Chapter 64: Part Dos-2

Sam ducked his head. “Y-yes, milord. It’s on the second floor.” The stutter in his voice was not contrived. The innkeeper was gone, too, and Tristan idly wondered where Braeden had stowed him. He hoped that duty was worth the many sins he had committed and had yet to commit this night. “Where is Ewan?” asked Sander, a hint of sharpness creeping into his voice. They needed to act now and quickly, before suspicion pointed their way. “Perhaps his disappearance is related to the demon,” Tristan said, thinking on his feet. “We shouldn’t tarry any longer. My lady, please lead us upstairs.” Sam nodded and headed straight towards their rented room. He put his ear to the door and made a pathetic attempt at a whimper. “The demon’s still there, milords! I can hear it growling.” A deep, menacing growl echoed into the hallway, lending credibility to his words. “Hand me the key,” said Tristan.  He fitted it into the lock. “Stay back, my lady, I would not want you to get hurt.” To Sander, he said, “Shall we?” Sander gripped the shaft of his quarterstaff with both hands. “After you.” Tristan twisted the door open and stepped inside. He held onto the doorknob until both Sander and Sam had entered the dark room, and then he shut the door behind them. Sander glanced backwards at Sam. “My lady, you shouldn’t be in here. It’s not safe for a--” Before he could finish, a blur of ochre and silver hurtled across the room, the demon come to life. “Shite,” Sander swore, narrowly sidestepping the attack. Braeden leapt at him again. Sander threw up his quarterstaff just in time to prevent Braeden’s elongated claws from piercing his skin, but the force of their collision sent them both tumbling to the floor. Sander rolled on top of him and lifted his quarterstaff into the air, prepared to deliver a skull-crushing blow to Braeden's head. He halted at the kiss of steel at his neck. “Drop your weapon,” Sam snarled into his ear. The quarterstaff clattered to the floor. “Ah. I thought it might be something like this,” said Sander with a half-smile. “Hold out your wrists,” Tristan said tonelessly, and he tied Sander’s hands together with rope. “My ankles too?” asked Sander, who still straddled Braeden. “No,” said Tristan. “I need you to be able to ride.” He brought the Uriel to his feet, and Braeden moved out from underneath him, his eyes ablaze with red from his previous efforts. “I’ll ready the horses,” Braeden rumbled. He rubbed at his bare chest, where his knife had punctured his breastbone. The wound was already knitting itself together. Sander looked at him appreciatively. “You must be Braeden. Nice trick.” Did nothing ruffle this man? Even in the face of abduction, the Uriel seemed faintly amused. Tristan said to Braeden, “Put on some proper clothes first. We don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention.” Braeden stepped into his robes, which he’d discarded in a black pool of fabric at the far corner of the room. “Can I change?” asked Sam. “No time,” said Tristan. “I need you to walk in front of Sander so no one can see his wrists until we’re on horseback.” “This dress itches,” Sam complained. “You owe me for this.” Finally, Sander’s face registered astonishment. “You wouldn’t be Sam of Haywood, would you?” Sam swept into a mocking curtsey. “In the flesh.” Sander began to laugh. “Gods, that’s good,” he hooted. “I never would have guessed.” Tristan scowled. “You do realize the implications of your situation, do you not?” Sander sobered, his laughs subsiding. “Better to laugh than to cry, no?” And then, shockingly, he winked. “Besides, I haven’t given up on you yet, Tristan.” Damn the man for pricking his guilt. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly. They maneuvered Sander through the hallway and downstairs, and miraculously did not bump into a single patron. Before leaving the inn, Tristan tucked a handful of gold coins into the binding of Master Ewan’s ledger. Tomorrow, the innkeeper would wake up with a nightmare of a headache, but at least he would be well-compensated. Tristan’s guilt slightly assuaged, he steered Sander towards the stables. With Braeden’s help, Tristan lifted Sander up onto his stallion and then tethered the horse to his own chestnut with rope. It was an inconvenient way to ride and would slow them down, but Sander was an accomplished equestrian and did not need the use of his hands to spur his horse to escape. They would sacrifice speed for the assurance of his capture. Braeden had already packed the horses with their loads, so they were off as soon as they all were saddled. Under the cover of night, they rode hard and fast until the western gates of Luca were in sight. Sander did not raise protest, clinging silently to the pommel of his saddle with his bound hands. In seconds, they would be underneath the west arch and through it into Swyndale, where the Uriel’s hold would not be quite as strong. They couldn’t rest in Swyndale – Tristan hadn’t mapped out how far loyalty to the Uriel extended – but they would be out from under the shadow of the Beyaz Kale. A laugh burbled up from deep inside Tristan. They’d done it. Their insane plan had actually worked. Tristan celebrated too soon. An arrow swooped down, whistling past his ear as his horse skittered sideways. The archer stood atop the west gates, another arrow notched in his bow. Four men clambered down the knotted vines that covered the gates, barring their path, and another five men joined them below, armed to the teeth. One of the men stepped forward, the glint of the moon highlighting his disfigured face. He held his spiked mace at the ready. “Paladin Lyons,” Adelard said, his voice cutting through the night like a whip. “You’ve interrupted my dinner.”