Mystery Box

From Chapter 1 Night Screams The Lord is my Rock, and my Stronghold, and my Deliverer. – 2 Samuel 22:2 Heron’s Cove, on the island nation of Bretalia M arsten sat up, drenched with sweat. Something was wrong. Was it just his dream? He slammed the dirt with his fists. Would he never stop thinking—and dreaming—about his brother’s bride? Mirien was not his! She was so lovely, so exquisitely . . . No! Heart pounding, Marsten peered through the darkness. Was that the distant whinny of a horse? And—a muffled scream? He flung back his cloak. Drawing his dagger, he sprang from the thicket where he’d hidden to sleep. The full moon lit the forest around him, and pine trees formed bizarre shadows over moss and dirt. A gust of wind stirred his hair while he crouched, poised to fight. He peered around and listened. At first there was only the rustle of leaves. Then . . . yes. Another smothered scream. A woman’s voice. He grabbed his sword, bow, and quiver, and dashed off like a wolfhound after its prey. Buzzing insects drowned out his breathing while he raced through underbrush. Firelight ahead—it was the Norlanders’ encampment near the shore. The band of raiders from Dayenmark. He’d come across the enemy earlier in the evening and spied on them for a time before taking cover for the night. They’d killed a patrol guard—Marsten had found his body on the shore—and now, like usual, they’d snatched a woman for sport from one of the towns. He clenched his fists in outrage. More victims. Would their raiding never end? He dodged branches and leapt over gnarled roots. The woman’s muffled shrieks sharpened to panicked screams. Marsten quickened his pace toward the firelight. Lord God, let me help her before it’s too late. He caught himself before sliding down a steep grade and dropped to his stomach to survey the activity below. On the side nearest him, two sentries stood guard outside a ring of tents surrounding a fire. About thirty yards apart, the men faced outward, toward the forest. Both hulking warriors ignored the screams. Marsten crept down the hill between stands of holly bushes. As he drew closer, gasping sounds of a struggle joined the shrieking. He moved forward. A sentry turned his head. Marsten froze. If only he’d brought a pistol! The noises came from the tent of their stelri—the chieftain’s deputy of this band. His tent was always the largest. A breeze rustled leaves over the hillside. Both guards turned away. Marsten sprang forward. He reached the back of the tent, out of their sight. Then he yanked up a wooden stake, eased up the heavy waxed linen, and slipped inside. A young woman squirmed on the ground, her arms tied behind her back. She kicked furiously at the massive, heavily bearded stelri. The stelri cursed and tried to snatch her thrashing feet. Aided by the yellow light of an oil lamp, Marsten crept toward the man’s back. The stelri snarled and grabbed one slender ankle, then the other. The woman screamed and twisted a bare foot from the brute’s grasp. She planted it squarely on his face and gave him a hearty shove. A string of Dayenish obscenities filled the tent while the Norlander stumbled backward. Marsten swung his left elbow around the man’s neck from behind, squeezed to silence him, and thrust his curved dagger deep into his back. The gasping Norlander sank to his knees. Marsten yanked the weapon out and watched the stelri crumple to the ground. “You will threaten my people no more,” he growled through clenched teeth. He signaled to the woman to keep quiet. Then, resisting the urge to knife his victim again, he bent down and wiped his blade on the Norlander’s coarse shirt. Needing to locate the rest of his enemies, he sprang to the front of the tent and peered through a small opening in the flap. Four warriors huddled near the blazing fire, hurling insults at two others who worked to tie a horse to a tree. They must have stolen it to carry off their captive. The steed snorted and stomped at the cursing men. Why were these warriors encamped here and not scouting? Were they awaiting the arrival of a larger band? They had no other horses, and there was no sizeable town nearby for them to raid. Marsten turned toward the woman and whispered, “Are you all right, miss?” “Aye. Who are you?” She struggled against her bonds. An Éirenish brogue. From the south-county, then. Marsten stepped behind her and used his dagger to slice through the twine binding her wrists. “My name is Marsten. I’m a royal guardsman, and I swear I will not harm you.” The twisted fibers fell from her arms. He helped her to her feet, and his gaze swept from her head to her toes. Her beauty, lit by the dim light of the oil lamp, stilled his breath. Dark, silky hair fell over slender shoulders. Eyes of deepest emerald beneath the sweep of black lashes reflected the dancing flame. She looked up at him with—appreciation? Or something more? Eyes off the lady. Marsten knelt and yanked the leather dagger belt from the lifeless stelri. He handed it to the woman. “Put this on.” She nodded and slung it around her waist. He gave her his cloak. She flung it about her shoulders while he led her to the back of the tent. He lifted the fabric and peered out at the shuffling sentry to his right, then waited for a rustling breeze. When the leaves whispered in the wind, Marsten grasped her hand and they darted between the tall holly bushes. They made their way partway up the slope and took cover behind brush. Listening for movement, he put up his hand to keep her quiet. She turned toward him, and the bright moon lit her features. High, smooth cheekbones framed brilliant eyes, a slim nose, and soft, rounded lips. The way she held her neck conveyed a sense of regal confidence which Marsten suspected was born of characteristic Éirenish stubbornness. The curves of her figure, even wrapped in his bulky cloak, captivated him. He couldn’t imagine where these raiders had found such a stunning specimen of Caeltic loveliness around these parts. He was thankful God had allowed him to intervene, before— “What is your name?” he whispered. “Eleanor Will—” She stopped. “I’m going back to fight, Miss Will. Remain here, and hide yourself well. If I don’t return, my camp is about two hundred yards north.” He pointed up the hill. “My pack contains items you’ll need to hike out of here. Carry it to the Palace at Crestmere, three days up the coast.” He studied her with care. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?” “Yes.” It was almost a whimper. She cleared her throat. “Yes, sir,” she said more calmly. He regarded her with care. She was young, but not a child. “Are you a praying woman, Miss Will?” “I am.” His eyes pleaded with hers. “Then pray for me.” Eyes wide, she reached toward him. “Sir, must you . . . can’t we just—?” “No, milady. If I don’t stop them here, we won’t get far. Norlanders are excellent hunters, and they’ll be after us.” He pulled his longbow from behind his head. “You’re goin’ to—to shoot at unarmed men?” “I certainly am. These warriors have invaded our shore. They’ve killed a lookout and abducted a citizen, and I will cut them off here if I can.” He turned toward the tent then glanced back at her. “Miss Will?” “Yes?” He looked at the rough, rocky ground beneath her bare toes. “Be careful of your feet.” * * *