Page 51 of Kingdom of Locks

“Two people caused all this chaos?” Amell said to Furn. “They must have strong magic.”

“I don’t know, Your Highness.” Furn sounded skeptical. “People love to panic. I suspect they made a little mischief, and the crowd did the rest.”

Amell nodded. “You’re probably right.” The merchant was telling the captain that the two prisoners—both men—had taken clothes and supplies in addition to the horses, and had ridden north.

The captain turned to two of his soldiers. “Pursue,” he said curtly. “But don’t engage. Just recon, then return.”

They nodded their understanding, spurring their horses on. The rest of the squadron set about assisting in bringing order to the pandemonium.

“It’s a stupid thing to do, isn’t it?” Amell commented to Furn, as the two of them righted a vegetable cart. “Make such a scene, I mean. Surely they should be trying to lie low. And I know they’ve been on foot, but how have they only made it this far since the break out?”

“It doesn’t suggest a very good plan, does it?” Furn agreed. “Some of them have been in that prison for ten years, of course. They might not have many contacts or resources outside anymore. But you’d still think that if they’d known the break out was coming, they would have a better plan for what to do once they were out.”

Amell frowned, puzzling once again over who could be behind the break out if it wasn’t one of those who were liberated by it. Honeysuckle had seemed very certain it wasn’t Cyfrin, but perhaps she was wrong.

The scouts returned before the sun had fully disappeared below the horizon. The market was in decent order, and the soldiers gathered behind their captain as the two riders delivered their report.

“The trail disappears a short distance to the north, Captain,” one of them said. “They rode into a creek, and we couldn’t find where they left it. But we did find these.” He held up a clump of formless gray garments.

“So they’re no longer in prison uniform,” the captain said grimly. “And they’re in the wind.”

“Their hair will still identify them, though,” Amell chimed in. He hesitated. “Unless they’ve grown it out magically.”

“They shouldn’t be able to do that, Your Highness,” responded one of the prison guard enchanters. “Their hair isn’t cut in the natural way. When they arrive at the prison, their hair is shorn by magic. It shouldn’t be able to grow again until the length of their sentence is served. As far as I know, that will still apply, even if they’ve escaped the site.”

Amell nodded, and the conversation moved to more immediate concerns.

“We’ll ride back to the prison,” the captain decided. He pointed to half a dozen soldiers, including the two who had scouted ahead. “Except you, who will stay and see if you can pick up the trail from the creek. Send word to me at the prison immediately if you find anything.”

The soldiers lost no time in heading northward again, and the rest of the group turned south, moving at a smart trot along the darkening road. They were only about halfway back to the prison when one of the enchanters nudged his horse toward the front of the group, where the captain was riding.

“Captain, I think I can sense a faint signature.” He gestured to their left.

“What does that mean?” the captain asked, a touch irritably.

“It means we think there’s someone with magic out there,” the other enchanter chipped in. “It’s faint—I’ll admit I hadn’t noticed it. But now I’m searching, I can feel it, too.”

The captain followed the direction of their gaze with interest. “Is that so?” He cast his eyes back over the group, then turned to the soldier on his right. “Take several men and follow the enchanters, as quietly as possible. I’ll continue toward the prison with the group. It seems unlikely it’s the inmates. I can’t think why they’d be heading back toward the prison. But just in case, we don’t want to draw attention to the fact that we’ve noticed them. We’ll go slowly, though, and if you need us, we’ll be ready.”

The soldier nodded smartly, weaving his horse expertly through the ranks and picking up others as he went. When the group detached silently from the main contingent, Amell nudged his horse after them.

“Come on, Furn,” he said quietly. “Let’s go with them.”

“Your Highness,” Furn said calmly, “I think we should let them do—”

But Amell was already emerging from the formation, and with a sigh his guard followed him. They attached themselves to the back of the small group now riding slowly across a dark field, the enchanters in the lead.

They’d been riding for several minutes when a sudden shout ahead told Amell that action was happening at the front of the group. He spurred his horse into motion, Furn close beside him as they drew alongside the enchanters.

Several soldiers were spreading out, trying to surround two men in simple clothes, whose raggedly cut hair gave away their identity. The enchanters were hanging back out of reach, muttering words Amell couldn’t understand, clearly preparing magic of some kind.

One of the soldiers who’d drawn close to the prisoners pursed his lips, a thin whistle emerging. But it cut off a moment later, when one of the fugitives slashed a hand in front of him like an ax, shouting something unintelligible as he did so. The soldier toppled over, bleeding from a jagged gash along his collarbone, and the fugitive leaped forward to snatch up the man’s sword. Turning, he ran toward the enchanters who were still gathering their magic.

With an angry cry, Amell surged forward. He was dimly aware that the rest of the soldiers were all closing in on the other enchanter, who seemed to be holding them off with gestures that caused them to bounce back as if hitting an invisible shield. Amell disregarded that scuffle, focusing instead on the prisoner who had slashed the now moaning soldier. He’d never seen magic like that—used in its raw form as a literal weapon—and he was determined not to let such a magic-user roam free across the countryside.

The prisoner had taken advantage of the soldiers’ distraction to creep around behind the enchanters in the darkness. He’d just raised his stolen blade when Amell threw himself off his horse, placing his body in between the prisoner and the enchanters and raising his own blade. The two weapons clanged, causing the enchanters to gasp and stumble out of the way.

The prisoner turned his full attention to Amell, growling. Amell knew no hesitation. He was well-trained with a sword, and he rained down blow after blow on the man’s head, each only just intercepted in time. Furn was at his side in a flash, his blade in his hand as the two of them pressed the prisoner hard.

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