[Firefoot]

Scyld had, in fact, been listening in on most of Sorn and Linduial’s conversation, although not in so obvious a place as at the door. No, he had gone upstairs, out the back door, and around to the little-used cellar door where he could listen in and hear most everything – especially since Sorn apparently found it necessary to speak often at the top of his voice.

But then the horn call had come. A horn could only mean one thing: Linduial’s rescuers. He peeked around the side of the hall to be sure, and saw a small company of armed riders, leaving no doubt in Scyld’s mind. They had come after all, but come too soon, too soon. Scyld was not ready for a choice, whether to trust Linduial or… or what? What other choices did he have? He could not side with Sorn. Run off? He would be tracked down, and Sorn would likely kill Linduial before letting her be rescued. This brought him back to his earlier conclusion: run, and take Linduial with him. Foolish! But he would not be trying to kidnap her once more, only save her from Sorn’s wrath and postpone his own decision.

He, at any rate, had to leave, even if he would be tracked down; perhaps they would not care, or maybe Linduial would speak for him – assuming she lived. Whether he would take Linduial with him or not remained to be decided, but he knew he would if it became apparent beyond reasonable doubt that Sorn would kill her before she was rescued – and he supposed he already knew the true answer to this.

He left his place at the cellar door and hurried back inside; he had to act in haste. He gathered his scant few possessions and then went to Sorn’s study. He knew from seeing Sorn rush outside that he would not come back till his business with the rescuers was complete, however long that would take. The study was locked, but this did not concern Scyld. He deftly picked it using a bit of wire he had fashioned long ago in a fit of boredom when Sorn was elsewhere. Never before had he taken anything, so as not to alert Sorn to this skill, but that was about to change.

He knew where Sorn always kept a bit of money and took first a few silver coins as payment. Spotting Linduial’s possessions in the corner, he took the knife and doll but left the basket. If Sorn was not paying attention, he might not notice the change. Within minutes of entering, Scyld was leaving again, checking the door to make sure it locked again.

Then he was hastening down the cellar stairs with the growing bundle of things under one arm. He ought to be able to find some dried meat and perhaps some dried vegetables down there; he dared not ask the cook in the kitchen for food.

“Well,” he told Linduial in a bitterly ironic whisper, “your rescuers have arrived, but they are few. Sorn will kill you before he lets them inside the house, unless they have brought money, which I doubt.” He had begun storing some meat, and if it weren’t already obvious to Linduial what he was planning, he clarified, “I’m leaving.” He did not say anything about taking her with him, for he had thought of something in the meanwhile. She would not readily come with him if he forced her, for she would struggle to get to her rescuers. So he could knock her out – or he could get her to want to come. He might have to knock her out anyway, but it would be easier if he didn’t. He felt confident that she would argue with him, appeal to his honor; it was in her nature.

This is a tenuous game you are playing, Scyld, he told himself, like dancing on the edge of a knife.