“At least we know they’re not lacking in courage,” Fallon said, before setting off after Patrick.
“They could do with a little less bravery and a little more sense, if you ask me,” Caden responded to Fallon’s back.
Fallon couldn’t argue with that.
The afternoon petered away as they checked tunnel after tunnel. In one, they found a pigeon coop, its inhabitants cooing to each other. A wooden board was attached to the rock of the cave, and it looked like the pigeons’ comings and goings were being tracked.
This place, at least, saw a lot of visitors, judging by all the footsteps they could see on the ground.
“Shea said pigeons lose their way up here,” Fallon said, leaning down for a better look at the pigeons as Patrick went about portioning out their feed.
“They do. About four times out of ten. We think it’s from the same thing that makes compasses so unreliable.” Patrick opened a cage and reached in to scoop out a pigeon. “These aren’t your average pigeons.”
He held it up for a closer look. Fallon saw where he’d been mistaken. These looked like pigeons, yes, but they weren’t. The color pattern of their feathers was wrong and these had a dark gray line running in striations across their beak. Their feet also had more claws than a regular pigeon.
“We bred them,” Patrick said, patting the pigeon’s head before setting it back in the coop. “Figured out a way to change their form just enough that they’re accurate more often than not.”
“Can they fly through the mist?” Fallon asked.
Patrick’s face was thoughtful as he considered. “We think so, but there’s no way to be sure.”
If they could, they would be an incredible asset. Fallon wondered how amenable the guildmaster would be to giving a few of these into his care. He had no doubt Braden and Darius would find a lot of uses for such a bird, if they could figure out how to make it work with an army that was always on the move.
“Someone approaches,” Caden murmured.
Fallon grunted, his interest in the birds fading.
His initial conjecture at what they were “hunting” was proven right when several men sauntered around the corner. All but one were young and not very high up in the pathfinder ranks, unless the pathfinders liked to promote inexperienced and arrogant young men to leadership positions.
Judging by Patrick and Shea’s competence, Fallon highly doubted that.
Which meant the man in the back, the one who looked like he’d seen a thing or two, was probably the ringleader of this group.
“James, Owen, and Mark, to what do we owe this pleasure?” Patrick asked, not looking up from where he tended to the pigeons. “You don’t usually bother with this work. I believe the last time you were assigned pigeon duty you said it was for simpletons and cowards.”
Fallon lifted an eyebrow, his estimation of the men falling even further. Only idiots would overlook the powerful advantage the carrier pigeons provided.
“We don’t have any problem with you, old timer. We’re just wanting a word with your guests,” one of the brash young men in front said, his eyes moving toward Fallon and remaining there.
That was a mistake. The man didn’t notice Caden waiting against the wall, a dagger already in his hand, his body poised to act.
Fallon grinned, his face that of a predator amused by his next meal’s actions. It was wicked and dangerous, and full of a macabre humor.
“Now, Owen, you know I’m not going to let you do that,” Patrick said, closing the cage and giving the men a sidelong look. “I suggest you three run on back to the Keep. No need for this to get messy. You’re some of my own. I’d hate to see you get damaged just because you lost your heads.”
One of the other men snarled, “We don’t take orders from you anymore. You have a traitorous daughter and a weak bitch of a wife. Pathfinders bow to no man, let alone some barbarian from the Outlands.”
Patrick’s face didn’t change expression, the words glancing right off him without registering a mark.
Fallon studied the men in front of him, noting the confidence with which they stood. Proud. Cocky. There was no fear there. Just an absolute conviction that they would come out on top during any encounter.
All carried some kind of weapon. However, the weapon that made him smile was the Trateri spear the last man held. An utterly useless tool for a fight like this, especially in close quarters wielded by someone who had no idea what they were doing.
The men were all in shape, their bodies molded by the rigors of their lifestyle. They obviously knew some fighting technique, based on the way they’d arranged themselves and held their bodies ready.
But there was one difference between them and the Trateri they faced. The pathfinders were trained to defend themselves, compared to Fallon and Caden who’d worked every day of their lives to perfect methods to better kill those who opposed them.
“I hadn’t suspected men trained by you would be such fools,” Fallon said in a mild voice.
