Archer of the Heathland: Intrigue

Archer of the Heathland: Intrigue (Part 2)

Weyland took advantage of the long summer day and slept most of it away. He spent the rest cleaning and caring for his gear, checking his horse, and sitting in the tavern, studying the people that filtered through the door. Maybe he was supposed to pick up some clue for why the Duke had sent him.

The young woman did not reappear. When Weyland asked the bent old man, who was waiting tables in her stead where she was, the old man frowned.

"Always running off, that one," he said. "Don't know why I keep her on."

So Weyland reclined in a corner and worried a mug of ale while the shadows lengthened. After the last of the patrons left, the tavern keeper shooed him out the door. Weyland still had no idea why the Duke sent him or why the coin had so upset the young woman.

He paused in the narrow, cobblestone street and took a deep breath of the city air. It tasted of horses, waste, wood smoke, and death. Today the air in Brechin seemed laced with death. The hulking shadows of buildings with their blinking candlelights pressed down upon him. Like the night a few days before, this night seethed with danger—either that, or Weyland was losing his nerve. Maybe he had allowed the little man's cryptic message to get under his skin.

Weyland strolled toward the livery, thinking the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could escape back to the fresh air and freedom of the heathland. He hated cities—too many people, too much pent up frustration, too many nobles.

A light burned just inside the front door of the livery. Shadows moved about. It could just be a stableman. Or it could be someone waiting for him. Weyland touched the pommel of his short sword to assure himself it was ready should he need it. As always, he had taken care to conceal a few knives on his body, though he left his bow and arrows locked in his room in the tavern.

Melting into the shadows, Weyland crept toward the door. Maybe he was being overly cautious, but, if life in the heathland had taught him anything, it was that a little caution could save a man's life. He edged up to the doorway and peered in.

The young woman with auburn hair and a blue dress bent over a figure stretched on the floor of the stable. She held a long knife in her hand. Weyland stared in disbelief. The short stocky man who had sat at his table that morning lay on his face while the blood darkened his tunic. It looked like a professional strike to the liver from behind.

Weyland tried to still the rising beat of his heart. What should he do? Should he accost the girl and disarm her? Should he call for the guard?

The girl straightened suddenly and cast a furtive glance at the door just in time to see Weyland before he could pull his head back out of view. He knew she had seen him, and he stepped away from the wall of the stables to give himself room to move if she attacked him.

"Finally," she said as she burst from the door of the stables and grabbed his arm. "We have to get out of here. They'll think we did this."

Weyland let her drag him a couple steps inside the door before he shook her hand off and grabbed the wrist of the hand that held the knife.

"We didn't do anything," he said. "But you've been busy."

"What?" The young woman tried to dislodge his grip. "Let go."

"I'm not going anywhere until you explain to me why you killed this man and why the Duke sent me all the way to Brechin in the middle of the night."

"Let me go," she demanded.

"Not so long as you're swinging that knife around," Weyland said.

She glanced at the knife and dropped it, casting him a vengeful smirk. "Now let go."

Weyland released her, but he put his boot on the handle of the knife.