First, he had to see this through first. He would not be distracted. It was too late to turn back.
So he remained still while the thief took his brooch. It was a moth, expertly crafted in bronze. He had snatched it from his home while it burned, before he ran away. It was his mother’s, though he didn’t know for certain.
He didn’t fight for it now or chase the thief when the man slipped it into a pouch hanging from his belt and then walked away. Torin wouldn’t throw away a perfect opportunity to get himself not only into the castle, butinvitedinto it. He had a promise to keep to himself.
His smile was cloaked in shadows as he pulled his hood back over his head and rose from the table to leave.
He went the stable and waited with his horse. It was going to be a long night. He was a wee bit less patient since losing his brooch, but he would wait.
He turned his gaze to Carlisle Castle in the distance, where resided Alexander Bennett, Warden of the Western March, defender of Carlisle.
King Robert the Bruce and his forces had attacked Carlisle five years ago but had failed to take it.
This time, they would not fail.
This time, they had him.
He’d come to Robert shortly after the king’s defeat in Carlisle, after he’d written to the Bruce, promising to hand him Till Castle, home of the Governor of Etal. And then he’d done it. His prowess at infiltrating any military stronghold and delivering his enemies to the Scottish king, weakened and vulnerable, had earned him the nameShadowamong the Bruce’s forces.
His skills included things he’d learned as a child while trying to survive alone—things such as lifting valuables from any pocket, and all sorts of thievery.
But his greatest skill was gaining trust and friendship from his enemies while planning their demise. He was in and out of their lives within weeks. He felt no shame or regret for the things he’d done, the people he’d killed. He wanted no reward. Just revenge.
Aye, Shadow was the right name for him, but Torin thought it was better fitting for his heart. For it was not completely black. There were glimpses of light shining along narrow paths but, most often, he refused to take them. The light tempted him away from his purpose, and though he enjoyed what he could find in the light, he chose to stay in the shadows cast by it.
His purpose right now was taking down Carlisle Castle. No Scot had been able to penetrate its stone curtain walls. Little was known about Bennett’s forces. How many men guarded the borders, the battlements? How well did they fight? What could he do from within to ensure the Scot’s victory?
He would soon find out.
He set his gaze toward the eastern sky aglow in pale moonlight and endless stars, making the red sandstone keep harder to define. For a moment, the beauty of it took his breath away. He might be one of the Bruce’s most proficient killers, but he always stopped to appreciate what the light revealed.
He’d been thirteen when he’d broken into Till Castle, home of Governor Henry Alan, and was caught stuffing valuables from the governor’s private chambers into his breeches. He’d been beaten and thrown into the castle’s pit for four days. Two of those days were spent living in the horrors of his past, swearing vengeance, promising the wee lad inside him that he would avenge his family and make amends for leaving them, that he would kill every English soldier he met for the lives of his friends in the woods. Finally, he’d collapsed on the cold stone floor and pondered a field of endless flowers and a sky as vast as his imagination.
Mayhap he’d gone mad in those eternal days of darkness and hunger and nothing to do, but he’d learned how to escape his life and enter another, filled with sunlight and beauty—and a family, a place to belong.
He’d had to escape in order to live and take down as many fortresses he could.
He’d used the next five years in the governor’s garrison, learning to fight, disguised as a friend—
He heard men leaving the tavern and blinked back to the present. He bent to look around the stable wall and saw the three soldiers step outside and begin the walk toward the stable. He waited for the thieves to leave the tavern next. It didn’t take long.
He watched as they came up around the soldiers, their faces covered, and surrounded them, knives held outstretched in their hands. He didn’t usually kill thieves, but there was no room in his heart for forgiveness. He had a task to achieve and nothing would stop him. Nothing ever had.
“Hand over them purses and we will not kill you,” one of the thieves demanded.
The soldiers reached for their swords and fighting quickly ensued. One of the soldiers managed to take down a thief, but Bennett’s men had had too much to drink and they were weary. As a result, the four bigger thieves soon overtook them.
Torin watched two of the soldiers fall to their knees and the third lose his sword. He waited another moment until it seemed hopeless for the soldiers to come out of the encounter alive.
He stepped forward out of the shadows and snapped his dark mantle over his shoulders. Reaching behind his back, he unsheathed his long blade and brought it down hard on one gaping thief, killing him where he stood. He turned for the next and twirled his wrist, making the blade dance at his command in the few shards of sunlight. It was the man who had stolen his brooch. The thief opened his mouth and pointed at him. Torin swiped his sword across his throat with one hand and reached for a dagger at his belt with the other. Before the man’s body hit the ground, Torin slipped his fingers to the small pouch hanging from the man’s belt, cut it free, and dropped it into his boot. He flung the dagger at the fourth robber and didn’t wait to see where it landed when he blocked a blow to his skull from the last.
By this time, the soldiers had gained their feet and watched him smash the pommel of his sword into the brawny thief’s face and then swipe his blade across the man’s belly, bringing his knees to the dirt, and then, his face.
With the last of them dead, Torin plunged his blade into the ground and leaned his hands on his thighs to breathe.
“Stranger,” one of the soldiers said with awe in voice. “Who are you?”
Torin looked up from his hands and smiled. “Sir Torin Gray. I seek an audience with the Warden of the Western March.”
