The glare of the serpent just before it strikes.
Even so, he never saw the knife, never suspected Evan wore one beneath his doublet. Though he should, aye, he should. The blade was just there—suddenly—in Evan’s hand, and as Alan rushed to deliver his felling blow, Evan plunged that blade into him, reaching for Alan’s heart.
At first there was no pain, only shock. It took precious moments for Alan to realize what had happened. The pain came when Evan withdrew the blade with a grimace that displayed satisfaction.
Alan stared at his brother in disbelief and down at the blood welling up through his clothing. His knees began to buckle, and when Evan reached out for him, he at first thought his brother meant to hold him up.
Instead, Evan caught him with one fist in his shirt and the other in his hair, having thrust the bloodied knife back into his belt. Bending close so his hot breath scorched Alan’s cheek, he growled, “Never think ye can best me, little brother. Never.”
He let Alan fall then into the pit of darkness that awaited him.
****
Annista ran when she could and walked at a quick pace when she lost her breath, still following the instinct that prodded—or perhaps led—her. Relentless it was, and almost merciless, as if a voice of demand cried in her head.
She could not have turned back if she’d tried.
Her eyes burned, but she kept them trained ahead for the merest flicker of movement. Birds took panicked flight at her approach. A fox ran across the trail. Shadows that might be roe deer flickered to one side. The land swept ever upward, magnificent.
When she saw the bundle on the ground, she thought it just that—something abandoned. It was the inner knowing—a sickening feeling this time—that took her racing forward.
Careful now, instinct told her. It could be a trap. The monster might linger nearby.
But before many strides, she saw it was—aye, a man. She recognized him by his dark hair and his clothing, for he lay face down. Unmoving.
Dead? Was he dead?
Och, holy God!
She cast one look around before falling to her knees and touching him. Warm. Alive or dead, he could not have lain here long. But what had befallen him?
Not till she turned him over did she see. Blood flowed freely, making a dark red mat of his shirt. It appeared to come directly from his heart.
If he bled so, surely he must yet be alive?
“Alan? Och, God, och, God—Alan?”
No response. His lashes lay black and stark against a face that showed marks of a beating. Or at least a dire fight. Indeed, he lay as one dead.
But nay, for his blood was still warm to her touch.
“Och, God,” it seemed to be all she could say. “Help me. Pray help me!”
As if in response, a sound caught her ear. She half started up, swinging around, her hand flying to the knife in her pocket. A dark shape moved toward her.
A horse. Chieftain. It was only Chieftain.
The horse, clearly spooked, had his head out, curious and somehow regretful.
“Alan. Alan?”
She laid her hand on his cheek, abraded and blooming with red and purple bruises. Was he breathing?
“Alan—husband—please.”
What was this fear in her heart? All out of proportion it was, even to this dire and terrible situation.She wanted him to live.
Upon the thought, his eyelashes fluttered. He gave a groan.
