Harcourt riffled through the parchment on the war table in his tent.
“Where is it?” He slammed the documents down and glared at Mac.
Mac kept his mouth shut. This wasn’t the first time Harcourt had lost his temper, and Mac doubted it would be the last. He’d left a trail of mutilated bodies, strung up to trees, of the soldiers who’d somehow failed at their duties, and now that they were camped at the northern mouth of the pass of Gentle Crossings his mania had grown. Mac had no idea how Harcourt had come to this. It was hard to believe the pensive middle son, named after his father, would have murdered half his family for his ambitions. But he had.
According to all reports, Adelicia, Gregor, and Wyndham were dead. Killed by their guard. Everything Mac had lived for–and suffered for–was gone. In the blink of an eye. And he hadn’t said what he’d needed to say.
Mac swallowed at the lump in his throat. What he really wanted was a drink. Screw being sober.
Maybe the reports were wrong. Greg was still an exceptional swordsman. If there was a way to get them out, he would have found it. But in his heart he knew, regardless, he’d lost his opportunity to confess to her.
He shifted his bulk into a more comfortable position, hoping not to disturb the Prince. But Harcourt looked up, his small eyes drawing emphasis to his sharp nose.
Mac ran a hand over his head through his hair. It was getting too long. Harcourt had seen to it that his man-servant shaved ‘The Legend’s’ beard, but nothing had been done about his scalp. He probably looked like a wild man by now.
The mirror at the back of the tent glowed dark red, and Mac shifted in his chair. He was itching to know what intelligence would be relayed, but he didn’t want Harcourt to realize he was eavesdropping.
Harcourt touched a finger to the polished silver and his image melted into that of his brother, Reynold. A few years older, Reynold was more of a combination of his mother and father. Dark hair and eyes, but with his mother’s finer features and pale skin.
“I’m in position,” said Harcourt. “You were right. The clansmen were in Carthway, although I doubt it’s their entire force. I’ll know in a couple of days. They’ll suffer for what they’ve done to our family.”
Reynold nodded. “Plans have changed.”
Harcourt glanced at Mac. He shrugged, not knowing what the Prince was looking for. Confirmation that attacking the clans wasn’t crazy? Without a doubt it was.
“We’ve made better time than anticipated,” said Reynold. “I’m a day’s march from Carthway. You’ll start the first attack in the morning. I’ll arrive in the evening, and the next day finish the job.”
Harcourt bobbed his head. “And the rest of the clansmen warriors?”
“Won’t be much of a resistance if they make a stand.”
Crimson flashed across the mirror and it went dark, reflecting Harcourt and the tent.
“Perfect. Brilliant.” Harcourt smoothed the front of his tabard.
Mac fought the urge to roll his eyes.
“I said it’s brilliant.”
“It’s a fool’s errand.”
Harcourt squared his shoulders. “You think my men can’t defeat your clansmen.”
“Not what I said.” And he’d said too much already. But if he couldn’t get Harcourt to reconsider, he needed to find a way to escape and warn the clansmen. It burned to think that Harcourt was playing his older brother for a fool. It was hard to think, given Harcourt’s state of mind, that it could be done.
“What are you saying?” Harcourt sank to the stool across from Mac, looking like the youth who’d listened to Mac’s tales of adventure all those years ago.
“I’m saying, I doubt Reynold’s force is anywhere near Carthway.”
A crease formed between Harcourt’s brows.
“If he really was in Vitreah when Mythnar was attacked, and he’s marched double-time, he might be on the north side of Mythnar.”
“Reynold wouldn’t lie to me.”
Mac hadn’t thought Reynold would either. But he hadn’t anticipated Harcourt losing his mind. Perhaps it was familial. King Harcourt hadn’t been entirely sane in his later years.
With luck, he could make Harcourt wait until Reynold’s arrival. Surely Reynold would see reason. Of course, after that conversation, he didn’t know any more. Maybe Reynold was only a day away. It didn’t seem possible, but cavalry, without foot soldiers, could make the trip.
“Just wait a day. Send out a scout. You’ll know soon enough if Reynold’s telling the truth.”
“And ignore an order?”
Mac bit the inside of his cheek. Hadn’t the child listened to anything? “You don’t want a war with the north. Trust me.”
Harcourt leapt to his feet. “You aren’t in a position to tell me what I want.”
“You wanted my advice, as a general. And I’m telling you, attacking the clansmen tomorrow is insane.”
“I think you love the clansmen more than Meriduin.” Harcourt roared for his guards. “I think you’ve never loved Meriduin.”
Mac ground his teeth together. There was no point arguing with the Prince. All he could hope was he’d be taken to his tent, where he could slip away and warn the clansmen.
Two soldiers marched in.
“Since you love your clansmen so much, I’ll give you the perfect opportunity to watch their defeat.” He turned to the soldiers. “Stake him to the mountain.”
Mac eased from his seat. There were just the two of them and Harcourt. He could likely fight his way free of the tent, but he doubted he’d make it past the encampment.
“And break his legs. Wouldn’t want you running away on the off chance you miraculously slip your bonds.”
No. He’d wait until they were out of the camp. That was the best opportunity.
The soldiers marched Mac from the tent and across the camp. Four more fell into step behind them and the odds of defeating six men, unarmed, decreased.
“Listen,” said Mac. “Why don’t we just say you staked me to the mountain.”
“You’ll survive the humility,” said the soldier at his right. “But none of us will survive not following orders.”
Someone behind them grunted.
“Do you honestly think he’d deplete his fighting force on the eve of a battle?”
“Yes,” said the man without hesitation.
They passed the last of the foot soldiers’ campfires. Carthway’s great plain stretched before them, the fires from the clansmen’s camp twinkling in the distance.
“Let’s get this over with,” said a soldier behind him.
The man beside Mac reached for his arm. Mac rammed his elbow into his face with a satisfying crack. The man yelped and stumbled back before Mac could grab his sword. Mac turned to the soldier on his other side and grabbed the front of his shirt. The man drew his weapon. Mac yanked him close, shoving his knee into his gut.
The soldier gasped and Mac tossed him at the four other men. They shoved their companion aside and drew their swords.
Shit. And Mac still hadn’t managed to get a blade. Four–and one half–against creaky-kneed him. He turned on his heel and ran.
The men behind him yelled. He twisted around a granite outcropping. A soldier slammed into it, yelping. But he knew they were too fast for Mac. He was going to have to make a stand.
A soldier leapt at him. He twisted out of the way. Another swung at Mac’s head. He ducked, and a third jabbed at his gut. He grabbed the third man’s hand and wrenched the blade out of his grasp.
Mac widened his stance. Guess he was making a stand.
