A Quest of Heroes (Book #1 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

forever, increasingly worried they were being
had.
    “You’ll
take the Blackwood,” the man finally responded. “At your third mile, fork on
the path that leads up the hill. At the top, fork again, this time to the left.
You will go through the darkest wood you have ever seen, then arrive at a small
clearing. The witch’s cottage. She will be waiting for you—with the vial you
desire.”
    Gareth
peeked from his hood, and saw Firth prepare to leave. As he did, the man
reached out, and suddenly grabbed him hard by his shirt.
    “The
money,” the man growled. “It is not enough.”
    Gareth
could see the fear spread across Firth’s face, and regretted having sent him
for this task. This slovenly character must have detected his fear—and now was
taking advantage. Firth was just not cut out for the sort of thing.
    “But
I gave you precisely what you asked for,” Firth protested, his voice rising too
high. He sounded effeminate. And this seemed to embolden the man.
    The
man grinned back, evil.
    “But
now I ask for more.”
    Firth’s
eyes opened wide with fear, and uncertainty. Then, suddenly, Firth turned and
looked right at him.
    Gareth
turned away, hoping it was not too late, hoping he was not spotted. How could
Firth be so stupid? He prayed he had not given him away.
    Gareth’s
heart pounded as he waited. He anxiously fingered the fruit, pretending to be
interested. There was an interminable silence behind him, as Gareth imagined
all the things that might go wrong.
    Please,
don’t let him come this way ,
Gareth prayed to himself. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll abandon the plot.
    He
felt a rough palm slap him on his back. He spun and looked.
    The
cretin’s large black, soulless eyes stared into his.
    “You
didn’t tell me you had a partner,” the man growled. “Or are you a spy?”
    The
man reached out before Gareth could react, and yanked down Gareth’s hood. He
got a good look at Gareth’s face, and his eyes opened wide in shock.
    “The
Royal Prince,” the man stumbled. “What are you doing here?”
    A
second later, the man’s eyes narrowed in recognition, and he answered himself,
with a small, satisfied smile, piecing together the whole plot instantly. He
was much smarter than Gareth had hoped.
    “I
see,” the man said. “This vial—it was for you, wasn’t it? You aim to poison
someone, don’t you? But who? Yes, that is the question…”
    Gareth’s
face flushed with anxiety. This man—he was too quick. It was too late. His
whole world was unraveling around him. Firth had screwed it up. If this man
gave Gareth away, he would be sentenced to death.
    “Your
father, maybe?” the man asked, his eyes lighting in recognition. “Yes, that
must be it, mustn’t it? You were passed over. Your father. You aim to kill your
father.”
    Gareth
had had enough. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, pulled a small dagger
from inside his cloak, and plunged it into the man’s chest. The man gasped.
    Gareth
didn’t want any passersby to witness this, so he grabbed the man by his tunic
and pulled him close, ever closer, until their faces were almost touching,
until he could smell his rotten breath. With his free hand, he reached up and
clamped the man’s mouth shut, before he could cry out. Gareth felt the man’s
hot blood trickling on his palm, running through his fingers.
    Firth
came up beside him and let out a horrified cry.
    Gareth
held the man there, like that, for a good sixty seconds, until finally, he felt
him slumping in his arms. He let him collapse, limp, a heap on the ground.
    Gareth
spun all around, wondering if he had been seen; luckily, no heads turned in
this busy marketplace, in this dark alley. He removed his cloak, and threw it
over the lifeless heap.
    “I
am so sorry, so sorry, so sorry,” Firth kept repeating, like a little girl,
crying hysterically and shaking as he approached Gareth. “Are you okay? Are you
okay?”
    Gareth
reached up and backhanded him.
    “Shut
your mouth and be gone from here,” he hissed.
    Firth
turned and hurried off.
    Gareth
prepared to leave, but then stopped and turned back. He had one thing left to
do: he reached down, grabbed his sack of coins from the dead man’s hand, and
stuffed it back into his waistband.
    The
man would not be needing these.
     

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
     
     
    Gareth
walked quickly through the forest trail, Firth beside him, his hood pulled over
his head, despite the heat. He could hardly conceive that he now found