller black knife and
began aping Rand's stealthy steps.
Behind
him, Rand heard one of the maids giggle at the performance, which only fed his
growing irritation with the varlet.
Then
he saw his opportunity. The Shadow's attention shifted slightly as one of the
maids whispered to another. Rand thrust suddenly forward, intending to give him
a harmless but incapacitating slice along the ribs.
Not
only did the thief dodge the strike, but he simultaneously sent his own weapon
spinning through the air toward Rand's head, not close enough to do him injury,
but close enough to distract him.
As
Rand reared his head back, startled by the flash of the silver blade, something
happened. He wasn't sure what.
But
in the next confusing moments, he was struck in several places, the sword was
knocked from his grip, and he was bowled over as readily as a set of kayles, to
collide with the hard ground.
Rand
lay flat on his back, stunned, his lungs robbed of air, staring up at branches
that hung over him like concerned bystanders.
How
the bloody hell had it happened? How could it be that some wee fellow in black
rags, armed with a tiny knife and clambering through the trees like a monkey,
had not only eluded capture, but felled him?
Him.
Rand
la Nuit. Seasoned warrior. Esteemed swordsman. Respected champion. And one of
the most reputable mercenaries in all of Scotland.
For
a moment all he could do was lie there, breathless, while The Shadow swung up
to perch in the branch of a nearby tree, wagging his scolding finger. While he
watched, the thief tossed some small, round object onto Rand's chest, then, in
a flash, leaped down to scamper off into the woods.
After
what seemed an eternity, Rand was finally able to drag in a hefty breath of
air. He coughed once, twice, dislodging whatever The Shadow had thrown at him.
Then he rose onto his elbows.
"Are
you all right?" one of the Mochrie maids asked. There was definitely
diminished admiration in her voice. She apparently was as disappointed as he
was.
He
nodded graciously. But inside he was fuming. The brazen thief had humiliated
him. Outwitted him. Outmaneuvered him. Made him into an absolute fool.
Worse,
it seemed the Mochrie women were more than just unimpressed with Rand's defense
of them.
"Did
you see him?" one of them asked eagerly.
"Aye,
barely," another replied. "He moved as quickly as... as..."
"As
lightning."
"Nay,"
another said dreamily, "as swift as... shadow."
The
other maids murmured in soft agreement.
"I
wonder what he looks like beneath that mask."
"Blond,"
one of them guessed.
"Nay,
black-haired, to match his garb."
"I'd
wager he's as ugly as sin. Why else would he cover his face?"
“To
hide his identity, addlepate."
"Do
you think we know him?" one of them asked, wide-eyed.
"Nay.
No one I know can fight like that."
"I
think he wears a mask," one of them cooed, "because he wishes to
remain a man of mystery."
"Aye,
mystery."
"Forsooth,
I'd wager he's as handsome as the Devil."
The
maids tittered behind their hands.
"He
reminded me of—"
"Ladies!"
Rand had heard enough.
The
empty-headed wenches had no idea how close they'd come to harm. If the thief
had taken it into his head to hurt or maim or kill them, Rand had no doubt he
would have succeeded.
Now,
to listen to them glorifying the villain as if he were to be admired...
He
shook his head and pushed up to his feet, wincing at his injuries.
"Are
you unharmed?" he asked them pointedly.
They
nodded.
One
overbold lass languidly volunteered, "I don't think The Shadow would ever
hurt a woman."
Rand's
disgust almost equaled his fury. They were halfwits indeed if they believed an
outlaw followed a code of honor. Satan's ballocks! Even the mercenaries he knew
bent the principles of chivalry.
The
Shadow was certainly capable. And that both alarmed and enraged Rand. He knew
now that The Shadow was a serious threat. The outlaw might have only stolen a
bit of silver and entertained the ladies with his antics today. But there was
no telling what he might do when he grew bored with cutting purses. 'Twas a
short distance to go from cutting purses to cutting throats.
Aye,
he decided as the Mochrie men-at-arms, still groggy but recovering, gathered
their wits and their weapons, he definitely intended to catch this villain.
'Twas
not a matter of reward now.
'Twas
a matter of honor.
"Look!"
one of the maids cried. "There's his dagger!"
Rand
scowled as the damsels rushed over to examine the slim black knife protruding
from the trunk of an oak. Unbelievably, they began to quarrel over the thing,
as if 'twere some champion's favor. Rand could only roll his eyes.
One
of the Mochrie men clapped a consoling hand on Rand's shoulder. "At least
you got to fight him." He shook his head. "The man moves faster than
a monk out of a whorehouse."