Chapter 421 I Hope Your Sheep Are Happy

The stopping was sudden, forceful, the kind of stop that happened when horses encountered a reason to stop that outranked their rider’s instructions. Guinevere was thrown forward off the bench, catching herself on the bars with her manacled hands and colliding with the iron at a velocity that was going to leave marks.

“Oh, fantastic,” she said from the floor of the carriage. “Now we’ve stopped. In the middle of a road. In a forest. This is exactly how horror stories begin, Bertram. I want you to know that if we are about to be murdered, I am going to be very annoyed about it.”

Smoke.

The smell arrived before the visual. Thick, acrid, carrying the chemical signature of a mage-crafted incendiary rather than a natural fire. The smoke poured through the trees from both sides of the road, filling the air between the carriage and the guards with a grey opacity that reduced visibility to arm’s length.

Shouting. The guards were shouting. Steel was being drawn. Horses were panicking, their hooves stamping the road with the frantic percussion of animals whose instincts were screaming run and whose training was screaming hold.

Impact. The carriage rocked sideways as a body hit the frame from the outside. A guard’s voice cut short mid-word. Another impact. Another voice silenced.

Guinevere pressed herself against the back of the carriage, her manacled hands gripping the bars, her eyes scanning the smoke for shapes. Bertram had stood, his massive frame filling his half of the carriage, his gentle shepherd eyes carrying an expression that was closer to confusion than fear, because Bertram had survived aggressive sheep and tax audits and his threat assessment matrix was calibrated differently than most people’s.

The lock on the carriage door exploded inward. The bar mechanism shattered, the iron twisting like foil, and the door swung open into smoke and chaos.

A figure appeared in the doorway. Armed. Masked. Moving with the practiced efficiency of a mercenary who had done this before and intended to do it quickly.

“Guinevere Ashford?”

“That depends entirely on who is asking and whether the answer affects my survival.”

“You’re being extracted. Move.”

Guinevere did not move. Guinevere assessed. The assessment was rapid, comprehensive, the reflexive evaluation of a woman who had grown up in a family where surprise rescues could be genuine rescues or elaborate traps and the distinction required data.

“Extracted by whom?”

“Move. Now. The mage screen holds for three more minutes.”

Guinevere moved. She stepped through the carriage door into smoke so thick she could taste it, her manacled hands in front of her, her slippers hitting the dirt road, her senses processing the chaos: downed guards, scattered horses, the residual hum of mage-work vibrating in the air.

She turned back to the carriage.

“Bertram. Come on.”

Bertram had seated himself back on the bench. His massive hands were folded in his lap. His posture was the posture of a man who had evaluated the situation and arrived at a conclusion that differed from his companion’s.

“I am going to stay here, I think.”

“What?”

“Mine was really a mistake. I miscounted the herd deductions. I am going to serve my time and appeal when the auditor reviews my documentation.” He shifted on the bench. “I am truly not a rule breaker. My wife would be very disappointed.”

Guinevere stared at him through the smoke with the expression of a woman whose prison companion was choosing incarceration over freedom because of sheep-related accounting principles.

“Bertram. They are breaking us out. This is a rescue. You are being rescued.”

“I appreciate the offer. Very much. But I think it would only make things worse. If I run, they add charges, and I am already behind on my filings.” He paused. “It was lovely meeting you though. I hope your fifteen charges work out.”

“You are the most INFURIATING man I have ever met, and I once dated Garrett Darkhowler, who broke up with me by writing a letter and leaving it on a pillow like a hotel concierge. Get out of the carriage, Bertram.”

“No thank you.”

“BERTRAM.”

“The appeal process is very clear. If I demonstrate good behavior—”

“I AM TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE.”

“My life is fine. My taxes are the problem.”

The mercenary grabbed Guinevere’s arm. “We are leaving. With or without the shepherd.”

“He is IMPOSSIBLE.” Guinevere pointed at Bertram with both manacled hands. “You are impossible. You look like a warlord and you have the survival instincts of a napkin. I hope your appeal goes well, Bertram. I hope your sheep are HAPPY.”

“Thank you,” Bertram said with genuine warmth. “Stay safe.”

Guinevere was pulled from the carriage. The smoke was thinning. The mage screen was degrading. She could hear reinforcement horns in the distance, which meant the escort’s backup protocol had been triggered and the backup was coming and the window was closing.

She wrenched her arm free from the mercenary and ran.

The running was instinctive, directionless, carrying the frantic energy of a woman who did not know who had extracted her and did not trust the extraction and was choosing the only option that had ever served her in a crisis: herself. Her slippers were wrong for terrain. Her manacles limited her arm swing. The forest floor was uneven, root-laced, actively hostile to a woman whose footwear had been selected for a courtroom rather than an escape.

She made it forty feet.

A portal opened in front of her.

The seam appeared in the air three feet ahead of her, splitting the forest into before and after, gold light bleeding through the gap with the unmistakable signature of mage-craft that was powerful, precise, and positioned with the specific intent of intercepting a woman running in the exact direction she was running.

She tried to stop. Her slippers skidded on damp leaves. Her momentum carried her forward through the threshold and into a space that was cold, dim, and smelled like stone and old magic.

A hand pressed against her forehead.

The touch was clinical, efficient, carrying no violence and no warmth, the specific contact point of a mage delivering a sedation spell with the practiced ease of a person who had knocked unconscious enough targets to have refined the technique to a single gesture.

Guinevere Ashford’s last conscious thought was a complete sentence, which was impressive given that consciousness was leaving her at speed: If Bertram’s sheep appeal gets approved before I wake up, I am going to lose my mind.

She went dark.