The stolen mantle lay half buried in the snow.
Albert dismounted before Garrick could stop him and lifted the gray wool with the tip of his sword.
Blood marked one shoulder.
Not enough for the dead guard they had found above the trail.
The attacker was wounded.
Still moving.
Albert no longer looked like a man who had left court for an afternoon hunt. His gray mantle was torn at one knee and crusted white at the hem. Wind had stripped the order from his hair. A day’s beard shadowed his jaw.
Garrick crouched beside the tracks leading north.
“One man. Favoring the left side.”
A Vesper officer studied the deeper impressions.
“He’s carrying a crossbow.”
The prints vanished under fresh snow less than thirty yards ahead, but the direction held.
Toward the abandoned outpost.
“Then we
