he stirred, he saw a thin layer of snow atop the world, including his blanket.
“About time,” said Dave, who was busy untethering their oxen. “You sleep like the dead, Mark.”
“Better to sleep like them than to be them,” he said, shaking off his blanket and looking for a fire.
“No fire,” said Dave. “We need to save the wood in case the snow picks up. Move about. Help us pack. You’ll warm up soon enough.”
He found Nathaniel sitting in one of the wagons, half-buried in blankets.
“I hate winter,” he said when he saw Mark.
“I hear you,” Mark said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Just try to endure. We’ll be home with your mother soon enough.”
The snowflakes were light as they traveled, just a slight nuisance that wet their skin and occasionally stung their eyes. By midday it had thickened, until at last Dave called a halt.
“The wagons might get stuck if it continues,” Mark told him.
“Better stuck on the road than in a ditch,” Dave shot back.
They used the wagons to block the wind, shoveled snow until they found cold, dry ground, and then built a fire. They gathered around it, their own bodies sheltering the fire from the wind that sneaked in.
“Come morning we’ll dig out and then continue,” Dave said as they huddled there. “Run this route plenty of times, and I have a feeling for how the weather works. We’ll have clear sky tomorrow. Assuming we don’t break a wheel, we should reach Felwood in a…”
He stopped, for amid the howling of the wind he heard something strange.
“Horses,” said Dave.
“Who would ride in this weather?” asked one of the guards.
Mark drew his sword and stood, and the rest did likewise. There were only four guards per wagon, and the eight hurried to the openings between them.
“It might be a messenger meant to reach us,” said Dave, just before a crossbow bolt pierced his arm.
“Shit,” he cried, snapping the shaft in half and tossing it. “Stay down, all of you!”
Horses thundered by either side, and as they passed the gap, many fired crossbows. Mark dove into one of the wagons as the bolts flew, dragging Nathaniel with him. The horses turned around, and at their return charge, he heard the sound of steel hitting steel.
“Stay down,” Mark said to Nathaniel. The boy sat huddled in blankets beside the crate of gold. His eyes were wide, rimmed with tears that refused to fall in the chill air.
“I’m scared,” Nathaniel said, and his whole body shook.
“I am too,” Mark said as bolts tore through the fabric of the wagon, thankfully missing. He kept his sword facing the back of the wagon and listened. He heard screams, plus Dave hollering like a madman. From where he stood he could only see a small portion of the combat. The guards had cut down two of the riders, but the rest continued their charge, hacking as they passed or firing more crossbow bolts.
Then he heard Dave cry something that made no sense, but at the same time, was certain to be true.
“Lord Hadfield? But why?”
He died soon after, or at least his orders stopped. The cries of pain lessened. Swords struck rarely, then stopped altogether. Mark pushed Nathaniel further into the wagon and tried to shrink down. He might be able to surprise one or two of them if they didn’t realize he was inside…
A man rode up before the wagon, a crossbow in hand. Mark lunged at him, extending his arm as far as it could go. His sword pierced the man’s breast, punching through his leather armor. As he bled out, the crossbow fired harmlessly into the air. Mark retreated into the wagon, his blood running cold. He recognized the symbol on that armor. It was Hadfield’s men, all right. But why? Why would he ambush his own wagons?
He glanced back at Nathaniel and decided he already knew the reason.
“Mark?” he heard Arthur call out. “Is that you in there, Mark?”
“Just keeping warm,” Mark shouted back. “What’d your men do to deserve this?”
“Deserve? Nothing. They died in my service, as all men should for their masters. Where is the child? I don’t want him to witness your execution.”
Mark clutched his sword tighter. Behind him, he heard Nathaniel whimper.
“You’d protect him?” Mark asked.
“As if he were my own son.”
Or at least until you have a son of your own, thought Mark. At least until you’ve consummated your marriage to Alyssa, you heartless bastard.
“Listen to me,” he whispered to Nathaniel. “He’s lying, I know