Chapter 9: Leofric's Ambush

The Greywall Pass ran between two black cliffs, a day's hard ride from Marrowford.

Ilsabet knew a goat track along the east face that the Duke's patrols never used.

We left the horse at a shepherd's hut and went up on foot, with the wind cutting at our faces.

I carried the stone in a pouch against my ribs.

It had been quiet since the market.

So had the song.

I had not told her I could hear it, not yet.

I was not sure how to say it.

We reached the narrowest part of the track at noon.

The cliff dropped away on our left, a long fall into mist.

On our right the rock rose sheer and wet.

"Single file," Ilsabet said. "Stay close to the wall."

"I know how to walk."

"You walk like a man who's never had a hundred-foot drop beside him."

"I've had you beside me. Which is worse."

She snorted, and I saw her shoulders ease.

Then she stopped dead.

"Rowan."

Ahead of us, standing in the middle of the track, was a line of men in the Thornfield grey.

At least twenty.

They had crossbows, and every one was aimed at us.

Behind them, on a ledge of rock, sat Leofric on his white horse, with a bandage across his lip.

"I did say I'd see you again," he called cheerfully.

I turned to run, and the same line of grey stood behind us.

They'd come up the track while we climbed.

There was nowhere left but the fall.

"Put the stone on the ground, gate-brat," Leofric said. "And your hands behind your head."

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