Page 45 of Keeper of the Word (The Unsung and the Wolf Duology #2)

Chapter

Forty

TOLVAR

C amp was quiet when Tolvar returned in the grey light of dawn. Only Jarren greeted him; Tolvar didn’t know why that caught him off guard.

’Twas evident his Wolf’s senses were heightened. Everything seemed tilted now.

“Sir Bernwald return?” Tolvar asked.

“Nay, m’lord. But we searched for him as you ordered,” Jarren said, taking Valko’s reins. “I shall rub down Valko for you.” The horse heaved. Tolvar had ridden him hard, peeling away a mile stretch from Greenwood’s camp. But the Ashwinian Luster had made good time along the open expanse of field.

“We need to search again.”

“Aye, m’lord. Also, a strange incident happened about an hour ago.”

“Aye?”

“About four dozen of Anscom’s army marched north.”

Stars. Hopefully, that had not impeded Herry and the others’ movements.

“North? Back on the main road to Coe? ”

“Nay, m’lord, north as if they were headed straight along the border of Anscom and Askella. What do you make of that?”

Tolvar had no idea.

“Where are the others?”

“Darv went to scout Anscom’s camp, and Len went to scout Greenwood’s camp. Paul is walking the perimeter of our camp.”

Tolvar nodded. “Stay here, then, until Herry returns. Then the four of you search for Sir Bernwald again.”

“Aye.”

Tolvar downed two cups of water and snatched a slice of stale bread, then set off on foot toward the density of Greenwood Forest. He’d start there and make his way along the stream that cut through it. This would give him the opportunity to observe Greenwood’s camp under the cover of heavy foliage.

In the forest, the early morning light had not yet touched here.

The air was chilled. At first, Tolvar considered moving away from the stream so as to better detect movement—the babbling of the water was noisy this time of year—but thought better of it and continued along the stream.

The further he trod into the forest, the darker it became, the canopy thicker here.

A few animals scurried by, but nothing of note alerted him.

Every dozen yards, Tolvar paused and scanned the area. He couldn’t call for Bernwald here, so he searched for other signs. Broken branches, disturbed ground cover where footsteps may have been. Nothing. He continued.

Abruptly, Tolvar halted. Had he heard something? He drew his sword, the scraping metal against the scabbard barely audible. He squinted to the left and raised his weapon.

From his right, suddenly, a deer leapt out of the trees and across the stream. Startled, Tolvar retreated, almost losing his footing and slipping backward into the water. Two more does followed it, and Tolvar resheathed his sword, shaking his head in embarrassment.

Imagine. The Wolf jumpy over a few deer?

He was about to take a step forward when something green caught his eye, which was quite a feat in the midst of a forest. Tolvar waded across the stream and knelt to pick up a piece of green cloth from a Greenwood uniform. It had blood on it.

Upstream, a moan snapped his attention forward. He stood, his sword becoming an extension of his arm once again.

“Bernwald!” Tolvar rushed to where, partially hidden under shrubbery, Bernwald lay.

He had a gash on his head, and the bandage that covered his burn was soaked in blood.

Bernwald had ripped away a piece of his tunic, also drenched in blood, and pressed it against his chest. Tolvar removed it; he sucked in his breath.

The wound oozed. Tolvar carefully inspected the rest of him, not wanting to consider how grave the chest wound appeared.

He removed a kerchief from his pocket, pressed it to the older man’s chest, and watched as it turned crimson. “Bernwald, what happened?”

“Tolvar?” His voice was a faint whisper. “Stars, Tolvar.” He attempted a short laugh but paled further. “Greenwood, he…”

“Aye, I know. This has been a sham, but for what purpose I know not. He and Turas?—”

“Aye,” Bernwald grunted, his teeth red. “I should have known long ago. I suspected something was off”—he coughed—“I hoped to make a discovery so you would cease giving me that suspicious look you’ve been tossing my way, but then as I made my return after delivering your message—” He sputtered out another cough.

Guilt became Tolvar’s friend anew. “Bernwald, I let doubt cloud my judgment. Forgive me.”

Bernwald coughed. “You are too young to be filled with so much vengeance.”

“Not vengeance, justice.”

A weak smile skipped across the old man’s face. “Like your father in so many ways.”

Tolvar averted his eyes from Bernwald’s wound. “I hear you. I am sorry. Seems I am e’er the pupil seeking forgiveness.”

With effort, Bernwald lifted an arm to Tolvar’s shoulder. “You place too much of the world upon your shoulders. But glad I am that you found me so I can go to the stars with comfort.”

“You’re not yet going to the stars. I shall return you to camp. ”

Bernwald shook his head; his eyes closed. “Nay, m’lord. I’ve waited here for a day. I cannot hold any longer. But you need to leave this place and warn the sovereign.”

“What have you learned?”

“Greenwood’s man mentioned they were to rendezvous with Anscom and another party in the north. Then they plan to march on Asalle.”

“Asalle?”

“One from the south, one from the east. They spoke of a third army who is to join forces with them, but I know not who.”

So that is where Anscom’s army was marching.

“But, from the east, that means that Greenwood would have to cut into Grenden and take his army through there.” Thoughts raced through his mind. “And for what purpose?”

Bernwald’s answer was a fit of coughs, blood spurting from his mouth.

“Hear me. There is more. There is also a traitor in the sovereign’s midst.”

A watchdog turning on his master.

Stars.

“Do you know who?”

Bernwald opened his mouth to speak as an arrow sunk into his chest. A gasp caught in his throat, and the man stilled.

Tolvar whirled. More arrows shot out from the shadows. He sprinted to the shield of the trees on the opposite side. Darting. Zigzagging. An arrow struck the ground inches from his foot. Tolvar dove behind a large trunk.

Pppuh. Another arrow struck the tree. Tolvar crouched as arrow after arrow found its mark in the tree or in the ground inches from where he took cover.

“Come out and fight!” Tolvar yelled.

The arrows ceased fire. The air was still. Not even a breeze.

He strained his ears, collecting himself and calculating how many archers must be hidden.

Little by little, he leaned to the side to take a glance.

The whiz of arrows resumed. Tolvar scanned the cover of trees behind him.

A giant evergreen stood ten paces away. With a sharp inhale, Tolvar brought his sword to his chest before darting to the evergreen.

An arrow grazed his thigh. He tripped but stayed silent.

If they could not discern that they’d hit him, he would not let it be known.

Behind the evergreen, Tolvar inspected the wound. A gash, but not threatening.

Breathe, he thought. Listen.

The thwap of arrows burying themselves in the tree was like a battering of hail.

Tolvar dared another glimpse and was nearly the target of the next arrow.

He would need to retreat all the way to the east end of the forest, hope to find a place to hide, and then backtrack under the cover of darkness. Thoughts and strategies and the words of Bernwald pounded his mind.

A snap of a twig behind him brought his sword slashing through the air.

It hit one attacker across the collarbone.

But the second man was ready. The hilt of a sword slammed into Tolvar’s temple.

He staggered out from the shield of the evergreen.

An arrow grazed his arm. Dizzy, he fell to his knees. A half-dozen men surrounded him.

“Finish it,” Greenwood said.

This time, the blow exploded into his forehead. Tolvar crashed to the ground.

Before blacking out, he had a strange sense of Deja vu.