Flinging himself under the side of the tent at the back, he yanked out the coil of rope and tried to make himself as small as possible.
“Who’s there? Who be shouting?” the voice called again from the other side of the tent.
Garth saw the fabric quiver, but then he realized the man was walking around the tent. Garth froze. The dark shape loomed near the corner. All Garth could think of was his own head in a barrel, and he fainted.
Bedwir kicked his horse in the flanks to catch up to Vortigern.
As the most recent war chieftain chosen by Uther, he calculated the risk of angering Vortigern by questioning the man’s obedience. Bedwir could lose his position, even his place as a warrior. Maybe even his life.
He’d seen how Vortigern punished those who had crossed him. But how could he ignore the High King’s clear command? Deal with the druidow and then destroy the Stone, they’d been told. So why did Vortigern skirt around the mountain and head to Bosventor? The druidow weren’t in the village tonight.
Finally reining up near the battle chief, Bedwir shouted, “Vortigern! Sydnius says the druid camp is across the stream. Where are we going?”
“To the Tor. Uther said we take the Tor first.”
“What?”
“We’ll leave the horses there!” Vortigern shouted. “You think we can sneak up on the druidow riding horses?”
“Who said we should sneak up on them?”
Vortigern pulled his sword and chunked out a small chip of wood from Bedwir’s shield. “No more questions.”
Bedwir fell back, swallowed his anger, and checked his damaged shield.
Riding up the long path through Bosventor, the warriors approached Tregeagle’s house. The magister had just climbed into his wagon while his wife stood at the door of their house instructing a servant. Vortigern rode ahead, had a quiet word with the magister, and pointed to the fortress on the hill.
Tregeagle pointed as well, a sly smile on his face.
A few more words were exchanged, and then the magister squinted, nodded at Vortigern, and called his wife to join him.
Vortigern backed his horse up and looked at his men.
What is Vortigern’s game? Bedwir knew Uther planned on ridding the village of Tregeagle in the morning, so why engage the traitor in friendly banter? He wished he’d been there the night before and met Tregeagle himself.
Bedwir and his men rode their horses to the side of the path, allowing the magister to thunder past with an impenetrable look on his face.
Vortigern raised his arm, and the men followed him up to the fortress, where a guard stood by the open gate.
From where Bedwir sat on his horse, two-thirds down the line, he saw Vortigern dismount and speak with the guard, who stood up as tall as he could and thumped the ground with his spear. They appeared to be arguing fiercely.
Finally Vortigern laughed long and hard with his hands on his slim waist. And then, quick as an adder, he smashed the guard across the chin with his forearm and knocked him down. Leaping on him, the battle chief sunk a freshly drawn dirk into the man’s gut and up into his lungs.
Had Vortigern gone mad? Killing a man who hadn’t even attacked him?
The guard gasped, his hand jerking as his spear rolled into the mud.
Vortigern remounted and rode whistling through the gate.
When Bedwir’s horse trotted by, he glanced at the guard lying there, barely breathing and calling for help with quivering, silent lips.
After tying up his horse, Bedwir ran back to the man at the gate. “Do you want water?” he asked, instantly regretting the words. Though what was he to say? The man was dying.
But the guard nodded, the dust around his eyes wet with tears. Bedwir pulled out his waterskin and gave him a sip, which he choked on at first but was able to swallow.
“I … said … he could … not come in … with horses … The hay was … for the goats … I … spoke well of Uther … but …”
Bedwir was shocked. This guard was loyal to Uther.
The man vomited blood, and Bedwir helped turn his head. “Die … die …” he choked.
“I know you’re dying …”
“No … my name’s Dyffresyn. Tell … wife … children … love ‘em, and …”
But his words failed, and the dim light in his eyes faded like two stars eclipsed by the reaching fingers of a coming storm.
Then someone kicked Bedwir.
“Get up!” Vortigern yelled. “And stop dribbling on the dead.”