CHAPTER TWENTY: ALFRED'S BLAME.
Holding Alfred's lantern in one hand and his bloodied sword in the other, Neb stumbled along the track. Carrying his poor broken son, Alfred followed on Neb's heels, barking out directions in between harsh breaths.
'Left here,' he ordered. On automation, Neb wheeled from the main track and followed the wagon's ruts into a clearing. He stopped short to survey the scene. A campfire burned inside a neat stone circle. Kattin rose from her seat beside it, her face seemed even more angular than Neb remembered. His eyes travelled over her to the wagon. Cowering under a grime encrusted blanket, Samara slumped against its rear wheel, with her arms behind her back. Sensing movement, she raised her head and stared into Neb's eyes. His stomach twisted at the sudden hope filling her face, chased away immediately by despair. The knots in his stomach tightened when she managed to smile at him. Alfred pushed past Neb to place his son tenderly on the ground, close to the fire.
'I'm sorry – so sorry,' Neb blurted. He had failed her. Something hit the back of his head: Alfred's fist.
'You're going to be a lot sorrier,' he promised, and snatched his sword back, buried the lantern's pole into the ground and grasped Neb's arms. Kattin rushed over with some rope and bound it tightly around Neb's wrists.
'It was your son calling for help then?' she asked Alfred, then sniggered. Neb dropped his chin to his chest.
Alfred struck him again. 'Yes, it was my son calling for me. My son! How dare you drag him into this?!' He shouted at Neb, spraying spittle over his cheeks.
'Where's the griffin?' he demanded suddenly, glancing up anxiously, his eyes scanning the web of tree canopies blotting out the night sky. Neb kept quiet, if only Balkind were here …
Alfred struck him again 'I asked you a question – now answer.'
Remembering Blain's instructions, Neb tried to negotiate. He swallowed a couple of times and then spoke calmly.
'I'll explain everything, but please stop hitting me.'
Alfred snarled, but kept his fists clenched at his sides.
Neb glanced at Kattin, her eyes gleamed with malice, she guessed what he had to say, and sniggered again, 'see, I told you,' she grinned triumphantly at Alfred. 'Everyone else is too concerned with Chief Luthan – the fool won't back down –' she lifted her chin and sniffed, '– I knew he wouldn't, not once I'd placed the idea into his mule-bone head.'
Neb glanced at Alfred, from his expression he'd had no idea of the depths Kattin had stooped to. 'You! Luthan's dam is your doing?!'
Kattin sneered, 'you don't think that idiot …' she broke off, exasperated. 'It doesn't matter. My point is only these two knaves came after us.'
'My son is no knave – and now he's dying!' Alfred shouted.
Kattin drew back from him, her eyes glittered dangerously. 'Then pray he makes it to the Black Robes' Cloister and pray you don't offend me!' she snapped.
An uneasy silence ensued. It was broken by Samara.
'Untie me,' she said quietly. 'Untie me, I have lotions and a sleeping draught in my case. I can help your son. But you must untie me and stop hitting Neb.'
Under Kattin's glare, Alfred frogmarched Neb over to the wagon's wheel. Working swiftly, he freed Samara. She stood and stretched, then whispered 'thank you for trying.' If Alfred heard, he gave no sign; he forced Neb to take Samara's spot, and then bound him securely to the wheel.
The wagon rocked as Alfred dragged Samara's case from it. Then they both hurried over to Eric. Raising his head, Neb saw Kattin glaring at him, with her arms akimbo.
'You fool! Alfred thinks you're to blame for this. His lily livered son would never have dared the forest on his own.'
Neb bit his tongue. He wanted to tell her that she was so wrong about Eric: he had the heart of a griffin; courageous and kind.
'Blain sent me, he offers all his gold in exchange for Samara's guardianship,' he blurted.
Kattin barked a laugh, 'Oh, I wager the fat fool would love that!' she sneered. 'A fine young nubile wife and her inheritance to boot!'
Neb shook his head, but it was pointless to argue. Along with Blain's cloak, his written guarantee had gone up in flames.
The night dragged towards morning. Samara continued to work on Eric's wounds while Alfred hovered anxiously. Occasionally he dragged a hand over his face, then turned to glare at Neb with narrowed eyes. The stag's blood dried on Neb's arms, his hands grew numb from lack of circulation. His eyelids drooped and his chin nodded towards his chest. Alfred was right to blame him. This was all his fault. He'd let everyone down. He had failed spectacularly.
In his dreams, Harry's mocking face appeared before him: You can take the boy from the peasant, but you can't take the peasant from the boy.
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