Page 89 of Edge of the Wild

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All of eight of Amelia’s men were bound with stout rope along with her, and marched at arrow and spearpoint down some woodland path too subtle to see. The horses were left behind on the road. The Strangers who’d melted down out of the tree tops had tried to take them, but Shadow had defended not only himself, but his fellows, and just narrowly avoided kicking in one man’s head.

“If you try to take hold of him, he’ll kill you,” Amelia warned. She’d been allowed, after that, to hook his reins on a branch, though he’d been struggling to get loose when they left. She had no doubt he’d break his reins, or the branch, or both, and follow them.

The girl who’d first stopped them walked ahead of Amelia, and Malcolm behind – unharmed. The arrow had nipped a chunk of his sleeve, but drawn no blood. “Next time,” the girl had said, “I’ll put it between your eyes.” He’d looked sulky.

He sounded worried, though, when he leaned in close enough for Amelia to feel his breath stir her hair, and whispered, “If we give you a chance to run, take it.”

“Oh, let you all throw yourselves at their weapons for me while I slink off?” she whispered back. “Notlikely.”

“What’s all that whispering ‘bout?” the Stranger to her left asked, stepping closer, brandishing his spear. It was crudely made, compared to the pike staffs the Drake Hold wall guards carried, but its head looked sharp enough, and she knew, unlike some of those guard pike staffs, had tasted blood before, of one sort or other.

“We’re wondering how much farther it will be,” she said, coolly, facing forward again, just in time to avoid a gnarled root.

“Not far,” the girl answered. “But never you mind anyway.”

As they’d walked, the forest had seemed to close in around them. Branches twined in tighter, hung lower, blotted out more and more of the sky. Roots traversed the ground, and as the path widened, and became more distinct from heavier travel, the shrubs grew thorny, and crowded close. The scents of mold, and water, and old, dark wood grew stronger.

They were entering the proper Inglewood, now. Into a wild part of it travelers never strayed through.

Behind them, a crashing of underbrush.

Ahead, the girl threw up a hand to halt the entire party.

“That’s my horse,” Amelia called. “He can’t wield a sword or a bow. If you leave him be to follow, he won’t harm you.” Her voice was calm, authoritative, but her pulse picked up at thought of a bow-happy woodsman shooting him. He was ferocious, but he was mortal same as anyone.

The girl turned around to look, as the crashing came closer, large hooves sucking in the soft ground, round nostrils blowing and snorting in agitation. The girl, Amelia noticed, was even younger than she’d thought, with a soft, childish face, and an old woman’s shrewd gaze.

Finally, she said, “Leave it be,” and turned back around. They resumed walking, the soft crackle of human footfalls accompanied by the clop of the stallion’s tread.

The path began to climb, faintly but steadily; rocks, some actual boulders, sprouted up from the ground as they went, the soil of the path harder, dryer. They were entering the foothills.

Amelia glanced up, trying to find the placement of the sun, but she could only see flickers and wedges of sky through the leaves, and those were a winter-washed gray that revealed nothing.

“Shadow okay?” she whispered to Mal.

She could hear her mount’s steps, still, but it helped to hear Mal snort and whisper, “Yes. The guy at the tail of our little convoy keeps giving him frightened looks.”

“Understandable. He’s frightening.”

Finally, they reached a sort of gate – or at least a set of gate posts. They were of wood, and carved like totems, with faces and animals carved into squared-off blocks. She saw what looked like a bird, and a fox, and…something with rows and rows of teeth that she couldn’t place. A long snout, and horns.

Then they were through, and entering a glade floored in soft green moss. One ringed by Strangers in roughspun and fur, hoods pulled up over their heads, hiding their faces. All held spears, or nocked bows.

A man stood at the head of the rough circle, one dressed in layers of lion fur, with a full lion skull headdress shielding his face. His arms, exposed from the elbows down, revealed twisted lines of dark ink: tattoos in the shapes of an old, dead language. They marked him as special among his people; the snarling lion inked on his wrist marked him as king. King of the Inglewood Outlaws; King of the Strangers.

Amelia’s men crowded in around her, half-pushed, half in a desire to surround her, and shield her.

Shadow let out an explosive snort from the gate post totems.

When they’d all stilled, the king reached up and slowly pushed back his hood. He revealed long, dark, gray-streaked hair, and a weathered, sharp-featured face. Its lines – the straight nose and the wide-set pale eyes, the narrow jaw, bristled with inexpertly trimmed stubble – triggered her memory. But it was the voice, when he spoke, that revealed his identity to her.

“Amelia Drake. Welcome.”

She couldn’t stop a small gasp. “Lord – Lord Connor? Connor Dale?”

He inclined his head a fraction, a fleeting smile tugging at his mouth. “Not anymore. Only Connor, now.”

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