Page 55 of Keeper of the Word (The Unsung and the Wolf Duology #2)

Chapter

Fifty

TOLVAR

H e’d been offered water but not food. A healer had examined his wounds yet not treated him. And because he was still tied to this same chair days later—his back gnawing as if it’d been torn—he sat in his own piss.

He’d managed to not defecate himself. But his dignity hung by a thread.

Tolvar had seen practically no one. Turas had not returned, the healer had refused to speak to him, and the three servants who’d given him water cowered silently.

Being tied to a chair, in this foul condition, made for both a brooding and contemplative Wolf. The rarest of all his sides, Tolvar had to admit.

Anger was almost a comforting emotion to him. It told him he was in the right most often. It told him that some injustice occurred. It told him that his actions were true.

The only person Tolvar was angry with at present was himself.

Aye, he could not pretend he did not desire to add many men to his kill tally, but ’twas as if he’d learned nothing over the past year.

So much for redemption. Tolvar had naught to show for his heroics but a festering wound, a broken knight’s vow, and the pungent smell of his own priggish ideas about serving justice.

Was Ashwin safe? Did it still stand? Had the StarSeers been able to See the attack on their city in time?

And what of Elanna? How did she fare? Turas had alluded to the same idea that Bernwald had said: there was a traitor in Castle Sidra.

The very notion that someone close to the sovereign could be disloyal sent Tolvar’s already throbbing head spinning anew.

’Twas impossible. The sovereign’s council, steward, chancellor, and commanding knights had been in his court for decades.

I must escape.

At one point, Tolvar had worked one of his bindings loose, but a servant entered the tent hours later and, upon noticing, simply tied it again.

Tolvar hung his head.

Out from the troubled and uncomfortable sleep he’d drifted into, Tolvar’s knight’s senses suddenly came to life in the darkness.

“Wolf.”

Tolvar cocked his head. Surely, the sound of his name had been his imagination. A vapid wish on the edge of his own dried-out tongue.

But it came again. “Wolf.”

“Aye?” Tolvar whispered back.

Moments went by. Tolvar held his breath. Nothing.

A dream.

Then, a figure silently slipped through the flap of the tent entrance. Tolvar squinted to make out who it was. Not one of the servants. A figure with broad shoulders. The silhouette of a sword hung at his side. He held a knife.

A poor end. Not one worthy of the stars. Or Sloane.

He took a deep breath, readying himself as the figure quietly approached .

“Gus?” Tolvar could barely hear his own voice through his shock. “Is that you?”

His knight lifted a finger to his lips. “Shhh. There are eight guards outside,” Gus whispered. The din of nightly camp noises rumbled in the distance.

Gus made good use of his knife and cut through Tolvar’s bindings.

Tolvar twisted his wrists back and forth, then gingerly ran his fingers over the rope burns notched across them.

Gus helped him stand. The white-hot pain in his thigh almost made him lose consciousness.

But Gus propped him up while Tolvar cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his back.

“You have twenty more counts, and then we must leave,” Gus whispered.

“Twenty counts? What does that mean?”

“I’ll explain later.”

Tolvar then noticed that what was held in Gus’s sword belt wasn’t a sword but a long stick. A walking staff of sorts.

“How are you here?”

“I shall explain later. Time to move, m’lord.”

Tolvar, supporting himself on the staff so he could walk with his wound, exited the tent behind Gus. Tolvar braced himself to be met by guards. But no one was there. Tolvar stifled a groan at the pain in his thigh.

Instead of Gus leading them away from the camp, he motioned for Tolvar to follow him to the outside of a tent toward the center of Greenwood’s camp.

Tolvar lifted his eyebrow in question. Gus silently beckoned him to follow.

Stars. What was happening?

But anything was better than that chair, so Tolvar stiffly followed Gus.

They made several strange twists and turns throughout the camp, oddly never encountering a soul. A few times, Gus paused and withdrew a folded piece of parchment, as if reading directions.

Siria’s skirt. What is he doing?

Finally, Gus led them into the southwest edge of the forest. The two remained quiet. Tolvar concentrated on simply moving and not shouting out in agony every time he did.

’Twas at least an hour into the forest, Gus still moving southwest, rather than straight west toward Tolvar’s own camp, before they paused.

Tolvar leaned on the staff as Gus backtracked a few yards away to ascertain that they were not being tracked.

“I would have come sooner, m’lord, but her note instructed me to wait until tonight. Said it was the only path of success.”

“Whose note?”

“The StarSeer, m’lord. When I made it back to camp, everything was deserted. Well, deserted in that I found no one but three of your men dead.”

Tolvar exhaled.

“But there was a note attached to my bedroll,” Gus said.

Tolvar shook his head, which still throbbed like the banshees of the Hoarfrost Moon rattled against him. “I do not understand.”

“Her note told me exactly when and where to go, m’lord.” Gus shook his head. “In great detail. And to fashion you a walking staff, m’lord.”

Tolvar would have to ponder all that later. Now that they weren’t in the midst of Greenwood’s camp, Tolvar’s attention to detail caught up, and he noticed that Gus had a gash across one cheek and a patch of burns, partially healed, on his other.

“What happened in Trysinmar?”

“The town was on fire when we arrived. We were ambushed as we tried to rescue citizens who’d been trapped in the pub.” He paused. “I know ’tis been years since I’ve seen your brother, m’lord, but I believe Crevan was there. He was barely recognizable.”

Tolvar’s blood seethed.

“If ’twas him, he was unquestionably the leader, m’lord.

His face. I can hardly describe it. But most who were with him had a…

dark countenance. At one point, we fought.

I wounded his shoulder. But the fire overcame everything, and I was forced to flee.

But before I did, I heard someone tell Crevan that the Brones they’d sent to Thorin Court had breached its walls. ”

“Nay.” Tolvar ran his hand through his hair.

“Do you know who the Brones are?”

Stars. Would Crevan at least leave the servants alive? Sir Connall?

“M’lord?”

He’d done this. Tolvar had left Thorin Court defenseless. Again. And all to hunt down Crevan, the Fox who’d known just how to trick a Wolf. But Thorin Court couldn’t be his task. Crevan could not be his quarry. He was more than the Wolf.

And he was going to save Asalle.

“M’lord?”

“Come. We must race back to Asalle. ’Tis a five-day ride, but we must try.”

“We might be able to make it in four, m’lord.”

Tolvar grimaced.

“The StarSeer left me one more surprise.”