Well, he’d got his night. And now he was paying for it.
Rafe continued to circle around to the road, listening intently for the slight sound of a horse’s hooves. He caught a shuffling, and loosed his dagger from its sheath. The close cover of the trees made his sword less appealing just now. But his dagger never failed him.
The shuffling came again, along with a low mutter. The pursuer, whoever he was, realized Rafe and Angelet had stopped. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to know that he’d been detected. Or that Rafe was so close.
Twenty paces, ten paces. Rafe could move silently when he wanted to, a talent that often surprised people who only saw his swagger.
It would definitely surprise the short, hooded man who was now five paces away, facing the other direction. He gripped a dagger in his right hand.
Rafe lunged, knocked the dagger from the man’s grasp with a well-aimed strike, and then used his left hand to seize the shorter man by the shoulder and swing him around.
“At last I got you,” Rafe spat.
“Got me?” a voice squeaked.
Rafe’s eyes widened. “What the hell?”
The person following him was hardly more than a boy.
The kid took a huge breath, then without warning, flung himself at Rafe, attacking with wild blows.
To fight him at his full strength would be murder, so Rafe simply parried the boy’s untutored attacks until he saw an opening. Then he used one leg to sweep under the boy’s feet, upsetting his balance, and then delivered a quick punch to the left temple.
The force of the blow—restrained compared to Rafe’s usual strength—sent the boy staggering backward a few steps. Then he fell heavily on his bottom. He groaned, clutching his head, capped with what could best be described as an explosion of orange curls.
Rafe sheathed his dagger. “Why are you following us?”
The boy maintained a sullen silence.
Rafe knelt and grabbed the back of the boy’s mantle, scruffing him like a kitten. “Speak. Are you a scout? Were you bringing back information on me, or the lady I’m traveling with?” he demanded.
“No!” the boy burst out, horror coming over his features. “I don’t know a thing about a lady.”
“Then why follow her?”
“I was followingyou!” the boy cried.
Rafe let him go, and leaned back on his heels, keeping level with the boy, who was still sitting in the dirt. “Tell me. Did Alric of Hawksmere send you?”
The boy looked confused. “Who?”
“Or perhaps he now calls himself Alric of Cleobury,” Rafe went on, though for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Alric using a child as an agent.
“I don’t know any man of that name,” the boy swore. “I’m on my own business.”
“Business? What business could you have with me?” Rafe asked.
“A fight!”
He laughed out loud. “A fight?”
“Don’t you mock me! I want to fight you!” the boy said. “That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“If you saw me fight, boy, what possessed you to attack me just now? You didn’t honestly think you’d win?”
The boy sounded miserable as he spoke. “I thought that you’d be vulnerable if I could sneak up and strike from behind…”
“Thieves strike from behind, boy. Are you a thief?”
