Hal - The Duellist #1

Chapter Nineteen - Dal Reniac

Dawn was breaking when Meracad woke, the pale morning sunlight filtering through the blinds of the carriage. She sat up, sore and stiff, her head pulsing with pain, and rubbed her eyes which still ached from crying. Any hopes that the previous night had been no more than a nightmare now evaporated.

One of the guards handed her a flask of water and she received it gratefully. She took in her captors, their own clothes dishevelled, grey shadows hovering beneath their eyes. Good. That was good. If they grew tired, they might become careless.

"I must relieve myself," she said at last.

The men looked at each other and then eyed Meracad with suspicion.

"Gentlemen, we have been travelling all night. Please, let me outside for a moment."

With a long sigh of resignation the man to her right banged on the ceiling of the carriage twice with his fist. The vehicle lurched to a halt.

"What is it?" The coachman yelled from his perch above.

"Lady needs a brief moment to herself."

Now her tired mind conjured up visions of escape. She felt brittle, empty, but no longer burdened with tears, and her thoughts ran with a fluency and coherence that they had lacked the previous night. If there were dwellings nearby, some kind of village or hamlet, she could beg for shelter. Or better still, woodland would provide cover. As yet she could see nothing, for the guards blocked her view.

"Come on then." One of the men rose, his eyes wild with sleeplessness, his doublet crumpled and unfastened to reveal a tuft of grey curls sprouting above his shirt front. "Make it quick."

He opened the door and she was blinded briefly by sunlight. A light breeze ruffled her hair and she drew in scents which seemed raw and fresh after the heat and stench of the city. But as her eyes focussed upon the landscape, the prospect of freedom quickly faded and her heart sank in disappointment.

"I said make it quick." The guard shoved her between the shoulder blades and she dropped to the ground, her feet sinking into wet peat. Beyond, as far as the eye could see, was open moorland with no more than a stray gorse bush or rowan tree to break up the emptiness.

"Round the back of the carriage," the man urged.

Hitching up her dress, she drew her feet out of the watery earth which sucked at her shoes, threatening to pull them off. Then she crouched down by the cart wheel. The raised dirt track upon which the carriage had been travelling seemed to provide the only dry land. If she tried to run across this, they would catch up with her in minutes. She would be visible from the road and it would be near impossible to make it across the heather and scrub without twisting her ankle.

"Don't give up hope," she told herself. They had not yet reached Caraden. She could still seize her chance.

She rearranged her skirts and clambered back into the carriage, assuming as cold and dispassionate an expression as she could muster. The door slammed shut and a guard hammered once more on the ceiling. With a grinding of axles and the crunch of wheels over dirt track, the carriage trundled on.

The guard who had pushed her from the carriage door surveyed her coolly, rubbing stained fingers over a matted beard. "I told you there was nothing to see," he observed.

She chose not to respond. And if he suspected her, he did not pursue the matter further. The man beside him was younger, perhaps in his thirties, with a tousled mop of blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Meracad had seen him about her father's house from time to time, employed by the merchant as a personal body guard. He was well-built: stocky and muscular. He turned to her now, those pale eyes pasted with distaste. "What I don't understand is why you're so upset about this marriage, lady. I mean, my own daughter would give anything for such a chance. A rich, powerful aristocrat like Lord Nérac ─ what woman in her right mind would turn her nose up at such an opportunity?"