Janny
Wurts is the author of numerous successful fantasy novels, including the
acclaimed Cycle of Fire trilogy and The Wars of Light and Shadow series.
She is also co-author, with Raymond E. Feist, of the worldwide best-selling Empire series. Her skill as a
horsewoman, offshore sailor and musician is reflected in her novels. She is
also a talented artist and illustrates many of her own covers. Janny Wurts
lives in Florida, USA
Voyager
An Imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers 77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
This paperback
edition 2003 135798642
First published in
Great Britain by Voyager 2002
Copyright © Janny
Wurts 2002 Interior Illustrations © Janny Wurts 2002
The Author asserts
the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record
for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 00 710111 2
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For
the warriors,
may they keep their hearts open.
For those who make decisions and hold sway
over others,
may they do the same, only more so.
And for all who have given or lost their lives
because one or the other fell short -
this story.
I would like to thank the following
individuals
whose interest, enthusiasm, support and dedication
walked in loving support alongside my creative footsteps.
My father John Wurts,
for the inspiration that led me to think outside the box.
Andrew Ginever, Justin Harrison, Dede
McKenna,
Diane Turner, Jeff Watson,
Jane Johnson, Sarah Hodgson, Andrew Ashton
and the Voyager staff
Jonathan Matson,
and my unflagging husband, Don Maitz.
The closet was
dark, dusty, stifling, and the pound
of her heart, ragged thunder in her ears. Her
breaths went and came in strangling gasps. If
death took her now, it would come filled with horrors,
and strike without sound from behind ...
IN THE LONG SHADOW OF THE MOUNTAIN SPRING
TWILIGHT, UNDER THE GLOW OF A THOUSAND LANTERNS, ANJA, CROWN Princess of Sessalie,
failed to appear at the banquet to celebrate her official betrothal. The upset
and shock caused by her disappearance had not yet shaken the lower citadel,
though more than an hour had passed since the midnight change in the watch.
The public festivities continued,
oblivious. Farmwives and tradesmen still danced in the streets, while the
unruly crowds spilling out of the wine shops teemed and shouted, a hotbed for
fist fights and arguments. Mykkael, Captain of the Garrison, kept a trained ear
on the tone of the roistering outside. He listened, intent, to the off-key
singers who staggered arm in arm past the keep. The noise ebbed and flooded to
the tidal surge of bodies, jamming the bye lanes and thoroughfares.
The racket funnelled into the cramped stone
cell requisitioned as his private quarters. Captain Mykkael sighed, rasped his
bracer across the itch of two days' stubble, then propped a weary hip against
the trestle where his sword lay, unsheathed. The hard-used steel cried out for
a whetstone and rag to scour a light etching of rust. Mykkael cursed the
neglect, but knew better than to hope for the time to care for his weapon.
The taps in the taverns would scarcely run
dry on this night. Landlords had stocked their cellars for weeks, while the
folk from Sessalie's farthest-flung valleys crammed into the citadel to honour
Princess Anja's brilliant match. Their exuberance was justified. A marriage
alliance with the
Twenty hours on duty, with no respite in
sight, Mykkael grumbled, 'At least on a battlefield, a man got the chance to
lay down his shield after sundown.'
He stretched his knotted back, steeled
himself for discomfort, then clamped iron hands around his thigh above the
knee. A grunt ripped through his teeth as he raised the game limb on to the
plank trestle that served him as weapon rack and desk. There, forced to pause,
he blinked through running sweat, while the twinge of pinched nerves rocked him
dizzy.
Mother of all thundering storms, how he
ached! Far more than a man should, who had no trace of grey. Still young, still
vigorous, Mykkael kept his sable hair cropped from blind habit, as he had
through his years as a mercenary.
Nonetheless, his career as a hired sword
was finished. Cut short, with the spoils and pay shares laid aside not enough
to sustain him in retirement. His fiercely kept dream, of an apple-bearing
orchard and a pasture to breed horses, lay as far beyond grasp as the moon.
'Damn lady fortune for a cross-grained
crone.' Mykkael glowered at his leg, stretched across the tabletop like so much
worthless carrion. His infirmity disgusted him.
Three tavern brawls nipped in the bud, two
street riots quelled, and a knife fight in the market started by a Highgate
lordling who was fool enough to try to nab a cutpurse; scarcely enough exertion
to wind him, yet the pain clamped down with debilitating force the longer he
stayed on his feet.
'Borri'vach!'
he swore under his breath. The uncouth, rolling gutturals of the southern
desert dialect matched his savage mood as he unhooked the looped studs at his
calf. No help for the embarrassment, that canvas breeches looked ridiculous
under his blazoned captain's surcoat. Yet the more genteel appointments of
trunk hose and high-top boots had proved to be too binding. Mykkael jerked up
the cuff, laying bare his crippled knee with its snarl of livid scars.
Even in hindsight, he took little comfort
from the troop surgeon's final prognosis.
'Powers be thanked, young man, you're still hale and breathing. With a joint
break like yours, and a septic laceration, I'd have dosed you senseless, and
roped you out straight and taken that leg with a bone saw.'
Mykkael endured the lasting bitterness. Not
to walk was to die. Even strapped in the mud of a drawing poultice, screaming
half senseless with fever, he had kept that core of self-awareness. Others
might cling to life, hobbling on crutches or a peg leg. For Mykkael, any
handicap that rendered him defenceless would have wounded pride enough to kill
him:
Alive enough to wrestle with his poisonous
regrets, he groped through the clutter of bottles and remedy tins, while the
cramps throbbed relentlessly through muscle and nerve, and the shattered bone
that fastened damaged ligaments. Already the discomfort played the length of
his leg. By experience he knew: the spasms would soon lock his hip and seize
his back, unless the liniment just acquired from the nomad in the market could
deliver him the gift of a miracle.
Hooves clattered in the outer bailey.
Someone shouted.
A burst of agitated voices erupted in the
lower guardroom, fast followed by the rushed pound of feet up the stairwell.
Mykkael found the dingy tin and flipped off
the cap, overwhelmed by the smell of crude turpentine. Towers of deliverance,'
he gasped. Eyes streaming, he scooped up a sticky dollop. The unnatural stuff
blistered, even through his layers of callus.
Regardless, he slathered the paste over his
knee. Its raw fire scoured, searing through entrenched pain. Mykkael kneaded in
the residue, his breath jerked through his half-closed throat. He had no peace
to lose. The fresh bout of trouble bearing down on his doorway was unlikely to
grant him blessed ease in a chair, replete with grain whisky and hot
compresses.
A staccato knock, cut off as the latch
tripped. Vensic poked his snub nose inside, and grimaced in startled distaste.
'Captain, for the love of crown and country! This place reeks like a tannery.'
Mykkael pointedly hooked the tin closer.
'Should I give a damn who in the reaper's many hells finds my off-duty habits offensive?' He slopped
another gob of liniment across his spasmed calf, and this time suppressed his
urge to wince. 'Whatever complaint's come roosting this time, I'll remind you,
Sergeant Jedrey has the watch.'
Apologetic, Vensic stepped inside. He shut
the door, his easy-natured, upland features braced to withstand his captain's
dicey temper. 'Jedrey's through the Middlegate, routing vandals from the
merchants' quarter. You notice anything irregular on patrol?'
Mykkael shrugged, still massaging his
wracked limb. 'The usual few brawlers and a bravo who got himself stabbed. A
drunk was struck by a carriage. Dead on impact. The rest was all rumour,
thankfully unfounded. Have you heard the crazy story that the princess ran
away? Left her royal suitor abandoned at the feast, weeping on the skinny
shoulder of the seneschal.'
Silence, of a depth to make the ears ring.
Mykkael glanced up, astonished. The absurd notion of court curmudgeon and
jilted foreign prince should have raised a howling snort of laughter. 'Better
say what's happened, soldier!'
'You have a formal summons. Brought in by a
royal herald in state livery, though he's masked his gold thread under a plain
cloak.' Unwontedly deadpan, Vensic added, thoughtful, 'Shut-mouthed as a clam
concerning the king's word, though we warned him you'd be sharp if we had to
fetch you down to the wardroom.'
Mykkael's busy fingers stopped working in
the liniment. 'A crown herald! Below the Highgate? Has the moat watch gone
bashed on cloud wine?'
But the stunned rabbit shine to Vensic's
blue eyes arrested his captain's disbelief.
'Of all the blinding powers of daylight!'
Touched by an odd chill, Mykkael slapped down his turned cuff. He snatched up
the rag meant for oiling his sword, wiped his smeared fingers, then hauled his
lame leg from the trestle. A useless point, to argue that Princess Anja never
acted the tart, or lowered herself to go slumming. Unlike her rakehell older
brother, she visited the lower citadel only for processionals, surrounded by
the gleam of her palace guard retinue, sweeping through to join the hunt, or to
settle the petty grievances in the outlying hamlets that had languished as the
king's health faltered.
'No one's mentioned an armed party of
abductors in the wine shops,' Mykkael said with biting sarcasm. Tiny Sessalie
was too hidebound to harbour a conspiracy without the busybody matrons making
talk. So hidebound and small that every shopkeeper and servant knew his
neighbour's close affairs, with half the blood in the kingdom related to itself
by kin ties that confounded memory. 'Hard pressed, I'd be, to arrest a single
miscreant who's sober enough to raise a weapon.'
Mykkael snatched up his naked blade, still
loath to credit rumour. Princess Anja was beloved for her light-hearted spirit.
Already, her compassion had earned the same reverence the queen had known
before her tragic death. To Mykkael, she was an icon who demanded sharp
respect. He had needed his crack division and fully half of his reserves to
restrain the cheering commons when the handsome Prince of Devall had arrived
with his train to formalize his suit for her marriage. Everyone had noted the
princess's flushed face. The trill of silver harness bells had shimmered on the
air, as, radiant with joy, she had spurred her mount to welcome the match that
young love and state auspices had favoured. The branding memory lingered, of
the kiss exchanged upon the public thoroughfare. Her Grace's greeting had burst
all restraint - an explosive storm of passion more likely to invite a lusty
midnight foray to her bedchamber.
'Pretty foolish, if her Grace has stirred
up the palace because she slipped off to the garden for a tryst.' Mykkael's
amused chuckle masked the chilly ring of steel as he rammed his battered
longsword into the sheath at his shoulder. 'Jedrey's better born, has the
manners and diplomacy for that sort of social embarrassment.'
'Well, nicety doesn't man the walls, below
the Highgate. If there's been foul play, the merchants are likely to work
themselves into a lather, bemoaning the loss of Devall's ships. Suppose we
faced a war?' Flippant though he was, to broach that jibing comment, Vensic jumped to clear the doorway. 'If the
old king fancies he sees armies at the gates, he'll want your field experience
ahead of any uptown bravo's breeding.'
Mykkael scotched the ribbing with his usual
spiked glance, and prowled in hitched strides towards the stairwell.
'You won't have to go afoot,' Vensic added,
dismayed as he noted the exhaustion betrayed by his captain's dragging limp.
'The herald's overbearing and snide with impatience, but his escort has a
saddled mount waiting.'
'Well, the walk's the lesser evil.' Mykkael
admitted, bald-faced. 'Bloody war's my proper venue. Crown orders aside, the
drunks won't stay their knives. How in the reaper's hells can I keep the peace
among the riff-raff if I'm called on to the proverbial royal carpet to act as a
frisky maiden's chaperone?'
The wry conclusion stayed unvoiced. Taskin,
Commander of the Palace Guard, was no more likely to appreciate a garrison man
with desert-bred colouring treading on his turf above the Highgate.
* * *
Commander Taskin, at that moment, bent his
ice-pale gaze upon the tearful maid who had last seen Princess Anja in her
chambers.
'What more is left to say, my lord,' she
despaired, her pink hands clasped and shaking. 'I've told you all I know.'
Tall, gaunt, erect as tempered steel, with
a distinguished face and frosty hair, Taskin radiated competence. His silences
could probe with unsubtle, scorching force. While the distraught maid stammered
and wept, he stepped across the carpet and bent his dissecting regard over the
clutter on Anja's dressing table.
The gold-rimmed hand mirror, the brushes
and combs and tinted bottles of scent glinted under the flutter of the candles.
No rice powder had been spilled. The waxed parquet floor showed no scuffs or
other evidence of struggle.
In a cultured, velvet baritone that
inspired chills of dread, Commander Taskin prompted, 'The princess was wearing
bracelets adorned with golden bells. Her slippers, you say, had silver heels
and toe caps. No rare jewels, none of the crown heirlooms, but she would have
made noise at every movement. What else? Could she have masked a change of
clothing under her court dress?'
The nervous maid curtseyed, though the
commander's back was turned. 'Her Grace's gown had bare shoulders and laces
down the front. Nothing underneath, but her thinnest silk camisole. Canna
brought her smallclothes from the cedar closet. She stayed to empty the bath
and gather towels while I helped her Grace with her wardrobe.'
Taskin added nothing, hands clasped behind
his waist.
The maid swallowed and dabbed at streaming
eyes. 'Her Grace sent me out to fetch the turquoise ribbons and a pin she said
had been her lady mother's. By the time I came back, she had already left. Gone
to the banquet, so it seemed, since nobody heard even a whisper of disturbance.
If she's never been so thoughtless, well, new love would make her giddy. Her
intended has the looks to scatter reason.'
The maid's distress was genuine. Anja loved
a joke, but her style would not stoop to indiscretions that embarrassed her
blameless servants.
Taskin prowled the chamber, his booted step
silent as a wraith's. An uneasy pall of silence gripped the cream and copper
opulence of the princess's private apartment. Such stillness by itself framed a
stark contradiction to her tireless spirit and exuberance.
Anja's zest for life met the eye at every
turn. The plush, tasselled chairs were left in compulsive disarray by her
penchant for casual company. Gilt and marble tabletops held a riot of spring
flowers, with long-stemmed hothouse lilies forced to share their porcelain
vases with the weeds and wild brambles plucked from the alpine meadows. On the divan,
a book of poetry had a torn string riding glove marking its vellum pages.
Abandoned in the window nook, a seashell scavenged from the beaches of Devall
overflowed with a jumble of pearl earrings and bangle bracelets. The playful
force of Anja's generosity clashed with the constraints of royal station: the
seneschal's latest scolding had been blatantly ignored. The massive chased tea
service kept to honour state ambassadors had been shanghaied again, to cache
the salvaged buttons for the rag man.
Even Taskin's impassive manner showed
concern as he subjected the princess's intimate belongings to a second,
devouring scrutiny.
'My Lord Commander,' the maid appealed, 'if
Princess Anja planned an escapade, I never heard a whisper. Her maid of honour,
Shai, was the one who shared her confidence the few times she chose to flaunt
propriety.'
'But the Lady Shai knows nothing. I've
already asked,' a voice interjected from the hallway.
Taskin spun. His glance flicked past the
startled maid, while the elite pair of guards flanking the entry bowed to
acknowledge Crown Prince Kailen.
His Highness lounged in stylish elegance
against the door jamb, still clad in satin sleeves and the glitter of his ruby
velvet doublet. Fair as his sister, but with his sire's blue eyes, he regarded
the ruffled icon of palace security with consternation. 'Don't dare say I
didn't warn you, come the morning. Anja's surely playing pranks. She's probably
laughing herself silly, this minute, enjoying all the fuss. Ignore her. Go to
bed. She'll show up that much sooner, apology in hand. Did you really think
she'd wed even Devall's heir apparent without any test of his affection?'
'That would be her Grace's touch, sure
enough,' a guardsman ventured. 'Subtlety's not her measure.'
And the smiles came and went, for the
uproar that had followed when her Grace had exposed the pompous delegate from
Gance as a hypocrite. On the night he fled the realm, flushed and fuming in
disgrace, she had asked the pastry cook to serve up a live crow inside the
traditional loaf of amity.
'Furies, I remember!' But Taskin did not
relax, or share his guardsmen's chuckles of appreciation. Instead, his tiger's
stalk took him back to the window, where he tracked the distanced voices of the
searchers beating the hedges in the garden. They met with no success, to judge
by the curses arisen over snagging thorns and holly. 'No harm, if you're right,
Highness. We'd survive being played for fools.' The commander inclined his
head, meeting the crown prince's insouciance with deliberation. 'But if you're
wrong? Anja taken as a hostage could bring us to our knees, drain the treasury
at best. At worst, we could find ourselves used as the bolt hole for some
warring sorcerer's minion.'
An uncomfortable truth, routinely obscured
by Sessalie's bucolic peace: the icy girdle of the mountains was the only
barrier that kept the evil creatures from invading the far north.
'May heaven's fire defend us!' the maid
whispered, while the nearer guardsman made a sign to ward off evil.
If not for the peaks, with their ramparts
of vertical rock, and the natural defences of killing storms and glaciers, tiny
Sessalie would not have kept its stubborn independence. The hardy breed of
crofters who upheld the royal treasury would never have enjoyed the lush alpine
meadows, which fattened their tawny cattle every summer, or the neatly terraced
fields, with their grape crops and barley brought to harvest through the toil
of generations.
'Show me the sorcerer who could march his
army across the Great Divide.' The crown prince dismissed their fears with his
affable shrug. A drunk hazed on cloud wine might dream of such a prodigy; not a
sober man standing on his intellect.
Even to Taskin's exacting mind, the worry
was farfetched. The flume that threaded that dreadful terrain was nothing if
not a deathtrap. Foolish prospectors sometimes came, pursuing gold and
minerals. They died to a man, slaughtered by hungry kerries, or else drowned in
the rapids, their smashed bones spewed out amid the boil of dirty froth that
thundered down the mouth of Hell's Chasm. Skilled alpinists occasionally
traversed the high rim. Survivors of that route had been favoured by freakish
luck and mild weather, since the arduous climb over Scatton's Pass required
altitude conditioning for a crossing that took many weeks. Yet where storms and
exposure sometimes spared the hardy few, the ravine killed without
discrimination. The relentless toll of casualties had extended for time beyond
memory.
'I thought you'd want to know,' Prince
Kailen said at length. 'My father stayed lucid long enough to oppose the
seneschal's complacency. His sealed order sent for the Captain of the Garrison.'
Commander Taskin left the window, his brows
raised in speculation. 'Were you concerned I'd been pre-empted? Not the case.
If you're wrong, and your sister's disappearance isn't an innocent joke, then
we could have unknown enemies lurking in the lower citadel. Had his Majesty not
dispatched the summons, I would have done the same. Has the garrison man
arrived yet?'
'He should reach the palace at any moment.'
Prince Kailen straightened up and jumped to clear the doorway for Taskin's
abrupt departure. 'I expected you'd wish to attend the royal audience.'
The commander hastened towards the stair,
in unspoken accord that the seneschal ought not to be left in sole charge. All
too often, of late, the aged King of Sessalie lapsed into witless reverie.
'While I'm gone, Highness, have the grace to show my guardsmen every likely
nook your royal sister could have used for a hideaway.'
* * *
The gate guard who emerged to meet the
herald's band of outriders was the son of a noble, marked by his strapping
build and northern fairness. His smart scarlet surcoat fell to his polished
boots, which flashed with the gleam of gilt spurs.
'Captain Myshkael?' His aristocratic lisp softened the name's uncivil
consonants. Cool, cerulean eyes surveyed the laggard still astride. 'The king's
summons said, "at once."'
'Never seen a man limp?' Mykkael barked
back, refusing to be hustled like a lackey. Bedamned if he would jump for any
lordling's petty pleasure, aware as he was that his dark skin raised contempt
far beyond the small delay for the care he took to spare his aching knee.
The guardsman disdained to answer. Once the
captain had dismounted, he extended a gloved hand and brusquely offered a
bundled-up cloak with no device.
Mykkael passed his winded horse to the
hovering groom and received the hooded garment, his smile all brazen teeth. No
one had to like his breeding. Last summer's tourney had proved his deadly
prowess. Crippled or not, the challenge match that won his claim to rank had
been decisive. If the upper-crust gossip still dismissed the upset as fickle,
he could afford to laugh. His strong hand on the garrison manned the Lowergate
defences. That irony alone sheltered Sessalie's wealthy bigots, and granted
them their pampered grace to flourish.
Mykkael flipped the plain cloak across his
muscled shoulders. The hem trailed on the ground. As though his slighter frame
and desert colouring made no mockery of pretence, or the gimp of his knee could
be masked, he gestured towards the lamplight avenue, its refined marble pavement
gleaming past the shadow of the Highgate. 'After you, my lord herald.'
No streetwise eye was going to miss the
precedent, that the Captain of the Garrison came on urgent, covert business to
the palace.
'By every bright power of daylight,
Captain! Try not to draw undue attention to yourself.' Through a tight,
embarrassed pause, the herald gamely finished. 'The royal household doesn't
need a sensation with Devall's heir apparent here to contract for his bride.'
'His Majesty commands my oath-bound duty to
the crown,' Mykkael acknowledged. 'But isn't that golden egg already broken? To
my understanding, we're one piece short for promising the man a royal wedding.'
Served a censuring glance from the ranking
guardsman, the herald gasped, appalled. 'On my honour, I didn't breathe a
word!' To Mykkael, he added, urgent, 'You'd better save what you know for the
ears of the king and his seneschal.' He waved his charge along, taken aback a
second time as he had to push his stride to stay abreast.
For Mykkael, the discomfort wore a
different guise: beyond Highgate's granite arch, with its massive, grilled
gates, he shouldered no citizen's rights, and no authority. Above the
jurisdiction of the Lowergate garrison, he became a king's officer, pledged to
bear arms in crown service. His claim to autonomy fell under the iron hand of
Commander Taskin of the Royal Guard. That paragon was the son of an elite
uplands family, handpicked to claim his title at his predecessor's death. His
prowess with the sword was a barracks legend, and his temperament suffered no
fool gladly.
A man groomed to stand at the king's right
hand, on equal footing with the realm's seneschal, would have small cause to
welcome an outsider and ex-mercenary, obliged to prove his fitness in a yearly
public tourney until he scrounged the means to fund retirement.
'I hope your sword's kept campaign-sharp,
and without a speck of rust,' the palace guardsman ventured in snide warning.
'If not, the commander will tear you to ribbons, in the royal presence, or out
of it.'
Captain Mykkael raised his eyebrows, his
sudden laughter ringing off the fluted columns that fronted the thoroughfare.
'Well, thank the world's bright powers, I'm a garrison soldier. If I wore a
blade in his Majesty's presence, rust or not, I'd be tried and hung for
treason.'
* * *
Stars wheeled above the snow-capped rims of
the ranges, their shining undimmed as the face of disaster shrouded the palace
in quiet. On the wide, flagstone terrace, still laid for the princess's feast,
a chill breeze riffled the tablecloths. It whispered through the urns of potted
flowers, persistent as the stifled conversations of the guests who, even now,
refused to retire. Of the thousand gay lanterns, half had gone out, with no
servants at hand to trim wicks. Silver cutlery and fine porcelain lay in
forlorn disarray, where distraught lady courtiers had purloined linen napkins
to stem their silenced onslaught of tears.
The staunch among them gathered to comfort
Lady Shai, whose diamond hair combs and strings of pearls shimmered to her
trembling. No one's calm assurance would assuage her distress, no matter how
kindly presented.
Prince Kailen's suggestion of practical
jokes had roused her gentle nature to fiercely outspoken contradiction. 'Not
Anja. Not this time! Since the very first hour the Prince of Devall started
courting her, she has spoken of nothing else! Merciful powers protect her, I
know! Never mind her heart, the kingdom's weal is her lifeblood. She once told
me she would have married a monster to acquire seaport access for the
tradesmen. She said - oh, bright powers! How fortune had blessed her beyond
measure, that the prince was so comely and considerate.'
A wrenching pause, while Shai sipped the
glass of wine thrust upon her by the elderly Duchess of Phail. The ladies
surrounding her collapse glanced up, hopeful, as Commander Taskin ghosted past
on his purposeful course for the audience hall.
'Any news?' asked Lady Phail, her refined
cheeks too pale, and her grip on her cane frail with worry.
Taskin shook his head. 'Not yet.'
Lady Shai tipped up her face, her violet
eyes inflamed and swollen. 'Commander! I beg you, don't listen to the crown
prince and dismiss my cousin's absence as a folly. Upon my heart and soul,
something awful has befallen. Her Grace would have to be dead to have dealt the
man she loves such an insult.'
The commander paused, his own handkerchief
offered to replace the sodden table linen wrung between Shai's damp fingers.
'Rest assured, the matter has my undivided attention.'
He nodded to the others, found a chair for
Lady Phail, then proceeded on his way. Ahead, a determined crowd of men
accosted the arched entry that led to the grand hall of state. The stout
chamberlain sighted the commander's brisk approach and raised his gold baton.
'Make way!' His hoarse shout scarcely carried through the turmoil.
Commander Taskin lost patience. 'Stand
down!'
The knot cleared for that voice, fast as
any green batch of recruits. The chamberlain pawed at his waist for his keying.
'You've come at last. Thank blazes. The king is with the seneschal.' Still too
rattled to turn the lock quickly, the fat official gabbled to forestall the
commander's impatience. 'His Majesty sent a herald to the lower keep and
summoned that sand-whelped upstart -'
Taskin interrupted, sharp. 'The Captain of
the Garrison? I already know. He's a fighter, no matter what she-creature bore
him. His record of field warfare deserves your respect.'
As the double doors parted, Taskin did not
immediately walk through. He pivoted instead, catching the petitioners short of
their eager surge forward. 'Go home! All of you. My guardsmen are capable. If
your services are needed, I'd have you respond to the crown's better interests
well rested.'
Through a stirring of brocades, past the
craning of necks in pleated collars, a persistent voice arose. 'Is there
crisis?'
Another chimed in, 'Have you news?'
'No news!' Taskin's bark cut off the rising
hysteria. 'Once the princess is found, the palace guard will send criers. Until
then, collect your wives and retire!'
'But Commander, you don't understand,'
ventured the fox-haired merchant whose dissenting word rose the loudest. 'Some
of us wish to offer our house guards, even lend coin from our personal coffers
to further the search for her Grace.'
Taskin raised his eyebrows. His drilling
survey swept the gathering, no man dismissed, even the foreign ambassador from
the east, with his bullion brocade and his pleated silk hat, hung with a star
sapphire and tassel. 'Very well. I'll send out the seneschal. He'll take down
the list of names and offered services.'
Prepared for the ripple of dismayed
consternation, Taskin's lean mouth turned, perhaps in amusement. The rest of
his bearing stayed glass-hard with irony. Now, no man dared to leave, lest he
be the first to expose his underlying insincerity. Once each pledge of interest
was committed to ink, the commander could winnow the truly loyal from the
hypocrites at leisure.
Beyond the broad doors, the throne and
gallery loomed empty. The bronze chandeliers hung dark on their chains, the
only light burning in the small sconce by the privy chamber. Outside its thin
radiance, the room's rich appointments sank into gloom, the lion-foot chairs
reduced to a whispered gleam of gold leaf, and the crystalline flares off the
glass-beaded tassels a glimmer of ice on the curtain pulls.
Taskin's brisk footsteps raised scarcely a
sound as he passed, a fast-moving shadow against lead-paned windows, faintly
burnished by starlight. By contrast, the clash of voices beyond the closed door
raised echoes like muffled thunder.
Taskin acknowledged the six guardsmen,
standing motionless duty, then wrenched the panel open without knocking. He
sized up the tableau of three men beyond as he would have viewed the pieces on
a chessboard.
In the company of the King of Sessalie and
the seneschal, the High Prince of Devall claimed the eye first. He was a young
man of striking good looks. The hair firmly tied at his nape with silk ribbon
hung dishevelled now, honey strands tugged loose at the temples. Though he sat
with his chin propped on laced hands, his presence yet reflected the lively
intelligence that exhaustion had thrown into eclipse. He still wore banquet finery:
a doublet of azure velvet edged in bronze, and studded with diamonds at the
collar. His white shirt with its pearl-buttoned cuffs set off his shapely
hands. The signet of Devall, worn by the heir apparent, flashed ruby fire as he
straightened to the movement at the doorway.
Taskin bowed, but as usual, never lowered
his head. While the seneschal's ranting trailed into stiff silence, and the
king's prating quaver sawed on, Devall's prince appraised the commander's rapid
entry with amber eyes, dark-printed with strain. 'Lord Taskin, I trust you
bring news?'
'None, Highness. Every man I have in the
guard is assigned. They are diligent.'
The seneschal shot the commander a scathing
glance for such bluntness. 'If you've heard about the herald dispatched to the
lower keep, can I rely on your better sense to restore the realm's decorum? We
scarcely need to raise the garrison to track down an errant girl!'
Taskin disregarded both the glare and the
sarcasm. He would have honesty above empty words and false assurances. Nor
would he speak out of turn before his king, whose maundering trailed off in
confusion.
'Your Majesty,' Taskin cracked, striking
just the right tone. 'I have no word as yet on your daughter.'
A blink from the King of Sessalie, whose
gnarled hands tightened on his chair. His gaunt frame sagged beneath the
massive state mantle with its marten fur edging, and the circlet of his rank
that seemed too weighty for his eggshell head. Nonetheless, the trace of
magnificence remained in the craggy architecture of his face; a reduced shadow
of the vigorous man who had begotten two bright and comely children, and raised
them to perpetuate a dynasty that had lasted for three thousand years.
An authoritative spark rekindled his glazed
eyes. 'Taskin. I've sent for Captain Myshkael.'
Brief words, short sentences; the king's speech of late had become wrenchingly
laboured, a sorrow to those whose love was constant. 'You'll see soon enough.
My seneschal objects.'
'I find the choice commendable, your
Majesty.' Taskin kept tight watch on the foreign prince from Devall, and
recorded the masked start of surprise. 'Until we know what's happened, we are
well advised to call out every resource we can muster.'
The high prince slapped his flattened hands
upon the tabletop, but snatched short of shoving to his feet. 'Then you don't
feel her Grace has played a prank for my embarrassment?'
'I don't know, Highness. Her women don't
think so.' Taskin's shoulders lifted in the barest, sketched shrug. 'But
Princess Anja being something of a law unto herself, her ladies have been wrong
as much as right when the girl played truant as a child.'
The seneschal thrust out his bony, hawk
nose, his stick frame bristling with outrage. 'Well, we don't need a scandal
buzzing through the lower citadel! Find the herald, do. Pull rank at the
Highgate, and turn the captain back to mind his garrison.'
Too late.' Already alerted by the sound of
inbound footsteps, Taskin's icy gaze fixed on the seneschal as he let fly his
own sly dart. 'In fact, your service is the one that's needed elsewhere.' Two
crisp sentences explained the gist behind the courtiers held under the
chamberlain's watchful eye.
'Your Majesty, have I leave?' The seneschal
bowed, shrewd enough to forgo his sour rivalry for opportunity. He thrust to
his feet, his supple, scribe's hands all but twitching for the chance to wring
advantage from the merchants' pledge of loyalty.
A short delay ensued, while King Isendon of
Sessalie raised a palsied forearm and excused the gaunt official from his
presence. As the seneschal stalked away, he peered in vague distress at the
straight, stilled figure of his ranking guardsman, who now claimed the place
left vacant at his right hand. 'Commander. Do you honestly think we might be
facing war?'
'Your Majesty, that's unlikely.' Taskin's
candour was forthright. What did Sessalie possess, that could be worth a
vicious siege, a campaign supplier's nightmare, destined to be broken by the
early winter storms that howled, unforgiving, through the ranges? Only Anja
posed the key to disarm such defences. Threat to her could unlock all three of
the citadel's moated gates without a fight.
Within the royal palace, her loss might
break King Isendon's fragile wits within a week, or a day, or an hour. Prince
Kailen lacked the hardened maturity to rein in the fractious council nobles.
The seneschal was clever with accounting, but too set in his ways to keep the
young blood factions close at heel.
Sessalie needed the sea trade to sweeten
the merchants and bolster a cash-poor council through the uncertainty of the
coming succession.
Yet the petty slights and tangles spun by
court dissension were not for Devall's ears. Anja's offered hand must not imply
a bleeding weakness, or invite the licence to be annexed as a province.
Lest the pause give the opening to tread
dangerous ground, the Commander of the Guard tossed a bone to divert the high
prince's agile perception. 'The crown needs its eyes and ears in the sewers under
Highgate. Captain Myshkael may be a
misbegotten southern mongrel, but he keeps the city garrison trimmed into
fighting shape. Knows his job; I checked his background. We want him keen and
watchful, and not hackled like a man who's been insulted.'
The High Prince of Devall drummed irritable
fingers, his ruby seal glaring like spilled blood. 'I don't give a rice grain
if the man's low born, or the get of a pox-ridden harlot! Let him find Princess
Anja, I'll give him a villa on the river, a lord's parcel of mature vineyards,
and a tax-free stamp to run a winery.'
Commander Taskin had no words. His arid
glance pricked to a wicked spark of irony, he had eyes only for the man in the
plain cloak just ushered through the privy chamber door. The hood he tossed
back unmasked his dark skin, the honesty a tactical embarrassment. Yet his
brazen pride was not invulnerable. The soft, limping step - worse than Taskin
remembered - was strategically eclipsed behind the taller bulk of Collain
Herald.
That court worthy trundled to an awkward
stop. Scarlet-faced, he delivered the requisite bows to honour vested sovereign
and heir apparent. Blindingly resplendent in his formal tabard with its border
of gold ribbons, and Sessalie's falcon blazon stitched in jewelled wire, Collain
announced the person the king's word had summoned.
'Attend! In his Majesty's name, I present Myshkael, Captain of the Garrison.'
II.
Audience
AS THE COURT HERALD STRAIGHTENED FROM HIS
BOW AND STEPPED ASIDE, MYKKAEL RECEIVED HIS FIRST clear view of the court
figures seated on the dais. They, in turn, measured him, while his tactician's
survey noted the Prince of Devall's suppressed flinch. Apparently the
princess's suitor had not expected dark colouring, a commonplace reaction in
the north. Mykkael gathered his own cursory impression: of smouldering good
looks and tasteful, rich clothing, marred by a fine-drawn impatience. The
proposed bridegroom seemed genuinely upset by her Grace's disappearance. His
statesman's bearing showed signs of chafed poise as he paid deference to the
reigning king of Sessalie.
As Mykkael must, also, though his
war-trained awareness rankled for the fact Commander Taskin slipped away from
his post and took position a half-step from his back. Mykkael had witnessed
politics and intrigues aplenty, and court appointments far richer than
Sessalie's. Yet where the close proximity of wealth and power seldom ruffled
his nerves, the senior guardsman's presence raised his hackles. He felt newborn
naked to be bladeless. Few kings, and fewer statesmen could size up his
attributes with that trained killer's astute eye.
A pinned mouse beneath the commander's
aggressive scrutiny, the garrison captain bowed. Foreigner though he was, his
manners were accomplished enough to honour the crowned presence of royalty.
Even when that worthy seemed a shrunken, dry armature, clothed over in marten
and velvet. Sessalie's failing monarch might appear weak, might seem as though
his jewelled circlet bound the skull of a man with one foot in the grave. Yet
tonight, the palsied jut of his chin suggested an aware determination. The eyes
Mykkael recalled from his oath-taking were dulled with age, but not blank.
The garrison captain met the king's wakened
wits with the sharp respect he once granted to his war-bond employers. He
assumed a patient, listening quiet, prepared to field the caprice of crown
authority. Past experience left him wary. A ruler's bidding could cast his lot
on the wrong side of fate, and get every man in his company killed.
The king drew a laboured breath, too infirm
to waste time with state language. 'Captain. You are aware? My daughter,
Princess Anja, is nowhere to be found.'
Mykkael inclined his head. 'Your Majesty,'
he opened, his diction without accent, 'until now, I had heard only rumours.'
'You might wish to speak louder,' the High
Prince of Devall suggested with hushed compassion. 'Of course, you would have
tracked down the source of such talk.'
Mykkael paused. The king's alert posture
suggested he had heard very well. Rather than break protocol, the captain
settled for a polite nod as acknowledgement that Devall's heir apparent had
addressed him.
Taskin smoothed the awkward moment. 'This
is Sessalie, where the commons have been content for generations. If Captain Myshkael pursued every snippet of gossip,
half the city matrons would be found guilty of treasonous words. His sleep
might be broken five times a night, quelling false declarations that King
Isendon was laid out on his death bier.'
The old monarch smiled and patted the
prince's elegant wrist. 'My herald was forbidden from forthright speech.' A
sly, white eyebrow cocked up, while the clouded gaze regarded the officer
summoned in for audience. 'Even if Collain had broken faith, the crown's
bidding left no opening to launch an investigation. Is this so, Captain? You
may answer.'
Not deaf, or a fool, King Isendon, despite
the clack of public opinion; Mykkael chose honesty. 'No need to investigate. I
witnessed the source of the rumour myself in the course of a routine patrol.'
At the king's insistence, he elaborated. 'One of the flower girls is in love
with the driver of a slop cart. She went to have her fortune told, hoping for a
forecast, or a simple to bind her affection. The mad seer who lives in the alley
by the Falls Gate mutters nonsense when she's drunk. Her cant tonight said the
princess was missing, but then, her talk is often inflammatory. Few people take
her seriously.'
Taskin stirred sharply, and received the
king's nod of leave. 'You think her words carry weight?'
'Sometimes her malice takes a purposeful
bent.' Mykkael hesitated, misliking the prompt of his instinct. Yet Taskin's
steely competence warned against trying to shade his explanation with
avoidance. 'I've seen her prick holes in folks' overblown ambitions, or cause
ill-suited lovers to quarrel. Occasionally, she'll expose the shady dealings of
a craftsman. Mostly, her ranting is groundless rubbish. But one watches the
flotsam cast up by the tide.'
'You will question this woman,' commanded
the king.
Mykkael raised his eyebrows, moved to tacit
chagrin. 'Majesty, I'll try. Until morning, the old dame will be senseless on
gin. Cold sober, she can't remember the names of her family. I'll find the slop
taker's sweetheart, if I can, and see whether she recalls something useful.'
The king regarded him, probing for
insolence, perhaps. Mykkael thought as much, until some quality to the
trembling, lifted chin made him revise that presumption. Those fogged eyes were
measuring him with shrewd intellect. Mykkael keenly sensed the authority in
that regard, and more keenly still, that of Devall's heir apparent, edged and
growing jagged with concern.
Then Isendon mustered his meagre strength
and spoke. 'Captain, you are the arm of crown law below the Highgate. My
daughter has vanished. By my orders, you will do all in your power. Find her.
Secure her safety.'
Mykkael bowed, arms crossed at his chest in
the eastern style, that gesture of respect an intuitive statement more binding
than any verbal promise. He straightened, bristled by a sudden movement at his
shoulder.
The Commander of the Guard now flanked his
stance at close quarters, no doubt mistaking such silence, perhaps even
questioning his professional sincerity. Taskin's whisper was direct. 'You will
answer to me, on your findings.'
The garrison captain inclined his head, not
smiling. He waited until the King of Sessalie granted leave with the gesture of
a skeletal hand. The dismissal closed the audience. Yet the gaze of the
lowcountry prince did not shift, or soften from burning intensity.
Mykkael had time to notice that the man's
hands were no longer clasped, but tucked out of sight beneath the tabletop. No
chance was given to pursue deeper insight, or gauge the Prince of Devall's
altered mood.
Taskin demanded his attention forthwith.
'We need to talk, Captain.'
Mykkael paid his respects to crowned
royalty. As he turned from the dais, his words came fast and low, and without
thought. 'Don't leave him alone.'
The commander stiffened. Only Mykkael stood
near enough to catch that slight recoil. Taskin's hooded eyes glinted, hard as
polished steel rivets. Clearly, he required no foreigner's advice. 'We have to
talk,' he repeated, never asking which of the two royals had prompted the
spontaneous warning.
That moment, the carved doors of the
chamber burst open. A flurry among the guards bespoke someone's imperious
entry. Then a female voice cut like edged glass through the upset. 'Her Grace
isn't hiding. Not in any bolt hole she used as a child, I already checked.
Taskin! You can call your oafish officers to heel. They won't find anything
useful tossing through everyone's closets.'
Belatedly, Collain Herald announced, 'Court
worthies, your Majesty, the Lady Bertarra.'
'The late queen's niece,' Taskin murmured,
for the garrison captain's benefit. 'A shrew, and intelligent. She's worth a
spy's insights and ten berserk soldiers, and the guards I have posted at the
king's doorway are loyal as mountain bedrock.'
Mykkael regarded the paragon in question, a
plump, beringed matron who bore down upon the royal dais, her intrepid form
hung with jewellery and a self-righteous billow of ribbon and saffron taffeta.
'Best we beat a tactical retreat,' Taskin
suggested.
Mykkael almost smiled. 'Her flaying
tongue's a menace?'
Taskin returned the barest shrug of
straitlaced shoulders. 'I'd have the report on the closets from my duty
sergeant without the shrill opinion and abuse.'
But withdrawal came too late. The matron
surged abreast, and rocked to a glittering stop in a scented cloud of mint. Mykkael
received the close-up impression of a round suet face, coils of pale hair
pinned with jade combs, and blue eyes sharp and bright as the point on an awl.
No spirit to honey her opinions, Bertarra
attacked the obvious target, first. 'You're a darkling southerner,' she
accused. 'Some say you're good. I don't believe them. Or what would you be
doing here, standing empty-handed?' Her glance shifted, undaunted, to rake over
the immaculate commander of the palace guard. A plump hand arose, tinkling with
bracelets, and deployed a jabbing finger. 'Our Anja's no hoyden, to be sneaking
into wardrobes! Shame on you, for acting as though she's no more than a girl,
and a simpleton!'
Taskin said, frigid, 'The closets were
searched at her brother the crown prince's insistence. Do you think of his
Highness as a boy, and a simpleton?'
Bertarra sniffed. 'Since when has a title
been proof of intelligence? Prince Kailen will be drunken and whoring by
morning. Simplistic, male adolescent behaviour, should that earn my applause?'
Her ample chin hoisted a haughty notch higher. 'His Highness is a layabout who
thinks with the brainless, stiff prod in his breeches. All men act the same.
Here, our princess has been kidnapped by enemies, and not a sword-bearing
soldier among you has the guts in his belly to muster!'
'Who's prodding, now?' Taskin grasped that
perfumed, accusatory finger, turned it with charm, and kissed the palm with
flawless diplomacy. 'Lady Bertarra, if you think you can stand between any
grown man and his pleasures, you are quite free to curb the excesses of your
kin with no help from my men-at-arms.' He bowed over her hand, his dry smile
lined with teeth. 'As to enemies of the realm, give me names. I am his
Majesty's sword. In her Grace's defence, I will kill them.'
Yet like the horned cow, the woman seized
the last word. She slipped from Taskin's grasp and fixed again on Mykkael,
silent and stilled to one side. 'That's why you brought this one? To sweep our
sewers for two-legged rats? What did you promise for his compensation? A well-set
marriage to raise his mean standing?'
Mykkael's slow, deep laughter began in his
belly, then erupted. 'Now, that certainly would not be thinking with my man's parts.' His dismissive glance
encompassed the jewellery, then the cascade of ruffled yellow skirt. 'A sick
shame, don't you think, to dull a night's lust stripping off all that useless
decoration? And, from some pale Highgate woman, who's likely to be nothing but
fumbling inexperience underneath? That should require an endowment of land as incentive
to shoulder the bother.'
Bertarra's mouth opened; snapped shut. She
quickly rebounded from stonewalled shock. 'Crude creature. Prove your mettle.
Find our Anja and bring her home safely.'
A gusty flounce of marigold silk, and the
matron moved on to upbraid someone else on the dais. Taskin resumed his
interrupted course, his stride as sharp as any spoken order that the garrison
captain was expected to follow. A pause at the door saw the guard rearranged.
Two men-at-arms were asked to stand inside, in direct view of the royal person.
The petty officer was dispatched elsewhere, bearing the commander's
instructions.
That man angled his greater size and weight
to jostle past Mykkael, standing withdrawn to one side. Taskin just caught the
garrison captain's blurred move in reaction, an attack form begun, then arrested, too fast for the trained eye
to follow. The ex-mercenary had already resettled his stance, when the
commander's viper-quick reach caught the tall guardsman's wrist, and wrenched
him back to a standstill.
'You give that one distance,' he cracked in
rebuke. 'I won't forgive you a broken bone because you're careless on duty.'
The huge guardsman reddened.
Taskin cut off the flood of excuses. 'Not
armed.' he agreed. 'Still lethal. Blowhard assumptions like that get you
killed. Now carry on.'
Then, as though such a shaming display was
routine, he finished his rapid instructions. 'I want to know who comes and who
goes in my absence. If Bertarra leaves, or the seneschal returns, detail
someone to fetch me.'
Moved off again, Mykkael's limp dragging
after, the commander turned down a side corridor and whipped open the door to
the closet chamber furnished for the king's private audiences. 'Sit,' he said,
brisk, then rummaged through an ivory-inlaid escritoire for a striker to
brighten the sconces. 'My man was a fool. Please accept my apology.'
Confronted by a marble-top table, and
gold-leafed, lion-foot chairs, Mykkael eyed the plush velvet seat he was
offered. The scents he brought with him, of oiled steel, uncouth liniment, and
greased leather, made strident war with the genteel perfumes of beeswax, citrus
polish and patchouli. Since he saw no other option, he did as he was told;
arranged his game leg, and perched.
Taskin chose a chair opposite, his squared
shoulders and resplendent court appointments nothing short of imperial. His
subordinate was dealt the same unflinching survey just given to his royal
guards. 'I'd heard you had studied
barqui'ino, but not the name of the master who trained you.'
Mykkael seemed less relaxed than tightly
coiled, under the strap of his empty shoulder scabbard. 'There were only two
living when I earned my accolade,' he admitted, his shadowed gaze regarding his
rough hands, rested loose on the table before him. 'Both were my teachers, an
awkwardness no one admits.'
'They both disowned you?' said Taskin,
surprised.
Mykkael's sardonic smile split his face,
there and gone like midsummer lightning. 'A northern man might say as much.'
'A vast oversimplification,' Taskin
surmised. 'A stickler might ask you to explain. I will not.' With startling
brevity, he cut to the chase. 'Our princess is in trouble. What do you need?'
As close as he came to being shocked off
balance, Mykkael spread his fingers, lined by the shine of old scars. He
delivered the gist. 'A boy runner, for a start, to ask my watch at the
Middlegate to keep a list of who comes and goes. Next, I don't know what her
Grace looks like, up close. A view of her face, if she sat for a portrait,
could be sent on loan to the barracks.' He sucked a slow breath, then broached
the unpopular subject dead last. 'An endowment for bribes, and extra pay shares
for men whose extended duties keep them from spending due time with their
families.'
'I expected you'd ask that.' Taskin was
brusquely dismissive. 'The requisition to draw funds from the treasury is
already set in motion. As to your runner, he's not needed. My sentries at the
Highgate record all traffic to and from the palace precinct. They'll supply
names until you can rearrange the Middlegate security to your satisfaction. As
more thoughts arise, you'll send me the list.' Then, with a subject shift that
rocked for its tactical perception, 'Now, how do you think your resource can
help me?'
Thinking fast, Mykkael closed his fingers. 'If
the Prince of Devall has foreigners in his retinue, I'd like permission to
question them.'
Taskin sustained his stripping regard.
Nothing moved, nothing showed. His aristocratic features stayed boot-leather
still. 'You want to try cowing them by intimidation? Or do you presume we'd
miss some nuance of testimony out of our northern-born snobbery?'
Mykkael was careful to keep his tone
neutral. 'Actually, no. But I might address them in their own language.'
Taskin laughed, a rich chuckle of
appreciation. 'My background check missed that.' He raised a callused thumb and
stroked his cheek. 'I wonder why?'
'As a mercenary, sometimes, the pay's
better if you let your employer believe you're brainless.' Mykkael watched the
commander absorb this, pale eyes introspective with assessment.
'No doubt, such a pretence also helped your
survival.' Unlike the speed of that formidable mind, the question that followed
was measured. 'How many tongues do you speak, Captain?'
'Fluently? Five,' Mykkael lied; in fact, he
had passed for native, with eight. The slight caveat distinguished that in the
three Serphaidian tongues written in ideographs, he was not literate.
'I will see, about servants.' The commander
never shifted, but a change swept his posture, like a pit viper poised for a
strike. 'If you don't trust Devall, please say so, and why.'
Mykkael softened the cranked tension in his
hands, reluctant and sweating under the cloak he had not snatched the chance to
remove. 'I have no feeling, one way or the other, for her Grace's suitor, or
anyone, else. Just that cold start of instinct suggesting your king should not
be left unguarded by hands that you know and trust.' A straight pause, then he
added, 'It's battle-bred instinct. The sort of gut hunch that's kept me alive
more times than a man wants to count.'
Yet if Taskin held any opinion on what his
northern tradition considered a witch thought, no bias showed as he pressed the
next point. 'My runners will keep you apprised of all pertinent facts from the
palace. Whatever you find, I want to know yesterday. My duty officer will
arrange for a courier's relay. The dispatches will be verbal. No written loose
ends that might fall into wrong hands. If you stumble upon something too
sensitive to repeat, you'll report back to me in person. Wherever I am,
whatever the hour, the guard at the Highgate will arrange for an audience.'
Mykkael stirred in a vain effort to ease
his scarred leg. His scuffed boots were too soiled to rest on a footstool,
though the chamber was furnished with several, carved in flourishes, and sewn
with tapestry cushions. Barqui'ino-trained
to fight an armed enemy bare-handed, he still felt on edge, stripped of his
blades and his sword. His absence from his post unsettled him as well. By now,
the Lowergate populace must be seething. The princess's disappearance was too
momentous to stifle, and the lives of Sessalie's servants too prosaic, to keep
such an upset discreet.
Taskin's focus stayed relentless as he
reached his conclusion, a summary drawn like barbed hooks from a spirit that
placed little value on sentiment. 'I don't believe Princess Anja's playing
pranks. I've known her like an uncle since the hour of her birth. Tonight, I
fear she's in grave danger.'
'Her Grace is Sessalie's heart, I see that
much plainly.' Where trust was concerned, Mykkael preferred truth. 'I may not
know and love her as you do, but as I judge men, no garrison will keep fighting
trim with the vital spirit torn out of it. That does concern me. I'll stay diligent.'
Commander Taskin slid back his chair and
arose. A snap of hard fingers brought a page to the door, bearing Mykkael's
worn weapons. 'If this kingdom relies on you, Captain, on my watch, you will
not fall short. A horse is saddled for you in the courtyard, with an escort to
see you through Highgate.' As the nicked harness and bundle of sheathed
throwing knives were returned, Taskin delivered his stinging, last word. 'And
clean the damned rust off that steel, soldier. Set against your war record, and
your reputation, that negligence is a disgrace!'
* * *
The gelding in the courtyard was a
raw-boned chestnut, fit and trained for war, but groomed with the high gloss of
a tourney horse. Mykkael assessed its rolling eye with trepidation. Its
flattened ears and strutting prowess might look impressive on parade. Yet in a
drunken, celebratory crowd, its mettlesome temper was going to pose a nasty
liability.
'Commander said not to give you a lady's
mount,' said the leather-faced stableman, the reins offered up with a sneer.
'One that could stay in your charge at the keep, and not let you down under
need. Your horsemanship's up to him? Lose your seat, this brute's apt to stomp
you to jelly.'
Mykkael took charge of the bridle, annoyed.
The challenge pressed on him by Taskin's guard escort rankled him to the edge
of revolt. The smug urge, ubiquitous to men trained at weaponry, to test his mettle, was a trait he
missed least from his years as a mercenary. Worse yet, when that puerile
proving involved a tradition the more fiercely reviled: the handling of dumb
beasts whose innate, trusting nature had been twisted to serve as a weapon.
The horse just straightforwardly hated.
Conditioned for battle to use hooves and teeth, it swung muscled hindquarters
under the torchlight. The chestnut neck rippled. A blunt, hammer head snaked
around, lips peeled and teeth parted to bite.
Mykkael raised a bent elbow, let the
creature's own impetus gouge the soft flesh just behind the flared nostril.
'Think well, you ugly dragon,' he murmured, his expert handling primed with a
taut rein as the horse tried to jib and lash back. The striking forehoof missed
smashing his hip, positioned as he was by the gelding's shoulder. For the
benefit of the avid watchers, he snarled, 'In hard times, on campaign, I've
been known to slaughter your four-legged brothers for the stewpot.'
One vault, off his good leg, set him
astride before the brute beast could react. A jab of his heel, a braced rein,
and he had the first buck contained, then redirected into a surging stride
forward.
Behind him, the belated guards set hasty
feet in their stirrups and swung into their saddles to catch up. Their dismayed
northern faces raised Mykkael's soft laughter. 'Who's lost their beer coin to
the rumour I can't ride?'
Both men looked sheepish.
The garrison captain was quick to
commiserate. 'I'd buy you a brew to remedy your loss, if I had any loose coin
myself.'
Yet the prospect of such camaraderie with a
foreigner made the guardsmen more uncomfortable still.
Mykkael's grin widened, a flash of white teeth
under the cloak hood just raised to mask the embarrassment of his origins.
'Think well on that,' he murmured in the same tone used a moment before on the
gelding. He led off, reined the sullen horse through the archway. The clatter
of shod hooves rang down the deserted avenue, bouncing echoes off the mortised
facade of the wing that housed visiting ambassadors. The four-quartered banner
of Devall hung limp by the entry, its gold-fringed trim tarnished with dew. Nor
did the pair of ceremonial sentries stir a muscle to mark the passage of Mykkael's
cloaked figure, attended by Taskin's outriders.
The ill-matched cavalcade passed out of the
bailey, into the grey scrim of the fog that rolled off the peaks before dawn
light. Stars poked through, a scatter of fuzzed haloes, punch-cut by the spires
of the palace. At street level, the torches streamed, their smeared light
gleaming over the dull iron sheen of wet cobbles.
That moment, a raggedy figure darted out of
the shadows.
Mykkael's horse skittered, snorting. He
slammed his fist into its neck, used the rein, and hauled its proud crest to
the side to curb its lunging rear. His gasped oath slipped restraint, while the
figure, an old woman, came on and
made a suicidal grab for his stirrup.
Her hands groped and locked on his ankle,
instead. 'Young captain,' she cried in a guttural, thick accent. 'A boon, I beg
you! Please, out of pity, would you lift off a short curse!'
Mykkael kicked her away. As she fell,
shrilling outrage, he slammed his heel into the raging horse. Before its raised
forehooves came down, he drove it into a clattering sidle. Once clear, he
sprang from the saddle, flung his reins to the guards, then forced his racked
knee to bear urgent weight.
In two steps, he reached the woman and
caught her skinned hands. 'I'm sorry, old mother.' Her tattered clothes smelled
of dust and floor wax, and her hands wore the callus of a labourer. A cleaning
drudge, bent and stiff with arthritis; his heart felt nothing but pity. 'My
roughness aside, that horse would have killed you, leaving your family bereft.
I regret also, for your disappointment. But I cannot lift any curses, short or
long form.' Through her hiss of displeasure, he reached under the outraged
tension of thin shoulders and braced her attempt to sit upright. 'Put simply, I
lack the background.'
She rolled off a rude phrase in dialect;
would have pulled away in her rage, had he let her. Instead, firmly gentle, he
raised her to her feet, and steadied her through the shaken aftermath as she
dusted her skirts back to rights.
The next question was his, spoken in the
Scoraign tongue inferred by her lilting accent.
She raised filmed eyes, and stared at him,
furious. The next insult she uttered was clipped.
While the guards watched, dumbfounded, Mykkael
shut his eyes. He let her go. Masterfully calm, he repeated himself.
The drudge spat at his feet. She said five
spaced words, then stalked away, the rustle of her threadbare garments lost in
the muffling mist.
'Why did you lie to her?' The ruddy guard
was forced to speak sharply to be heard through the gelding's rank stamping.
Mykkael snapped up his chin, aroused from
blind thought, his brow knitted in puzzlement. 'Lie to her?' Then his incomprehension broke. He swore under his
breath. 'I can't raise curses! Powers of fury! I wouldn't know a desert
shaman's singing if the spell weave it held slapped me breathless!'
When the guardsman stayed sceptical, and
his husky colleague muttered a timeworn slur, Mykkael's temper frayed. He
limped forward, snapped up the chestnut's rein, and glared in unvarnished
disgust. 'I was raised by an uplands merchant who spoke the same milk tongue
you did.'
Silence reflected the men's towering
disbelief; Mykkael drew his irritation sharply in hand, made aware by the
ragged intensity of his feelings that he was bone-tired. Two nights on duty
without decent sleep would fray any man's judgement, never mind wreck the grace
for diplomacy. He ignored the screaming twinge of his leg, fended off another
snap from the horse, and, without mounting, marched it straight back towards
the archway.
'Captain! Where do you think you are
going?' Flustered again, no small bit annoyed, the pair of palace guardsmen
spurred after him. 'The Highgate is down
slope!'
'So it is. But I'm going back to the
bailey.' While the ornery chestnut slopped foam on his wrists, and lashed its
tail in thwarted temper, Mykkael turned his head. This time his smile held no
easy humour; only purpose keen as a knife's edge. 'Or don't you believe
Commander Taskin should be told that the storeroom closet where that drudge
keeps her brooms has been scribed with a sorcerer's mark?'
III.
Craftmark
THE RICH TRAPPINGS OF FINE MARBLE AND
CITRUS-OILED PARQUET DID NOT EXTEND TO THE WARREN OF STORE cellars underneath
the king's palace. Here, the close-set corridors had been chiselled into the
mountain granite underlying the bedrock foundations. Cobwebs, streamed from the
soot-blackened ceiling, rippling sheet gold in the torch light. The floors lit
by that flickering glow were rough stone, levelled with footprinted clay.
Mykkael lifted the flame of his borrowed
spill and arose from his hurried survey. 'No tracks here but servants' clogs,
and ones made by a heavyset fellow wearing hard-soled boots.'
'That would be the wine steward,' said the
bearded soldier, standing with folded arms beside him. 'He's grown too fat for
clogs. Can't see over his huge belly any more. Bercie - that's his wife - she
bought him the boots. She feared he was likely to trip one day, and bash his
old pan in a tumble.'
'Wise woman,' Mykkael murmured, cautious
himself, as the yawning servant indicated the way towards a shaft with another
frame stairway. The obstacle posed an unwelcome hazard for a man afflicted with
lameness. 'We go down here?'
The disgruntled lackey bobbed his tow head,
the pompom on his sleeping cap a dab of bright scarlet amid the oppressive
gloom. 'For the store cellar, yes. Broom closet's just past the landing.'
Mykkael caught the sleeve of the fellow's
striped nightshirt. 'Thank you. Keep the light. Go on back to bed.'
As the surlier of the two men-at-arms drew
breath to disagree, the captain silenced him with a glance. His clipped nod
dispatched the servant on his way. Then Mykkael waited, while the wavering glow
of the rush light receded out of immediate earshot. 'You don't want more
gossip.' His low voice emphatic, he added, 'Don't tell me, soldier, you aren't
under discipline to keep tinder and spill in your scrip?'
The other guard stiffened, affronted. 'You
don't give us orders, you sand-bred cur.'
Mykkael ignored the insult. 'Get busy with
that flint! A sorcerer's mark can smoulder like wildfire. You don't leave one
burning, once you know it's there. If you're frightened, just say so. I'll go
on alone if need be.'
'But the light,' the bearded guard
blustered, his ruddy face lost amid gathering shadow as the servant set foot on
the upper stair and continued his shuffling ascent. 'We just carry birch bark.
Burns out in seconds.'
'Stall a bit more, then you'll stand in the
dark.' Mykkael shrugged, sardonic. 'Not a comfortable risk to be taking, where
there might be a line of dark craft set at work.'
One balky man at last stirred to comply.
Patience gone, Mykkael reached out with
blurring speed. He snaked a hand past the guard's fumbling fingers, and dug
flint and spill from the unbuckled scrip. 'Don't you trust your commander? I
doubt very much we'll expend what we have before Taskin arrives with pine
torches. I hope he also brings men with strong nerves who will act without
foolish argument.'
'We should wait till he gets here,' the
surly guard snapped.
But Mykkael had already lit the rolled
birch bark. He pressed the pace down the creaky board staircase, not caring if
anyone followed. The recalcitrant guardsmen soon tramped at his heels, their
grumbling stilled as they crowded the landing, and the broom-closet door
emerged out of veiling darkness. The unvarnished planking had been inscribed:
the scrawled figure demarked a crudely shaped lightning bolt, cut diagonally
through an array of interlocked circles.
Mykkael loosed a hissed breath, rolled his
shoulders, then forged ahead, resolute. He held up the spill. Bronze features
expressionless, he traced the light over the wood, giving each chalky line his
relentless inspection. No distraction moved him, even the fresh influx of
voices and light, slicing down from the upper corridor. Taskin arrived. Five
immaculate guardsmen marched at his heels, bearing oiled rag torches. Boots
thundered on wood, the last stretch of stairway descended at a cracking sprint.
The commander rammed past the shrinking
pair detailed as the captain's escort. He reached Mykkael's side in a glitter
of braid and smartly polished accoutrements. There, he stopped, scarcely
winded. His brushed grey head bent, stilled as filed steel, while the crawling
progress of the hand-held spill inched over the outermost circle.
Then, 'No informative tracks, left pressed
in the dirt,' Taskin observed in clipped opening.
Mykkael matched that brevity. 'I saw.' He
pinched the flame out with his fingers, wiped the smutch of soot on his sleeve,
then stated, 'The mark is a fake.'
'How are you certain?'
'It was done with dry chalk, not white
river clay.' Mykkael raised his wrist, blotted the beaded sweat from his brow,
then swiped his thumb through the pattern. He sniffed carefully. 'No spittle to
bind it. No blood, or worse, urine. A sorcerer's lines can't hold any power
without a minion's imprint to lift them to active resonance.'
'That's detailed knowledge for a man who
just claimed he lacked the touch to shift curses.'
Before the garrison captain could snatch
pause to wonder how that fact had changed hands at short notice, Taskin's
glance shifted. He took merciless note, when Mykkael braced a needful hand to
the wall to forestall a sharp loss of balance.
'I can't lift curses,' the captain
restated. He retreated an irritable, dragging step, not quite fast enough to
shadow his fingers, which were splayed rigid and quivering. Taskin's stillness
continued to jab at his reserve. Hazed like a fresh recruit, Mykkael found
himself pressured to give far more than the simple answer. That loss of control
ripped through his aplomb, raising temper just barely leashed. 'With luck,
sometimes, I can ground them.'
Ice-cool, Taskin queried, 'At what cost to
yourself, soldier?'
Mykkael flung up his head. The spark of
trapped light in his eyes was chipped fire, under the crowding torches. 'I
don't know!' Anger doused, he had less success with his exhausted, recalcitrant
body. The seizing cramp from his overstressed knee rocked his frame through a
running spasm. 'Trust me, if that mark had been a live cipher, you don't want
the nightmare of guessing.'
A torch wavered, behind, as a man shifted
grip to make a sign against evil.
The commander cracked, 'Hold that light
steady! The man who just faltered, fetch this one a chair!'
Someone else muttered, 'That malformed get
of a desert-whelped bitch?'
Taskin stiffened. 'No chair, then,' he
agreed, his tone like taut silk run over a sharpened sword blade. 'My inept
torchman will now fetch a camp cot from storage. The man who was insolent will run to the west wing and roust out
Jussoud. In minutes, I want him down here with his oil jars, if he has to be
hauled from bed, naked!'
The pair jumped as though whipped.
'You can open the door without penalty,'
said Mykkael, hoping the diversion might snatch him the interval to quiet his
chattering teeth.
'I'll carry on.' Taskin stated, not moving.
The camp cot pulled from stores arrived
seconds later. The men set up the frame by the corridor wall with no talk, only
brisk and relentless efficiency.
'You'll strip, soldier,' the commander
rapped out, his nailing regard still fixed on the garrison captain.
A sudden movement, snatched still, preceded the rage that rekindled in Mykkael's dark
eyes.
Taskin stayed glacially immobile,
throughout. 'You will remove your harness and peel your clothes to the skin.
Then lie flat and stay there! My orders, soldier. On that cot, voluntarily. Or
else my men will do that work for you, followed up by a lashing for
insubordination.'
Mykkael forced a smile through hackled
fury. 'You'd lose some. Not nicely. Let's duck the unpleasantness.' He reached
up, slipped the fastening on the borrowed cloak, then the tang of the buckle
that fastened his sword harness. 'After all, I did promise I would be diligent,
and you have a princess to search for.' He undid the iron fitting, and removed
his weapon with a crack of withering emphasis. 'The door is safe. Open it.'
The captain jostled a path through the
closed ranks of the guards, and tried not to let sore embarrassment show as
heads turned in riveted curiosity. Faced toward the wall, unflinchingly
straight, he compelled wooden fingers to loosen the belt of his surcoat.
'You men!' snapped Taskin. 'Eyes forward!
Whatever duty you have to this realm lies ahead of me in this closet.'
Exhibiting sangfroid enough to uphold his
own order, the commander turned his back on the victim confined to the
corridor. He positioned himself in front of the doorway and reached for the
string latch, decisive.
'Don't trust that desert-bred,' blurted the
red-haired sergeant who held the torch lighting his way. 'How do you know he's
not lying?'
'You'll volunteer, then?' Taskin stepped
sideways, inviting the man to approach the marked panel himself. The pattern's
chalked lines glared a sinister white under the flare of the flames.
Bared to the waist, still unlacing his
trousers, Mykkael observed the exchange. Unsmiling, he watched the burly
sergeant shrink into the packed mass of his fellows. Just as uncertain, the
others edged back, none among them prepared to shield him.
Taskin folded his arms, and regarded his
finest with a glare to blister them pink.
Until Mykkael spun about. Half stripped and
insolent, he shoved his way forward, and tripped the latch in their place.
'Thank you,' Taskin said, almost smoothly enough to mask his
wound thread of unease.
Justifiable anxiety, which Mykkael forgave
freely. The mountain terrain of the Great Divide kept Sessalie's subjects far
removed from the horrors engendered by warring sorcerers. Folk here had likely
lived their whole lives, and their parents and grandparents before them, never
having experienced a live craftmark. They would not have witnessed the twisted devastation
such workings brought down on the lives of the people they ruined. Hideous
experience would make a man flinch. Given a backdrop of frightening tales and
the gross distortions of rumour, such sheltered ignorance would be all too
likely to invent conjecture much worse.
Brown eyes met blue, and locked through a
moment of unexpected, spontaneous understanding.
Then Taskin said, crisp, 'That's one stripe
coming for rank disobedience.'
Mykkael laughed, his other fist clutching
at untied laces to stay the cloth that slipped down his hard flanks. 'No
mercenary troop captain worth his pay would have slapped me with less than
five.' He dodged back, beat a lively retreat towards the cot. But the move went
awry as his bad leg gave way without warning under his weight. His clumsy next
stride was reduced to a stagger that exposed him, full-length, to the
torchlight. Since no man could miss the stripes on his back, laid down for some
prior offence, he salvaged the gaffe with ripe sarcasm. 'Since I already know how
the punishment feels, there's no thrill of anticipation. Let's spare the boring
detail for later, why not? Quarter that broom closet, first.'
The shame-faced sergeant recovered his
poise. He called a man forward to carry his torch, then drew his sword and
shoved through the open plank door.
Brooms met him, their straw bristles struck
upright in a barrel. The surrounding floor held canted stacks of hooped wooden
buckets with rope handles. The torch light speared in, leaped across a second
barrel stuffed to the rim with frayed rags.
'Search everything,' snapped Taskin.
'Slowly and carefully, one bucket and one rag at a time.'
To the rest, who continued to view Mykkael's
disrobing with stifled whispers and outright suspicion, the commander stated
flat facts. 'Our garrison captain is not your enemy. You will all stop
regarding him as a tribal barbarian, or some sort of singing shaman. Myshkael's parentage is not known. His
adoptive father was northern-born, a civilized merchant who picked him up by
the wayside as an infant foundling. You can see the hard proof; he bears no
tattoos. That's a rigid custom in the south desert.'
Left utterly stripped, made the merciless
butt of eight strangers who pinned him with blue-eyed, superior scrutiny, Mykkael
banished his last shred of pride. He sat, then lay back on the cot, and
compelled himself to keep discipline. This hazing was not worth the grace of
reaction. He had suffered far worse as a recruit. Iron-skinned under pressure,
he did his practised best to support Taskin's tactical effort. Distrust, after
all, could do nothing but impede the search to find Princess Anja. Better to
disarm that fracturing influence before petty dissent could spoil troop unity,
or someone got needlessly hurt.
'Your commander did his background check
thoroughly.' Dry, sounding far more weary than he wished, Mykkael offered his
wrists. The flesh on his arms and over his bared heart was clear brown, marred
only by battle scars. 'As you see, my mother failed to mark me at birth with
the blessing of her tribe. Tradition is strict. That sign proclaimed me unfit.'
Mykkael stopped speaking, shut his eyes,
and braced in distaste to endure through the subsequent, scouring inspection.
Yet Taskin cut that embarrassment short,
'Unfit, likely due to an unsanctioned union. Not for a blemish or unsoundness.'
As the captain bore up, each over-strung
muscle defined in the pitiless torchlight, no one could mistake that his
crippling limp had been caused by a ruinous joint wound.
Easiest to tie off the final loose end, and
force the review to its sorry closure. 'Fathers of infants who are not blessed
and marked leave their get to die of exposure.' Mykkael finished, 'I survived
because mine was inept, or a coward, or else soft-hearted enough to ditch me in
the path of a caravan.'
He rolled over then, and masked his hot
face behind the bulwark of his crossed forearms.
Left staring at the damp snags of his hair,
and the welted scars crossing his shoulders and back, the crowding men quickly
lost interest. They pushed ahead to explore the broached closet, drawn to
pursue the more gripping evil that might lurk in the drudge's rag barrel.
They found Anja's beautiful, jewelled gown;
her silver-capped shoes, her exquisite wire bracelets.
A shimmering chime of miniature bells
trilled through the dust-laden air.
The sound touched Mykkael's ears with a
sweet, haunting clarity, as he languished, face down on the pallet. He
shivered, seized up as a cramp ripped his leg into mauling pain. Bared teeth
hidden behind shielding forearm, he endured, exposed, but not bitter. At least
he had Taskin's forethought to thank, that the paroxysm had overtaken him lying
down. Had he been savaged while still on his feet, he would currently be
sprawled under somebody's boots, curled into a whimpering knot.
Naked and cold, but held prone under
orders, he could more gracefully withstand the public humiliation. While his
hearing tracked the excited commotion unfolding inside the broom closet, more
steps approached through the corridor above, then thumped down the dusty plank
stair.
The arrival reached his side and stopped
next to the pallet. Glass clinked, to the wafted fragrance of astringent herbs
steeped in oil. Then a huge, warm hand closed over his shoulder, its touch
trained and firmly knowing. 'I'm Jussoud,' said a voice of deep, velvet
consonants, bearing the accents of the east. Cloth sighed with movement, as the
speaker bent his massive frame and knelt on the rough stone floor. 'I serve as
physician and masseur for the guard.'
No hesitation occurred over skin tone. Only
the tacit, professional pause as the hand became joined by another, probing one
wire-strung muscle after the next.
Mykkael turned his neck, opened one
jaundiced eye. 'I'm sorry Taskin dragged you from your bed.'
'And so he should have,' that slow,
cultured voice resumed. 'You're a mess, soldier. That liniment's for camels;
did you know as much when you bought it? The gum's caustic, brings blisters.
You'll have weeping sores, if you're stubborn and persist with its use.'
An inquiring poke near the hip socket
raised a grunted oath from Mykkael. He continued to stare, anyway. He had the
right, knowing just how it felt, to be foreign and billeted among northerners.
The giant looming over him was
yellow-skinned, with black hair braided down his back. He had the flat nose,
broad lips, and silver eyes of the steppelands, which fleshed out the clues to
his origins.
Another fingertip contact, this stroke
moth-wing gentle at the back of Mykkael's thigh; except the result woke a nerve
end, screaming. The garrison captain sucked an involuntary breath, half
strangling the impulse to whimper.
'For pity.' But this time, the voice held
compassion. 'You're a great deal worse than a mess. Without help, you're not
going to walk out of here.'
The touch melted back. Mykkael pulled in a
shuddering lungful of air, while glass jars chinked near his elbow. Then
scented, hot oil splashed and flowed down his back, and the hands began work in
earnest. Their gentleness almost wrung him to tears. He subsided, smoothed down
by an expertise that made him wonder if he was back in a coma, and dreaming.
His chest unseized. Shortly, he was able to speak. In the language Jussoud
would likely know best, Mykkael murmured, 'How can I ever repay you?'
Jussoud gasped, his strong fingers shocked
to a stop. 'How is this?' he exclaimed, overcome. Oblivious to the drama
contained in the broom closet, he swept a searching regard over the desert-bred
captain before him. 'How can you know the motherland's tongue?'
'Taught. As a child. My stepfather traded.'
Mykkael raised himself on one elbow, straining to see what Taskin's soldiers
had unearthed.
Jussoud's arm swiped him flat. 'Do not
spoil my diligent efforts, you impertinent upstart.'
Working a bruised jaw, just banged on the
cot strut, Mykkael grumbled a filthy phrase he had learned as a boy from a
drover. Then he added, through bliss, as those hands worked their magic, 'Just
don't ask me to write your distant relatives a letter. I speak, but I don't
know the ideographs.'
'I do,' Jussoud stated, his dignity in
place. 'They take half a lifetime of patience to learn.' He caught Mykkael's
elbow, planted a fist, then pressed down on one shoulder until something tight
popped free in his client's upper back. 'Do you have patience, Captain?'
'Only as I choose. Thank you, for that. I'm
much better.' Mykkael let his head loll in the crook of his elbow, warned as an
icy shadow encroached that someone else came to stand over him. The near
soundless step most likely meant that inimitable presence was Taskin.
The commander addressed Jussoud. 'Can you
do aught with him?'
Sweet oil licked a channel down Mykkael's
buttocks. 'Oh, I think so,' said the easterner, detached as a butcher who sized
up the heft and weight of a carcass. 'If the muscles are eased, the pinched
nerves will subside. The limp can be made much less noticeable.' His tone
changed. 'Hold now.'
The hands grasped his leg, applied traction
and torque. A reaming, white fire tore through his hip. Mykkael crushed his
face to his forearm, and scarcely managed to muffle a scream.
Then something crunched and let go in his
pelvis. Pain laced his bad leg, then subsided. On his face, slammed limp, Mykkael
tasted blood on his teeth. For that, he said more words. Ones that had once
made the incensed drover chase after a sprinting small boy, waving a
lead-tipped ox goad.
'I can't make him civilized,' Jussoud
admitted. Then he chuckled. 'No. Don't ask. I won't translate.' His hands
moved, pressed a scar, testing with ruthless accuracy until a sharp flinch
recorded the damage past reach of his skill. 'I can't ease the half of this
knot of stressed tissue, certainly not overnight.'
'Who expected that miracle?' Taskin bent
aside, clipped off an answer to somebody's question, then considered the prone
body, stretched out at his mercy on the cot. 'If I send Jussoud down to the
Lowergate barracks, will you make time for his services?'
Mykkael tipped up his face, disgruntled to
be caught strapped with oil, and flat helpless. 'Yes. If Jussoud will agree to
start teaching me ideographs.'
'That's Jussoud's choice.' Taskin tapped
his chin with an immaculate thumb. 'Now, my choice. The whipping I owe you will
wait. Can you stand yet?'
Mykkael flexed his leg with tentative care,
then flashed Jussoud a glance of astonished gratitude. He shoved erect like a
cat about to be served with a dousing, snatched up his dropped cloak, and covered
his grease-shiny shoulders. 'I can stand.' he responded, running fresh sweat,
but no longer wretchedly shivering. 'Exactly what did you wish me to see?'
'This.' Taskin moved.
Mykkael stalked after him, barefoot, and
entered the crowded closet.
They showed him Anja's clothes, every one,
down to the delicate, lace-sewn camisole, the fine, scented silk that had only
hours ago kissed the girlish curve of her hips.
'What do you think, Myshkael?' Taskin demanded.
The garrison captain blotted his stinging,
split lip. 'She took those off without help. Most likely willingly. Nothing's
torn. The lace isn't hooked, or unravelled.'
'Is that all?'
As though the words goaded like searing hot
wire, Mykkael knelt. He fingered a bangle bracelet, to a musical clash of gold
bells. Then he picked up a silver-capped shoe, and arose with the dainty,
scuffed sole cradled between his rough hands.
Princess Anja came alive to him in that
moment.
Her presence combed over him, mind and
spirit, and infused his rocked senses with the intimate essence of her exotic
perfume. The aromatic blend of sandalwood and desert flowers framed a memory so
vivid and distant, Mykkael knew of no tongue that had enough life in its spoken
phrasing to capture it.
He sucked in a breath, overtaken by storm.
The young woman, Anja, assumed tangible weight, a ghost presence spun from his
living contact with the slipper cupped in his palms. Witch thoughts, Mykkael
realized, then understood further: Taskin was deliberately testing him for wild
talent.
Despite his fierce anger, he could not
fight back. His fragmented awareness already dissolved, sucked down by a vortex
of terror ...
* * *
...
clogging fear, filled with the sweat scent of horses, and fog, swirling dank
off the river ... Soaked clothes, dripping and clammy cold ... A woman's heart
pounding, her breaths jerked in gasps as she runs through the dark in hazed
flight. She is desperate. Her taut hands grip damp strap leather, while behind
her, the horses bump and jostle, their eager hooves clipping her lightly shod
heels, and crushing the early spring grasses ...
*
* *
Drowning in horror, Mykkael wrenched his
mind clear. Wrung dizzy, then falling, he spiralled back into the dusty cellar,
and recovered his spinning wits. Enclosed by stone walls, and the scouring
smoke thrown off the oiled rag torches, he crumpled. The shoe dropped from his
grasp. It tumbled, clattering. Curled in a tight and shivering crouch, Mykkael
fought back nausea, his nostrils clouded by the oiled sweat reek rising off his
own skin.
His
eyes were dry. Not blurred by a young girl's salt tears,
shed in shattered panic as she fled headlong through the night.
Someone's fist clamped his elbow, jerked
him back upright. The bruising grip savaged Mykkael's slipped senses with a
wrench like the bite of cold iron.
'What
did you see?' Taskin hissed in his ear.
Mykkael shut his eyes, still battling
vertigo. 'Dark. She's outside. In flight for her life.'
'Witch thoughts!' someone gasped, close
beside him. Light shifted as a torchbearer recoiled. Boots grated on gravel, as
other men stirred and exchanged rounds of sullen whispers.
Then another torch, flaring, thrust into
his face. 'What did you see?' the commander
repeated.
'Country clothes. Lightweight shoes. She's
wet. Swam the river.' A shudder raked Mykkael. He thought about horses, then
flinched as a sharp flood of warning coiled through him. Pierced by an icy stab
of raw instinct, he closed his mind, hard, and shook off Taskin's probing.
'Witch thoughts.' Mykkael dismissed. 'Only fools trust them. I might be seeing
a moment recaptured from the princess's early childhood. Or nothing more than a
fanciful shadow, pulled in from one of her nightmares.'
'You claimed you weren't a slinking shaman.'
the red-haired sergeant accused.
Mykkael shook his head. He swallowed back
nausea. 'No shaman at all.' he insisted, his leaden tiredness pressing his
scraped voice inflectionless. 'Not trained. Not brought up in tradition.'
Taskin's relentless gaze still bored into
him. Mykkael sighed. He forced his scarred knee to bear weight, then reached
out, very gently, and pried off the
commander's insistent grasp. 'I never said, did I, that I had not inherited a
pack of unruly, fresh instincts.'
Mykkael sensed sudden movement at the
corner of his eye. He surged into a spin, hands raised, while the draped cloak
gaped open at his waist. He caught a man's gesture to avert evil spellcraft,
full on, then the sight of another signed curse, not completed. 'I am no
sorcerer!' he cracked in fired rage. 'Don't you dare, in your ignorance,
mistake that!'
Stares ringed him, unwavering. From men
fully armed, and impeccably turned out, while he stood weaponless, half unclad,
slicked in stale sweat and the itching residue of beast liniment and medicinal
oil.
Mykkael uttered a word Jussoud would have
appreciated, had the huge man still lingered in the corridor. Then, disgusted,
he shrugged the slipped cloak back in place. To Taskin, he suggested, 'Find
that drudge. Question her. She might have seen someone snooping here, earlier.
If a witch thought bears weight, her Grace was not overpowered, nor was she
smuggled out, naked. I'd guess your princess might have made her own way,
masked in a servant's plain dress. See if someone else noticed the clothing.'
The ruddy sergeant bristled with outrage.
'Princess Anja would never indulge in foolish pranks! Nor would she be
childishly stupid enough to leave Highgate without an armed escort.'
'Perhaps not,' Mykkael agreed. 'No harm,
though, in checking.'
Taskin's searing regard on him lingered.
'The drudge has already been sent for,' he allowed. 'She could arrive in my
wardroom at any moment. You ought to get dressed, or lie down before you fall
over.'
Still fighting queasiness, Mykkael shot
back a racked quip. 'No order, which?'
'Your call, soldier,' Taskin said, less
generous than rigidly practical. 'If you drop, I won't waste a man, picking you
up off the floor. Jussoud's gone home. He's sent back to bed. Can't lose the
edge off him to exhaustion. Respect that, since I want you upright and alert,
and for that, you'll need his attention tomorrow.'
'You do keep the rust polished off your
swords,' Mykkael dug back without rancour. He rallied, gathered the trailing
hem of the cloak, then ploughed ahead on unsteady feet until he won free of the
closet. His scathing reply floated back from the corridor. 'You would have made
a first-rate field captain, if you weren't cooped up guarding a citadel.'
Two men snapped fists to their swords, for
the insolence; the arrogant sergeant bit back another slur.
Taskin, rod straight, took the ribbing in
his stride. 'You serve under me, here above Highgate. Don't forget that.
Do you need a litter to reach your home turf?
My groom can deliver the gelding.'
'No litter, no groom.' Caught with one leg
thrust into his trousers, and his bad knee aching like vengeance, Mykkael
unlocked the offended clench of his teeth. 'And forgetting your style of
service is right tough, you highhanded, pale-faced bastard.'
But his heated, last insult was
respectfully masked, its phrasing couched in the intricate tongue spoken in
Jussoud's eastern steppes.
Two
hours before dawn, the mist clung like wool, masking the snow-clad spires of
the peaks that would restore her sense of direction. She huddled, shivering, in
a pussywillow thicket, eyes shut to contain the fraught pitch of her fear,
while patrols from the palace thundered past on the road, the smoke from their
torches streaming ...
IV.
Victims
RETURNED TO THE PALACE ARMOURY, AND THE
CANDLELIT ALCOVE THAT SERVED AS HIS TACTICAL HEADQUARTERS, Taskin resisted the
urge to run agitated fingers through his hair. Before him, spread flat, lay the
list of merchants' names and promises outlined in the seneschal's fussy script.
A second sheet, sent from the Highgate watch officer, detailed the traffic
moving to and from the palace. Beyond the balcony, Taskin also commanded a view
of the wardroom, below. At this hour, the chequered floor was crowded by the relief
watch, donning surcoats and arms for the upcoming change of the guard.
A hovering aide raised a question over the
jingle of mail. 'Commander, you wanted the watch's list sent on to the
Lowergate garrison?'
'To Captain Myshkael, yes. No need to waste time for a copy.' Taskin selected the
rice-paper sheet, which dutifully recorded his own dispatched messengers
bearing the locked chest from the treasury, along with a wrapped oil painting;
Mykkael himself, and his two-man escort; then disparate groups of Middlegate
merchants with their wives, their grooms and their carriage teams. Each of
those entries had been matched against the seneschal's tally. The few names
left over were accounted for: Crown Prince Kailen, off to visit the taverns by
Falls Gate. The other contingent included a robed dignitary and six servants
clad in Devall's formal livery. They would be bound for the Lowergate keep,
bearing the high prince's offer of funding and men to further the search for
the princess.
The gesture was a breach of crown protocol,
and a slight against Sessalie's aged king. Taskin assessed the move's brazen
overture, then measured its impact against the desert-bred captain he had just
given high-handed dismissal. The upright seneschal would have flinched to
imagine the course of the coming encounter. Devall's smooth, lowland statesman
might well fall prey to the brunt of Mykkael's outraged temper. The
ex-mercenary was seasoned. He had demonstrated his astute grasp of royal
hierarchy. Even disadvantaged and set under pressure, he had handled his share
of political byplay down to a subtle fine point.
Devall's embassy was likely to suffer an
unenviable reception down at the garrison. Not worried, his mouth almost turned
by a smile, the commander slid the list across his marble-topped desk for
dispatch through the messenger relay.
The aide left on that errand, and all but
collided with an officer inbound through the alcove doorway. The arrival was
early to be bearing word from the riders who quartered the riverbank. Taskin met
the man's urgent salute, braced for bad news and already up on his feet.
'Report!' he demanded.
The breathless newcomer wasted no words.
'The palace drudge who discovered the sorcerer's mark? We've found her. She's
dead.'
Taskin paused only to shout over the
spooled rail of the gallery. 'Captain Bennent! Get me a task squad. Now!' To
the winded officer, now forced to flank his commander's clipped stride towards
the stairwell, he added, 'Take me there. I'll hear your details on the move.'
* * *
The hollow report of the destriers' hooves
thundered over the planked drawbridge spanning the lower keep moat. To the rag
men who netted for salvage on the bank, the noise posed a shattering break in
routine. The Lowergate garrison were a division of foot. They used horses only
for transport.
Not only the poor recognized the departure.
As the breveted officer left in charge of the garrison, Vensic knew what his
recent promotion was worth. By now made aware of the upset at the palace, he
was at hand as the riders emerged through the dank swirl of fog at the gate.
The sultry glow from the bailey fire pans
revealed them: two lancers leading in their immaculate palace surcoats, and a
third man, cloaked and hooded, on a restive chestnut, whose slouched posture
was not Mykkael's.
Vensic surged forward. He caught the bridle
of the ornery horse before one of his horseboys got mangled. 'Where's the
captain?' he demanded as the rider dismounted.
The palace guard escort startled, then
stared at their charge, who flipped back the cloak's cowled hood to expose the
light-skinned, wry face of the Middlegate's watch officer.
'When the captain stopped to take reports
and give orders, we changed places,' the imposter confessed. His shrug as he
slipped the cloak from his shoulders offered no grace of apology. 'Mykkael's
habits force a man to stay keen. You'll learn, if you're here to serve under
him.'
'We're Taskin's, assigned to the messenger
relay,' one of the palace men rebutted. 'Where's your captain?'
'Had business, an errand,' said the
officer, laconic. Then, to Vensic, 'Mind that rogue's ugly teeth. I'm told
we're to keep him. Remember the drover that Jedrey caught trying to pilfer the
stores? Mykkael says that one's appointed to tend him.'
Vensic laughed. 'That's just as likely to
break his right hand as any formal sentencing.'
'Won't blight a man's conscience, that way,
Mykkael said,' the gate officer explained in admiration. 'Captain wished that
hooved snake all the wicked joy of war. Hopes it can scare better sense into
yon light-fingered misfit.' Wary of the chestnut's lightning-quick strike, he
surrendered the reins, relieved to let the keep's officer take charge, and
muscle the brute through the bailey.
Vensic's brisk shout pulled a man from the muster
gathered to relieve the street watch. 'Find a diligent boy who will keep the
grooms clear,' he instructed, then secured the surly chestnut to the hitching
post with the sturdiest rope and shackle. 'Someone from the armoury can have
that pilferer brought up. Aye, the thieving little creep's to meet his
punishment.'
To the Middlegate officer still beside him,
Vensic said, 'Is the princess truly missing? Sorry prospect. What else did Mykkael
give you?'
'A right mouthful of orders.' No smile,
this time, as the Middlegate man assessed the yard's milling industry,
orange-lit by the cinders whirled off the fire pans. 'First off, he wants you
to double the street watch. No one's pulled from patrol on the walls. Mykkael's
adamant, there. Draw a full reserve company, send them out straight away. I'll
tell you the rest when we're settled inside.'
Vensic flagged the outbound sergeant, then
belatedly noted the palace guards, who still trailed astride, looking miffed.
'Why not get down? Come into the wardroom and breakfast on cider and sausage.
Captain Mykkael will be back on his own, before long. Slip in when nobody's
looking, if he can, just to test if the men keep sharp watch.'
'Slinks like a desert cur,' agreed the
guardsman on the grey, handing his mount off to a horseboy.
Vensic looked back at him, sober. 'He can,
when it suits him. But be careful how you say so. Our garrison has a healthy
measure of respect for the captain's outlandish habits.'
* * *
Mykkael, at that moment, was outside the
town wall, standing knee-high in drenched grasses. The velvet shadow of spring
nightfall masked him, heavy with mist, and the stench wafted up from the
tannery. First overt sign of his presence, his sharp movement silenced the
shrilling of peepers. The hurled flake of granite left his opened hand, sailed
up in an evil and accurate trajectory, and cracked into a latched wooden
shutter.
A painted slat splintered. The clatter of
fragments wakened the dogs, kennelled in barrels behind him, and launched them
into a frenzy. Chains dragged. The night quiet shattered to a chorus of
barking.
Mykkael smiled, and waited. A moment later,
the shutter slammed back and disgorged the irate face of a matron. If her hair
was tied up in curling rags, her tongue was not bound. Keen as a troutman's
flensing knife, her curses shrilled over the racketing hounds.
Mykkael winced. Since the misty darkness no
doubt obscured the falcon device on his surcoat, he half-turned, resigned, and
uttered the yip the steppes nomads used to round up their wandering stock. The
barbaric cry transformed the dogs' snarling into yaps of riotous welcome.
'Fortune's pink, naked arse, it's
yourself!' huffed the matron. The damaged shutter clapped shut.
Shortly, the downstairs door cracked, and a
towheaded child admitted him. Mykkael ruffled her hair, then stepped into gloom
redolent with wet hound, and the rancid aroma of ham and boiled onions. He said
gently, 'I'm sorry. Tonight, I haven't brought butcher's scraps.'
The upstairs voice shouted down and
upbraided him. 'You'll pay for that burst shutter in coin, if the silver comes
out of your pay share.'
Then the house matron shuffled down the
beam stairway, mantled in mismatched wool blankets. The feet under her night
robe were callused and bare, with the lumps of the curling rags hastily stuffed
under a drawstring cap.
Worse than mortified, she appeared outraged
enough to snatch up a game knife and geld the importunate male who had rousted
her.
Well warned as the spill of her pricket
candle unveiled her purpled complexion, Mykkael spoke quickly. 'Crown business,
madam. Your husband is needed.'
'Well, your murderer's bound to evade the
law, this time. Benj is no use.' The woman plonked her broad rump on the
settle, while the dutiful girl shoved the door closed. To Mykkael's raised
eyebrows, the matron admitted, 'He's drunk. Flopped in a heap in the
smokehouse, with my oldest son snoring off whisky beside him. They sipped their
fill off the crown's largesse. Neither one's likely to budge before noontide,
when they're finally driven to piss. They'll loll about with sore heads, after
that. Take brawn and a handcart to shift them an inch, and not worth the
thumping bother.'
'Where's the handcart?' Mykkael inquired,
dead earnest.
The huntsman's raw-boned, vociferous wife
stared back at him, gaping.
'Madam, tonight my quarry's no murdering
felon. Her Grace Princess Anja is missing. I want the riverbanks quartered, but
quietly. Taskin has three squads of outriders searching, crown guards, sent
from the palace. They have city-bred eyes, and might see what's obvious, but
for nuance, I need a trapper. Nobody other than Benj has the huntsman's
knowledge to track her.' The pricket flame flared. Light brushed the cut angles
of Mykkael's set face, then subsided, cloaking him back under shadow. 'I'll
heave your man into the moat if I must, to shake him out of his stupor.'
'Benj'll waken, if it's for the princess.'
The good wife adjusted her blankets and stood, too canny to test Mykkael's
barbaric temperament, or stall him with badgering questions. 'Or else, as I'm
born, I'll help douse the layabout under myself.'
She shooed her girl off at a run to haul
the handcart out of the shed. 'We'll just strap my man into a dog harness,
first. Benj, bless his heart, doesn't swim.'
* * *
The adrenaline prickle of raised hair at
the nape was not a sensation Commander Taskin experienced often, although
hazard had visited many a time through his diligent years of crown service. A
poisoning attempt, or an assassin set on the run through the dark might unleash
such a primal reaction. Taskin preferred the controlled clarity of sharp wits,
applied with objective reason.
Yet the death that had followed Princess
Anja's disappearance roughened his skin with untoward nerves as he pushed open
the door to the drudge's cellar apartment.
The air inside smelled of hot grease and
death, musty with closed-in dust. Straight as iron, Taskin peered into gloom
scarcely cut by the flare of a tallow dip.
'Commander? She's here.' A striker snapped,
setting flame to a second wick in an alcove off to one side.
Taskin crossed over the threshold. He
almost tripped as his boot heel mired in a throw rug braided from rags. That
ill grace nettled him worse than the exhaustion brought on by a night of
extended duty. He pushed past a curtain of strung wooden beads, and at last
encountered his duty sergeant.
The man knelt by a box bed tucked into the
wall. Taskin stooped under the lintel and squeezed his tall frame into the
stifling, close quarters.
The old woman lay straight as a board on
stained sheets. Her eyes were wide open, as though the horror that had pinched
out her life still lurked in the airless dark.
'Not a mark on her,' the sergeant said, his
voice pitched taut with unease. 'Her extremities are cold and she's started to
stiffen.' He pressed a palm over his nose and mouth to stifle the taint as he
added, 'You know the men claim she was taken by sorcery? They've noted the
desert-bred captain was the last to be seen in her living company.'
Taskin regarded those frozen eyes, gleaming
like glass in the flame light. Again, gooseflesh puckered the skin on his arms.
They think Myshkael did this?'
The sergeant shrugged. 'Well, our northern
stock doesn't breed the rogue talent for witchery.'
'We have other foreigners inside our
walls,' Taskin pointed out with acerbity.
'True enough.' The sergeant rubbed his
bracers as though to shake off a chill. 'But we have only one of them born to
bronze skin.'
Taskin rebuffed that statement with
silence. He bent, sniffed at the dead woman's mouth, then resumed his
unflinching inspection. Methodical, he pursued the unsavoury task, undeterred
by the stink, or the whisper of draught that set the bead curtain clacking, and
winnowed the glow of the unshielded candle.
The sergeant stared elsewhere,
transparently anxious. 'What do you want done with the corpse? She has no close
family; we already checked.'
Finished examining the dead woman's arms
for a pox rash or signs of a puncture, Taskin gave his considered answer.
'Roust the palace steward. Tell him I want the use of a wash tub to pack the
body in snow. Then fetch the king's physician. I'd have his opinion concerning
this death, though the cause would seem to be poison.'
'Who would wish her harm?' The sergeant
raised the candle, cast its wavering light over the poor woman's ramshackle
furnishings. Her work-worn mantle draped, forlorn, on its peg, alongside two
raggedy skirts. 'What did this drudge have that would merit an assassin who carried
exotic potions?'
'If she knew anything about the princess's
clothes, somebody wanted her silenced.' Taskin straightened, and wiped his long
fingers on the corner of the fusty sheet. The glance he delivered along with
his summary was stem as forge-hammered steel. 'If you overhear anyone else
passing gossip, I want the talk stopped. No man mentions sorcery unless we have
proof. The same rule applies to the matter of Captain Myshkael's integrity.'
* * *
Mykkael returned to the garrison wardroom
in the black hour prior to dawn, but not with his usual style of cat-footed
anonymity. His errand had left him soaked to the waist. No matter how silent,
his presence brought in the miasma of green algae and raw effluent from the
stockyards.
Sergeant Cade met him, broad-shouldered and
dependable, his gruff face drawn with concern. 'Bright powers, where were you?'
His wry survey took in Mykkael's pungent state, and prompted a struck note of
horror. 'Don't tell me you just dragged the Lowergate moat for somebody's unlucky
corpse?'
'I was actually dousing a limp body under,'
Mykkael admitted without humour. He pressed ahead by brute will, his exhausted
leg dragging, and his voice raised over the screeling wail as the garrison's
armourer refurbished a blade on the sharpening wheel. 'Is Jedrey down from the
Middlegate, and where's Stennis? You did get my word, that I wanted the reserve
roster called up for active duty?'
'Day watch is already dispatched, with
reserves. Jedrey's back.' Cade gestured towards a pile of loose slates, jostled
aside on a trestle. 'Assignments are listed for your review. You want them
brought upstairs? Very well. I sent Stennis to head the patrol at the Falls
Gate. The mad seeress you wanted to question wasn't asleep in her bed. Since her
family couldn't say where she went, I presumed you'd want a search mounted,
soonest.'
Mykkael gave the officer's choice his
approval, then added, 'Not like the old besom, to wander at night.'
'Well, you have an immediate problem, right
here,' Cade said, a nettled hand raised to shelter his nose from the stench
brought in with his captain.
Mykkael stopped. He regarded his most
stalwart sergeant's dismay with a dawning spark of grim interest. 'You're
suggesting I might change my clothing?'
Sergeant Cade gave way and threw up his
hands, harried at last to despair. 'You won't get the chance. Devall's heir
apparent sent an accredited delegate with five servants here to receive you.
They've been cooling their heels with bad grace for an hour. Since the
wardroom's too noisy to keep them in comfort, we put them upstairs in your
quarters.'
* * *
The effort of dragging his game knee
upstairs, weighed down by waterlogged boots, destroyed the lingering, last bit
of relief bestowed by Jussoud's expert hands. Mykkael reached the landing,
streaming fresh sweat. As his hip socket seized with a shot bolt of agony, he
stopped and braced a saving hand against the stone wall by the door jamb.
There, wrapped in shadow, reliant on stillness to ease his stressed leg, he all
but gagged on the wafted scent of exotic floral perfume. The fragrance
overpowered even his soiled clothes. Mykkael's first response, to indulge in
ripe language, stayed locked behind his shut teeth. Cat-quiet, not smiling, he
took pause instead, and measured the extent of his violated privacy.
Devall's servants had disdained to use the
clay lamp from his field kit. Accustomed to refinements and lowland wealth, and
no doubt put off by fish oil, they had lit the garrison's hoarded store of
precious beeswax candles. The chest just ransacked to find them was shut, the
lid occupied by a liveried adolescent, who buffed his fingernails with the
snakeroot cloth Mykkael saved for polishing brass. More effete servants perched
on his pallet. The largest pair had appropriated his pillows for backrests.
Another one snored on the folded camp blanket, his pudgy hands clasped on his
belly. The last rested boots fine enough for a lordling on Mykkael's
straw-stuffed hassock, uncaring whether the bronze caps on his heels might
scratch the painted leather.
The captain might ignore those
self-absorbed oversights. But not the barebones necessity, that the high stool
by the trestle he required to relieve his scarred knee was currently
unavailable. The Prince of Devall's accredited envoy sat there, an older man
with the arrogant ease ingrained by born privilege and crown office. His back
was turned. The furred hem of a costly, embroidered robe lapped at his neatly
tucked ankles, and his barbered head tilted with the air of a man absorbed by
illicit reading.
The pain hounded Mykkael to a Split-second
choice, and efficiency overrode nicety. He drew his sword.
The grating slide of steel leaving scabbard
whipped the dignitary to his feet. His raw leap of startlement whirled him
around as the captain limped into the room, then sent him in stumbling retreat
from a weapon point dulled by hard use.
Each dent, each scratch, each pit etched by
weather lay exposed in the flare of the candles.
The servant on the stores chest gave a shrill
squeak and dropped the polishing cloth in his lap.
'Not to worry.' Mykkael flashed his teeth,
not a smile, snapped the cloth off the boy's trembling knee, then hooked his
vacated stool just in time. Since his last, staggered stride towards collapse
would be seen as a loutish breach of diplomacy, he turned the effect to
advantage. 'This is a northern-forged longsword, as you see. Not a shaman's
weapon, that must be appeased by the taste of living flesh when it's bared.
I've only drawn it for cleaning, besides.'
While the High Prince's delegation eyed his
bared blade with incensed apprehension, Mykkael met and searched six flinching
glances one after the next, without quarter. 'Relax. Ordinary steel means
nobody bleeds.'
As the dignitary smoothed down his ruffled
clothes, and the servants nursed their shocked nerves, the garrison captain
granted them space. He looked down, let them stare as they pleased while he
scrounged after his oil jar.
The interval confirmed his suspicion that
his papers had been disarranged. So had his quill pens, the keep's books, the
ground pigments for inks, and his boxes of spare fletching and broadheads.
Every belonging he kept on the trestle had been callously fingered and moved.
In deflected pique, Mykkael dipped the
cloth and began to attack the rust on his weapon. The white snakeroot fibres
quickly turned colour. To the untutored eye, the stains would appear
indistinguishable from dried blood.
Soon enough, he was gratified by excitable
whispers behind the servants' cupped hands. While the dignitary dared a mincing
step forward and floundered to salvage diplomacy, Mykkael scarcely regretted
the uproar aroused by his ornery leg. Dog-tired, in itching need of a bath, he
allowed his ill humour to ride him. 'Since you didn't come down from the
Highgate for tea, what can the garrison do for you?'
Gold chains flashed as the foreigner peered
down his cosseted nose. Mykkael captured the moment, as the watery, pale eyes
flickered over his person, and dismissed him. The man's shaved, lowland
features showed his transparent thought: that Devall's greater majesty owed no
grace of respect to desert-bred stock, bound by poor fortune to accept the paid
service of an isolate mountain kingdom. Devall's suave overture would be
dutifully delivered, though every word would ring hollow.
'His Highness, for whom I stand as crown
advocate, wished to offer his assistance with the search to find Princess Anja.
Armed men can be spared from his personal retinue, and gold, as need be, to
loosen those tongues you might find reluctant to talk.'
Mykkael raised his eyebrows, his attention
apparently fixed on his work with the sword. 'They'd crawl through the sewers
at my command?'
The advocate stiffened.
The movement snapped Mykkael's head up. His
brown eyes shone like hammered bronze in the excessive flood of the
candlelight. 'Ah, there, don't take affront. Gold braid and velvet won't suit,
I do realize. Why not offer Devall's guardsmen to Taskin?'
Unfazed by the servants' skewering regard,
Mykkael watched, unblinking, while a man who was not thinking civilized words
maintained his mask of state dignity. 'Commander Taskin has been offered
assistance as well. In his Highness's name, I can say that gold braid and
velvet are of trifling concern beside the royal bride's safety.'
'I agree.' Mykkael raised his sword, and
swung towards the nearest candle to sight down the business edge. He set down
the rag, then recovered the whetstone he also used as a paperweight. 'Tell your
prince his generosity has my heartfelt thanks. If Sessalie's garrison requires
his assistance, his men, or his bullion, I will inform him by way of Commander
Taskin.'
Devall's envoy pursed sour lips. 'You don't
care for her Grace's security, outsider?'
Mykkael took his time, primed the whetstone
with oil, then ran it in a ringing hard stroke down the length of his blade.
'King Isendon, her father, cares very much. I work in his name.' Another
stroke; the battered weapon's exceptional temper sang aloud with ungentle
warning. 'Better that his Highness of Devall should be reminded not to forget
that.'
'You were a mercenary, before this,' the
delegate observed in contempt.
'Proud of it,' Mykkael agreed, reasonable.
Proud enough to know, in Sessalie's case, that the keys to a kingdom were not
in his purview to sell. 'Are you done here?'
'Apparently so.' The royal advocate snapped
irritable fingers and rousted his bevy of servants. The industrious one elbowed
his fellow awake. The others rose, yawning and scattering the pillows. As his
indolent retinue assembled about him, the dignitary bestowed a crisp bow, then
gathered his robes and swept out. The ruffle of air stirred up by his exit
streamed the candles, and wafted the sickly sweet odour of hyacinth.
Mykkael swore under his breath with brisk
feeling. Then he braced his left hand on the trestle and pushed himself back to
his feet. He was still snuffing candles when Vensic arrived, bearing a flat
item wrapped in a quilt.
'Come in, the door's open,' Mykkael
snapped, resigned.
'Breached, more like.' The good-natured
officer of the keep cat-footed inside, sniffed once, then grinned in farm-bred
appreciation over the melange of bog reek and perfume. 'You asked for something
from the palace?'
Mykkael turned his head, saw the package
brought up from the wardroom, then nodded. 'A portrait. Her Grace's likeness,
don't handle it carelessly.'
Vensic noted the scattered sheets on the
trestle, frowned, then settled for propping his burden on top of the rumpled
pallet. 'I see now why that dignitary left looking singed.'
'In the hands, or the tongue?' Mykkael
finished his rounds, reached the stool, parked his leg. 'No shame in him,
sadly. Only self-righteous contempt.' Since his fingers were trembling too
severely to light the oil lamp, he was forced to waste, and leave the last
candle burning.
'You should rest,' Vensic suggested in
tentative quiet.
'Not just yet.' Mykkael clamped both hands
on the trestle to stay upright as a cramp wracked his leg and shot fire through
his lower back. The paroxysm subsided. He flipped through his papers, restoring
their order, then paused. His fingertip traced down the list sent by Taskin,
detailing the names of who had passed Highgate from the precinct of the palace.
Prince Kailen's name appeared near the top. The entry beneath had been altered.
Mykkael's questing touch sensed the rough
patch where someone had lifted the script. The name of a servant had been
scribed in the blank, the ink on that line just barely fuzzed by the telltale
hatch of torn fibre. The captain ran a testing thumb over the trestle, and
encountered the trace grit of blotting sand.
That detail niggled. Here in the garrison,
an erasure was more likely to be scraped with a knife, with the ink of an overstrike
left to dry without any civilized niceties.
'Something wrong?' Vensic asked.
'Perhaps.' Mykkael resettled the whetstone
on top of the list. Then he grasped his leg, hauled, and endured the flash of
white pain as he propped the limb straight on the trestle. 'Send for Jedrey. If
he's home, fetch him back.'
After a moment of expansive surprise,
Vensic left on the errand.
Mykkael undid the bone buttons at his calf,
jerked open his cuff, then ploughed his thumbs over the traumatized tissue
knotted above his scarred joint. Given no better remedy, he reached for the
tinned salve. Damn all to the fact he would hear from Jussoud, he had little
choice but to keep himself upright and functional.
The night duty sergeant arrived at the
threshold sooner than he expected. Born above Highgate, Jedrey was not wont to
knock for the sake of a desert-bred's dignity. Still dressed, but not armed,
the lordly man had not shed his grimed surcoat, a sure indication he had been
in the wardroom, and not at home with his wife.
A stickler for propriety, he never
addressed his ranking captain outright, but waited in surly silence.
Mykkael did not look up from his knee,
which appeared to consume his attention. 'From the Middlegate sentry's report,
by your memory, at what hour did Devall's party pass through? Say how many rode
in that company?'
Jedrey scrubbed his chin with the back of
one hand, to a grating scrape of blond stubble. He detested such tests. Yet he
had learned along with the rest to handle the nuisance in his stride. 'The man
serves as crown advocate for Devall's heir apparent. He passed the Middlegate
with six servants in tow, just after his Highness, our Prince Kailen.'
Mykkael smothered his first impulse to look
up. He said, through a grimace as the salve seared his skin, 'They went
together? Be precise, Sergeant.'
'Perhaps.' Jedrey shuffled his feet, barely
able to rein back impertinence. 'Devall's advocate could have stepped back to
allow his Highness due precedence for royal rank. If so, your common-born
sentry might not have recognized the finesse of a well-bred man showing good
manners.'
The predictable note of admonition was
there, for the late, callous handling of the lowlanders who were the captain's
evident betters.
Mykkael stifled laughter, his face kept
deadpan. Adept at keeping snob sergeants in line, he turned a drilling glance
sideways. 'Tell me, how many of that party just left?'
Jedrey flushed, a patched red that made his
blue eyes flash like gemstone. 'I did not count their individual backsides.
They were angry.'
'Better worry quick on your own behalf,
soldier,' Mykkael said with edged quiet. 'I am angry. Inside this keep, off
duty or not, I expect a man to keep his eyes open.'
A pointless exercise, to argue that
Sessalie was not at war; that such vigilance was unnecessary for patrolling
town streets; Jedrey choked back outrage, then found himself off-balanced again
by Mykkael's next clipped question. 'Why are you still here, Sergeant?'
Jedrey succumbed to the prodding at last,
rage couched in his upper-crust accent. 'You should be in bed. You're not.
That's no man's business but yours, don't you think?'
Mykkael mopped the salve off his competent
fingers, one mahogany knuckle at a time. 'I don't have a wife left fretting at
home. That means you had business and purpose, for staying. Under this roof, soldier, you answer to me.'
No man in the keep contradicted that tone.
Jedrey unburdened, his delivery professional. 'Your seeress was found. In the
moat, stone-dead, no mark on her, no foul play.' He curled his lip, his
insolent regard sweeping over his captain's stained surcoat. 'But you knew that
fact already, did you not?'
Mykkael shifted his lamed leg to the floor.
'My swim happened outside the walls,' he said, quite suddenly dangerous.
That gleam, in his eyes, shot chills over
Jedrey. His over-bred arrogance withered. 'The news just came in, this minute.
You sent for me. And I've told you.'
'So you did.' Mykkael's tone was cut glass.
'Since, for self-importance, you delayed the delivery, you can stay on duty and
execute my orders. I want the old woman's body brought here. Get Beyjall, the
apothecary, also the physician who lives at the north corner of Fane Street. Let
them see if the victim was poisoned or drowned.'
'She was piss drunk,' Jedrey stated, stiff
under that peeling reprimand. 'Her heart probably stopped.'
Mykkael shook his head, saddened. 'The old
besom hated and feared open water. Her family knows this. She never went near
the moat, drunk or sober.'
'Foul play?' Jedrey said, his quick temper
dissolved, as it must, to this captain's deft handling.
'I think so.' Mykkael's desert features
were shadowed with pity, and an odd flash of recrimination. 'Powers deliver her
sad, crazy spirit, I think she died very badly.'
'You act as though you killed the old
fool,' Jedrey snapped.
He found himself summarily dismissed, and
departed, brooding upon his captain's fiercely kept silence.
SPRING SUNRISE BROKE OVER THE KINGDOM OF
SESSALIE, THE PEAKED ROOF OF THE PALACE A DIMMED GREY OUTLINE, masked over in
fog. Inside the walled town, the streets lay choked also. The carved eaves of
the houses plinked silvered droplets on to wet cobbles where the slop takers
made rounds with their carts and their singsong chants for collection. If the
seasonal mist shrouding the morning was normal, the spreading word of Princess
Anja's disappearance cast unease like a spreading blight. The lamplighters had
snuffed their wicks and gone home, bearing rumour to garrulous wives. The
taverns that should have been shuttered and closed showed activity behind
steamy casements.
Talk moved apace. Disbelief became shock,
churned to wild speculation as the craftsmen unlocked their shops. Women veiled
in the damp fringe of their shawls clustered in the Falls Gate market, while
the vendors commiserated and shook puzzled heads. There were no eye witnesses. Even
first-hand accounts from the feast yielded no shred of hard fact. No one could
imagine a reason to upset the match between Devall's heir apparent and Princess
Anja.
Least of all his Highness, Prince Kailen,
who reeled in drunken, vociferous bliss up the switched back streets towards
the Highgate. Ribald echoes caromed off the mansions as he was led homewards
astride a palace guardsman's borrowed mount.
The pair, immaculate man-at-arms and
dishevelled prince, passed up the broad avenue, shattering the quiet and
driving the ladies' lapdogs into frenzied yapping on the cushions of their
bowfront windowseats. The procession clopped past the palace entry. It crossed
the bordered gardens of the royal courtyard, where the seneschal awaited, a
wasp-thin silhouette in sober grey, arms folded and slender foot tapping.
'Powers that be!' the prince slurred from
his precarious perch on the horse. 'Why does it always have to be you?'
'Importunate offspring!' the seneschal
huffed under his breath. He steadied the bridle, while Taskin's guardsman
helped the prince down and supported his weaving stance.
The next moment became awkward, as,
knocking elbows, court official and palace man-at-arms exchanged burdens; the
one reclaimed his loaned horse, while the other assumed the jelly-legged burden
of Sessalie's inebriated prince.
Too tall and thin to manage the load
gracefully, the seneschal wrinkled his mournful nose. 'Sorrows upon us, your
Highness. Each day, I thank every power above that your mother never lived to
see this.'
'She's in a better position than you to
make herself heard on that score.' Kailen laughed. His handsome, fair features
tipped up towards the sky, which, to judge by his rollicking sway, appeared to
be wildly spinning. 'At least dead, with her list of queenly virtues, she'd be
more likely to claim the ear of omnipotent divinity.'
But the Seneschal of Sessalie was too old
and lizard-skinned to shock; and Kailen, that moment, was a young man too
dissolute to shame.
The guardsman stayed professionally deadpan
throughout. Bound to deliver the messages he carried from Captain Mykkael of
the garrison, he remounted the moment he received his dismissal and rode off to
make his report.
The seneschal turned Kailen around, then
began the last leg of the journey to haul his charge to the royal apartments.
He puffed, grunting manfully, taxed far beyond his frail build and aged
strength. All his fastidious senses were revolted by the reek of the prince's
clothes - below town smells of urine and stale pipe smoke; boiled onions, trout
stew and dark beer.
'Why, oh why do you do this, your Highness?
Now, more than ever, we need your subjects to see you as your father's
trustworthy son.'
'Need me?' Prince Kailen snorted. 'Need me? Nobody needs me! Only Anja.'
He flung out an arm muscled fit from the tourney, too sodden to notice the woes
of the courtier who sweated and struggled to brace him. 'Find my sister, get
her wed.' He tripped, gasped a curse, then maundered into the seneschal's
longsuffering ear. 'You'll have your coveted sea trade from Devall. My sister
reigns as a wealthy queen over us, and I, her poor relative, steward no more
than Sessalie's dirt-licking farmers.'
'You'll marry one day,' the seneschal
chided, wrestling the prince's incompetent bulk up the first flight of marble
steps. 'Who knows what alliance your betrothed might bring?'
Proceeding in comedic jerks and sharp
stops, the mismatched pair passed the fountain at the arch, and missed falling
in by a hairsbreadth.
'Oh, my intended will wed for a bride gift
of turnips,' said Prince Kailen, morose. 'Who sends the princess of anything here, to marry a king who counts out
his year's tithes in cattle?'
'Just let us get you into the hands of your
valet.' Paused, gasping, the seneschal fumbled to grasp the bell rope, and
summon a footman to open the door. He was tired himself, bone-weary of
Sessalie's thankless, long service. Under damp morning mist, plagued by the
ache of a near sleepless night, he had no ready answer to give to ease Kailen's
maudlin grasp of the truth. 'Only pray your royal sister is found safe from
harm, or she'll marry for turnips as well.'
* * *
At mid-morning, when sunshine struck
through and shredded the mists into snags against the snow-clad peaks,
Commander Taskin had rested and washed. Reclad in a spotless, fresh surcoat, he
sat at his desk in the wardroom gallery, a light breakfast sent by his daughter
reduced to stacked dishes and crumbs. The gold-leafed tray had been pushed
aside. Folded forearms rested upon gleaming marble, Taskin listened to the
guardsman who recited Captain Mykkael's report.
The official version was short and concise,
covering the seeress found drowned in the moat, then the ongoing search for the
flower girl whose petition for augury had coincided with the first unsettled
rumour. Street watch had been increased. Informers were being interviewed. Mykkael
expected results in by noon, along with opinions on the seeress's corpse from a
reliable physician and a Cultwaen-trained apothecary.
The unofficial report ran much longer, and
contained several unsatisfactory gaps.
This shortfall fell at the feet of the
guard now sweating beneath Taskin's scrutiny. Unhappy with his assignment to
Lowergate's keep long before Mykkael's shiftless absence, the weary man
suffered the grilling review, his embarrassed features flushed the same hue as
his blazoned palace surcoat.
Taskin's long, swordsman's fingers were not
sympathetic, tapping in scarcely muffled irritation as he posed his string of
questions. 'You say Myshkael's own
men don't know where he went, though he came back soaked from the moat?'
'Well, the talk says the corpse might have
something -'
Taskin interrupted. 'I don't want hearsay,
or wild rumours from the lips of the disaffected! When I said I wanted that
captain watched, I meant you to mind orders, soldier! I don't give a damn how Myshkael slipped your escort. Understand,
and dead clearly: you failed in your given charge.'
'You don't trust that slinking desert-bred,
either,' surmised the shamed guard.
The rebuke came, keen-edged. 'Trusting the
man is not the same thing as knowing what he's about.'
A door opened, below. Taskin's relentless
attention changed target to assess the arrival crossing his wardroom
downstairs. The guardsman kept discipline, too chastened to risk a glance past
the balcony railing. Faced forward, he made out the patter of slippered feet,
approaching by way of the stairwell.
A gleam of sharp interest lit Taskin's
eyes. 'At least now we're likely to fill in one bit of guesswork raised by your
inept watch.' He grasped the papers stacked to his right, flipped them face
down on his desktop, then weighted the sheaf with the warming brick filched
from under the plate on his breakfast tray. 'Stand aside, soldier, but mind
your deportment. You're not dismissed. My case with you will stay open until
after I've settled the matter at hand.'
The man-at-arms moved, accoutrements
jingling, and took position behind Taskin's shoulder.
Seconds later, the gallery door swung open.
A man in gold braid and maroon livery stepped in with the peremptory
announcement, 'His Highness, the heir apparent of Devall.'
Two more lackeys followed, then a
rumpled-looking dignitary who appeared short on sleep. Next came a pageboy,
groomed and jewelled, his costume topped by a tasselled hat that made him
resemble a lapdog. At his heels, wearing costly black silk trimmed with rubies,
the Prince of Devall stalked in like a panther.
The commander of King Isendon's guard did
not rise, which caused his royal caller a flare of stifled pique. The fact that
no servant had been sent in advance should have said, stark as words, that the
business that brought him was sensitive.
'Your Highness?' said Taskin. 'I regret,
without notice, steps could not be taken to seat you in proper comfort.'
There were no chairs. No fool, the
Commander of the Guard did not volunteer to surrender his own. The High Prince
of Devall swiftly realized he was required to stand, and his dignitary with
him, like any other drill sergeant taken to task on the subordinate's side of
the desk. He met the challenge of that opening play with an unruffled smile,
though his gold eyes showed no amusement.
'I will not apologize for my inconvenience,
your lordship.' The heir apparent snapped his ringed fingers, and a lackey
jumped, removed his velvet mantle, and draped the lush cloth over the railing
that fronted the gallery. There, still smiling, the lowcountry prince sat down.
Throughout, he stayed untouched by the rancour that smoked off his dour court
advocate.
That worthy held to his bristling stance,
his caustic glare fixed upon Sessalie's titled defender. 'We have a complaint.'
he announced, only to find himself cut off by the suave voice of his prince.
'Not a complaint, Lord Taskin. Rather, I
bring you a heartfelt appeal.' Settled without a visible qualm for the
twenty-foot drop at his back, the high prince handled himself with the aplomb
of a sovereign enthroned in his own hall of audience. 'Princess Anja would not
have us at odds over quibbling points of propriety. She is precious to me. This
scandal has already shadowed our wedding. Should I not want her found, and
restored to my side with all speed?'
'Precisely where do we stand at odds, your
Highness?' Taskin steepled his fingers before him, eyes open in unflinching
inquiry.
Rubies flashed to the High Prince of
Devall's deprecating gesture. 'Your response to the crisis has been diligent,
of course.' His handsome face shaded into uncertainty, a reminder that he was
yet a young man, brilliantly accomplished, but with heart and mind still tender
with inexperience. 'I refer to the fact that my help has been rejected at every
turn.'
The dangerous insult, by indirect
implication, that perhaps King Isendon's
daughter had been fickle by design, had no chance to stay hanging between
them. The smouldering advocate snatched at the opening to vent his affront.
'Not simply rejected, my lord commander!'
Chalky, all but trembling, he served up his accusation. 'Your gutter-bred cur
of a garrison captain had the gall to draw naked steel in my presence. I want
him punished! Let him be publicly stripped of his rank for threatening an
accredited royal diplomat.'
'He's owed a stripe, I'll grant you that
much,' Taskin said, unmoved rock, against which hysteria dashed without impact.
'Not in public, however. In Sessalie, a soldier's chastisement is always
determined by closed hearing. Nor will I ask my king to remove the captain from
his post. Myshkael keeps his oath as
a competent officer. Question that, though I warn, if you open that issue, you
had better bring me hard proof.'
'I will not mince words.' The High Prince
of Devall regarded his hands, clasped in jewelled elegance on his knee.
'Captain Myshkael came in from an
unspecified errand, his clothing still wet from the moat. There, we are also
given to understand, the seeress who started the rumour of Anja's disappearance
had been drowned. Her corpse was recovered soon afterwards. Scarcely proof,' he
admitted. His brass-coloured eyes flickered up to meet Taskin straight on.
'Perhaps those events suggest grounds for an inquest, at your discretion, of
course.' His scalding censure suggested that in Devall, no ranking captaincy
was ever made the prize of a public contest at arms.
Throughout, the commander maintained his
taut patience. 'Sessalie's small, remote, and at peace for so long, our
instinct for warring has atrophied. The Lowergate garrison in fact patrols the
streets for thieves and disorderly conduct. An unsavoury pursuit, on our best
days, and the crown's pay for the job is a pittance. Not having strife, without
conquests or prospects for further expansion, we've maintained the summer
tourney as hard training to mature the ambitious younger sons of our nobility.
We have never, before this, attracted any foreigner, far less one approaching
Captain Myshkael's martial prowess.
Believe me, the upset has caused dog pack snarling aplenty, and no small
measure of chagrin.'
'But now Sessalie has a missing princess, a
tragedy also without precedent.' The High Prince of Devall held the commander's
regard, no easy feat even for a man born royal. 'Dare you trust her life that
this is a coincidence?'
Taskin cut to the chase. 'You're asking me
to allow your men leave to lead inquiries below Highgate?'
His Highness eased at once with relief.
'Can that hurt? You would benefit. If your garrison man is innocent, my outside
observation will clear him. I, in my turn, seek relief from helpless worry. I
can't pace the carpet through another sleepless night! Not when we speak of the
princess I would cherish as my wife, an intelligent partner befitted to rule
Devall as a crowned queen at my side. Anja will raise the heir who carries my
rule into the next generation. Her worth to me is beyond all price. Why should
Sessalie stand on ancient pride, and refuse to acknowledge the fact that my
future's at risk?'
'The authority you ask for must come from
the crown,' Taskin said, unequivocal. 'Why did you come here, and not to King
Isendon?'
'Have you seen the press in the audience
hall today?' the prince's delegate broke in, scathing. 'His Majesty has been
closeted with subjects all morning. Everyone from wealthy merchants' hired
muscle to uncultured farmhand's sons - you have the whole countryside
importuning the council for their chance to shoulder the adventure.'
'Princess Anja is beloved.' Taskin allowed.
'Is Devall's crown advocate surprised that Sessalie's people should respond in
heartfelt concern?' He shifted his regard back to the distraught prince, then
made his summary disposition. 'I'll give you one of my royal honour guards with
a writ for Collain Herald. That should advance your Highness's petition to the
head of the line.'
The commander stood, a clear signal the
interview was ended.
Yet his Highness of Devall made no move to
arise. His page exchanged a surreptitious glance with a lackey, and the
advocate stared primly straight ahead.
'What else?' Taskin's frigid question met a
pall of strained quiet.
Then, 'His Highness, Prince Kailen,' the
heir apparent broached. Discomfited enough to have broken his poise, he twisted
the rings on his hands. 'I'm sorry. Bad manners. But Anja is threatened. Her
safety demands forthright speech.'
Taskin's mien softened, almost paternal
with encouragement. 'Say what you've seen. Where lives are at stake, plain
words will do nicely.'
The Prince of Devall quieted his fretful
fingers, then unburdened himself in appeal. 'Kailen went down to a Falls Gate
tavern to make inquiries after his sister. He was still there, and sober, when
the servant I sent to buy wine for my retinue saw him. That meeting occurred
some time after midnight.'
Taskin absorbed this, each item of
testimony set against the report from the rigid-faced guard at his back. The
commander was, if anything, too well informed on the outcome of that
disgraceful affray: Prince Kailen had been plucked from the Cockatrice Tavern
by Mykkael's duty sergeant, making his rounds. The royal person had been turned
over to the palace guard, whence Sessalie's long-suffering seneschal had seen
his Highness to bed.
Devall's heir apparent squared his neat
shoulders, loath to dwell on the indelicacy. 'I realize Kailen likes to prowl
like a tomcat. I also know him as a friend. To speak plainly, he has too much
intelligence for the confines of his station. He acts frivolously because the peace
and isolation here don't grant him any chance to test his wits. Appearances
aside, I would credit his maturity this much. He loves his sister and this
kingdom too well to have drunk himself into a stupor last night.'
'I would have thought so,' Taskin agreed,
even that trifling confidence divulged with a reluctance that crossed his
straight grain. 'On that score, my inquiry is now being delayed. Let me
dispatch an honour guard to see you -'
But the High Prince of Devall raised a
magnanimous palm. 'Spare your guardsmen, commander. I will seek Collain Herald
myself.'
Taskin nodded. In person, the heir apparent
would make himself heard, and receive the king's ear without help. Forced to
acknowledge the young royal's earnestness, he unbent and ushered the contingent
from Devall to the head of the balcony stair.
While the party made their way out through
the wardroom, Taskin watched from the gallery railing. Once the lower door
closed and restored his broached privacy, he addressed the guardsman his orders
had held at attention throughout Devall's interview. 'What do you think, based
on those facts you know?'
The man cleared his throat. 'Facts only? No
one saw where Captain Myshkael went
after he slipped our charge at the Middlegate. Prince Kailen was drunk when I
set him on horseback. Sergeant Stennis had his Highness borne back to the
garrison keep by two men culled from the street watch. No unusual report there
- they'd scooped the prince from the arms of a whore, merry on too much whisky.
The tavern was one of his usual haunts. Nobody mentioned him, sober.'
The commander held his stance, rod-straight
and unspeaking as his survey combed over the vacated wardroom. Reassured that
no bit of armour was out of place, and that each weapon rested keen on its
rack, he attended the unfinished detail at his back with his usual cryptic
handling. 'Very well, soldier. For your incompetence last night, ride down and
find Myshkael, soonest. On my orders,
you'll tell the garrison captain he's to see me in person and address each
point where his report failed to meet my satisfaction.'
Taskin spun and prowled back to his desk,
the buffed braid on his surcoat a scorching gleam of gold, and his censure as
painfully piercing. 'An unnecessary
summons, had you kept your watch, soldier. You'll suffer the fire of that
desert-bred's temper as your due penalty for slacking. If the creature is
contrary or difficult, and he should be, keep your professional bearing in
hand. Your orders stand: make sure the man comes. Recall that I hold the
outstanding matter of the captain's overdue punishment. When Myshkael is finished with making you
miserable, and only after you've brought him to heel through the Highgate, you
can sting his pride with that fact, as you choose.'
'You want him sent into your presence well
nettled?' the guard ventured, then caught Taskin's glare, and leaped in
chastened strides towards the doorway.
The Commander of the Guard subsided behind
his gleaming marble desk. He restored the papers sequestered beneath the brick,
then finished his vexed thought in solitude. 'I'll pressure those war-sharpened
instincts, damned right. The captain will answer me straight, if he's hazed.
Easier to read through an unruly rage, and know whether he might be lying.'
* * *
Mykkael, at that moment, had not answered
the thunderous knock that pounded the door to his quarters.
'He won't trust a lock,' admitted the fresh
young officer standing watch as Vensic's relief. 'No bar, either. The latch
should open without forcing.'
'That's just as well,' Jussoud answered,
'since I dislike having to break things.'
The steppelands-bred foreigner seemed not
to mind, that Highgate orders had assigned him to handle a demeaning round of
service at the garrison. Nor had he asked for a lackey's assistance. His huge
frame was still burdened with his basket of oils, a satchel of strong remedies,
and the round, wooden tub the keep laundress used to wash surcoats. With unruffled
dignity, he nodded to the stable-boys strung out behind, who carried yoked
buckets dipped from the horse trough. 'Open up, lads. We're all going in.'
The ragged boys shrank back in wide-eyed
hesitation, less afraid of the easterner's slant, silver eyes than of the dire
prospect of disrupting the captain's peace.
'Damn you for a pack of cowards, boys!'
snapped the officer to the column, that snaked halfway down the dim stairwell.
'Captain's not in, or quite likely asleep. And no wonder it is, if he's out like
the deaf. Crazy desert-bred hasn't been off his feet for all of three days and
two nights.'
'Easy for you to say.' the head stableboy
sniped as his fellows jostled on to the landing behind him. 'You're not in
front, and anyway, you were off duty the last time a man tried his luck barging
in on the captain.'
Jussoud bared his blunt teeth in a grin.
'He got Mykkael's knife at his throat for presumption?'
The stableboy scowled. 'No knife. No sword,
either. Just the heel of a hand, fast as lightning. Broke the man's nose all
the same. Captain Mykkael didn't waste words, wasn't sorry. "Here's a rag
for the bleeding," he said, "and what did the brainless grunt think
he deserved, for crossing a doorway without taking soldier's precautions."'
'Here's proper precautions.' Jussoud said,
agreeable, and offered the base of the wash tub as a shield.
Moved to awe, the skinny stableboy ducked
inside the massive nomad's protection. At Jussoud's sly urging, he tripped the
latch, and breached Mykkael's guarded privacy.
The captain was asleep, his lean form
sprawled like a tiger's over the blanket that covered his pallet. His sword
harness lay flat, at hand's reach on the mattress beside him. Surcoat, shirt
and trousers were cast off on the floor, the heaped cloth exuding the ripe
odour of bog slime through a lingering fragrance of hyacinth. Stripped down to
his smallclothes, Mykkael had flouted the customs of his forebears and used
fresh water to wash. Even there, field habits had trampled over nicety: the
grime had been sluiced off with a rag and bucket, left standing in the bar of
sunlight that shone through the arrow slit.
Propped at his bare feet, unwrapped, the
princess's portrait regarded him.
Her exquisite likeness struck a note out of
place in that rudely furnished chamber. The lush splendour of the oil paint
glowed: the lucent sparkle in each rendered jewel, and the rich, velvet fall of
her forest-green riding habit set into jarring contrast. Sessalie's court
painter had done the young woman's grace more than justice; had captured the
tilt of her refined chin, triangular as a waif's beneath her netted blonde
hair. The jade eyes all but breathed with inquisitive mischief, the glint that
peeked through her midnight-dark lashes seeming entranced by the subject of
interest - just now, a fighting man's sculpted muscle, disfigured where mishap
and the ravages of war had imprinted a uniformly brown skin.
The boys bearing the buckets stared agog.
Then they elbowed and scrapped to claim the best view, amazed by a breathtaking
display of scars no man born in Sessalie could imagine.
Unfazed, Jussoud set down the awkward
wooden tub. He flipped back his long braid, shed the straps of his satchel and
basket. As though he had ministered to lamed men all his life, he lowered the
tools of his trade to the floor, not arousing a single plink from the glass.
With the unhurried eyes of a healer, he read every sign of a man dropped
prostrate from exhaustion. 'You say your captain has not slept in three days?'
'Near enough,' the duty officer allowed.
'The drunk and disorderly kept our hands full. We've been worked to the bone
every watch, a night-and-day grind since the hour of Devall's arrival. Here,
let me.' He pushed past, insistent. 'I should rightfully be the one to try
waking him.'
Jussoud's huge hand shot out and caught the
officer's shoulder. 'Not this way, you won't. The wrong move with that man
could get us both killed.' Not pleased, as the stableboys burst into giggles,
he took brisk charge and gave orders. 'Set down those buckets. Quietly, mind!
Then I want every one of you down those stairs, quick! Tell the cook to brew me
a cauldron of hot water. After that, get on back to your chores.'
As the boys shed their burdens and bolted,
the nomad steered the duty officer back towards the doorway. 'When the water
boils, you'll bring it, alone. I'll fill the tub and make ready, meanwhile.
Best we let Mykkael sleep while he can. When the time comes, I'll waken him
wisely, from a distance with a tossed pebble.'
FALLEN ASLEEP UNDER THE BLACK-LASHED STARE
OF THE PRINCESS OF SESSALIE'S PORTRAIT, Mykkael lay immersed in thick darkness.
He forgot he still breathed. Hurled beyond mere exhaustion, his clogged senses
felt sealed in a deadening field of black void. The featureless stillness did
not last, but quickened to the unruly prompt of a witch thought. An uncanny
movement twined through his mind and unreeled a ribbon of dream ...
* * *
He
knew her, felt the pounding race of her heart. His awareness flowed into the
well of her most intimate self, until he felt the raw skin of her heels, chafed
to burst blisters through the exertion of her headlong flight. Emotionally
buffeted, he rode the crest of her terror, then shared her mind through a
breathless interval as she snatched shelter in a hidden glen, touched gold
under east-slanting sunlight.
The
moving tableau of her thoughts spun and circled, flinching back from examining
the grievous discovery that had shattered her life like a flung stone. Threat
to Sessalie drove her beyond care for herself. Although sorrow knifed through
her, vivid enough to sap her will to keep living, she battled its cry of
futility. Through the salt sting of tears, and the ache in her chest caused by
hours of running, she laid her head against the sweated neck of the mare who
nuzzled her, begging for sweets.
Throughout,
the horses surrounded her with their inquisitive warmth. Missing their
accustomed ration of grain, they demanded, exploring her with the hay-scented
puffs of their breath.
'You'll
want for nothing,' she soothed, though her voice cracked.
The
horses forgave the actual truth, that she had no such assurance to give. Their
empathic herd sense stood as her mainstay against overwhelming despair. All
three pairs, the horses' innate nobility gave her a gift beyond price: the
generous trust of their confidence. She bespoke them by name to steady herself:
Bryajne, the tall buckskin, who tucked his blunt, hammer head over the refined
crest of Covette. She, a petite chestnut who flaunted the sculpted grace of her
desert breeding; Vashni, the grey who carried on like the stud he was not; and
Fouzette, whose stout forelegs still dribbled blood from a recent plunge
through the briar; Kasminna, who delighted in nipping any creature caught
unsuspecting, and Stormfront, whose dark coat gleamed with a silvery tarnish of
dapples under the glare of the sunlight ...
*
* *
Then the flick of a pebble stung Mykkael's
exposed side. Witch thought and dream shattered like glass, hammered through by
the prompt of blind reflex. From his prone state of oblivious sleep, an
explosion of ingrained physical instincts hurled him half dazed, not yet
wakeful, through the practised response of a consciousness tuned by barqui'ino.
He grabbed and threw in one sinuous move,
his raw senses reacting without the encumbrance of intellect. Sword and harness
flew. Sheathed steel and strap leather scythed with deadly force back along the
pebble's trajectory. The entangling missile slammed into the fast-closing wood
of the door, followed hard by the throwing knife Mykkael always kept at close
reach under his pillow. His schooled body hurtled after. Knuckles clenched and
palms open, he poised the heel of his hand and the bone edge of his forearm to
strike, while his bare skin sampled the flow of the air for the slightest
warning of movement. He would kill by touch, his eyesight centred with absolute
focus on the obstacles that could impede him.
He leaped the filled wash tub, one-footed,
and landed without missing stride. Drill after drill, the brute course of his
training had aligned his primal nerves to respond to what was, not what should be.
Expectations were wrung still. The ferocity that propelled him was a high art:
the unswerving clarity of an existence honed down to the pinpoint frame of the
moment.
Mykkael reached the door, shoulder tucked
to smash planks with a strength of will that ranged beyond flesh and muscle;
and stopped. A hairsbreadth shy of destructive impact, hard breathing, he
rocked on his heels and went still. The cold, feral force of his being became
leashed. The change was distinct, as he released the taut stream of barqui'ino awareness and reclaimed the
dropped thread of his reason.
The panel cracked open. Jussoud's silver
eye dared a cautious glance through, followed by white teeth as he managed a
smile of shaken appreciation. 'Two masters?' he said. 'I'd heard of one man who
could claim that distinction.'
Mykkael pulled in a deep breath to arrest
the jolting flash of adrenaline; his move
almost casual as a sleeper just roused, but far too precise to seem
ordinary, he braced a hand on the doorframe. The fingers, rock steady the
instant before, now jittered with backlash withdrawal. 'To my shame,' he
admitted.
'I could guess?' Jussoud dared. 'The one
who first schooled you was better, in name. But he could not teach the
technique you just used to cut short an entrained attack.'
'Certain steppelanders might suppose that.'
Mykkael stepped back, bent, hissed a breath through shut teeth as he grasped at
his spasmed muscle and tried to limber the seized joint of his knee. When that
effort failed, he uttered a curse, gave in to necessity and hobbled. He raked
up his thrown sword and harness from the floor, and released the jammed swing
of the door panel.
Touched sober, Jussoud stepped inside. The
trailing sleeve of his robe fluttered as he reached out and freed the stuck
knife. He handed the blade back. Then he paused. Cool in the pale silk of his
eastern dress, he provoked with no more than his patient stillness.
Mykkael's sultry glare met his silence like
a slap. 'You want to know, truly? I wouldn't tell Taskin.'
'You don't have to tell me.' Jussoud's
equable nature stayed limpid with calm. 'Your privacy is your own. No one else
needs to know you. I don't give any man orders, whether or not he's hell-bent
to destroy himself, body and mind.'
'I'm a practised survivor.' But the
admission rang bitter. A disjointed backstep saw Mykkael to the wash tub. He
caught the rim, now trembling like hazed game, and managed to brace his rocked
balance before he fell over. Pinned down throughout an obstinate pause, he
stared in fixed quiet through the arrow slit. Then he said, 'A beggar child
wandered into the camp. One of the advanced aspirants was caught unawares. He
reacted on reflex, and brained her.' Mykkael swallowed and stared down at his
hands, as though they belonged to a stranger. 'I could not live with a memory
like that. The shame of abandoning tradition was much easier. I broke oath and
changed masters, left the first without asking permission for release, then spun
lies to gain sworn acceptance with the second. I started again, on false
pretext, as a novice. My first defection was found out, of course. Though I
shared no secrets between the two do'aa,
my name is still sealed with a death threat.'
He turned his head and regarded Jussoud,
his pupils distended and black as sky on a starless night. 'Assassins come
sometimes to strike balance for the dishonour of my broken oath. Either they
die, or I do. There's no ground for compromise. Next time you waken a man with
my history, call him by name before you toss stones. Much safer, that way.
Unless you are addicted to thrill, and like taking an idiot's risk?'
'I was bred from wild stock,' Jussoud
reassured him, smiling.
Mykkael burst into sudden laughter. 'Bright
truth, like a spear point,' he agreed, the idiom taken from Jussoud's birth
tongue. Indeed, every steppes nomad he had ever encountered seemed to court
peril as an insolent pastime.
Embarrassed all at once by an unexpected
intimacy, Mykkael glanced down at the steam that twined off the filled tub.
'You want me in there?'
Before Jussoud's reply, the captain peeled
off his smallclothes. Naked, he made a desertman's sign against sacrilege
before he stepped into the bath. 'That, for a man's urgent impulse to rut, that
bequeaths us the ties to our ancestry.'
Jussoud untied his sash, and hung his silk
robe. Stripped to the waist, he settled to work with his remedies. Immersed in
warmed water, soothed under his skilled hands, Mykkael slept, slack and
trusting as a baby. Later, gently roused and moved to the cot, he listened with
half-lidded eyes as the nomad scolded over the scalds on his skin left by the
beast drover's liniment. He slept again, under Anja's painted eyes, but this
time his dreams brought no nightmares: only the soft burr of curses spoken in
eastern dialect, and the mingled, sweet scent of medicinal oils.
Roused at length by an officer's tap at his
door, the captain lay flat on his back and heard through the brisk list of the
morning's reports. Jussoud tucked his knee into a support wrap of clean linen,
then sewed the ends taut with silk thread. 'No more stupid doctoring with
unguent for camels!' he snapped as he packed up his needle.
Mykkael flicked one finger, curt signal to
excuse his diligent officer. Then he cocked himself up on one elbow, the damp
ends of his hair slicked above the eased muscles of his shoulders. 'Thank you
for your care of me,' he said, his gratitude left unadorned.
Jussoud towelled the excess oil off his
forearms, washed his hands, then recovered his robe and adjusted the fall of
his waist-length braid. 'I'll consider myself thanked if and when you respect
yourself enough to spare that knee from further trauma.'
'What price, for the life of King Isendon's
daughter?' Mykkael stated as he rolled on to his feet.
Jussoud paused, his hands burdened as he
stoppered his oil jars and loaded them back in his basket. 'You know she's in
danger.'
Mykkael nodded, unwilling to divulge the
uncanny chill that witch thoughts had strung through his gut. 'When you see
Taskin to account for my treatment - yes, he gave such orders! Don't insult
that man's competence with denials. When you call on the tyrant to give him
your gleanings, could you pass on the gist of my officer's report?'
Granted the willing assent he expected, Mykkael
pawed into a clothes chest for a fresh pair of breeches and clean shirt. He
dressed, still speaking, despite the discordant clamour of voices arisen in the
downstairs wardroom. 'Relate the details you recall, as you wish. But the particulars
I insist on are these: the Falls Gate seeress was murdered by drowning. The
flower girl who sought her fortune knows nothing. My informers drew blanks. The
streets show no sign of suspect activity.' He moved to the cot, retrieved
mud-crusted boots. 'I have three lines of inquiry yet to pursue, and one more
point I plan to tell Taskin in person. He can expect me. I'll be at the
Highgate to meet him in three hours.'
The argument below subsided to grumbles,
cut by the thump of someone's feet, climbing the inside stairwell.
Mykkael registered this as his fingers
threaded the buckle that fastened his sword harness. Armed, now all business,
he rebounded off his good leg, hooked the satchel of remedies from his path,
and relinquished the obstruction into Jussoud's startled hands.
That forthright flow of urgency saw the
captain through the doorway, a moving flicker of pale shirt doused into the
shadow beyond.
What happened next, no man saw.
Jussoud's more orderly exit followed at Mykkael's
heels. Bearing satchel and basket, the nomad began his descent of the spiral
stair. He gained no more warning than a sigh of stirred air, then an indistinct
sense of blurred movement. At the next step, he blundered into the falling,
limp bulk of a sandy-haired palace guardsman. The wretch was unconscious. His
unstrung frame crashlanded into Jussoud's dumbfounded embrace. The healer
staggered. Half turned to save his precious oil jars from smashing against the
stone wall, he narrowly managed to salvage his balance and sit with the dropped
body sprawled in his arms.
'Jussoud, he's not harmed!' Mykkael assured
him from below. Unrepentant, he spoke in low-voiced eastern dialect, as direct
and brutal an admission of fact that his pre-emptive strike was deliberate.
'I'll have to tell Taskin,' the masseur
warned, also using his native language.
'Your loyalty demands that,' Mykkael
agreed. He stood his ground, all brazen, cold nerve, and sustained Jussoud's
glare without flinching. 'Serve as my witness with the same honesty. You received
my report, and heard out my intentions before this palace guardsman made his
way over my threshold. Please see the fellow is properly cared for. My men
downstairs will assist you. They'll dispatch a litter, as needed, to bear him
in comfort through Highgate.'
Under his healer's questing touch, Jussoud
felt the vigorous signs of an angry victim starting to rouse. 'I will pray to
my gods that you are a man who knows the full measure of trouble you stir.
Little good comes of taunting the tiger.'
Mykkael spun without words. His step in
departure made not a sound, a rare feat for a man who was crippled.
Jussoud sighed. As uneasy as though he had
just sampled poison, he restrained the stunned guardsman's thrashing. He could
not regret leaving the captain at large. No safe method existed to detain Mykkael.
As a killer, the man was chilling, for his speed and his unrivalled competence.
He might be the linchpin the crown required to save Sessalie's princess from
danger. Yet if the contrary proved true: if the desert-bred was a traitor
immersed in a covert conspiracy, the game piece haplessly Caught in his path
must survive to bear Taskin fair warning.
* * *
Prince Kailen suffered his punishing hangover
immersed in his bath, the soaked hair at his nape crushed against the bronze
rim, where he rested his pounding skull. Tendrils of scented steam rose about
him, running sweat in rivulets down a complexion tinged greenish from nausea.
When the crisp knock rattled the chamber door, Kailen whispered a curse. A
crease stitched the corners of his shut eyes. Though he was in a sorry state to
receive, the noise pained him worse than the prospect of unwanted company.
A dispirited flick of his Highness's finger
dispatched his hovering valet.
The manservant deferred to the prince's
condition. He moved on stockinged feet, and admitted the caller with hands that
did their utmost to muffle the strident plink of the latch.
Cool air winnowed in. The draught puckered
Kailen's flushed skin, bearing the fashionable hyacinth perfume used by
Devall's court lackeys.
The Crown Prince of Sessalie decided his
head ached too much to endure any lowlander's penchant for ceremony. 'The heir
apparent of Devall may enter, as he pleases.'
The draught became a breeze as several
bodies filed in.
Kailen cracked open bloodshot eyes. Through
parted lashes, he sorted the blurred but sparkling impression of Devall's
maroon and gold livery. To the one pricked by the costly glimmer of rubies, he
said, 'They haven't found any sign of her, yet. Not even that busy cur of a
desert-bred, though he's got the whole lower garrison scouring the town. All
the inquiries they've run down, every whisper they've culled from the
streetside gossip has drawn nothing but blanks.'
The Prince of Devall looked haggard, as
though he, too, had not slept through the night. Composed by the grace of iron
will and state poise, he inclined his groomed head to request the dismissal of
the valet. 'Might we speak of this privately?'
The fair royal in the bath tub shrugged
streaming shoulders, then winced as his headache rebelled. He said testily,
'What's to hide? Every servant at court knows the details already. The kitchen
maids bring back the lower town gossip on their return from the market.'
'Even so,' said the High Prince of Devall,
his consonants considerately muted. 'My words, and yours, bear more weight than
a commoner's.' He waited, smiling in gracious tolerance, until the red-faced
valet accepted the hint, and bowed himself out of the chamber.
The Crown Prince of Sessalie surveyed his
immaculate counterpart, his inflamed eyes a troubled china blue, and his
clenched fists couched in soap suds. 'That's all I know, in my servant's
hearing, or out of it. Nobody has a clue where my sister has gone, or what fate
may have befallen her. We have no enemies, and no political significance to
draw the interest of other nations. No one could have spirited her away without
trace! Anja's much too resourceful to pack up her nerve and submit. It's not
canny, to suppose she could have been kidnapped. Not in front of the nosy eyes
of Sessalie's inbred society.'
'For myself, I prefer not to stand on
presumption.' The High Prince of Devall gave way to his frustration and paced,
fastidiously skirting the puddles splashed on the marble-tiled floor. 'Lady
Shai is the princess's closest confidante. Some change in habit, or a detail of
Anja's dress or mood may have caught her notice. An astute line of inquiry
might prompt her recall. I wish, very much, to pay a call on her. Yet I need
you along with me to observe propriety, do I not? Since the lady's a maiden,
titled and wealthy, and not yet promised by handfast?'
Given Kailen's enervated sigh, the high
prince's manner turned pejorative. 'You must come as I ask! I will not risk the
least insult to Anja, or lend your court the mistaken impression that I would
flatter another young woman with a visit in private company.'
'As if the sour opinion of Sessalie's
matrons could tarnish Devall's reputation!' Kailen managed a lame grin. 'That's
laughable.'
The heir apparent stopped, his regard
sharpened by a turbulent mix of sympathy and censure. 'Her Grace is your
sister, and the joy of her father's old age. She is also the paragon of wit and
good character I have chosen as our future queen. For my sake, and for the
pride of my realm, you will honour her by maintaining appropriate form.'
'Well then,' Kailen sighed, his puckered
fingers clenched on the tub rim as he arose, streaming soap froth in a cascade
down lean flanks, 'since I'm still too sotted to fasten my buttons, and you've
excused my valet, your servants can kindly assist with my dress.'
* * *
Informally clad in his loose, white shirt,
his sword harness and a labourer's knee-length trousers, Mykkael threaded a
determined course through the late-morning crush in the streets. Though the
thoroughfares under Middlegate were narrow, the traffic parted before him.
Passersby always stared at his back, no matter what hour he passed. Even
lacking his blazoned surcoat, he drew notice, surrounded by fair northern heads
and pale skin.
He met that difference straight on, and
nodded a civil greeting to the matrons out shopping with cloth-covered baskets.
He asked the foot traffic to pause, allowing the straining mules of an ale dray
smooth passage as they toiled uptown. By the public well, he caught the scruff
of a sprinting urchin to spare an aged man with a cane.
The oldster's middle-aged daughter paused
to thank him, then inquired after the princess. Mykkael gave his apology, said
he had no news, then slipped like a moving shadow through the jostling press of
women drawing water from the cistern. He kept a listening ear tuned to the
snatches of talk that surrounded him: the idle speculation on bets for the
summer game of horse wickets; complaints exchanged by servants concerning the
habits of greatfolk; the chatter of young girls on the virtues of suitors; the
irritation of a mother, scolding an unruly child. At random, Mykkael tracked
the patterns of life embedded in Sessalie's populace.
Princess Anja's disappearance spun a
mournful thread though the weave of workaday industry.
Mykkael let that tension thrum across his
tuned instincts. Alert as a predator sounding for prey, he paused to sip a
dipper of water in the shade, and overheard the Middlegate laundresses sharing
news of a lost cat. His dark hand was seen as he hung the tin cup.
'Captain!' someone said, startled. Skirts
swirled back as the women parted to give him space.
Mykkael nodded politely. Like most
sheltered northerners, these folk met his glance with reluctance. If they had
stopped challenging the authority he had never been seen to misuse, their
hidebound tradition would not yet embrace the upset of a foreigner holding crown
rank. Today, his appearance provoked a mixed reaction. While some folk still
eyed him with outright distrust, or turned their shoulders to ward off ill
luck, others met his presence with anguished appeal, as though the looming
threat of a crisis forced them to a grudging trust. Now, his hardened
experience offered them hope, that he might plumb their formless, uncivilized
fears and retrieve their lost princess from jeopardy.
Mykkael surveyed faces, but found nothing
suspicious. No furtive lurker dodged into the shadows. The crowd stayed
innocuous. Nothing more than clean sun warmed the hilt of the longsword
sheathed at his back. Only daylight nicked coloured fire through the women's
drop-glass earrings. To the bold matrons who approached him with questions, he
answered: no, he had no further news of the princess; very sorry.
The captain moved on through the racketing
din of Coopers' Lane, where apprentices pounded iron hoops on to barrels. His
step scattered a racing gaggle of children trying to catch a loose chicken. At
due length, he reached the cool quiet of the gabled houses on Fane Street.
The physician lived on the corner, in a
tidy two-storey dwelling with geraniums under the windows. Mykkael dodged an
errand boy, hiked his strapped knee over the kerb, and chimed the brass bell by
the entry.
A maidservant admitted him with punctilious
courtesy and ushered him into a drawing room that smelled of waxed wood, and
the musty antiquity breathed from the wool of a threadbare Mantlan carpet. Mykkael
stood, rather than risk the pearl-inlaid chairs to the weapon slung from his
harness. Hands linked at ease, he admired the animal figurines of carved ivory,
then the ebony chests brought from the far south, with their corners weighted
with tassels knotted from spun-brass wire.
The physician had been a well-travelled
scholar, before he retired to Sessalie.
He entered as he always did, a plump, pink
man with a myopic blink who moved as though shot from a bow. His clinical stare
measured his visitor's stance, then softened to smiling welcome. 'Mykkael! Your
leg's a bit better, today, is it not?'
The captain gave credit for that with his
usual astringent humour. 'Jussoud's good work, not the bed rest your sawbones
assistant prescribed me.'
'Cafferty meant well,' the physician
apologized. 'That's his way of saying we don't have a curative treatment.' He
glanced down, noticed his dripping hands, and sighed for the oversight that
invariably made him neglect the use of a towel.
'Your seeress drowned,' he ran on, 'though
you know that already. My report would have reached you at daybreak. More
questions? Ask quickly.' He darted a glance sideways. 'I have a client waiting.
A first pregnancy, bless her. She's perched on the stool half unclothed, anxious
and not at all comfortable.'
Mykkael nodded. 'Quick, then. The
apothecary agreed with your evaluation, but also concluded the old woman wasn't
poisoned.'
The physician stopped, caught the nearest
carved chair, then sat down at the glass-topped table and folded his hands. 'Oh
dear. That's not what we expected to hear.' His brow furrowed under the combed
fringe of his hair, gently faded to ginger and salt. 'You now have a vexing
mystery to solve.'
Mykkael raised his eyebrows. 'Say on?'
The plight of his nervous client forgotten,
the physician ticked off points on his fingers. 'She drowned. In the moat.
Lungs were sodden with water tinged green with algae. But she did not fall in
while she was still conscious. She had long nails. None was broken, or
dirt-caked. I saw no evidence that she ever attempted to claw her way up the
bank or cling to the slime-coated rock of the wall.'
'She could not swim?' Mykkael suggested.
'Sometimes panic sends that sort straight down.'
The physician blinked. 'They always
struggle. This one's clothes were not torn or disarrayed. And she swallowed no
water. Drownings do that, as they flounder.' He paused to rub at his temples,
as though the fraught pressure of his fingers might ease the troublesome bent
of his thoughts. 'Her stomach was empty, except for a pauper's dinner of beans
and bread.' Silent a moment, he finally looked up, his mild face taut with
sobriety. 'Captain, I'm loath to be first to suggest this, but -'
Mykkael voiced the horror without
hesitation. 'Sorcerers can steal the mind, I have seen. Their victims are often
reft of intelligence. A woman touched so might fall into the moat. She would
not struggle, or swim, or cry out.'
The stout man at the table heaved an
unhappy sigh. 'She would simply breathe in cold water on reflex, unaware of the
fact as it killed her.'
'Thank you,' said Mykkael. 'I'm sorry to
say you've confirmed my suspicions. At least the crown treasury will compensate
you for the unpleasant service. The keep bursar will deliver your fee, at my
order.'
Pale with distress, the physician stood up.
'Oh dear. You think that mad seeress knew something about the princess's
disappearance?'
'I heard nothing about that, and neither
have you!' Mykkael snapped. 'Where a sorcerer hunts, that is wisest.' On swift
afterthought, he added, 'Does the apothecary suspect?'
'Master Beyjall?' The physician thought
carefully. 'If he does, he stayed close-mouthed about it.'
'The man learned his trade in the Cultwaen
Highlands,' Mykkael said, all at once pressed to urgency. Time fleeted past,
while an unseen enemy moved apace. 'Beyjall should have seen a sorcerer's
workings before this. He likely knows not to speak of such things and seed fear
that might draw arcane notice. Listen to me. If you sense any creeping unease, or have the unsettled feeling you're being
watched, go and ask the apothecary for a candle to burn after dark. If he
doesn't understand what that means, or if he says he can't help, go to my
personal quarters in the keep. Bring him along with you, and both of you stay there
until I come back. Can you do that?'
No coward, the physician straightened stout
shoulders. 'You have my promise. I'll see you out. Wherever you're going, I
wish you bright guidance. I'll say this also. If King Isendon doesn't
appreciate what you risk on behalf of his daughter, I do. We are fortunate to
have you in charge of the garrison. Warded candle or not, I shall pray on my
knees for your safety.'
'Pray on your knees for your own,' Mykkael
snapped, then made his way out to the street.
The physician watched him go,
professionally saddened by the halt in that fluid, athletic step. He stayed by
the door until Mykkael's white shirt rounded the sunlit corner, leaving behind
an uneasy stillness, astringent with the breeze riffling down off the glaciers.
Midday saw the court ladies retired to the Sanctuary
to hold vigil for Princess Anja. The marble-faced building, with its queer,
triangular portals and gold spires, crowned the highest point in the city. From
the pinnacle at the stairhead, the view encompassed the three tiers of the
walls, with the banners over the Highgate streaming like snippets of scarlet
yarn in the breeze. Above, the sky hung like a bowl, the horizon notched by the
serried ramparts of the peaks, dazzling under the sunlight.
'There, do you see them?' Sweating out the
dregs of his binge, his face ashen from the rigorous ascent, Prince Kailen
pointed from his perch on the paw of the stone lion flanking the Sanctuary's
entry. 'Kerries will pluck mountain sheep off the high cliffs. You can tell
where they nest by the middens of bones piled under the ledges.'
Far off, two pairs of black specks circled,
the outstretched curve of their wings delicate as pen strokes in the clear air.
'They don't threaten cattle?' Devall's heir
apparent leaned on the lion's tail, a touch breathless in his neat velvet. His
retinue of servants, strung out below, still laboured to climb the steep stair.
'They can.' Eyes shut, since the stabbing
brilliance played havoc with his pounding hangover, Kailen added, 'For
centuries, the guard's archers fare out every spring to hunt down the fledgling
young. Adults who lair in the close peaks are poisoned. Naught can be done with
the mated pairs flocked in the rookeries over Hell's Chasm. The country's too
rough to clean the nests out, so we'll never be rid of the scourge.'
'No boon to invaders,' the Prince of Devall
observed. He peered into the shadowed interior of the Sanctuary where lighted
candles flickered like stars. 'How long, before your court ladies retire?'
Kailen yawned. 'Not long.' He settled his
broad shoulders against the lion's stone mane in a vain effort to ease his
discomfort. 'The priest and priestess lead the prayers at midnight and noon.
There, can you hear? They are ending the ritual.'
Inside, echoing under the cavernous vault,
a male speaker cried praise to the powers above. Voices murmured in answer.
Then the boys' choir chanted the final verses pleading for intercession. The
singing rang out with a purity to scald human heartstrings, the liquid-glass
harmony braided into the spruce-scented hush of high altitude.
The Prince of Devall inhaled the wafted
perfume of the incense, ringed fingers tapping his knee. While the first of his
puffing lackeys arrived, he bent his hawk's survey downwards. 'Merciful grace!
In such close-knit quarters, how can one woman whose face is well known vanish
without leaving a trace?'
'The king's men will find her. They must!'
Kailen cradled his aching head, the heart of the realm he would one day inherit
spread below like a model in miniature. The sun-washed tableau seemed peaceful
as ever.
Only small details bespoke the grave
trouble slipped in through the well-guarded gates. Taskin's patrols came and
went, double-file rows of neat lancers threading through the carriage traffic
in the broad avenues above Highgate.
In the queen's formal gardens, amid lawns
like set emeralds, two dozen tiny surcoated figures enacted the midday change
of the guard.
The sun, angle shifting, sparkled off the
polished globe of a flag spire. The slate and lead roofs of the palace precinct
dropped in gabled steps downwards, in cool contrast to the terracotta tile of
the merchants' mansions, crowded in rows like boxed gingerbread above the
arched turrets of Middlegate. There, the tree-lined streets ran like seams in
patchwork, jammed by the colours of private house guards helping to search for
the princess. Their industry seethed past the courtyard gardens, scattered like
squares of dropped silk, and stitched with rosettes where the flowering shrubs
adorned the pillared gazebos.
Farthest down, hemmed by the jagged
embrasures of stone battlements, the lower town hugged the slope like a rickle
of frayed burlap, the roofs there a welter of weathered thatch, and craftsmen's
sheds shingled with pine shakes. Mykkael's garrison troops kept their watch on
the outermost walls, the men reduced as toys, bearing pins and needles for
weaponry.
Beyond spread the living panorama that was
Sessalie, a terraced array of grain fields and pastureland carved into the
sides of the vale, joined down the middle by the white tumble of the river. On
the east bank, snagged by the planks of the footbridges, the trade road snaked
towards the lowcountry.
The gong that signalled the close of the
vigil sounded inside the Sanctuary. Devall's laggard retinue scrambled clear of
the stair, while the priest and priestess filed out, bearing the staff with the
triangle representing the trinity. After them, the veiled acolytes bore the
symbolic fire in a golden pan lined with coals.
Prince Kailen clambered down from the
lion's stone leg, astute enough to pay the recessional a semblance of decorous
respect.
Presently the court ladies emerged, the
deep shade of the Sanctuary disgorging the sparkle of jewelled combs as they
slipped off their white veils in the sunlight.
There's Shai.' The crown prince moved in
with athletic grace, despite his wasted condition. He breasted the flower-petal
milling of skirts, bestowing kind words and sincere apologies, while the High
Prince of Devall trailed in his wake, drawing a ripple of admiring glances.
The woman they sought was slender and
retiring, clad in a shimmering bodice of roped pearls and a dress the shade of
spring irises. She had paused by the entry, perhaps to commiserate, surrounded
by a cluster of merchants' wives, who paraded their wealth in a peacock display
of jewels and stylish importance.
For royalty, they gave ground with
flattering speed. Swallowed into the pack, Crown Prince Kailen adroitly
deflected their courteous murmurs of sympathy. 'Pray excuse us, we came to seek
cousin Shai.'
Just as adept, Devall's heir apparent shed
their female fawning with mannered good grace. As Shai turned her head, he
captured her hand, his polished expression attentive and grave as he measured
her burden of grief.
At close quarters, the famous violet eyes
were inflamed, and the lily complexion expertly powdered to mask over traces of
crying.
'Forgive me, Lady Shai,' the High Prince of
Devall apologized. 'Our intrusion is scarcely a kindness, I realize. But is
there a place nearby for us to retire to? Your cousin and I would appreciate
the chance to address you privately.'
Shai touched her trembling fingertips to
her lips. 'Not bad news?' Her eyes brimmed. 'You haven't brought tragic word of
the princess?'
Hemmed in by the close press of women, and
wary of Bertarra's peremptory inquiry from the sidelines, Prince Kailen
interjected, 'Shai, no. We have no ill news. No word at all, in sad fact.
Taskin's men haven't found any trace of my sister.'
That's why we need you.' The High Prince of
Devall shifted his protective grip to Shai's arm and drew her into the shelter
of his company.
Prince Kailen took station on her other
side. 'The Sanctuary has a walled garden nearby, where the priesthood retire
for contemplation.'
'The garden should do nicely. Shall we go?'
The Prince of Devall inclined his head in salute to the hovering ladies. Then
he smiled and moved Shai on through the press by the sovereign grace of his
kindness.
* * *
In dappled shade, soothed by a natural
spring that burbled from the flank of the mountain, the High Prince of Devall
set Shai lightly down. He stood, Prince Kailen beside him, while she arranged
the fall of her skirts over a marble bench. Her small hands flickered with
filigree rings set with moonstone and amethyst. Neat as a doll, she could not
have been more unlike the princess who was her friend and close confidante.
Where Anja was diminutively tough and
outspoken, her frame slim as a boy's from her manic delight in racing King
Isendon's blood horseflesh, Shai was like elegant fine china. She preferred her
petticoats hemmed in thread lace, and her sleeves sewn with embroidered
ribbons.
Once settled, she raised her beautiful
eyes. 'I've already told Taskin everything I know, which is nothing.' She
regarded the princes, her oval face drawn, and her intelligent, domed brow
faintly lined with exasperation. 'Her Grace scarcely spoke to me since your
Highness of Devall's arrival. Whatever thoughts she had on her mind, she had
little opportunity to share them.'
The heir apparent knelt, his face level
with hers. 'Did the princess not seek your opinion concerning the clothes she
would wear for the banquet?'
'Powers, no!' Shai set the back of her hand
to her mouth and stifled a small burst of laughter. 'That's a detail she would
have left to her handmaid. Writing poetry interested her Grace far more than fussing
over her wardrobe.
But even if that had not been the case, you
must realize, she had no time!'
When Devall looked blank, Prince Kailen
propped his back against a nearby beech tree and explained. 'Since our mother
Queen Anjoulie died, my sister has held the keys to the palace.'
'She manages the staff,' Shai went on, the
veil she had worn in the Sanctuary caught up and wrung between her tense
fingers. 'For years, her Grace has made the decisions that run the royal
household. The kitchen defers to her wishes. Visiting royalty meant stock must
be slaughtered, with additional provisions bought in from the countryside, and
perhaps a dozen village girls hired to help handle the chores and the linen.'
The High Prince of Devall absorbed this,
then stated, 'Could such women have insinuated themselves in the palace, then
acted in covert conspiracy?'
'Highness, no! They are no more than
unskilled children.' Shai's tremulous smile came and went as she added, 'The
oldest of them is barely fourteen years of age. The girls make up beds, and
sweep cobwebs from corners the older drudges can't reach. The strongest ones
haul the hot water for the laundresses, and probably stoke the fires under the
cauldrons that scald your evening bath water.'
Prince Kailen agreed that the hirelings
posed Anja no threat. 'The girls are the offspring of farmers known back to the
seventh generation. They don't read or write. I doubt any one of them has
travelled a step past the riverfront market, and Taskin himself runs the
inquiry to make sure they are of good character.'
The heir apparent of Devall frowned and
changed tack. 'What about Princess Anja? Lady Shai, you know her, none better.
Did she show no sign of tension, no change in habits?'
'By glory, you men!' Shai regarded her
paired escort in amazement. 'Princess Anja is madly in love! Every habit she
had has been thrown topsy-turvy, which left every one of us guessing.'
'What about make-up?' the foreign prince
pressed. 'Did her Grace use more powder or eye paint than usual, perhaps to mask
signs of strain?'
'Of course she would, silly! For
excitement, not strain!' Shai dealt the lowcountry prince's wrist a light slap
with her veil, as though he were a dense-witted brother. 'Any maiden offered a
match such as yours would take pains to maintain her best looks. Particularly
her Grace, who never cared if she freckled from too much sun, or scratched her
skin in the brambles.'
The Prince of Devall looked down, perhaps
abashed, his ringed hands clasped in tight anguish. 'I want her back, safe! You
must know, she is dear to me. Scrapes and freckles notwithstanding, I love her
for her sharp wits, and her reckless humour, and for the sterling kindness that
makes Sessalie's people adore her.' He glanced up, his features drawn to
wounded entreaty. 'I could search my whole life and not take a finer woman to
wife, or bring home a stronger queen for my realm. I need Anja because she has
captured my heart, until I could look at no other.'
Shai touched her crushed veil to her lips;
her violet eyes welled with tears. 'Oh, your Highness, I see how you cherish
her. Don't you think I would give anything to restore her Grace to your side?'
Shoulders bowed, she struggled to master her grief. 'Nothing I know could have
caused the princess to leave us. Beyond any doubt, she must be in the hands of
someone who seeks Sessalie's ruin.'
'You didn't notice anything amiss?' Prince
Kailen pleaded, low-voiced and equally desperate. 'Anything, Shai, no matter
how small. That one little detail might hold the clue to safeguard the
princess's life.'
As the maiden shook her head in distress,
the High Prince of Devall entreated, 'Think carefully, lady. You may not be
aware, but last night, one of the palace drudges was found dead, with no mark
on her of natural causes.'
Shai widened filled eyes. 'Mercy on that
poor woman, and upon all of us, for our failure. I've told Taskin I know
nothing again and again!'
Torn raw, Shai appealed to Prince Kailen.
'Your Highness of Sessalie, I scarcely
saw her Grace more than a moment, and only from a distance since the Prince
of Devall rode with his train through our gates! On that hour, the princess was
giddy, even breathless with excitement. I swear by every bright power above, she
could not have suspected the least shadow of danger. She had but one thought,
one dream, on her mind. That guiding star was the name of his Highness of
Devall, who came to lay claim to her hand!'
'That's quite enough!' cracked an intrusive
aged voice. 'Your Highnesses, yes! Both of you.' A stick-thin old matron
invaded the grotto, fierce carriage as upright as any commander laying into
brash recruits.
'The Duchess of Phail,' Prince Kailen
murmured, a wry curve to his lips. 'Don't let her fool you. She's a treasure
with steel principles, and an unbending penchant for kindness. Used to rescue
the frogs I brought home in my pockets, and box the ears of the pages if she
caught them at bullying spiders.'
The elderly woman bore in, her
porcelain-fine frame stiff with outrage. 'Can't you rude brutes see a thing
with young eyes? Lady Shai is already devastated. Your badgering questions just
add to her heartbreak without helping the princess one bit.'
'Lady Phail, we are going,' Prince Kailen
said, his hands raised in abject surrender. 'Trust me, we respect Lady Shai and
have no desire to savage her feelings.'
Lady Phail gave a snort through her
patrician nose. 'Well, that broth of tears has already been spilled!'
Her disgusted glance measured one prince,
then the other, as though she debated which of the pair most deserved to be
thrashed with her cane. In the end, Shai's distress put an end to debate, inept
male minds not being wont to give ground for any wise woman's sensibilities.
Lady Phail ploughed straight on past,
clasped her frail arms over the weeping woman's bowed shoulders, and delivered
a glare like a lioness.
'Get along, boys! You're making things that
much worse with your gawping.'
Hazed past the finesse of his lowcountry
manners, the High Prince of Devall bowed and beat a retreat. Kailen, no fool,
snatched his sleeve as he turned, and deflected his course down a bypath that
wound through the shrubbery. The tactic was timely. Past the screening of leaves,
a bouquet of coloured silk flashed in the midday sunshine. Bertarra's carping
rose loudest over the chorus as the other court ladies descended to console
Lady Shai.
The heir apparent of Devall glanced over
his shoulder in bemused appreciation. 'Your sister rules that shark pack of
harpies?'
'Oh, yes.' Kailen grinned. 'With all of our
mother's cast-iron charm.' As though his sore head had begun to relent, his
blue eyes brightened with fond memory. 'Bertarra's scared green of her.'
'Well, I see how your sister acquired her
strong will.' Broken out of the fringing border of evergreen, the Prince of
Devall approached the stone arch leading back to the sanctuary courtyard.
'We're no closer to finding where Anja might be.'
'Well, you've satisfied one point,' said
Kailen, dispirited. 'Lady Shai doesn't know anything.'
'That,' said the high prince, 'or else
she's a consummate actress.'
'Lady
Shai?' Prince Kailen glanced sideways in unbridled surprise. 'She's
intelligent, and no fool. But she's never dissembled, not once in her life.'
The gate's shadow fell over them. Gloom
darkened the heir apparent's maroon velvet to black, and muted the shine of his
rubies and gold studs. His profile, trained forward, showed no expression.
'The suspicion's unfounded,' insisted the
crown prince.
'When my sister played pranks, it was
always Shai's face that got her Grace into trouble.'
'Not this time, to our sorrow.' The heir
apparent of Devall stalked towards the steep stair and began his descent, his
fierce steps ringing on the carved granite. 'You do realize, I will find her
Grace, no matter the means or the cost.
If an enemy has marked her out for a target, I shall not rest until they are
smoked out. Your realm's honour and mine are as one in this matter. As Devall's
High Prince, I promise this much: when we catch the man who has dared to lay
hands on my beloved, I will see him sentenced to the ugliest death allotted by
law in my realm.'
* * *
By the change in the watch, Commander
Taskin had questioned the wine steward's boys and ascertained that none had
seen the sorcerer's mark on the broom closet. The bottled vintage brought
upstairs for the feast had been fetched in the late afternoon the day prior. No
one but the drudge who swept and mopped tables had occasion to visit the cellars
during the evening. The old woman who was dead of an unknown cause, since the
king's most learned physician had encountered no proof of a poisoning.
The patrols ridden out to search by the
river had lamed a good horse, finding nothing. By now, any trail would be
chopped to muck, since the seneschal's move to involve the crown council had
posted an official note of reward. Brash adventurers from all walks of life
scoured the brush, and talk of a scandal ran rampant. Princess Anja's plight
was bandied by drunks in the taverns, while half of the Middlegate merchants
tied black streamers to their doors, given over to premature mourning.
Taskin, short of sleep, weighed out his
next options. He dreaded to face another interview with the king, with nothing
conclusive in hand. The prospect of forcing a house-to-house search raised his
temper to an edge that his officers knew not to cross. They shouldered the
orders he saw fit to dispatch, and assigned men to the tasks without grumbling.
Jussoud sensed the subdued atmosphere in
the palace wardroom upon his delayed return from his morning call at the
garrison. The commander, he learned, had sent the day sergeant to grill the
gate watch for the third time.
'Bright powers, they saw nothing,' the
wizened old servant who polished the parade armour confided. Evidently the
gallery above was not occupied, which loosened his garrulous tongue. He spat on
his rag, dipped up more grit, and talked, while the helm in his hands acquired
the high shine expected of guards in the palace precinct. 'Last night was a
botch-up. All those carriages, coming and going, filled with greatfolk, and
each one with their grooms and footmen and lackeys? Can't keep tight security
on the occasion of a royal feast. Anybody forewarned and determined could have
slipped in through Highgate unremarked.'
Jussoud set down his burden of remedies,
hot and out of sorts from his uphill trek through unusually crowded streets.
'Where can I find the commander?'
'Himself?' The servant returned a glance,
bird-bright with sympathy. 'He's up the east tower with Dedorth's seeing glass.
You think you're going up there?' The oldster pursed his lips in a silent
whistle. 'Brave man. Tread softly, you hear? Last I saw, our commander was in a
fit state to spit nails.'
* * *
Dedorth's glass, at that moment, was
trained on the fine figures cut by two princes, descending the steep avenue of
stairs leading down from the Sanctuary. Taskin addressed the officer who stood
in attendance without shifting his eye from his vantage. 'I want a watch set to
guard Lady Shai. Also get two more reliable men and assign them to stay with
the crown prince. Right now, soldier! As you go, tell the sergeant at large in
the wardroom I plan to be down directly.'
'My lord.' The officer strode off down the
steep, spiralled stair, armour scraping the stone wall as he gripped the worn
handrail. His footsteps, descending, faded with distance, then subsided to a
whisper of echoes.
Alone in the observatory's stifling heat,
as the noon sun beat on the bronze cupola, Taskin swung the seeing glass on its
tripod stand. Its cut circle of view swooped over the alpine meadows, then the
scrub forests that clothed the rock pinnacles under the glare of the snow line.
He scanned the folds of the glens, then the deep, tumbled dells with the
leaping, white streamers of waterfalls. Deer moved at their browsing, tails
switching flies; hunting peregrines traced their lazy spirals on outstretched
slate wings. A mother bear drowsed near her gambolling cubs. Of human activity,
he found none.
The trade road, repeatedly quartered, had
yielded nothing out of the ordinary, and Dedorth, closely questioned, had been
little use, immersed through the night in his vacuous habit of stargazing. The
old scholar had not learned of the upset at court until his sleepy servant had
fetched up his breakfast at sunrise.
By then, Princess Anja had been over ten
hours gone.
Taskin laced frustrated fingers over the
bronze tube of the glass. His circling thoughts yielded no fresh ideas; only
rammed headlong against his enraging helplessness. Accustomed to direct action,
and to successes accomplished through competence, the Commander of the Guard
chafed himself raw. Scores of men at his fingertips, and an open note on the
king's treasury, and yet, he could
find no lead, no clear-cut outlet to pursue.
King Isendon's anguish tore at the heart.
Taskin fumed, empty-handed, stung to empathy each time he encountered his own
daughter, secure with his grandchild at home. Never before this had the quiet
realm of Sessalie been rocked to the frightening rim of instability. The very
foundation underpinning his life seemed transformed overnight to the tremulous
fragility of cobwebs. Nor had the gossip of merchants and farmwives ever
carried such a poisonous overtone of potentially treasonous threat.
The bitter sense gnawed him that he
dispatched the king's horsemen over black ice, with no point of access to plumb
the deep current that endangered the firm ground under their feet.
'Powers!' Taskin whispered, prisoned by the
close air, with its bookish must of dried ink and unswept cobwebs, 'let me not
fail in my duty to Isendon, to keep his two offspring from harm.'
Far below, the latch on the outer door
clanged. A deliberate tread entered the stairwell. Taskin marked the step as
Jussoud's, the muted slap of woven rush sandals distinct from the hobnailed
soles of his guardsmen.
Loath to be caught in maudlin
vulnerability, the commander spun the glass and reviewed the vigilance of the
garrison watch on the crenels of the lower battlements. He found no man slack
at his post, under Mykkael, which lent him no target upon which to vent his
trapped anger when Jussoud reached the observatory.
Unmoving, his attention still trained
through the glass, Taskin opened at once with a reprimand. 'You are late, by
two hours.'
Jussoud leaned on the door jamb, his empty
hands clasped. His reply held slight breathlessness from his climb, but no
surprised note of rancour. 'If you've been at the glass since the midday gong,
you'll have seen the press, above Middlegate.'
'I need not see, to imagine,' Taskin
answered, now stubbornly combing the warren of streets by the Falls Gate. 'The
seneschal's been very busy, all morning, setting stamps upon royal
requisitions.'
'So I observed,' said Jussoud. 'Every man
with a grand-sire's rusty sword is abroad, seeking reward gold and adventure.
They'll be clouding your evidence.'
'If we had any,' Taskin snapped, suddenly
tired of watching the anthill seethe of the commons. 'Two leads, both of them
slipped through our fingers. A dead drudge and a drowned seeress. The loose
talk claims Myshkael killed them. Did
you listen?'
'To what purpose?' Jussoud sighed. 'Could
his talents enable a sorcerer's work? I don't know. Logic argues the
desert-bred's not such a fool. Capable of setting a death bane, or not, why
should a man with his training strike to kill in a way that would cause a
sensation? As for the seeress, he had been in the moat. I saw his damp clothes
cast off on the floor where he left them. For a murderer who supposedly drowned
an old woman, he had taken no trouble to hide the incriminating evidence.'
Taskin lifted his head, his regard no less
ruthlessly focused as he abandoned the seeing glass. 'Myshkael's true to his oath to the crown, you believe.'
'If I had to set trust in surface
appearances,' Jussoud admitted, reluctant, 'the debate could be carried both
ways.'
'I sent down a lancer to bring the man in.
He is also delayed, by now well beyond the grace of a plausible excuse.' Taskin
straightened, all business. 'Do you know what became of him?'
Jussoud stared back, his grey eyes
unblinking. 'He waylaid Mykkael in a darkened stairwell.'
'Fool.' The commander's long fingers
tightened on the seeing glass, sole sign of his inward distress. 'He's alive to
regret?'
The healer nodded. 'Unharmed, and unmarked,
in fact. Mykkael stopped him cold with a blow that stunned the nerves that
govern involuntary reflex. Then he used direct pressure and cut off the blood
flow through the arteries to the brain
only long enough to drop your guardsman unconscious. I find that sort of
efficiency chilling, a precision far beyond any nightmare I could imagine.'
'Barqui'ino
drill alters the synapses of the mind.' Taskin stepped back, leaned against the
stone wall, while the pigeons cooed in liquid murmurs from their roosts in the
eaves overhead. 'Then you've seen this desertman use skills that can kill, and
leave no telltale bruise on the corpse.'
Jussoud said nothing. His sallow skin shone
with sweat in the spilled glare of sun off the sills of the casements.
'Where is my guardsman?' Taskin said, his
probe delicate.
'On his feet, under orders, as far as I
know still searching the town for the captain.' Reliant on trust earned through
years of intelligent service, Jussoud dared a tacit rebuke. 'Shaken as your
guard was, and exhausted after a night of rigorous duty, he was more afraid to
return empty-handed. His search at this point will scarcely bear fruit. Mykkael
left the garrison, masked under your officer's purloined cloak. The garment was
found later, draped over the drawbridge railing. Even the keep gate watch could
not say where the captain went, or what he pursued on his errands.'
Taskin grimaced. 'I'll have that guard
recalled. How many more men should I send to accomplish the charge of fetching
Myshkael uptown for review?'
'None.' Jussoud absorbed the commander's
surprise, unsmiling. 'You won't have to collect Mykkael, even if his
stiff-necked pride would allow it. The captain asked me to deliver his report
from the garrison, and to add, he will meet you himself at the Highgate. You
can expect him in person by mid-afternoon.'
The older campaigner's silvered brows rose.
'How arrogant of the upstart, to dictate to me. What facts has he chosen to
deliver, meanwhile?'
Jussoud recited, choosing Mykkael's own
words, and clipped sentences that did not elaborate. The close details he had
overheard from the garrison's watch officer shed no more useful light on the
knotted problems at hand.
'Nothing and nothing,' Taskin snapped, eyes
shut through the pause as he gathered himself. His ascetic face looked suddenly
drawn against its lean framework of bone. Then his eggshell lids opened. Direct
as forged steel, he said. 'So much for bare facts. Now say what you think.'
Prepared for that command, Jussoud
nonetheless chose his honest words with reluctance. 'I think Mykkael knows, or
is hardset in pursuit of firm evidence that will reveal the fate that's
befallen her Grace. He said she's endangered. Not why or how. I'd hazard two
guesses. That he's loyal, but has a strong reason not to trust where he shares
his information. Or else he's involved with an ugly conspiracy, and doing a
magnificent job for the party that wants to obstruct us.'
Taskin nodded, relieved, his respect for
the healer grown to the stature he would have accorded a peer. 'We aren't wont
to warm to a man of his breeding. The court gossip condemns him. His background
checks clean, but he was a hired sword and a mercenary. He might have been
commissioned a long time in advance, and sent here to win his key position
through the opening of our summer tourney.'
'He is a weapon, well sharpened to
spearhead whatever cause buys his service,' Jussoud agreed in blunt summary.
'He could be the best chance we have to find Princess Anja, or he might be the
cipher to cast Sessalie to the wolves that would tear her succession asunder.'
A fraught moment later, he braved the soft inquiry, 'Will you leave the man
free, or restrain him?'
'I don't know,' Taskin answered, his trim
shoulders set to withstand an unprecedented burden of uncertainty. 'You're an
astute judge of character, Jussoud. What do you feel this case merits?'
The commander watched, primed and sharp as
a predator, and captured the nomad's split-second hesitation. 'Ah, Jussoud, you
have doubts.'
The easterner sighed. 'Just one. Not
substantial.' Mykkael had not said
his own hand had killed a child; but the flicker of fear that had crossed his
dark face well suggested the chance that he might have.
'No need to elaborate,' Taskin excused. 'As
always, your thoughts and mine seem to move in lock step. I value that, even
if, with this desert-bred, the waters are dangerously clouded.'
'Then what will you do?' Jussoud asked,
well aware he might not receive a straight answer.
Yet Taskin chose to share his rare
confidence. 'Let's first see if Captain Myshkael
keeps his promised appointment at Highgate. If he comes in by free will, I plan
to hear him. Should he have sound reasons for today's behaviour, I'll wait to
see whether he chooses to disclose information I can use. The facts he delivers
to my discretion had better hold value and substance. Once those hurdles are
crossed, last of all, I must weigh the manner in which he answers to justly
earned punishment.'
At Jussoud's wary glance, Taskin said,
starkly grim, 'Oh yes, I will have to take that risk, won't I? The brazen
creature has made sure he'll be tested. I have no choice but to handle him now that three counts lie against him,
with only one of them mine, for an act of direct insubordination. He's incurred
a diplomatic insult, formally registered, that for the realm's honour, I cannot
ignore. You've just witnessed the third, a far more serious charge of striking
a crown guard in obstruction of a royal duty.'
'Bright powers avert!' Jussoud warned. 'I
respect your prowess, my lord, and your sound grasp of command, but I've also
seen Mykkael in action. Do you actually know he can kill you, that fast, on the strength of an
ingrained reflex?'
Taskin drew in a shuddering breath. 'I
doubt my imagination falls short on that score. But Princess Anja's survival
may come to rely on this southern barbarian's raw instincts. Either he's our
best hope to recover her, alive, or he's a loose bolt of lightning, too deadly
for any man's hand to restrain. If he's too volatile to bide under a crown
soldier's discipline, loyal or not, we can't risk such a weapon among us.'
As
the sun's rays slanted through the early afternoon, she huddled in the dank
gloom of a rock cave. The tied horses rested with closed eyes and cocked hips.
Chilled and exhausted, she snatched sleep in catnaps. Yet each time she
drifted, fear stabbed her awake, sweating from the recurrent nightmare: of
familiar faces tirelessly hunting her, their changed eyes ice-hard with cruelty
...
The garrison sentry on watch by the Falls
Gate scarcely sensed the whisper-light step at his back. Before he could turn,
or set hand to his weapon, a small, furry bundle arrived on his shoulder, its
sharp claws digging for balance.
The startled man-at-arms closed one hand on
the scruff of what proved to be a young cat. Then he realized just who had
crept up behind him. 'Captain!'
Mykkael flashed a smile from under the
penitent's mantle that covered him from head to foot. He had been to the
butcher's, to judge by the fly-swarming contents of the osier basket slung from
one casual hand. 'Have that kitten sent up to the Middlegate watch officer,
along with my updated orders, could you please?'
By now accustomed to the odd ways in which
the captain saw fit to assert his command, the sentry secured the unsettled
creature thrust into his grasp: a nondescript tabby with white paws and pink
nose, sadly bedraggled, but bearing a braided cloth collar. 'Someone's lost
darling?'
Mykkael nodded. 'Belongs to the little girl
who lives on Spring Street, the house with blue shutters and stone walls
smothered in grapevine.' He kept himself masked in the shadow of the keep, out
of sight of the carters who jockeyed their drays past the foot traffic on the
planked drawbridge. Through the cries of the vendors peddling grilled sausage,
and the hoots of two sotted roisterers, he added, 'Tell the child not to let
her pet wander again. I found him in the hands of the rat killer's boys.'
'Powers!' swore the guardsman, correctly
faced straight ahead. 'I thought you'd ordered a stop to their cruelty?' Before
Mykkael's tenure, such boys had trapped stray cats in the alleys, and lamed the
poor wretches for rodent bait.
'As of today, those boys have received
their last warning.' The captain's face hardened beneath the coarse hood. 'If
they persist with their mishandling of animals, here's my updated word: the
next offenders will be culled with a warrant. See that the change gets through
to my sergeants.'
The guardsman on duty returned a clipped
nod.
'Now,' Mykkael resumed, brought around to
the business assigned to the watch by the Falls Gate. 'You have the information
I wanted?'
The man's answer was prompt. 'The recent
list of the seeress's clients, or at least the ones that her family recalls?
The descriptions are scant. No one could agree on the numbers.'
'I don't care if the details were mixed
up.' Mykkael measured the sun angle, his cloaked stance touched to scalding
impatience. 'Report.'
The guard understood what his pay share was
worth. He delivered the paltry summation. 'The old besom hosted a wide range of
visitors, most of them commons who came to buy charms for luck in love, or
talismans for prosperity and safeguard. Yesterday's list included five to eight
merchant women from the Middlegate, all of whom came to her heavily veiled.
Beyjall the apothecary visited once, perhaps to ask for a scrying. He often
sought readings to locate rare herbs, but since the granddame kept her sessions
private, the family can't swear the presumption in this case was accurate. They
all remembered the page from the palace. He came, they said, in a craftsman's
rough smock. But his shoes were a rich boy's castoffs.'
Mykkael's question slapped back, fast as
ricochet. 'When?'
Taken aback by a stare of driving
intensity, the guard breathed an inward sigh of relief that he was prepared
with an answer. 'Two days ago. The night of the High Prince of Devall's
arrival.'
'Well done. That will do.' Mykkael adjusted
the hang of his sword blade beneath his voluminous mantle, a sure sign he had
concluded the interview and now made ready to depart.
'Anything else, Captain?' Given a negative
gesture from beneath the enveloping hood, the guardsman cast a distasteful
glance over the clotted offal heaped in the basket. 'You're off on some errand
outside the gates? Surely you aren't taking
that as a gift to feed the blind storyteller who begs by the crossroad
market?'
Mykkael tapped his chest, where he had a
second wrapped packet stowed, beyond easy reach of the lower town's scourge of
street thieves. 'The scraps are intended for somebody else. I'll be back in an
hour, two at the latest. Tell your duty officer to have a saddled horse
waiting, I expect to be in a hurry.'
* * *
Asleep in the sun after quartering the
hills through most of the night with a hangover, old Benj the poacher stirred
to the jab of a toe in his ribs. The sawing snore that rattled his throat
transformed to a grunt of displeasure.
'Benj!' screeched a female voice that
wrought havoc with his sore head. 'Benj, you damned layabout, wake up.'
The carping as usual belonged to the wife,
shrill as a rusted gate hinge. The toe, which dug in with nailing persuasion and
unleashed the fireburst of a pressed nerve, was no woman's. Benj shut his slack
mouth on a curse. Aware enough to interpret the delirious yap of his dogs, he
answered without opening his eyes. 'The only trail that matched your
description runs into the western ranges. Six horses, led by a slight person
who wore lightweight shoes, with soles stitched by a quality cobbler.'
'Benj, you rude wastrel, get up!' The wife
caught his limp wrist with a grip like steel pincers and hauled. Her brute
effort toppled him sideways off the kennel barrel currently used as his
backrest. 'Benj, at the least, you can hold conversation within doors, like a
civilized man of the house.'
'I'm not civilized,' the poacher protested.
He opened bloodshot grey eyes, peered through his oat-straw frizzle of hair,
then winced as the sunlight stabbed into the lingering throb of his hangover.
To the cloaked desert-bred who crouched, feeding guts to his fawning hound
pack, he appealed, 'I can talk just as well lying down. We don't need to go
anywhere, do we?'
'In fact, we do.' Teeth flashed in the
captain's face, though his grin showed no shred of apology. 'I'm a bit pressed,
and would bless the favour if your woman could heat up a cauldron and boil a
slab of raw beef.'
'You don't intend to feed a good cut to
those dogs!' the woman yelped in shocked horror.
Mykkael laughed. 'Evidently not, since the
thought seems to threaten you with a stroke! Here, let me.' He tossed the last
gobbet from the basket, wiped his smeared hands on the grass, then replaced the
wife's grip upon Benj's slack arm with a muscular pull that hoisted the lanky
man upright. 'Come on, my fine fellow.' He braced the poacher's wobbling frame
and steered a determined course through the dog piles dotting the yard. 'You'll
be more comfortable inside, anyway, since those beef scraps will draw clouds of
flies.'
The mismatched pair trooped into the house,
the wife clucking behind, concerned for her rugs and her furnishings. Yet Benj
arrived without mishap in his favourite seat by the hearth. Perched on the
threadbare, patchworked cushion, he scowled at his feet, perplexed by the fact
that the old nag had not forced Mykkael to pause and remove his caked boots at
the threshold.
While the woman bustled to hook the
cauldron over the hob, the poacher nestled his thin shoulders against the
ladderback chair.
Mykkael sat on the settle. At home enough
to push back his hood, he washed the suet and blood from his hands in the basin
fetched by the poacher's tongue-tied little daughter. He did not press with
questions. A rare man for respect, he stifled his need and waited for Benj to
order his thoughts.
As always, that tactful handling caused the
poacher to give without stint.
'Your quarry's holed up quite high in the
hills. As you asked, we did not haze or close in. Just followed the trail from
a distance. Good thing you forced me to start tracking last night. With every
damn fool out there beating the riverbank, not even my dogs could unriddle the
hash that's left of the scent.'
As though the report were as ordinary as
the drone of the bees outside in the melon patch, Mykkael surrendered his
packet of meat for the wife to stew over the fire. 'No one noticed you? No
crown riders picked up on your back trail?'
Benj shook his head, cleared his throat,
then demanded, 'Does a guest get no tea or hospitality in this house?' Before
the wife could draw breath and sass back, he answered the captain's question.
'No one's wiser. I left my son in the hills, keeping watch. He will lay down
fresh deer scent to turn any dogs, as you asked. If the searchers come near,
he'll divert them.'
Mykkael released a deep sigh in relief.
'Benj, you're a hero.' While the wife scoffed at the untoward praise, the
captain accepted the buttered bread set out by the towheaded daughter. He broke
the hard crust between his scarred fingers, then raised eyes grown suddenly
piercing. 'Listen to me, Benj. This business is dangerous, more than I ever
imagined last night.'
The wife snorted again, bent to poke up the
coals. 'Huh. What else is new? Benj has lived with the threat of the noose all
his life, and damn all to sate his taste for the king's summer venison.'
But the captain shook his head, the bread
chunk between his deft hands all at once a forgotten afterthought. 'No, Mirag,
believe me. A hangman's rope would be merciful beside the perils that stalk
Sessalie's princess.' His edged words cut the quiet like fine, killing steel
swathed out of sight under satin. Without warning, his lean figure seemed set
out of place, a jarring wrong note amid the fragrance of sweetfern brought in
by her husband's jaunt through the brambles.
The small daughter retreated and clung to
her mother's flax skirts. Mirag folded the child into a wordless embrace, and
regarded the creature who ate bread on her settle, his poised calm transformed
to a predator's stillness, a heartbeat removed from raw violence.
Mykkael made no effort to dismiss the fresh
fear blown in like a chill wind between them. 'Already, two people have died
for far less than your husband knows now. Keep your family at home. Talk to no
one. Leave your son in the hills, under cover, and for your life's sake, hold
to the very letter of my directions.'
'So long as I can sleep off the whisky
that's pounding my brain to a pulp,' Benj said, wise enough to pretend to
complacence before the wide eyes of his child. He tipped back his head, hands
laced in his lap. 'That boy on the run, that's made off with the horses? He's
somehow involved with the fate of the princess?'
'Her life may depend on what happens to
him,' Mykkael admitted, unflinching.
Benj nodded, satisfied. 'Then I'll be here,
for when you have need of me.'
By the time the water boiled, he was out
cold and snoring. Mykkael snacked on bread and honeyed tea while his meat
cooked, and Mirag badgered him to part with a chunk to enrich her stewpot for
supper. The girlchild slipped out to play with the dogs, while Benj twitched in
whisky-soaked dreams. Mykkael sat in thought, the odd finger tapping, while
time fleeted past, and the sun slanted gold through the shutters.
'Meat's cooked almost through,' Mirag said
at last. Since she had successfully cadged the best portion, she helpfully
wrapped the remainder in yesterday's bread heels, then tied up the package with
cheesecloth.
Mykkael arose. He extracted a filled purse
from under his cloak and solemnly exchanged bundles. 'Here's compensation for
the burst shutter, and the fee for Benj's tracking. There's more added on to
cover additional service. Mirag, listen clearly. The coin stays in your hands
until I send you word, do you hear? No drink for Benj. Keep him home and cold
sober, with the dogs close at hand on their chains. I'll come back tonight with
instructions.'
This once, the shrewd matron hesitated
before she tucked the silver away under the lid of her milk crock. 'Captain,
the danger to us has always walked with the power of your crown authority. I
won't see my man hang for coursing royal game. Promise me this! Whatever happens,
though you face your own downfall, you won't expose Benj's name, or say that he
had any part in this.'
Mykkael pulled up his hood. 'I doubt that
King Isendon would value a few deer above the murderers your Benj has helped
the garrison bring back to justice.'
But the poacher's wife remained adamant.
'Captain, your promise! For my son's interference with Taskin's lancers alone,
we could all lose our heads for crown treason.'
Sober now, sharply aware the woman before
him was trembling, Mykkael reached out and gathered her clasped hands. 'You are
brave as a tigress, and for that, on my honour: there is no act of treason in
safeguarding the king's daughter's life.'
When Mirag's fear did not settle, Mykkael
bowed his head briefly. Then he laid the chapped skin of her knuckles against
the sword belt slung over his heart. 'Madam, hear my oath. No man in Sessalie
knows your husband has ever worked with me in liaison. Nor will they, I swear
by the blood and the breath that keep the life in my body.'
* * *
The Seneschal of Sessalie received no
warning beyond the desperate string of entreaties from Collain Herald, outside.
Made aware he confronted an imminent invasion, but given no chance to order the
scatter of state documents under his hand, he turned his head, lips pursed in
harried forbearance. Then the latch tripped. The door to the chamber reserved
for the king's private consultation wrenched open with a force that snuffed all
the candles.
Bertarra charged in, turquoise skirts
spread like sails, and her round face flushed with agitation. 'Guards, guards,
guards, guards!' she burst out. 'Can't step an inch without tripping over the
boots on their blundering feet.' Unabashed by the presence of four more
men-at-arms posted by Taskin's select order, she marched hellbent towards the
table where the seneschal marshalled the sheets of the afternoon's sensitive
business.
'A waste of crown effort, guarding the barn
door after the stock has been stolen,' the late queen's niece ranted on. 'I've
counted a dozen or more brutes standing idle who ought to be outside the gates,
scouring the countryside for kidnappers.'
The seneschal knew when not to waste his
breath, arguing. He pushed up the spectacles slipped down his beaked nose,
while the lady rocked into a belated curtsey before the chair that supported
the king.
She addressed him at an ear-splitting
shout: 'Your Majesty!'
Fortunate among men, King Isendon kept
snoring, his eggshell-frail head tipped backwards against the throne's
tasselled headrest. A bead of drool clung to his ruffled state collar. The thin
hands on the chair stayed motionless, the sparkle of rings frozen still as
jewellery set on a corpse.
The realm's seneschal fell back on
longsuffering patience. 'Lady Bertarra, as you see, the day's trying events
have left King Isendon overcome.'
The court matron narrowed her blue eyes and
peered at the slackened face of her sovereign. 'His Majesty's fallen witless
again?'
'Fast asleep, lady.' The seneschal sighed.
'He was wakeful, last night, fretting over the fate of his daughter. If you
care to entrust me to deliver your message, I'll try to address his Majesty on
your behalf when he wakens, if he is lucid.'
Bertarra sniffed, the jutted flash of her
diamond combs lending emphasis to her disdain. 'No need to speak. Just give him
this.' She uncurled the arm tucked over her bosom and slapped a rolled
parchment on to the tabletop. Then, her errand accomplished, she spun and
marched back towards the doorway.
At the threshold, she was jammed on her
thundering course by the inbound arrival of Taskin. Fast on his feet, the
commander nipped past her without snaring himself in her acres of ribboned
petticoats. Before Bertarra regaled him with carping, he caught her plump elbow
in a steering grasp, and murmured a gracious good afternoon as he backed her
bulk clear of the chamber. Then his neat, swordsman's reflex closed the door in
her blustering face.
Leaned back on the latch, one imperious
boot heel wedged to jam the shut panel, he ignored the pounding commotion that
ensued on the opposite side. His steely glance first raked over the king, then
settled in nailing regard on the seneschal. 'You look like a pulped rag. Isn't
Prince Kailen fit to relieve you?'
The seneschal poked up his spectacles
again, and peered down the pinched flange of his nostrils. 'His Highness is
closeted with the Prince of Devall, a wise enough choice, for the moment.'
Taskin folded his arms, a curt snap of his
head indicating the rumpus that shuddered the wood at his back. 'What pearl of
wisdom did Bertarra deliver?'
'Let's see.' The seneschal unfurled the
parchment with fussy precision. 'A petition, signed by prominent court ladies
and a select circle of merchants' wives. They send an appeal for a royal writ,
demanding Captain Myshkael's arrest.'
A blink of myopic, watery eyes was hard followed by the accusatory tap of a
finger. 'You know the talk brands the man as a murderer.'
'Talk is not proof,' Taskin stated. The
assault on the door at his back stopped abruptly, replaced by a furious
screech. The commander laid a testing palm flat on the panel, too wise to shift
his braced weight prematurely. 'She's broken a thumbnail, or bent one of her
rings. Care to speculate which? We could wager.'
But the seneschal declined the diversion.
'We have a woman dead of a sorcerer's mark. Such a horror has never happened in
Sessalie. The people are demanding to know what's been done in response.'
Tired himself, Taskin looked hackled. 'I
don't arrest anyone for the clamour raised by hysterical servants. Nor will I
act on the demand of an outcry that's fuelled by unfounded gossip.'
The seneschal squared off in earnest.
'Well, this particular document cannot be taken as hearsay.' He lifted a
parchment from the welter of papers, one bearing an imposing wax seal and
ribbons in Devall's crown colours.
'Diplomatic complaint, for Captain Myshkael's misbehaviour?' Taskin pushed
erect. His clipped signal summoned one of his guards to stand by the doorway in
case the Lady Bertarra renewed her attempt at forced entry. 'I know about that
one. It's being addressed. Be assured that my own hand will administer the
punishment. Its severity will justifiably
match the offence. This concerns an offender under my right to remand into
discipline. Not even for Devall will I subject a man to the lash without weighing
his word on the matter beforehand.'
'What about this, then?' The seneschal
passed across another state document, also set under Devall's royal seal. The
writ underneath framed a formal request to King Isendon, asking grant for the
High Prince's honour guard to exercise autonomous authority to conduct a
private search for Princess Anja.
Taskin glanced at the king, still asleep,
his circlet tipped askew over hanks of thinned hair, and his wristbones poked
like bleached sticks from the glitter of his elaborately embroidered sleeve
cuffs.
Sorrow and regret softened the response the
commander returned to the seneschal. 'Lord Shaillon, don't set Sessalie's seal
to Devall's request, not just yet. At least hold off until after I've had the
chance to question the Captain of the Garrison. Although you hold the man in
contempt, Myshkael may have had a
sound reason for drawing his steel on the high prince's advocate.'
'No reason can excuse a rank breach of
manners,' the seneschal fumed. 'Let me remind you, the official your
desert-bred cur has insulted is an accredited royal ambassador! The wrist-slap
penalty you're proposing is child's play! In Devall, by law, for the same
offence, the wretch would lose his right hand.'
Taskin contained the quick flash of his
temper. 'I'll remember, some time, to show you a man whose back bears healed
scars from the whip. No pretty sight, I assure you, Lord Shaillon, with the
sensible benefit that afterwards, the soldier can still bear arms in the
kingdom's defence!'
'We speak of an outlander,' the seneschal
bristled. 'Not one of our own, but a mongrel of low background, and
questionable habits. Since when do we
look to a desert-bred's brawling to conduct our affairs of state? How dare you suggest such a creature should
taint a decision concerning a prince who stands to become our pledged ally,
joined to our kingdom by the kin ties of wedlock!'
Yet even for royal protocol, Taskin refused
to back down. 'Captain Myshkael is a
red-blooded man, invested by oath, and in service as one of Sessalie's crown
officers.'
'A mistake we should rectify. Should have
done so, and long since. Shame on us all, that a penniless adventurer should be
allowed to take rank advantage of the opportunity presented by our summer
tourney. We cannot afford to risk a misjudgement. Not when the man might be the
paid agent for some unknown enemy's plotting.' As Taskin took umbrage, the
seneschal raised a stabbing finger and ranted straight on. 'We are faced with a
crisis! At the least, such a foreigner ought to be set aside under lock and
key. He must be removed from his post at the garrison, and a trusted man set in
his place.'
'Fury and rhetoric will not grant Devall
your endorsement, Lord Shaillon.' Taskin's gaze flicked past the seneschal's
shoulder, towards the sovereign slumped in the state chair. 'The command to
discharge Myshkael must arise from the hand of King Isendon himself.'
'A mumbling dodderer who drools in his
sleep,' huffed the seneschal. 'When his Majesty wakens, confused, be sure I
shall get the permission I need to set Sessalie's seal on these edicts. I'll
have others drawn up in sensible language that will take steps to protect our
security.'
Taskin gave back a wolfish smile, his posture
held at smart attention.
'But I'm not asleep,' interjected King
Isendon. 'Nor am I drifting, just at the moment.' He straightened his trembling
shoulders, imperious, and snapped his fingers sharp as a whip crack. 'Give over
those documents held in dispute. Yes. Set them in Taskin's hands. I leave the
matter of Devall's complaints in his charge to address as he sees fit.' The
damp, weary eyes tracked the seneschal's sullen capitulation until the
requisite papers changed hands.
'That will do, Shaillon,' said the king,
dismissing all argument.
'Commander,' he continued, 'you have
mentioned a forthcoming inquiry over the conduct of Captain Myshkael? That is well. Treat with him
fairly. If he brings any news of my daughter from the garrison, I expect an
immediate audience.'
Taskin bowed. 'Your Majesty.' He tucked the
state documents under his arm. By the time he turned in smart strides towards
the doorway, the king's gaze had already lost focus.
The seneschal surged at the commander's
heels in a bothered flutter of velvets. Ever determined to snatch the last
word, he found his officious presence impeded by four immaculate crown
guardsmen.
'Bertarra is right.' he snapped under his
breath. 'All these sentries are a nuisance in the royal chamber.'
'Necessary, every man of them,' Taskin
retorted as he breezed on his way down the corridor. 'King Isendon's safety is
my bailiwick, Seneschal, and no subject for you or Sessalie's chancellors to
lay open to mauling debate.'
* * *
The crossroads market outside the town wall
was a noisy, sprawling event that bloomed on a patch of packed earth with each
dawn, and melted away every sundown. The throng of itinerant pedlars,
freebooting hucksters and farmwives who traded the odd head of livestock held
no crown licence to sell. Too shiftless to maintain a stall in the town, they
simply gathered and spread out their wares, or pounded in stakes for their
picket lines. The result clogged the verge where the trade road met the cart
track which snaked down from the alpine vales.
The regulars hunkered under rickety
awnings, an ill-fashioned jumble of pegged burlap and canvas that fluttered and
snapped in the breeze. Packs of raggedy children screamed and ran wild, through
the singsong patter of the hawkers. On fair days, the blind beggar who told
stories spread his blanket under the shade of the ancient oak that also,
infrequently, served as the royal gallows. The dented tin bowl he set out for
coppers always sat on the plank where the hangman's stair mounted the scaffold.
The hour, by then, approached
mid-afternoon. Slanting sun fell like ruled brass through the branches. The odd
scattered dollop licked the head and shoulders of the man in the hooded
penitent's robe. He sat, one leg crossed and the other extended, in the dust at
the storyteller's feet. The pair of them shared companionable talk, and a meal
of bread crusts and boiled beef.
'Ah, then it's horses, now?' the beggar
said, his rich voice slipped into the broad Trakish dialect learned from his
mother in childhood. 'You're wanting to bet? That was the hot topic, rightly
enough, until this sad tale of the princess overshadowed all else.' Paused for
a sigh, he rubbed grease from his fingers, then recovered his dauntless, sly
smile. 'Do you fancy the races, or maybe the outstanding team for the match of
steed wickets next month?'
'Perhaps both, maybe neither,' said Mykkael
in the same tongue. He folded the last slice of meat in a bread chunk, and laid
the offering into the storyteller's outstretched palm. 'If I wanted to locate
an animal of a certain description, perhaps to inquire if it was for sale, who
would be likely to know where to look?'
'A rascal.' Moved to bursting laughter, the
storyteller turned his face, sightless eyes bound with a scarlet rag to keep
his affliction from upsetting the children. 'Vangyar, the horse thief, could
answer your question. Knows every creature with hooves in this valley, and
speaks like a breeder's textbook. Won't be so easy for you to approach him.'
The beggar rapped the scaffold post at his back. 'Crown law sends his sort to
dance with the rope.'
Mykkael shrugged. 'I don't know of any man
or woman in Sessalie who is forced to steal out of hunger.' Hands clasped over
his tucked-up knee, he waited until the beggar stopped chewing before he
finished his thought. 'I'm seeking a horse with particular markings, not
pursuing a writ for arrest.'
'Fair enough.' The storyteller dusted
crumbs from his lap. 'Vangyar often drinks at the Bull Trough, by Falls Gate.
One of the girls there's his favourite. If you can corner him, he'll know your
horse. But I'll lay your king's silver against one of my tales, you don't catch
him to pitch the first question.'
'Oh, you're on.' The garrison captain
grinned under his hood. 'But I'll need a forthright description to have a fair
shot at the take.'
'From a blind man? That's a joke.' But the
storyteller delivered from the stock of detail he was wont to pick up from
overhearing stray talk.
Mykkael listened, his sharpened gaze caught
by the sudden moil of activity that swirled through the gaggle of potters, the
stacks of grass basketry and the hunched cluster of women who laced oat straw
into cheap pallets.
When a shout punctuated that burst of
disturbed movement, the captain uncoiled to his feet. 'My friend, we have a
sealed wager between us. For now, I regret, I must leave you.'
The beggar returned a companionable nod,
content to resume spinning tales from his dusty blanket.
Mykkael strode downhill. With brisk hands,
he peeled off the penitent's robe and flagged down the man from the garrison,
just reined in from a gallop, and towing a second mount on a lead rein.
'Captain! Thank the powers that be, the
gate watch said you might be here.' Sergeant Cade spun his snorting, bald-faced
gelding, and tossed Mykkael the bridle of the riderless grey.
'What's amiss?' Mykkael settled the reins
and vaulted astride without touching the stirrup. Wheeled back towards the
town, he heard out his sergeant's breathless report.
'Physician from Fane Street's showed up at
the keep. They've got him in your private quarters, you asked that?'
'I sent him.' Mykkael pressed the horse
from a walk to a canter, then dug in his heels for more speed. 'Only one man?
The apothecary's not with him?'
Sergeant Cade spurred his lathered mount to
keep pace. 'The apothecary's dead, and your physician's not coherent. No one's
been able to get him calmed down to explain how the tragedy happened.'
Mykkael swore. His face drained to a queer,
greyish pallor, a precedent no man from the garrison had seen through any prior
disaster. 'No help for the setback, I'm going to be late for my promised
appointment with Taskin.' He hammered his dappled horse to a gallop, still
shouting his fast-paced instructions. 'Go through the Falls Gate, pick up a
task squad of eight men. I want the apothecary's house sealed off. No one goes
in, do you hear me? No matter what seems to have happened inside, I want nothing disturbed by the ignorant.'
'Too late for that.' the sergeant yelled
back, his words breathlessly pitched over the rolling thunder of hooves.
'There's been a small fire. Burned like merry hell. No brigade dumping water
could douse it. Went out by itself, finally, and left an unnatural, smoking
crater that destroyed the back wall of the house.'
'Get the bucket brigade out.' Mykkael leaned
over his mount's wind-whipped mane, still urgently snapping directions. 'Take a
list of their names. Round up each one. Force them to step through the smoke of
a cedar bonfire, then bathe head to foot in salt water.'
Sergeant Cade stared. 'Have you gone mad?'
The cost of pure salt, this far inland, was extortionate.
'No, soldier. Forget about questions. Just
follow my plainspoken order!' Mykkael balanced his horse, then changed its lead
to sweep right at the moat and take the main road through the Lowergate. 'I'm
off to the keep to settle the physician and secure his immediate safety. If you
can, dispatch a rider to Highgate. Tell Taskin I'll be delayed.'
'Done, Captain.' Cade veered his mount and
set off.
Mykkael urged the grey underneath him still
faster, railing at fate in snatched curses. Beyjall's sudden death carried
damnable timing. The chance was slim to nonexistent that a message passed
through the watch at the Falls Gate could be relayed uptown in time to defer
Taskin's rendezvous. Mykkael resigned himself. The reprimand he would earn for
the lapse seemed hellhound to become an ordeal of savage unpleasantness.
HOT, SOAKED IN SWEAT, MYKKAEL FORCED HIS
GAME KNEE AT A RUN UP THE KEEP STAIR, THEN BURST THROUGH the door to his
quarters. He swept the chamber with one raking glance and fixed on the forlorn
figure perched on the edge of his pallet.
Sadly rumpled, the physician slumped in his
shirtsleeves. He looked like a fluffed robin blown in by a storm, elbows set on
his knees, and hands pressed to his brow.
The scuff of the captain's lame step
aroused him. He bounded upright with a cry, palms raised in startlement. Behind
the skewed glass of his spectacles, his china-blue eyes were dilated to black
from the adrenaline jolt of his terror.
Mykkael stepped back. Checked to thoughtful
calm, he tipped his head past the lintel and directed a shout down the
stairwell. 'Vensic! Send one of the armourer's boys up here at once with a
torch!'
Relief suffused the physician's blanched
face. 'Light of deliverance!' he gasped, all but sobbing. 'On my soul, now I
know you're not one of them.' His wobbling knees gave way all at once. Dropped
back to his seat on the captain's coarse blankets, he rushed on in breathless
hysteria. 'At least, the word goes that most sorcerers' minions will avoid the
sight of a natural fire.'
'Some will flinch from an unshielded
flame,' Mykkael agreed. He watched with the fixated stare of a lynx, his wary
hands poised at his sides. 'Except for the oldest, and most powerful. But even
ones bound to the dark arts for centuries can't abide the smoke from green
cedar.' Cued by the tap of the boy's running footstep crossing the landing
downstairs, the captain spun and moved back past the threshold. He returned in
an eye blink, a lit torch in hand, which he touched to the frond of cut
evergreen, stashed out of sight on his hurried way in.
Smoke billowed as twigs and needles
ignited. 'Forgive me,' Mykkael snapped, as the resinous fumes caught the
draught. The scented blue smoke billowed up in a cloud and wafted over the
rattled physician. 'I had to make certain you carried no taint.'
'No bother at all,' croaked the neat little
man, lightly coughing. 'Precautions are nothing but rock-hard good sense. Dear
me. Until now, I thought Sessalie lay too far north to be threatened by demonic
plotting and craftwork. That's why I chose to retire here. Very peaceful.' But
horror had shattered his idyllic complacency. He trembled to realize that his
days of tranquil practice might be for ever undone.
While the cedar smoke thinned in the breeze
through the arrow slit, the physician removed his fogged spectacles. He buffed
the glass with a limp handkerchief pulled from his waistcoat pocket. Shaky
fingers restored the wire frames. Behind thick lenses, his bright, blinking
gaze tracked the desert-bred captain, each move. Mykkael doused the torch. Then
he crouched by his pallet to drag out a strongbox tucked underneath. The lock
had no key, but worked through a puzzle array of brass levers fashioned by
artisans from the far east.
'You seem to possess an impressive
experience,' the physician observed at due length. 'That's most reassuring.
I suppose, in your past, you were probably
hired to fight in a sorcerers' war?'
Mykkael nodded, terse, head bent and hands
busy sorting the contents of his opened coffer. 'Against the Sushagos, yes, and
after them, Quidjen and Rathtet.'
'You fought against Rathtet?' The physician dropped his crushed linen,
startled. 'I didn't know any defenders had survived that unspeakable
bloodbath.'
'Very few,' Mykkael said, his voice cranked
and tight. 'A miserable, unfortunate few.'
'Oh dear. Not a subject you like to dwell
on, I see.' The tactful pause lingered, while the physician recovered his
dropped handkerchief. He was a worldly man, informed well enough to know that
mercenaries steered clear of countries invaded by sorcerers. Lavish pay lured
only the brashest young fools. The ones who signed on were quick to regret.
Spellcraft could inflict worse than ruinous losses. Scarred veterans,
returning, were wont to avoid a repeat of their wretched mistake.
Mostly, such conflicts levied trained
troops from the far south, where skilled viziers could grant them defences.
Aware his repeat record of paid service was unusual enough to seem suspect, Mykkael
gave a short explanation. 'My contracts were arranged by a barqui'ino master, who considered high risk and extreme danger to
be part of an aspirant's training. The eastern despots always hired. Paid
swords were preferred, even prized for their use in covert reconnaissance. The
ones who fell into enemy hands couldn't be tortured to spill secrets they
didn't know to begin with.'
'Yes, I see that.' The physician huddled
into his sweat-dampened shirt. 'You would have been valued for that sort of
work, dark-skinned as you are, and facile with your gift of languages.'
Mykkael straightened up, bearing a worn
leather sack with a drawstring. He fished inside, and withdrew a grimy copper
disc strung on a scraped length of rawhide. The thong had been cut more than
once, and rejoined. Three mismatched knots interrupted its contiguous length.
'Here,' said the captain. 'Wear this for protection.'
The physician gave the token his dubious
inspection. Under verdigris tarnish, the wafer of metal had been finely scored
with overlaid circles, interlocked through a series of triangles. The leather
looped through it was darkened with stains, faintly rancid with a dried rime of
sweat. 'What is it? These are bloodstains?'
'Talisman,' Mykkael answered, 'a potent
charm, fashioned to guard against the assault of cold-struck sorcery.' He had
his fingers thrust deep in the sack, apparently counting the contents. 'These
were made for the foot troops who fought Rathtet.' Confronted by the
physician's masked shudder, he said in offhand reassurance, 'Yes, they're still
potent, dried blood notwithstanding. The men who wore these died of arrows.'
His inventory complete, Mykkael closed the
drawstrings, then tied the sack on to his belt. 'Don't change the knots. They
were ritually done to protect against theft and mishap.'
As the physician's unease progressed to
reluctance, the captain stepped close, lifted the artefact from the man's shaken
grasp and slipped the thong over his head. 'There. Relax, now. You're safe.
Wear that talisman next to your skin, and don't take it off when you wash.'
Mykkael stepped back. The physician watched
with mollified eyes as the captain eased his game leg on the stool beside the
plank trestle. The keep officer had left a pitcher of cold water on a tray. Mykkael
poured, not troubled by the lesser scars on his arms as he offered the
terracotta mug. 'Drink?'
The physician refused, still afflicted by
over-strung nerves.
Mykkael sucked down a deep draught for
himself. 'Now,' he said calmly. 'Tell me what happened to Beyjall.'
The little physician's poise crumbled
utterly. 'I didn't see much,' he confessed. Shaking hands clasped, he cleared
his throat, and manfully started explaining. 'When I finished the last of my
morning appointments, I went round to ask for a candle. Not that I needed one.
I hadn't sensed trouble. But better, I thought, to apply for the remedy before
the onset of first symptoms.' He trailed off, his dough face flushed to
crimson.
'Go on,' Mykkael urged. 'What's done is
over.'
The physician braced up, his eyes glassy
with recall. 'When I arrived at the apothecary's shop, the door was ajar. That
was not usual. He liked to have customers let themselves in. But when I mounted
the steps, the front room was empty. The iron-strapped door to the stillroom
was closed, a surprise, since the place appeared open for business. That's when
I first realized something was wrong. I called Beyjall's name. When he failed
to appear, I looked closer. Scribed on the plaster beside the door's lintel, I
encountered what looked like a sorcerer's mark.'
The narrative ground to a painful halt. Mykkael
waited, stone-patient.
'Glory preserve us,' the physician gasped.
'You know how it feels to encounter pure evil?'
'I know,' Mykkael answered. Just that;
nothing more.
The physician shook his head, shivering.
'Powers forgive me, I ran in blind panic.'
'Well you should have,' Mykkael said with
bracing force. 'Such craftmarks are volatile and unspeakably dangerous!'
The physician huddled, forlorn on the
pallet, unable to shake off his misery. 'Dear me, to my sorrow, so I have seen.
Those voracious, unnatural flames,
and the smell - one doesn't forget.' He swallowed, then mustered frayed nerves
and faced the garrison captain straight on. 'The apothecary was alive, and most
likely locked in. He must have realized someone had entered. I heard his cries,
and his pounding as he begged for help to escape.'
Mykkael showed the wretched survivor
nothing but sympathy. 'You came straight here?'
'Directly.' The physician dabbed moisture
from behind his fogged lenses. 'Captain, I hoped you might know what to do.'
Mykkael paused through a dreadful, brief
silence, run through by awareness that his men from the garrison had responded; the squad that had
rushed to the apothecary's rescue had shouldered that lost cause in disastrous
ignorance. By the narrowest margin, they had missed being swept to their deaths
in the explosive first conflagration.
Only the choking press in the streets and
the gift of blind luck had preserved them.
At uneasy length, the captain said gently,
'Beyjall died, very horribly. You couldn't have helped him. Nor could I, had I
been present. That mark you saw was pre-set to ignite within a matter of
seconds. You are more lucky than you know to be here at the keep, safe and
breathing. Caught out of his depth, let me tell you, Doctor, the wisest man
first saves himself.'
The physician braced up. Sound sense
notwithstanding, his torn heart would take more convincing. 'Poor Beyjall. You
believe he was murdered because of the drowned seeress we examined?'
Mykkael shook his head. 'Not entirely, no.
I think he was killed for his knowledge. Just as she was. They were the two
people in this placid realm who were first to notice the works of a sorcerer
afoot.'
'Dear me.' The physician blinked, his prim,
worried glance on the captain. 'The unnatural creature might strike at you
next.'
'I expect that he will.' Mykkael drank the
last of his water and stood. 'You'll be all right? One of my men will escort
you home, and stay to keep watch at your doorway.'
The physician rose also, and hooked up his
crushed jacket. His bobbing stride trailed the captain's lamed move to depart.
'Will he carry a talisman like the one you gave me?'
Mykkael stopped. He turned his head, the
tigerish glint in his almond-dark eyes crushed out by the force of his pity. 'I
don't have enough of them to go around.'
The physician sucked a breath, raised to
chilled understanding. 'Thank you for that honesty. I can manage well enough on
my own. Heaven preserve us! What a sorrowful thing, that such evil should
invade these quiet mountains and stake out a foothold in Sessalie.'
'My task,' snapped Mykkael, 'is to see such
power thwarted. You'll go home with my man-at-arms as your escort, and sleep
with him guarding your doorstep. On your way, would you stop on an errand for
me? You knew the apothecary better than most. Someone must pay a call and
inform Beyjall's widow the crown will pay for his funeral.'
* * *
Eight centuries past, one of Sessalie's
queens had desired a rooftop garden. She had grown sunflowers to feed gleaning
birds, and shared their winged company through hours of contemplation. The king
who was her great-grandson added topiary, and an array of formal flowerbeds,
which, years later, the kitchen staff claimed to grow herbs under glass for
winter seasoning. No one recalled which subsequent sovereign had added the
turrets, and planted the first of the trees.
By Isendon's reign, the oaks had grown
ancient, their gnarled trunks halfway fused with the stonework that vaulted the
entry. A confection of wicker tables and chairs scattered under the shaded
branches now became the afternoon refuge for Sessalie's ranking courtiers. Just
now the primary occupants were royal, Crown Prince Kailen and the heir apparent
of Devall, attended as usual by the deferent circle of his liveried retinue.
Only the saturnine advocate was absent, dispatched on an unspecified errand.
On the table, banked in a bowl of shaved
ice, a serving of strawberries sweetened their conversation. The Prince of
Devall had asked for red wine. The gold tray held a bottle of the famed cloud
grape, just emptied. Another one had been opened to breathe, when the seneschal
arrived, puffing from his three-storey ascent from the council hall.
'My Lord Shaillon, you look as tried by the
day's frustrations as any man on two feet,' greeted Devall's heir apparent, his
dauntless good cheer a brave effort to lift the elderly statesman's flagged
spirits.
Prince Kailen sighed and pushed back the
blond hair tumbled over his forehead. 'Still no word on my sister.'
The seneschal nodded, exhausted beyond
platitudes.
Too polished to show disappointment,
Devall's heir apparent lifted the bottle, selected a clean goblet from the
tray, then poured in a dollop, and swirled it. 'Sit, my good man. You're just
in time. We needed someone with a fresh palate to taste this superlative vintage.'
The seneschal drew out a chair and perched
like a mournful sparrow. Polite to the bone, he accepted the wine, then cast a
frowning glance on the emptied glass next to Prince Kailen. 'His Highness ought
not to be drinking after last night's indulgence.'
Devall's heir apparent smiled with sheepish
charm. 'The lapse is my fault. I can't be truly sorry. Your kingdom produces
exceptional wines. Bereft of my bride, who can blame me for seeking such
exquisitely seductive consolation?'
Sessalie's seneschal tasted the sample,
then nodded his reserved approval. While the Prince of Devall filled his goblet
in earnest, he asserted, 'A wine haze won't help Princess Anja's recovery.'
'No.' Kailen murmured. 'But it does dull
the ache.' He bunched up his napkin, wiped the dregs from his glass, then slid
it forward, inviting a refill.
The foreign prince complied, then set down
the bottle. His tapered fingers still nursing the goblet that stood all but
untouched before him, he broached softly, 'What news of my current petitions to
King Isendon?'
'They have not been refused outright.' But
the seneschal's braced posture suggested an edge of stonewalled exasperation.
'I could wish the issue had been handled differently.'
'Why don't you address my documents of
appeal and their outcomes one at a time?' suggested the Prince of Devall.
'The diplomatic complaint cannot be
ignored. There will be a punishment extracted. However,' the seneschal
qualified stiffly, 'the garrison captain who enacted the offence will be dealt
with by military discipline.'
'That means Commander Taskin's been
appointed to call the damned desert-bred on to the carpet.' Kailen dashed down
a swallow of wine, and grimaced. 'That upright old stick doesn't cut an
offender much slack. He'll execute the verdict along with the sentence, and
won't relinquish his right to keep privacy inside the ranks of his guardsmen.'
The heir apparent of Devall said baldly,
'The commander won't consent to an extradition.'
'Never.' Prince Kailen gave a tight laugh,
drained his goblet, then fixed haunted eyes on his counterpart. 'Powers above,
this is Sessalie! Here, we hang only murderers and livestock thieves. Our
dissenters certainly don't include traitors. What brangles we settle between
foreign diplomats are mostly disputes over how much of our best wine should be
sold for export. We don't have the
occasion for criminal extradition, far less any precedent concerning the
inequities of law that exist between outside kingdoms.'
'Your Highness, you can't have the
desert-bred captain turned over to Devall's bailiffs,' the seneschal summed up
with acidic dignity.
'Are you trying to tell me he won't be
locked up?' Brows raised by incredulity, the heir apparent sipped wine to douse
the fire withheld from his language.
The seneschal sighed. 'Taskin maintains his
crown soldiers to fight. He keeps malcontents in line with the lash, and
remands them for state prosecution only if they have incurred a direct threat
of injury to a person of the royal family.'
'But this captain is the mongrel get of a
darkling southerner!' Kailen burst out in protest. 'Surely a citizen's
entitlements won't apply?'
'They shouldn't.' The seneschal sustained
both princes' regard, his expression bitter as ice. 'But Taskin stepped in at a
sensitive moment. He stood on his prerogative to handle the trial, and King
Isendon charged him to redress the misconduct with fairness.'
'Well, no blood was drawn,' the High Prince
of Devall admitted. 'Short of a dead advocate, I cannot submit an appeal to the
primary complaint. No, the case must rest. If the outcome is lenient, I will
placate my ambassador. He'll receive my reminder that he shouldn't expect
formal protocol when dealing with low caste on errands.'
Gracious in capitulation, the heir apparent
offered the last of the strawberries to brighten the seneschal's mood. 'Now,
what of my appeal to help search for the princess? Surely that met with a
warmer reception?'
'Sadly not.' The seneschal declined the
blandishment, the deep, sour lines that bracketed his mouth hardened to dole
out more bad news. 'The king has made disposition and given the request over to
Commander Taskin's discretion.'
'Then the writ will die there.' Sessalie's
crown prince jammed aggravated fingers through his corn-silk blond hair.
'Taskin's nothing if not a cast-iron despot. Never has fancied anyone's boots
trampling over his turf. Devall's honour guard will not be permitted to deploy,
no matter how sensibly competent.'
Devall's heir apparent absorbed this, pressed
at last to withdrawn silence.
The seneschal fell back on aristocratic
poise, grasped his goblet, then used the wine to ease his dry mouth. 'On a good
day, the commander would pose an obstructive impediment.'
'A good day!' The High Prince of Deval
shoved the berry bowl aside. Bolt-upright and incensed, ae pulled in a deep breath, but could not quite rein back his lit
temper. 'There's more?'
'Oh, yes.' When balked, the seneschal could
deliver a setback with vicious brevity. 'Taskin made plain he'd withhold all
opinion until after his appointment with the Captain of the Garrison.'
Crown Prince Kailen rocked out of his
chair, swaying and flushed. 'Myshkael!
What does Myshkael have to do with this? My sister is missing, and past doubt
in grave danger, and Lord Taskin
takes pause to consult with an outlander concerning Devall's right to assist?'
The high prince grasped Kailen's strained
wrist, bristling with autocratic authority. 'Sit down!'
'Bright powers above!' The younger royal
dropped rigidly into his chair. He accepted the filled wine glass pressed into
his hand, and knocked back a vengeful swallow. 'Taskin ought to be down on his
knees, singing praises for Devall's generosity.'
The high prince set down the bottle, not
shaking. His rage stayed ice-cold, and his bearing immaculate. 'I'm worried.
Very much so, for Anja's sake.' He locked eyes with the seneschal in earnest
regret. 'I don't like to suggest what may be spurious nonsense, but has anyone
raised the question of whether your southland captain may have connections to a
sorcerer? If your staunch commander appears to be acting outside of the
ordinary, if in fact he's shielding a criminal, that could be the first sign of
warning. A man who wields craft might start off by casting spells of influence
over another to further his nefarious ends.'
'Myshkael
could well be the catspaw of such an enemy,' Kailen broke in, morose. 'Defend
us from evil! Lord Shaillon, I'm not the only one to suggest that Anja's
abductors might be aligned with a demon.'
The seneschal inclined his groomed head.
'It is true, near enough, that two women have died of questionable circumstances
since yesterday. There is evidence pointing to Myshkael, but no actual proof. The danger, as you correctly infer, is
that the case might lawfully fall to Commander Taskin to prosecute.'
The Prince of Devall interjected the first
breath of fresh air. 'Well then, in good sense, something must be done to
instil a proper avenue for oversight.' His attention encompassed the seneschal,
the need in him suddenly piercing. 'For the princess's safety, could I trust
you to appeal as my emissary to King Isendon? I could offer my crown advocate
to stand in on proceedings to guard against biased judgement.'
'His Majesty has retired to bed,' said the
seneschal. 'He's unlikely to entertain anyone's audience before morning. Taskin
would be the exception, bearing word of the princess. Only the duchess, Lady
Phail, attends the royal person throughout his informal light supper.'
Prince Kailen banged down a fist, upsetting
the dregs in his goblet. 'Balefire and damnation!' While the wine spilled and
ran, bleeding drips through the wicker, he added, 'If that desertman's a
killer, Anja could already be dead! Powers preserve, we can't wait till
tomorrow.'
'No,' the heir apparent agreed in leashed
quiet. 'But we dare not tip our hand, or arouse a dangerous traitor's suspicions
by running roughshod over Sessalie's court protocol. If Anja's alive, such
thoughtless action might actually kill her.' He righted Kailen's glass, spread
his napkin over the spill, then tucked the crown prince's unsteady hand over
the stem of his own goblet. 'Drink, settle down. We shall handle things
quietly. If Myshkael's not honest, he
will have a past. Unearth one incident that casts doubt on his word, or
demonstrate that his record lacks integrity, and we can build a case to strike
him from his post upon grounds of his questionable character.' Devall's heir
apparent caught the seneschal's nod of approval, and responded with an affable
smile. 'We're agreed, then. My servants are trained to be expert at listening.
My honour guard, as well, is on forced, idle time. The generous man would allow
them a night's liberty to sample the joys of the town. Let them visit the
taverns in plain clothes, and see what seamy facts they might garner.'
The seneschal arose, his censure directed
at Kailen as he collected the half-finished wine bottle. 'You'd do well to get
started, though if fortune favours, you may not need to look far afield.'
Devall's high prince stood also. While a
servant restored his pert velvet cap, with its ruby brooch fastening and
pheasant's barred tail feathers draped stylishly over his shoulder, he asked,
'Is something afoot?'
'We'll see,' said Lord Shaillon, Crown
Seneschal of Sessalie, leaving the garden with purposeful strides. 'Taskin was
scheduled to meet with the desert-bred captain two hours ago. So far as I've
heard, the slinking cur hasn't shown up.'
* * *
On station at the Highgate, now nettled
down to his blue-blooded bones to be forced to wait upon Captain Mykkael's
delinquent appointment, Commander Taskin had not passed the stalled time in
idleness. As late day shadowed the mansions fronting the avenue that led uptown
from the Middlegate, he had seen his contingencies covered both ways. Behind
the walls, a task force was positioned to ride down a fugitive and make an
arrest; at his side, a dependable sergeant attended, equipped with shackles and
a whip in a canvas bag.
Since the breathless message sent from the
garrison brought word of the captain's delay, nothing changed, except that
Taskin ceased his wolfish pacing.
Subsided into a glacial stillness at the
arrow slit fronting the belltower, he held on to see whether the errant
offender would bend desert-bred pride and ride in.
At streetside, no telltale sign showed to
reveal any change in the gatehouse watch roster. The sergeant was bored, and
displeased by the prospect he might have to manhandle a commoner. Hot in his
surcoat, he stood at attention until his boots pinched, and his patience frayed
into rags.
'The wretch isn't coming,' he insisted at
last. 'Why should we waste the whole day? You can't honestly expect proper
conduct from a dog who was bred on a nameless chit in a sand ditch.'
Taskin said nothing. His narrowed eyes
measured the activity in the avenue as the late afternoon press of foot traffic
and carriages began thinning out before sundown.
'There,' he whispered under his breath.
'Sadly late, but not lacking honour.'
The distempered sergeant belatedly sighted
the horse, driving uphill at a prudent trot that would cover ground, but not
threaten unwary pedestrians. Its rider was not wearing Sessalie's hawk surcoat,
nor did he use his crown rank to commandeer a more timely passage. Mykkael was
clad in a sweat-damp, plain shirt, his preferred longsword slung from his
shoulder. The casual dress at first seemed a statement of raffish effrontery,
which regarded lightly the stature of a crown commission. Yet as the foreign
captain breasted the rise, that impression was undone by his air of rapacious
concentration.
Watching him, Taskin felt the hair on his
arms rise up in primal warning.
Then the horse bearing Mykkael flung up its
head, jerked short by his hand on the bit. It curveted sideways, while its
rider raked an irritable, sharp glance over the sun-washed gatehouse.
'Bright powers curse him!' the sergeant
remarked. 'He's noticed our archers. I'll have the fool whipped whose careless
move has served him an idiot's warning.'
'That's my crack division posted up there,'
Taskin murmured in instant correction. 'Not one of those bowmen twitched a
finger. Probably nobody had to, given Myshzkael's
experience. Any veteran who ever mounted a siege would measure those gatehouse
embrasures. Were they empty or full, he would take pause to assess his
exposure.'
Down the thoroughfare, Mykkael cranked the
horse's head sideways. Rein and heel used in concert, he dragged its weight
into a wheeling rear.
'That's not a man acting on possibilities!'
the gate sergeant snapped in dismay. 'If our nerve-jumpy quarry saw no sign of
threat, then he's sure as daylight running flat scared out of guilt.'
'Do nothing!' said Taskin, his tone scraped
to ice. 'If we react, we'll never see how this man handles himself under the
check rein of lawful authority!' Beyond that cryptic statement, the commander chose
tact. Now was scarcely the moment to mention the desert-bred captain's
predisposition for witch thoughts.
Downslope, the horse skittered on
clattering hooves, its rider a blurred form masked behind a tossed flag of
black mane. The pair sidled into an oncoming dray, whose six-in-hand team shied
aside and milled over a fruit seller's handcart. Its upset freight of melons
tumbled and rolled, to a chorus of curses as chaos unravelled the peace. The
dray team bucked in blinkered panic, while spilled fruit bounced and smashed,
slicking the cobbles with crushed pith. The two carts behind entangled
themselves to avoid trampling down hapless bystanders. While the watch in the
gatehouse was diverted by the course of unfolding disaster, the lone horse
re-emerged. It trotted a zigzagging, riderless course, with trailing reins looped
under its forehooves, and vacated stirrups thudding its ribs.
'He's gone!' yelled the sergeant. 'Fled
belly-down for the gutter.' He drew in a breath to signal the archers, only to
have Taskin's hand clamp with bruising restraint on his wrist.
'Do nothing,
I said!' the commander cracked, urgent. 'A show of armed force will only
unleash that man's lethal instincts. Stay here. Hold hard! I won't risk a bloodbath.
Nobody moves on that captain before I'm
dead certain he's running.'
The sergeant stared aghast at the Commander
of the Guard, whose granite face displayed tension, but not yet any fire of
alarm. 'You're possessed!' he exclaimed.
But Taskin spared no breath for debate.
'Soldier! Mind orders! Pull all the archers out of the battlement. Yes, every
one! Assemble them in the bailey beyond Highgate. Keep them quiet and prepared.
Wait for my express signal to disband, or deploy through the streets as a
search party!'
AS THE ARMOURY SERGEANT STAMPED OFF TO MIND
ORDERS IN SELF-RIGHTEOUS DISAPPROVAL, COMMANDER Taskin instructed the gate
watch to handle the fracas outside by routine procedure. The brute effort
became theirs, to unsnarl the bunched wagons that obstructed the royal roadway.
Crown men-at-arms lent their muscle to unlock jammed wheels, redirect the
stalled traffic, and to round up the runaway horse.
The residual chaos was sorted with
dispatch. While the recaptured mount was tied to a hitching rail, the most
vocal dissenter passed under Taskin's critical review. Tell that benighted
vendor to stop howling! At my word of surety, the crown treasury will bear the
cost to repair his smashed handcart. If he's going to miss supper, the
gatehouse strongbox can settle the loss of his fruit.'
The Highgate petty officer knew that tone
too well, and jumped forthwith to comply.
The upset was contained, and the ale dray's
riled team coaxed to work its way clear of the thoroughfare. Guardsmen remained
to steady their bits, while the driver jumped down to make stopgap repairs to
torn harness. The inevitable bystanders paused to assist. Laughter lightened
the atmosphere of chagrined frustration. Like the shine of a jewel, casually
dropped, Taskin saw the qualities that made Sessalie flourish set into
brilliant display. Simple gifts, born of an abiding deep peace, where life was
not required to pass in a rush; where taxed tempers could be vented through
teasing and jibes, and lost time was unlikely to harm anyone's long-term
prosperity.
Set under the shadow of unknown threat,
Taskin bore the burdensome charge of his office as never before. If he failed
to uphold crown security, these trusting folk would be shattered. An
open-handed generosity instilled over thousands of years would be undone by fear
and the horrors of bloodletting strife.
While the lowering sun burnished the gate
spire's brick belfry, the carriages with locked wheels were untangled, and set
rolling back on their way. Foot traffic resumed. The strutting pigeons that fed
on squashed melons wheeled aloft as the carters behind whipped up their idle
draught teams.
Taskin held firm, lightly sweating, in the
masking shade of the sentry's box. His tense inspection measured the servants,
returning uptown from market, and the bakers' women with their wicker baskets,
who sold scones in the palace precinct. He scrutinized each of the lampblacks'
boys, and made sure of their pale skin and fair hair. He eavesdropped upon
conversations, as well, until the first team and vehicle rolled past. The grinding
barrage of iron-rimmed wheels raised deafening echoes in the stone passage that
pierced through the gatehouse battlement.
Throughout, the errant Captain of the
Garrison failed to make an appearance.
The palace commander wrestled his unsettled
disappointment. The staked risk was unthinkable, if he should allow his
intuitive judgement to lead him too far. A realist to the bone, Taskin faced
his self-made disaster. He had no bird in hand. Nothing remained but to bow to defeat,
and shoulder the round of rough consequence. Once the dray passed, he must take
direct action: order his archers to hunt down a fugitive whose motives were now
highly suspect.
'Merciful bright powers!' he swore, pitched
to anguish. He would have to weigh the ugly choice quickly, whether to spend
lives and attempt to bring in the desertman living; or if he should cut losses
and have the guard shoot to kill on first sight.
The dray rattled clear of the uptown
archway, admitting the blued haze of the late day. Braced by the clarity of
mountain air that seemed strangely unsullied by peril, Taskin gave in and
retreated through the Highgate. He entered the icy shade of the passage,
hardened to bitter resolve.
'Commander Taskin,' said a quiet voice by
his ear. A ghost-light hand tapped his shoulder.
Taskin whirled, sun-blind, and peered into
the gloom.
There, Mykkael stood, close as shadow
itself, his features veiled under darkness.
Surprise snapped all poise. Taskin clamped
a fast hand to his sword hilt. Shocked reflex had the blade halfway cleared
from the scabbard before he recovered control.
'Peace,' said Mykkael. 'I had requested a
scheduled appointment?' Palms turned outwards, he added, 'If I'd wanted you
down, you'd be dead. My knife would have just cut your throat.'
Bristled like a hazed hornet, Taskin
relinquished his grip on his weapon. The well-oiled blade slid home in its
sheath, ringing counterpoint to his dry speech. 'You're past two hours late,
soldier! That's slipshod timing. Better bless your freak luck that I am still
here to receive you.'
'Evidently not without a few righteous
doubts,' Mykkael stung back. The spring-wound alertness instilled by the placed
archers did not fade through the first flare of contact. In bald-faced
disregard of his senior officer's antagonism, he dared to lower his hands. His
nonchalance remained too dreadfully crisp as he rubbed a film of greased grit
off his knuckles, then assessed the pith stains splashed on his shirt.
Taskin watched, not amused. 'You clung all
this time to the jackknifed dray's undercarriage?'
'Not without penalty. Yes.' Mykkael
scrubbed a scraped knuckle on his breeches, then fixed his raptor's regard on
the immaculate crown officer before him. 'We need to talk. Somewhere in strict
privacy. Where? Choose quickly. I haven't much time.'
Taskin's strained equanimity recoiled.
'Soldier, your nerve is past tolerance! Just what gives you the right to
dictate your meaningless preference to me?'
Mykkael stared back, unsmiling also. If he
had the urge to slash back with argument, no such heated blood moved him.
'You've trusted me this far. I thank you for that.' Then he waited, hands
empty, in silence.
'Damned well, you know I need information,'
Commander Taskin relented. 'I will grant what you ask, with conditions.' He
signalled for the captain to march ahead through a sallyport. Beyond lay an
arch with a strapped wooden door, and the steep spiralled stairway that mounted
the Highgate belltower. 'Go up to the top. I'll join you there, shortly.'
Mykkael's piercing quiet showed he was not
fooled to complacence. Nonetheless he went willingly. As his gimping stride
assayed the steep stair, Taskin redressed his near failure, and tightened his
iron-clad sureties.
He set a sentry on guard by the sallyport,
then halted the traffic that flowed through the gate. After, he crossed back
through to the bailey, where he collared his waiting sergeant.
The huge man was dispatched to stand watch
with the sentry, alongside a quartet of the troop's most accomplished bowmen.
Though night had not fallen, Taskin had torches set alight in the wall
brackets. He asked to take charge of the shackles and whip. Then he laid final
emphasis on his precautions. 'I'm going up alone to speak with the captain and
to mete out his sentence in punishment. If I call you by name, you will join me directly. No one breaks that
instruction. The stair won't be climbed without my express order. I expect to
return with Myshkael in my company.
If he comes down alone, have these men loose to kill. No mistakes! Drop him
fast, with a heart shot. You'll have no second chance. If he's alive, and
inside arm's reach, believe this, you're going to be dead men.'
'What if the sly lizard scales the stone of
the belltower?' the sergeant objected, taken aback.
But Taskin had already matched that
contingency with a shocking array of brute force. 'I have the remainder of your
company of archers posted outside to prevent him. If Myshkael bids for escape down the wall, he'll hit the ground as a
riddled corpse.'
'What does that leave you?' the squad
sergeant pressed.
'Your duty comes first,' the king's
commander declared. Then he set off through the belltower's entry without
second thoughts, or a pause to look back.
* * *
Taskin mounted the winding stair, careful
to measure his pace and arrive without being winded. He had cut off the bell
ropes, two storeys up, the foresight an act of solid good sense, or a move made
in rampant paranoia. The debate was moot: the desert-bred he proposed to meet
on equal footing posed too dangerous a cipher. Even a minor misjudgement might
trigger a deadly reaction in consequence. If the crown's first commander chose
to risk his own person, he would not hazard the wellbeing of the realm. He
backed his position. No man set to flight could jam the rope and climb down. If
he tried, he would find himself stranded.
Yet even the most stringent set of
precautions failed to ease Taskin's nerves. Like a cat caught mincing across a
hot roof, he wrung small assurance from logic: that if the war-hardened
creature Sessalie's need must put to the test had not asked in good faith for
this conference, he would scarcely have consented to be trapped like a rat
inside a cordoned keep.
The closed granite gloom of the stairwell
gave way at due length to the airy, gold slant of the westering sunbeams that
pierced through the tower's cupola. Taskin emerged on the landing beneath the
last risers that accessed the trapdoor to the belfry. Ruled by ruthless
caution, he stashed the shackles and whip. Then he squinted upwards, letting
his eyesight adjust to the flood of the outdoor light. No sound came from
above, where Mykkael awaited. Taskin surveyed the gaps in the planked platform
tied into the brick walls by hewn beams. The lit cracks showed no telltale
shadow to reveal where the desertman might stand to meet him.
Warning gooseflesh prickled across Taskin's
skin. The hitched breath caused by smoke touched his senses that half instant
too late. Before he could react, a blazing frond of evergreen plummeted
downwards and landed, shedding sparks at his feet.
He yelled, leaped forward, and stamped out
the blaze before the dry boards ignited.
Coughing through clouded fumes, he
scrambled up the last steps and snapped hoarsely, 'What damn fool act of idiocy was that?'
Mykkael was seated above, on the brick sill
of one of the arches. His back to the sheer drop outside, and an insolent foot
dangling over the beams that hung the brute weight of the bells, he answered,
'I don't trifle with foolery. Forgive me. There's a sorcerer's minion at large,
and no space left for mistakes. That sprig of lit cedar was my act of surety, to test beyond doubt you're not one of them.'
'And are you quite done?' Taskin grated,
irritably slapping out the live cinders that seared holes through the hem of
his surcoat.
'You still have your archers,' said the
desert-bred, reasonable. 'Call out the order to shoot, as you wish. But I had
to be certain the commander who can order me killed is one I can trust, and not
tainted.'
Taskin rubbed at his neck, found the
muscles strained rock-hard with tension. 'You realize you're treading on
dangerous ground, soldier.' Irate enough to attack out of hand, he planted his
stance on the platform and regarded the deadly creature above him. 'Nor have I
posted my bowmen at whim. Jussoud warned straight out you could drop me.'
Mykkael faced him, not arguing. His
defenceless back stayed presented towards the open arch of the belfry. An
archer's prime target, in his sunlit white shirt: the only assurance in his power
to offer, to back the credential of Taskin's security. One that, even still,
fell woefully short. Keen hearing would warn if a shaft launched to take him.
The steep arc as it flew would grant time for evasion, long before its flanged
point could strike home.
His dark face turned downwards, unreadable,
Mykkael stated, 'We all tread upon dangerous ground.'
'Then are you the snake set into our
midst?' Taskin ripped back in blunt challenge. 'Have you failed to notice
that's what the court factions are claiming? No one holds any scrap of hard
evidence against you. But you realize, at this point, that's not a clear-cut
reason for me to stand down the outcry for your arrest.'
Mykkael snapped an oath in some guttural
dialect that ground on the ear like scraped gravel. 'Let me say what I know.
Your princess is in dire peril this
moment. For her sake, hear me through. As we go, you can ask me whatever
you wish. I will answer as your subordinate.'
'You can spare me my reasonable doubts on
that score!' Yet Taskin stepped back. He braced his squared shoulders against
the brick wall, still flushed with fury. Only his gesture suggested the chance
he might balance his options by listening.
'All right.' Mykkael expelled a stiff
breath. 'Protections, first.' He shut his eyes, turned his face away to disarm
any inference of threat. With placating, slow movement, he untied a
wash-leather bag from his belt, then removed something strung on a stained
rawhide tie. He dropped the object with a metallic clink on the platform at Taskin's
feet.
The commander dragged the thong close with
his boot toe. Still without touching, he examined the queer pattern of geometry
etched into the green copper disc. 'What's this?'
'A talisman,' Mykkael answered. 'You'll
wear it next to your skin night and day, do you hear? Ignore what I've said at
your peril.'
Taskin looked up, his eyes like forged
steel. 'Where did you get such a thing? Whose hand made it?'
'That's the vizier Perincar's working.' Mykkael
swallowed. As though the words burned him to undying bitterness, he answered as
he had promised. 'The artefact came from the wars with Rathtet.'
Taskin raised startled eyebrows. 'But I
thought no survivors -' His breathing hitched through a disastrous pause, as
the most likely bent of plausibility ran a grue of dread straight through him.
'No!' Mykkael shook his head, looking
anguished. 'I never fought for Rathtet! No mercenaries did.' Again, he closed
his eyes; not to blunt hair-trigger reflexes, this time, but visibly wrestling
an unutterable weariness. As though the forced explanation seared him to inward
pain, he met Taskin's bidding and qualified. 'Eighteen of us lived. I fought at
the side of Prince Al-Syn-Efandi. He died with his head in my lap.'
Merciless, the commander snatched the
opening to interrogate. 'If that's the truth, then what were his last words?'
Mykkael stared back, outraged and
unblinking. 'A royal command, to flee the country bearing his daughter to
safety. That's why what remained of my company survived. We ran, while the rest
of the defenders manned the walls until the capital was overcome.'
Such simple phrases, to map an abyss of
sheer horror; the nightmare weeks of privation and flies; the days that came
riddled with traps that ripped men into screaming fireballs and husked them to
twitching, seared meat. The harsh facts of geography, which a man born in
Sessalie might not know, that such a flight had to forge a path through Rathtet's battle lines, and
cross the city of tents that encompassed the sorcerers' encampment. The very ground
underfoot had been shackled in conquest, rock and soil laced through by a
morass of vile craft that opened the earth as the conduit for demonic powers.
Even years later, bathed in clean, alpine sunlight, Mykkael's shadowed eyes
masked the terror endured through that flaying line of retreat.
And still, Taskin tested him. 'What became
of the daughter, the Efandi princess?'
'She still lives,' Mykkael whispered.
'Don't ask me to name her, or say which country has sheltered her. The Rathtet
sorcerers would kill to extinguish her bloodline, and they have a powerful,
long reach.'
Frost-sharp from the dimness beneath the
stilled bells, the commander's inquiry pursued him. 'Perhaps long enough to
have trailed you to Sessalie?'
'I don't think so.' Mykkael shook off the
grip of untenable memories to outline his reasonable certainty. 'They won't
know my name. I didn't experience the mark which killed Beyjall. Without
seeing, I couldn't hazard the first guess as to which demon's sorcery made it.'
'Ah, yes,' Taskin pounced. 'The Cultwaen
apothecary, that your message bearer explained was struck down. We'll get to
him, later. I have accusations already in hand. They insinuate you killed the
palace drudge with that mark in the cellar, a working made with intent to conceal
the princess's clothes.'
Mykkael frowned. 'I already told you the
mark was a fake!'
Taskin nodded. 'You did. But how do we know
you're not lying?' He pinned the copper talisman under his boot, not yet
convinced he should wear it. 'The woman lies dead. Not from poison, although
she had no sign of violence upon her.'
'A craftmark won't kill that way,' Mykkael
said, distressed. 'They burn. Never consume tinder like a natural flame, but
destroy all that lies in their circle of reach. You can see for yourself, if
you care to inspect the damage done to the house where Beyjall met his end this
afternoon.'
'But we saw no smoke from our watch towers
here,' Taskin persisted, relentless. 'My guard heard no cries of fire and no
alarm bells in the Lowergate precinct.'
'You wouldn't,' Mykkael agreed. 'There's no
smoke to be seen. A mark raises a conflagration no dousing by water can quench.
Once unleashed, their spelled forces burn unchecked, igniting all things in
their path, even metal and stone. They rage until they have consumed everything
within the range of their pre-set intent. Such death is ghastly, beyond all
imagining. Must I plead? Commander, for love of your king, accept the grace of
that talisman!'
Taskin left the disc where it lay and
relentlessly stabbed his point home. 'I don't see you wearing one.'
'Fair enough.' Mykkael forcibly curbed his
raw nerves. He bent his neck, and regarded his hands, while the breeze fanned
across the mouths of the bells, and brushed their resonance to an atonal
whisper. 'Do you trust Jussoud?' Shown his adversary's startlement, the
southland captain might have laughed, had the straits not been volatile between
them. 'If you don't, you should. He was born to an ancient and honourable line
of eastern princes.'
'What nonsense are you talking about?'
Taskin huffed, thrown off balance. 'The man's a masseur, a paid healer, if one
with exceptional skill. I agree he's well educated. But royal?'
'Oh, yes.' Mykkael smiled. 'Jussoud is the
son of a noble, old house. The nomads of his homeland don't teach commoners
literacy. Among their close society, the use of the ancestral ideographs is a
time-honoured secret.'
Odd knowledge, for this upstart desert-bred
to cast at large without thought. Yet its edge set a sting that jabbed through
to the commander's well-guarded heart. As long and as well as Taskin had
employed Jussoud, as often as he had divulged the rare gift of his personal
confidence, the healer had not shared any such fact from his nomad parentage.
'He didn't tell me, either,' Mykkael
ventured, unasked. 'Except to admit, when I pried, that he knew how to write
his birth language.'
Shadow flickered, from behind.
Mykkael whipped taut, head turned sharply,
then subsided as a pigeon flew through the arch. It settled to roost in the
rafters, cooing to a dusty flutter of wings. Lit by the last, dying rays of the
sun, Mykkael probed, still more gently, 'My question remains, do you trust
him?'
'More deeply than most,' Taskin admitted,
nettled to reveal even casual intimacy.
Perhaps eased by the grit of that honest
reluctance, Mykkael shifted position, his back angled against the stepped brick
of the arch. 'Then ask Jussoud what he might know of the marking tattooed under
the hairline above my nape.'
'A talisman?' Taskin asked, well aware that
an arc shot tried now would not ensure a fatality.
'Better. A warding. Done by Eishwin, first,
then augmented later by Perincar for my defence of the Efandi prince.' Mykkael
averted his face and shoved up his cropped hair to expose an uncanny pattern of
geometry, thin lines overlaid by a sequence of indigo curves that twisted into
a spiral. 'I have another mark laid into my sword. Yet I could not bear the
weapon in King Isendon's presence. A mistake. Last night, no one realized the
dread powers possessed by the princess's enemies. I had no sense of forethought
to guess how significant the oversight would become.'
More pigeons roosted. This time, the
desert-bred captain did not flinch. Arms folded, set against the lucent
backdrop of sky, he held himself still as struck bronze, and as silent. Taskin
stared back at him, forced to measure that razor-cut face through the golden
blaze of the afterglow. He quelled a brisk shiver; vainly prayed the effect was
no more than the chill of the breeze blowing down off the glaciers.
'Oversight?' he pressured at careful
length. 'I'd have you define that.'
Mykkael spoke, his turned profile
expressionless. 'The warding tattoo will protect me, even make me invisible to
a scryer. But without the mark on that sword hilt beside me, I'm exposed. A
sorcerer, or his minion planted in Sessalie's court, will have seen everything
that I am.'
'We don't know what you are,' Taskin snapped. 'That's the stinging thorn at
the heart of the problem!'
'But that thorn is your dearest advantage,
perhaps.' Mykkael's quiet laughter held startling warmth across the gathering
darkness. 'Blinding powers of daylight! How you hate to sully your immaculate
resource with the wildcard tactic of chaos!'
Taskin smiled also, surprising himself.
'Yes, you rankle. If I don't give the court your axed head on a plate, you're
going to have to convince me. Very well. I am listening. Speak your mind,
Captain. Start to finish, with no wretched detail left out.'
'Trust first,' Mykkael insisted. 'Or else
call on your archers, or better, step back and release me. My first obligation
is to the king's daughter. I can't risk what I know falling under the sway of a
sorcerer.'
'Demon!' Every inch as exposed as the
creature he held under ruthless threat of his bowmen, Taskin bent down and
snapped the artefact up from the planking. He slipped the knotted thong over
his head with brusque warning. 'If you're playing me false, you're a dead man.'
'We could all wind up dead men, or
something much worse.' Yet Mykkael accepted the capitulation as genuine.
He vacated his reckless perch in the
archway, and swung down from the dusty crossbeam, his balanced landing on to
the platform slightly marred by his damaged knee. He adjusted the jostled
weight of his sword. Then he sat down, one leg folded beneath him, and the
other extended to ease the strain of his injury. Shoulders hunched, both hands
busy kneading cramped muscle, he launched into clipped recitation.
'First of all, I don't think your princess
was abducted. Something she saw, perhaps something she heard, made her realize
there were enemies at court, poised with intent to cause harm. I believe she
grasped the severity of her danger, and arranged her own flight in secret.'
'The obstacles ranged against such a feat
would have been close to impossible,' Taskin said. True sorrow chafed through
as he agonized, 'Why would she bolt and tell no one? Merciful glory! I've
guarded that girl, and protected her family for more years than she's been
alive!'
'I realize that much.' Mykkael loosed a
hissed breath and resettled his game knee, unable to make the limb comfortable.
'Why, I don't know yet. How, I hope to ascertain tonight.'
'She's alive?' Taskin slipped the talisman
under his surcoat, disliking the uncanny warmth of the thing as it nestled
against his bare skin.
Mykkael replied through the gathering
gloom, while the sky past the cupola deepened from aqua to indigo. 'With
reasonable certainty, I expect so.'
Taskin dogged him, relentless. 'Witch
thoughts or hard facts?'
'No hard facts,' said Mykkael. 'As yet,
nothing more than a string of probabilities that point in a similar direction.'
Whiplash-curt, he cut off the commander's immediate demand. 'But I will pursue
none of them! Not now! Until we expose
just what drove her Grace to flight, she's far better protected if no one
knows where she's gone to ground.' He shifted again, needled by the incessant
pangs of his leg. 'The double-edged question, whose answer will kill without hesitation or mercy: find out why she ran, and
roust up a snake's nest of danger.'
'Go on,' Taskin said, as the stillness spun
out. 'You still have three deaths to account for, and an alibi to explain your
foray in the moat.'
'The apothecary was eliminated because he
owned the skilled knowledge to track sorcerers. The seeress and drudge both
died of drained minds. A sorcerer or his bound minion can do that. They don't
always kill by it. When the damage left by their prying is minor, their victims
will sometimes seem drunk. If a sorcerer wants her Grace flushed out of hiding,
I believe he'll suck anyone dry, seeking leads. The seeress was a clairvoyant
who haplessly picked up the wrong scrap of vision. The drudge would have been
the most likely to encounter the princess's clothing. Presupposing her Grace
stashed a change of plain garments well in advance of the feast, the rag barrel
had to be guarded. The princess may have scratched the fake sorcerer's mark
herself, both as warning to us, and as a decoy to scare passing servants away
from the closet. The drudge didn't know anything. If she had, she would surely
have told me when we exchanged words in the street. I think the enemy drained
the poor woman simply because he was desperate.'
The desert-bred captain abandoned the
effort to ease the complaint of his leg. He regarded the crown commander who
loomed over him, arms crossed at his chest as though his clamour of doubt might
be stifled by physical pressure.
'I don't like the deaths, either,' Mykkael
stated outright. 'But they have served your king. Those murdered are the one
best assurance you have that your princess is alive and still running. No
conspirator slaughters with such wanton callousness! Not unless he is caught in
extreme disarray. Your princess has quite likely upset his plots and thrown him
into scrambling disadvantage.'
Taskin seized on the detail left dangling.
'Then what of your swim?'
'No, Commander.' The words, velvet-soft,
held an adamance no posed threat of violence could gainsay. 'I've said all I
can without compromise to her Grace's safety.'
The explosion which followed was silent.
Taskin slipped a fluid step back, passed through the open belfry door, then
returned with the canvas bag and steel shackles. Smoothly as he engaged his
next tactic, Mykkael moved faster, uncoiled to his feet in a lightning surge of
reaction.
Hands up, backed against the platform
railing with the bells cloaked in dark at his back, he measured the commander
who advanced to restrain him. 'No. I ask you, don't do this.'
Pinned like prey under that lion-fierce
stare, Taskin felt the hair rise at his nape. 'Give way. At once. You do
realize, you cannot run.'
Mykkael tested his footing on the gapped
planks, taut as a coiled adder. 'I will kill any man who lays hands on me.'
'Stalemate. In the event my orders fail to
constrain you, my archers will shoot you on sight.' No fool, Taskin realized he
could be dead in an instant. He sustained the dread crux, as the desert-bred
captain faced the sure prospect of capture. As well, he recorded the slight,
warning flicker that whipped through taut muscle in rebellion: Mykkael was not going to back down.
Taskin risked all and pressed for full
forfeit. 'Submit, soldier. By crown law, I command you.'
Well braced for the blow, hand poised at
the sword he would likely have no chance to draw, Taskin saw Mykkael's features
twist with horror and despair. 'Forgive, oh,
Mehigrannia, forgive!' And that cracked cry of entreaty to a foreign
goddess woke the king's commander to fear beyond measure.
Taskin dropped the shackles. 'Mykkael! Submit.'
That
stopped the spring of the tiger, just barely. Mykkael's dilated eyes still
searched his adversary's pale face; stayed fixed there, unblinking, while his
mind wrestled to gauge the significance implied by that impulsive shift to
correct accent. He fell back on hair-trigger caution, and rechannelled his
response into speech. 'This is not an arrest?'
'Right now, a just detainment for
punishment.' Taskin loosed an explosive, pent breath and unleashed the full
force of his strained exasperation. 'I owe you a lashing for last night's
insubordination, and another for a formal complaint made to the king under
Devall's royal seal. Powers above, man! You've made damned sure by your fractious behaviour that I'd have no choice
but to handle you!'
Mykkael's taut expression changed from
shock, through astonishment, to a look of flat set distaste. 'All right. But no
cuffs. I will stand for it.'
Taskin stayed unmoved. 'You object to
restraint?'
That elicited fury. 'I'm a foreigner, not
an animal!'
'A good soldier,' Taskin allowed. 'But I've
checked the more striking details of your background. My fears are well
founded. The reflexes ingrained by your
barqui'ino training do not answer to your humanity.'
'They can,' Mykkael argued. 'Otherwise, I
would be nothing more than a dangerous beast.'
'Then you do see my problem.' The commander
continued to haze him, ungently. 'Men with your skills have turned on their
masters, before this. Should I entrust my life to your cocky self-confidence?
Should I risk King Isendon's daughter's?'
Mykkael laughed. He lowered his hands, a
blurred whisper of movement in darkness. 'Commander, you already have.'
A stinging, fierce truth; the archers set
in the embrasure earlier had not been
ordered to fire. Neither had the desert-bred struck down the man who provoked
him with such savage adherence to principle.
Taskin kicked the dropped shackles off the
edge of the platform. 'Very well, soldier. Let's have this over with. Remove
your sword harness and shirt.'
Awakened
from the torment of her nightmares, she arose and tended the horses. The
strangling anxiety did not leave her. She must risk her precarious freedom, and
flee again through the coming night. The evening star shone overhead, as it had
throughout happier hours in childhood when she had tagged after Dedorth to his
tower. Now, the same memory wracked her with chills. For her enemies would
assuredly use the old scholar's seeing glass to scan the slopes of the
mountains and seek her ...
WHILE MYKKAEL STOOD, HALF STRIPPED, WITH
HANDS BRACED ON THE RAIL, COMMANDER TASKIN took his leisurely time. He shouted
downstairs for his sergeant to fetch up a lit torch. Through the interval while
the huge man climbed the stairs, he unbagged the whip, a braided lash on a
wooden stock, the tip end bearing no saving silk tassel to soften the bite of
its punishment.
When the breathless sergeant arrived with
the firebrand, the commander cut short the man's staring interest. 'Socket that
torch and return to your post. No loose talk, and no changes. My first orders
stand as I gave them.'
No movement, from Mykkael, as the seconds
spun out, though his skin wore a sheen of light sweat. He stared rigidly
forward, the mute bells looming over him. Taskin went on to pry one of the
flat, bronze studs from his scabbard. He then drew his dagger, and shaved the
soft metal to a razor-keen edge. His eyes stayed on Mykkael, all the while
knowing how trapped nerves would rasp at a man, forced to wait. He crimped the
sheared fragment of metal to the whip end; watched like a snake as the
desert-bred noticed the unpleasant fact that the stilled bells above caught and
amplified sound. Faithfully cast, they magnified clarity, returning the clamped
tension required to force each breath into even rhythm.
Put to the test of such cruel anticipation,
most men would succumb to their crawling anxiety: the coward worn down to a
plea for reprieve, and the courageous, snapped to a temperamental demand to get
on and finish the unpleasantness.
Mykkael said nothing. Only the sweat that
dripped down his flanks belied the appearance, that he had been born without
nerves.
Taskin unreeled the whip without warning,
brought the first stroke whistling down. The end of the lash cracked into the
railing, and slapped tight, wrapped by whistling impetus. The dangling end with
its ugly, sharp tip scribed shining arcs in the torchlight.
Mykkael did not break. His hands gripped
the rail, pressed taut, but now faintly trembling. Still, the scrape of forced
breathing adhered to the discipline of his imposed calm.
Taskin stepped close. He unwound the bound
lash from the wood. Still inside reach, deliberately taunting for the volatile
flaw that might crack the captain's temperament, he said, 'That one was mine,
the stroke I promised for last night's act of insubordination. The next must
draw blood, for raising your hand against the crown guardsman you dropped on
the garrison keep stair. The rest must redress Devall's slighted honour. I
won't know how many of twenty you've earned, unless you would care to speak?'
'For the drawn sword?' Mykkael asked, teeth
locked as the lash fell again, this time striping him clean. The sliver of
metal sliced a stinging line from left shoulder down to right hip.
Taskin gave cool assent as he coiled the
whip. 'The high prince's stiff-necked advocate filed protest like a circling
shark. If you knew the man was a hidebound, proud fool, why did you leave me no option? What did you think, when you drew
your brash steel on his Highness of Devall's accredited spokesman?'
Mykkael answered, fists clamped to the
railing. 'To force him to stop reading my private papers, and prying into the
garrison's business.' When the lash did not fall, he sucked in a sped breath
and held braced.
'No pride?' Taskin pressed. 'Only tactics?'
'Yes, there was pride, but not for the
reason you think.' Mykkael shut his eyes, flinched but a hairsbreadth as the
whip struck, another weal laid crosswise over the first. 'Remember, I don't
have to stand for this.'
'I am not a fool, prideful, or otherwise.'
Taskin readied the whip, the frost in his question confrontational. 'Were you
justified?'
'Perhaps.' Mykkael fought his tone neutral.
His bad knee was shaking, locked rigid by stress. 'Afterwards, I found that an
entry was altered. I don't know by whose hand. The changed notation was yours,
concerning the number of Devall's servants who passed through the Highgate last
night. By my watch's count, a name was deleted.'
'Three stripes will do, then.' The last,
expert stroke fell alongside the first, a considered decision which left the
uncut, smooth shoulder a right-handed swordsman required to fight unimpaired.
'Hold fast, soldier! Your sentence is
finished, but I have not given you leave, yet.' Taskin crossed the platform,
bent, and hooked up Mykkael's discarded shirt. 'Don't move, now.' The commander
shook out the garment, and with brisk, steady pressure, blotted the running
blood into the cloth. Then he waited. The fresh welts still welled and dripped
scarlet. Though the captain had finally started to shiver, Taskin repeated the
process thrice more.
Then he draped the marked shirt over the
railing. 'Put that back on.'
Mykkael took up the stained cloth in
scalding distaste; pulled it over his head, not missing the artful subtlety.
The commander's deft ploy lent the credible appearance that he had received a
full dozen lashes in punishment.
'Make sure the blood shows when you leave
here.' Taskin insisted, relentless, as he stripped the metal from the end of
the lash, and restored the whip to its bag. 'Nor are you to remove that shirt,
soldier, or touch the fresh wounds underneath. You'll keep the badge of your
shame in plain sight. Sessalie's crown honour depends on it.'
'You feel Devall's retinue has unwarranted,
sharp eyes?' Mykkael grimaced, and gave up his attempt to ease the chafe of the
cloth on raw flesh. 'I urge you to treat that lot with extreme caution. They
have certainly earned my suspicion.'
Taskin sighed. 'No proof, soldier?'
Mykkael shook his head. 'Not yet.' Still
constrained by the thread-slender technicality, that he had not received
dispensation to bear weapons, he held, against the grain of his nature.
Taskin said, 'Well, at least we can rely on
the fact you'll be watched. The evidence must assure his Highness of Devall
beyond doubt my professional word carries weight.' The commander regarded Mykkael's
sweat-damp face. Unafraid to look into the eyes of the man he had just served a
humiliating penalty, he closed with professional respect. 'I'll send Jussoud
down to your quarters in three hours. He will dress your back properly.
Afterwards, you are under my orders to wear your king's falcon surcoat. That
should stop the complaints I've received that you meet your duties by
skulking.'
Released to recover his weapons at last,
Mykkael strapped on his sword, his jaw set as the burden pressed into the sting
of his shoulder. He eased the sheath flat. Then, without rancour, he asked the
commander's indulgence, and slipped off the bag containing the rest of the
copper disc talismans.
'Take these.' he instructed. 'Give one to the
king. Distribute the others at your discretion, with my stringent suggestion
that none goes to the Prince of Devall or his retinue. Test every candidate
with cedar smoke first, and be prepared to kill failures by ambush. They will
be the made tools of a sorcerer, and unmasked, they'll become deadly dangerous. Tell your chosen who
pass, keep the discs out of sight! Also, don't trust anyone who's drunk, or
acting the slightest bit changed from the ordinary.'
Taskin hefted the sack, realized there
could not be more than six pieces left inside. 'How many of these have you
given to your garrison men?'
Mykkael looked at him. 'None. I can't
secure the gate against sorcery, nor shield a walled town with only six men!
Yet six, chosen well, might stand guard for the king.'
'But not Crown Prince Kailen?'
The two men locked eyes, with only Mykkael's
bitter black with the doubts inflicted by harsh experience.
'I can't make that call,' admitted the
desert-bred. 'His Highness's habit of drink could be harmless. Safest of all,
to hold back and not pose the first question.'
Taskin received that assessment,
thoughtfully deadpan. Then he said, 'You're not excused, soldier. Not before
you have shared the ongoing evidence that suggests where her Grace may have
fled.'
'No.' Mykkael stepped back, pushed at last
to snapped patience. 'I've said all I intend to. Impasse? How trying. At least,
earlier, I could have been thrown to your archers without bleeding for the
stuffed head of Devall's spying lackey.'
Taskin lost grip on his fury, as well. 'You
madman! Are you trying to press me
until I've no choice but to kill you?'
'Security,' Mykkael argued. His fleeting
glance sideways assayed the distance from railing to dangling bell rope. 'Don't
waste precious time! Once I find out why your princess has bolted, then, only then will I know if I have the
skills to protect her!'
'Jump, soldier, go on,' goaded Taskin.
'You'll find the rope's cut. Not to mention the toll of that bell will roust
all of Sessalie against you.' Aware the deterrent was not going to stay the
captain's decision to leap, he spoke quickly. 'You would hold your ground
against me, and for the sake of your towering arrogance, defy Sessalie's king?'
Mykkael never hesitated. 'I would stand
against anyone. Commander, you gamble with risks you cannot possibly imagine!'
And
again, came that sawn note of grief, as though a man turned at bay faced
the bittermost end of wrecked hope.
Stymied by that obstructive precedent, Taskin
wrestled to recover his ranking authority. 'You do realize,' he warned, 'that
you might force my hand. On crown directive I could be commanded to make your
arrest.'
'Powers forefend, and deliver the ignorant
from all manner of hideous destruction!' Mykkael broke at last, desperation
driving a commitment as firm as a death sentence. 'Commander, hear this
clearly! You hold my trust. But with one reservation: if you order my person
set under restraint now, or at any time before this crisis is over, I will have no choice but to kill any man
who lays hands on me. This includes yourself. I'll not be set in irons while
your princess is threatened. I take my oath to King Isendon seriously, and that
means my freedom to act for Sessalie's safety must come before everything else.'
'Bright powers show mercy!' Taskin cried in
anguish. 'You're asking me to trust you to guard Anja's life when nothing you say can be verified!'
Mykkael shook his head, helpless. 'I can't
ease that choice from your shoulders, except to urge you to question Jussoud.
If anyone can, he might speak for me.'
A whiplash of mockery, the righteous demand
of Sessalie's loyal crown officer: 'How?'
Again Mykkael looked down, the gesture now
recognized as a tormented need to guard privacy. 'I did not ask your nomad the
name of his tribe. But if he is Sanouk, he will have a relative who served
under me against Rathtet.'
'Dead?' Taskin snapped.
Mykkael swallowed, and again shook his
head. 'No. Alive, at least the last time I saw her.'
Torch-lit against the thick darkness, the
desertman seemed almost harmlessly diminished, a limping figure in a soiled
white shirt, with eyes scored by lines of exhaustion. Yet the unvanquished
quality to his silence somehow still demanded respect.
'Stalemate,' stated Taskin. The admission
rang bitter. No man, before this one, had shaken his seasoned experience, or
undermined the ferocious pride of his competence. 'You are granted a stay, upon
Jussoud's word, and my honour now rides on your freedom.' The commander stepped
sideways, opening the way towards the door. 'To appease my archers, we'll
descend together.' He shouldered the bag with the whip, then raked Mykkael head
to foot with a last, savage glance of assessment. 'Just have the damned grace to look chastened, will you?'
* * *
By the preference of his deceased queen,
Anjoulie, the king's private chambers had wide casement windows overlooking the
snowcapped peaks of the Great Divide. On clear nights, under starlight, the
flares where the kerries breathed fire streaked like comet tails over the
summits. When the gusts off the glaciers rattled the glass, a log fire always
burned in the grate.
In late spring twilight, with the casements
cracked open, and the mild air wafting the fragrance of jasmine from the stone
terrace outside, a pageboy still tended the coals for the warming pan that
comforted Isendon's chilled feet. Installed at the royal bedside, the Duchess
of Phail shared a tray of light supper for the purpose of pleasant company, and
the pursuit of refined conversation.
When his Majesty suffered maundering wits,
she coaxed him to eat. If he sat, blankly staring, she spoonfed him like a
child. She adjusted his blankets and managed the warming pan to ease his poor
circulation. Her eagle-eyed vigilance and tireless, kind manners had earned the
undying respect of the servants. Most evenings, except for the guard at the
door, she attended the aged king in private.
Tonight, the upset caused by Anja's
disappearance had broken that gentle routine. The page had been reassigned to
the armoury, to forestall the excessive gossip. Two muscular guardsmen flanked
the inside entry, with four more stationed in fully armed vigilance along the
corridor outside.
King Isendon sat wakeful, propped up in his
favourite oak chair. No tactful diversion had enticed him to eat. The folder of
poetry in Lady Phail's lap had failed to lull him to sleep. Conversation did
nothing to quiet the palsied fingers that traced fretful patterns on the
coverlet. The clouded eyes held a febrile spark, struck off the tinder of
fiercely kept hope and the flint of numbing despair.
'She is the light of Queen Anjoulie's
virtue, still shining,' the king said, repeating the same words of five minutes
ago. 'Powers stand guard for her. She often hares off on impulse. But even her
boldest pranks are well planned ...' The quavering voice trailed, then resurged
with a fire many years younger. 'I must
believe that my daughter's alive! Without her, the heart of this kingdom will
be cast into darkness.'
In his prime, spurred by anguish, King
Isendon would have paced. Now shrunken with grief, he tugged uselessly at his
blankets.
'The guard will find her.' Lady Phail laid
aside the loose sheaves of verse. Her firm fingers captured the king's
paper-dry hand. 'No man has sired a more beautiful daughter, or one as
intelligent and resourceful. Whatever has happened will come right, in time.
Lord Taskin won't rest without answers.'
The king jerked up his nodding chin. 'Who
comes?'
Lady Phail cast a pert glance towards the
guards, to see whether they had heard footsteps. None had. The taller redhead
returned a negative jerk of his helm.
'Nobody's there, sire. Do rest easy,' Lady
Phail soothed him.
'Someone comes!' King Isendon shoved bolt
upright, scattering his blankets and tumbling his silk-covered pillows on to
the carpet.
'All right, sire, we'll see.' Lady Phail
gestured for one of the guardsmen to oblige by checking the corridor. Then she
bent with her usual sweet patience, and gathered the dropped bedding from the
floor.
The click of the latch as the guardsman
returned rang too loud in the mournful quiet. 'No one.' he stated softly. 'The
guards outside say the same.'
King Isendon permitted the duchess to
cosset him, though his frown remained welded in place. 'Taskin's expected
shortly with news. I can't be asleep when he gets here.'
'We'll waken you, sire, never fear.' With
genteel grace, the old lady fluffed the last pillow, but refused the indignity
of smoothing her sovereign's hair. As though his Majesty still retained all his
faculties, she honoured his rank with a curtsey, then swept back to reclaim her
stuffed chair. 'Do you favour a team for the horse wickets yet? Kailen has
picked Farrety's to wear his badge. That's raised some heat between Muenice and
Lord Tavertin. Each of them hopes you'll bestow royal favour.'
For a moment, the king brightened. 'Anja
thought Tavertin's team would wash out. His master of horse trains the animals
too hard. Wears the high fettle right out of them.' Isendon turned his drawn
face towards the window, where stars, but no kerrie fires, burned. 'Would that
Anja were here. Her young eyes would judge which team's fittest.'
'Well, you managed to better the team she
liked last year.' Lady Phail's smile turned wistful. 'Such a close match.'
But King Isendon's mind had wandered again.
His staring eyes scanned the richly appointed chamber. Whether fogged vision
showed him shadows or shapes, no one knew. His seeking inspection quartered the
carved scrolls that crowned the pilasters, then the lavender silk adorning the
chair seats, and the marquetry table with its tracing of mussel-shell inlay. He
squinted at the clothes chests with their tapestry coverings, examining each
tassel with razor-sharp inquiry. His gaze stalled at last in the nook by the
armoire. 'Someone comes, I tell you!'
'Very well, sire. We shall see.' Lady Phail
arose, caught up her cane, then moved with a whispered rustle of skirts to
check the outside doorway herself. Sometimes the king would subside at her
word. Other times, his unpredictable perception captured subtleties missed by
the guardsmen. The wits that had scattered with his infirmity were wont to
present them with vexing puzzles. If the seneschal found his Majesty's
idiosyncrasies a constant irritation, the men Taskin posted to watch the royal
chamber were faultlessly staunch and supportive.
The tall redhead lent the duchess his
courteous assistance and unlatched the door once again. Yet this time, as the
bronze-studded panel swung open, the tap of rapid footsteps approached, rolling
echoes down the vaulted corridor.
'That will be Taskin.' King Isendon pushed
at his blankets, tumbling pillows helter-skelter once more.
'His Majesty's right,' said the blond
guard, relieved.
The crown commander and two immaculate
officers shortly breasted the stair that led from the anteroom. They reached
the king's door at a cracking fast clip, with Taskin more than usually brisk,
and an edge like a sword on his temper.
'Lady Phail.' Formally crisp, he touched
the old woman's palm to his lips, then tucked her wrist over his elbow and
bowed his white head to the king. 'Your Majesty, have I leave?'
King Isendon's demeanour perked up to
recapture the semblance of regal presence. 'As your duty commands you.'
Taskin signalled to the blond guard, then
one of the officers beside him. Both men stepped out at his low-voiced
instruction to post a sharp watch at the stairhead. 'If anyone comes here,
delay them. Make plenty of noise. I want no one approaching his Majesty's
chamber without warning.' Next, the commander called one of the guards in the
corridor by name. 'Step inside, please.'
The appointed man replaced the one just
dispatched with the seamless poise of the elite. A nod from their commander
placed the remaining officer in armed readiness at their backs, a stark oddity.
But the men entrusted with the king's person knew better than to serve such a
change with remarks. Taskin himself ushered Lady Phail to her seat.
Glittering in his surcoat and gold braid,
the Commander of the Guard bowed again to his king, this time with rigid
correctness. 'Your Majesty, I ask your indulgence with a precaution.'
'Trouble, Taskin?' the aged sovereign
asked, his fingers settled with laced dignity into his blanketed lap.
'Perhaps, sire. Kindly bear with me.' Given
the regal nod to proceed, the commander knelt by the hearth. He used the fire
iron to shut the flue damper, then reached under his surcoat and withdrew a
sprig of evergreen, which he tossed on to the flames.
Fragrant smoke billowed, clouding the room.
Back on his feet, Taskin stood his ground before his two guards, his chiselled
regard trained upon Lady Phail, and the invalid form of his sovereign. No one
moved. No face showed a flicker of trapped fury; only puzzlement and restrained
anxiety, as the cedar smoke wafted a spreading pall on the draught let in
through the casement.
The commander released a slow breath, while
the officer by the doorway eased his tense shoulders, and relaxed the taut grip
on his sword hilt.
'Lock the door,' Taskin said. 'I would have
our discussion kept private between those of us here in the room.'
The king raised a weak forearm and fanned
at the fumes. His fragile cough spurred Taskin to attend the necessity of
releasing the closed-off flue. Smoke swirled at his movement. Tendrils combed
into the gloom by the armoire, and there,
something embedded unseen in clear air met and tangled.
Like the hissed shriek of flame doused in
ice, a whirlwind of sparks shot upwards. The eruption scored across startled
eyesight, there and gone in an eyeblink.
'What was that?' Shocked, Lady Phail dropped her cane.
The thud as it landed upon the thick carpet
jarred the guardsmen's cranked nerves. The officer by the door yanked his blade
from his scabbard, while the others surged on to their toes. Yet their
readiness encountered no visible target. The king sat with his knuckles
clenched on his knees, with Taskin like cast ice before him.
The smoke billowed up and licked the
groined ceiling, then dispersed to a pall that misted the shine of the candles,
and dimmed the surrounding furnishings.
'Glory preserve us!' King Isendon grated,
distraught. The sharp scare appeared to have focused his wits. 'That I should
have lived to see Sessalie befouled by a sorcerer.' His faded glance
encompassed his commander. 'We are in grave danger, indeed. I trust we are
reasonably safe at this moment? That the smoke has effected a banishing?'
Shaken to pallor, Taskin knelt. 'Your
Majesty, what little I know may not be enough to stave off a threat to your
life.'
Isendon's gesture suggested impatience.
'Rise. You are trusted to handle what must be done. Carry on. Have you news, or
fresh hope for my daughter?'
'Very little, sire.' Taskin stood erect,
his lifetime habit of unflinching nerve maintained by relentless courage. 'I
have no direct facts concerning the princess, or any clue to her whereabouts.
Only the report from your garrison captain, who maintains the emphatic belief
she's alive. Myshkael's battle
experience against warring sorcerers suggests he has knowledge to support
this.'
Isendon nodded, his sunken chest wracked
again by a feeble cough. 'You knew he fought against Rathtet?' At the
commander's stark surprise, the aged sovereign showed the ironic humour that
had once been famous for scalding unwary courtiers. 'Oh, yes. He saved the
Efandi princess, it's said, though her survival is a close-guarded secret.'
'You
knew this?' Satisfied that the smoke had penetrated every last remaining
cranny in the room, Taskin directed his officer to release the damper blocking
the flue.
'A king has his own ways to acquire
information,' Isendon said. 'Ambassadors trade in state secrets to buy favours.'
Forced by shortened breath to speak in clipped sentences, the king battled his
weakness and qualified, 'The man won the summer tourney with formidable skills.
Now he guards my keep gates. I had better know whether to trust him.'
Still rocked by discovery that the old fox
had outflanked him, Taskin blurted, 'And do you, sire?'
'Within careful limits.' King Isendon's
smile was given to Lady Phail, who quietly straightened his blankets. She
tucked a pillow to prop his frail shoulders in response to the reed-thin
exhaustion that frayed through his phrases. 'One can never trust any foreigner,
fully. His nation of birth is not Sessalie. Yet Mykkael has sworn my oath of
crown loyalty. I pay him for fair service. Which, so far as I've managed to
trace, he has delivered to all his employers.'
Taskin released an explosive sigh. I found
no evidence on him of oath-breaking, either. That doesn't mean he wasn't hired
beforehand to assay an outsider's plot against Sessalie.'
Isendon tapped his fingers on the arm of
his chair, the tremors now sorrowfully pronounced. 'Do you think so, Taskin?'
The commander stood, struck to stillness,
the platinum shine of his hair hazed under the tarnish of fug in the air. 'No,'
he said at strained length. 'Blinding glory, I've pushed him! Yet by the
pernicious fact that he won't crack, I cannot be wholly certain.'
This time, the play of irony over Isendon's
features came shaded by relentless grief. 'Then, my old friend, you understand
very well how to shore up the burden of Sessalie's crown. I can't, for much
longer. The fates of my heir and my daughter must reside in your hands,
meanwhile.'
Remanded to address that harsh duty, Taskin
inclined his head. 'Very well.' He slipped the coarse leather bag from his
belt, which contained Mykkael's gifted talismans. 'These artefacts were brought
by the garrison captain from his service against Rathtet. He claims they will
offer protection from sorcery. Sire, will you consent to wear one?'
Lady Phail's gentle voice broke the
widening pause. 'His Majesty's awareness has slipped again, Taskin. I'm sorry.'
She patted the king's knee, but aroused no stir in response. 'If my opinion
matters, I believe our liege would have done as you asked.'
Taskin nodded, struck grim as he shouldered
a decision he found abhorrent. He passed two of the copper discs into Lady
Phail's keeping. 'One for the king, Duchess, and, if you're willing to share
the same risk, the other for you. I trust you to stay by his Majesty's side and
stand guard for his wandering wits.'
'A sharp ear on the court gossip can't
hurt,' Lady Phail agreed with stout courage.
Taskin's smile of gratitude was heartfelt.
'I would never have asked that much, Duchess, but yes.' He added instructions
to keep the talisman hidden, and to wear it always next to the skin. While the
elderly granddame donned the vizier's talisman, then gently attended the king,
the crown commander distributed the last two discs to the best of his men,
appointed to stand guard at the door.
'You will wear these, soldiers, and not
disclose them to anyone! Here forward, you don't leave your king's bedside,
ever! You'll eat in his chamber, and sleep
in his presence by turns. You'll flank his litter as he goes to hear
audience. Only those in this room are protected. That means, you keep
impeccable secrecy! Speak to no one outside of the five of us, am I clear? I
will have the servants bring wood, and you will see that a log fire burns in
this chamber at all times!'
'Sorcerers can't stand such?' the
red-haired guard asked.
'Some of them. Their minions are said to
avoid chance exposure to wood smoke.' Taskin nodded to the taciturn captain who
stood as his second in command. 'Bennent, you can unbar the door.'
'What of our crown prince?' inquired the
fair guard. 'For the security of Sessalie's succession, should his Highness not
wear a talisman before one of us?'
Worn to hag-ridden tension, the commander
met that inquiry squarely. 'I'm sorry to say that Prince Kailen can't be
trusted to keep his shirt on for the whores.' He matched eyes with the
guardsman, whose gaze flicked aside, unable to refute that sad truth.
'I know our prince. Beneath inexperience,
there is no man better. Under happier circumstances, his Highness could be
forgiven the feckless adventures of youth.' Taskin stifled his deep grief, and
delivered his iron-clad conclusion. 'But this sorcerer who stalks Sessalie is
utterly ruthless. If King Isendon falls to his spellcraft, such an enemy could
prey upon every subject in this realm through his sovereign rights to the
throne. I grieve for the necessity. But the protection of Sessalie's people must come first. I will guard Prince
Kailen as I can, but against this danger, the weak game piece wearing the crown
must be the most stoutly defended.'
Under the wax-bright flare of the candles,
Taskin regarded each guardsman in turn, and measured their commitment and
courage. 'Stand your post with due vigilance, soldiers. The king's safety
relies on your hands.'
He signalled his officer, prepared to
depart, when an outburst of arguing voices arose in the corridor outside.
Taskin surged forward and jerked open the panel, all but bowled aside by the
breathless arrival of Sessalie's seneschal.
The irate official ploughed straight in,
determined to demand royal audience.
'Lord Shaillon!' Lady Phail sprang up with
cane in hand to enforce the king's violated privacy. 'How thoughtless of you to
barge in with no consideration for the hour! Your liege is asleep, and needs
his rest sorely! I will not see you task him with burdens, my lord. If you
should press his Majesty's health, he may not be lucid to sign the documents
the council requires in the morning!'
Stalled on his course, the seneschal spun
and bristled at Taskin. 'You let that slinking desert-bred go free! How dare you flout this kingdom's incurred
debt. You've let Devall's slighted honour be slapped aside for a pittance!'
'I'd scarcely call any lashing a pittance,'
Taskin stated in acid correction. 'Have you had occasion to see a man whipped?
Your accusation does nothing but expose your cosseted mind and rank ignorance.'
'Only twelve strokes!' The seneschal
sniffed. 'The last guard with the effrontery to brawl with a foreign royal's
servant received twenty. Or don't you recall how to count?'
'You will not bring your childish bluster
in here,' Lady Phail snapped with stout righteousness. 'Out! Now!' She gave
Taskin a jab in the small of the back, then hooked the seneschal's arm in steel
fingers and urged him back towards the doorway.
'Duchess, would you obstruct the king's greater
interests?' The seneschal planted his feet. 'I implore you to use better sense.
The heir apparent of Devall is not pleased by the commander's cavalier
treatment.' After a rancorous glower towards Taskin, Lord Shaillon plunged on
in appeal.
'His Highness of Devall could stand on his
rights and take offence. Should he annul his suit, Anja's heart would be
broken. Would you risk seeing her Grace jilted?' Harried backwards another step
by the indomitable granddame, the seneschal snarled, 'Is this scruffy dog of a
desert-bred captain worth casting our rights to the sea trade into jeopardy?'
Lady Phail tapped her foot. When her
staunch manner threatened to enlist the royal guardsmen for help to clear the
king's chamber, the seneschal accosted Lord Taskin, who stood obstructively
next to the moulded door jamb.
'That foreign captain is a liability to
this kingdom's prosperity!' the seneschal ranted. 'I insist, he should be
clapped into irons.'
An astute tactician, Taskin saw the
withering, cold fire that sparked Lady's Phail's narrowed eyes. Wise man, he
bowed and stepped clear, the image of the genteel courtier in his impeccable
falcon surcoat.
Yet the seneschal was sunk too far into his
tirade to keep pace with his rival's acuity. His impudence was caught short:
the old lady rapped her ivory cane on his wrist, the same treatment she
allotted to importunate boys caught stealing jam in the scullery.
'For shame, Lord Shaillon!' said Lady
Phail. 'Your behaviour lies beneath well-born dignity, to raise such a row
against a common man who is innocent.
King Isendon has already given the matter the swift disposition it deserved.'
'
'What? His Majesty was lucid?' Lord Shaillon's
beaky face jerked sideways, once more brought to bear on the commander's
upright serenity. 'What has the king said? You were present?'
Cool as the sheathed sword, Taskin
answered. 'You won't lack for witnesses. We were all here. His Majesty pointed
out that the garrison captain has never mishandled his oath. Since Myshkael's past record bears no charge of
treachery, he is held by the crown to be trustworthy.'
Defeated, the seneschal stalked to the
door. 'This will not end here, I promise!' Faced straight ahead, unwilling to
spare a disdainful glance for the other armed captain, who paced like a
predator at his heels, Lord Shaillon pronounced, 'That desert-bred cur is a
liability to the realm and I will not stop until I hold proof to expose his
deceitful nature.'
STARS SALTED THE SKY OVER THE PALACE
PRECINCT, YET NO NIGHTFALL HAD EVER SEEMED BLACK AS THE ONE THAT followed
Princess Anja's disappearance. Without news, the rampant explosion of rumours
spread a climate of blanketing fear. No carriages rolled in the avenues, or
pulled up before the marble fronts of the mansions. Shadow and gloom hung over
the door yards, where the welcome lanterns set out for guests should have cast
jonquil circles of light. No candles illumined the glass panes of the salons,
and no laughter trilled on the air.
The peacock splendour of Sessalie's court
stayed withdrawn behind locked doors on the hour the seneschal hastened to pay
his next call.
He arrived on foot at the east wing of the
palace. There, the High Prince was installed in the lavish apartment allotted
to visiting royalty. Out of sorts, the seneschal knocked at the door beneath
Devall's quartered banner.
A butler in a velvet tabard cracked the
panel. He peered down his pampered nose before letting the seneschal in, his
practised eye busy as he sized up his visitor's vexed bearing. By smooth rote,
he chose the appropriate words to acknowledge the jammed wheels of state. 'Your
plea went unheard? Then I have to warn your lordship in advance, the high
prince's mood is not sanguine.'
'He has every right to express his distress,'
Sessalie's seneschal soothed him. 'I will see him, regardless, provided he is
willing to receive an official from Isendon's court.'
'Would you offer condolence?' Prepared to
stay planted with superior obstinacy, the butler considered the matter. 'How
should I present you?'
'I don't bear good news,' the seneschal
admitted, too well seasoned at handling prickly foreign diplomats not to manage
an uppity servant in his stride. 'Say the ruling that balks his Highness was
made by the king, but explain that a resourceful young man might hear the
details, if he wished to probe for a loophole.'
The butler bowed. 'My Lord Shaillon, wait
here, if you please.'
Smoothly as butter left on a plate, the
seneschal found himself cooling his heels on the carpet in the front hall. If
that pre-emptive treatment stuck in his craw, he made himself swallow the
sting. It was Sessalie's shamed grace
that begged Devall's indulgence, sadly not the other way around.
Yet his cause was not lost. The butler
trundled back before long, bringing word that the high prince would admit him.
The seneschal was ushered into the elegant small dining room, where busy staff
were clearing the dishes that remained from his Highness's supper. The heir
apparent of Devall sat, informally clothed, while another servant poured tea.
He looked hag-ridden. Stripped of rings, his hands seemed too slender and
still. His plain tie-string shirt with its facings of satin clothed the posture
of a despondent young gallant.
He glanced up, the sovereign gold of his
eyes shadowed beneath tawny hair. 'I was not expecting state visitors,' he
apologized, not asking forgiveness for his maudlin mood. 'Be comfortable. Sit.
Would you care for some tea?'
While the butler vanished, the Seneschal of
Sessalie accepted the chair presented by another ubiquitous manservant. Not a
seat at the prince's table: crown officers in Devall were not treated with any
such familiarity. But the placement set him an intimate distance to one side,
where two men could speak eye to eye. 'Tea would be nice.'
A porcelain cup was set into his hand, then
sweetened with a dipper of spring honey. His royal host constrained his
impatience, while the table servant awaited the seneschal's nod that his
personal taste had been satisfied.
'My butler informed me you bring no fresh
news,' the High Prince of Devall said in opening. Hope in him blazed anyway, a
simmering tension that shifted him anxiously forward. 'Did you perchance have
something more you thought should be delivered in private?'
'I'm sorry, your Highness.' The seneschal's
lanky knuckles engulfed the gilt cup, lending the appearance of threatened
fragility. 'The king's grace endorsed the decision of his crown commander.'
'They place their trust in that dark
foreign captain, then. Why?' Too well
bred to pace before another realm's titled delegate, Devall's heir shifted his
burning gaze, consumed by frustration and worry. 'The man has shown nothing but
suspect behaviour. What does he know that we don't?'
The seneschal shook his head. He would not
offer platitudes, though concern for the princess was quite plainly chafing her
young suitor ragged.
The exhaustion shading his handsome face
was laid bare without the appointments of his state trappings. 'Powers of
mercy! Why must my hands stay tied? The
princess who will share my future's at risk! Each passing minute weighs on
me like torture. Even your commoners are free to ride out, encouraged by the
crown's bounty. Prince Kailen has the relief of questioning the adventurers who
come in claiming to have information.'
'Well that's no boon, really,' the
seneschal allowed, his mood raised to arid amusement. 'Listening to every pig
farmer and his cousin, insisting he's found tracks in his barnyard, or the
signs someone's slept in his loft.'
The high prince glanced down, his silence
turned searing, and his tea cup jammed between rigid hands.
'I'm sorry.' the seneschal said lamely.
'If this were Devall, I would have every
man in my father's guard under orders, rousting those crofters' barns with a
warrant! In Sessalie, my marshal-at-arms is forced to sit idle, while, it
appears, the best I can do is rely on a misfit ex-mercenary who comes and goes
at his secretive whim, and who answers to no man's authority.' Crushed under
pressure, the porcelain gave way. The prince hurled the fragments on to the
tray, his face turned away to mask bursting anguish as a servant stepped in to
stanch his gashed palm on a napkin.
The lackey inquired, 'Your Highness, should
I fetch your physician?'
'Thank you, not now.' The heir apparent of
Devall knotted the stained linen tight, then regarded his visitor with flaming
embarrassment. 'My Anja is in danger, or worse! And I can do nothing at all but
sip tea, wrapped up in the silk ties of protocol!'
The seneschal sighed. Kind-hearted beneath
his thick crust of propriety, he cleared his throat and expressed sympathy.
'Your straits are understandably difficult, your Highness. Yet Isendon's
officers are scarcely incompetent. Taskin has never failed Sessalie's crown.
His intelligence cannot be faulted. We may not know Captain Myshkael as one of us, but his triumph at
last summer's tourney was a feat of spectacular skill. The commons have granted
him sharp respect. They will answer his questions, where, truth to tell, your
polished lowlanders might awe them to self-conscious silence.'
'Well, what good is a war-trained swordsman
against a nefarious covert plot?' Lost to poise, deaf to statecraft, the High
Prince of Devall jammed tense fingers through his hair. 'Anja is everything to
me. I cannot love and do nothing but wait for some desert-bred dog to paw
through the sewers sniffing for clues!'
Again, the seneschal strove to console him.
'The man impressed the king enough to win his royal trust. Until quite
recently, his Majesty's rule has been sound. Even failing, his wits are not
always scattered.'
The high prince stayed sunk into cankerous
despondency.
Spurred by his plight, the seneschal burst
out, 'Well, it is a fact that Myshkael
fought in the wars with Rathtet.'
'What!'
The High Prince of Devall jerked up his head. 'Did I hear you say Rathtet? But that's not possible!'
'Apparently so,' said the seneschal.
'Not possible!' The heir apparent surged to
his feet in agitation. 'Where did you
learn this?'
The seneschal blushed. 'I overheard my king
say so, months back, through a closed door in a private conference with his
ambassador.'
'By the nine names of hell!' the prince swore, his face turned sheet-white, and his
beautiful hands trembling beneath the lace hem of his cuffs. 'If what you say
holds the least grain of truth, then your realm of Sessalie lies under the
shadow of an unspeakable threat!'
The seneschal blotted slopped tea from his
robes, dismayed, but still striving to placate. 'Your Highness, what are you
saying?'
'About Rathtet?' The High Prince of Devall
stalked up and back down the carpet. 'Prince Al-Syn-Efandi was killed, along
with all of his family. His people died
when the capitol was savaged by Rathtet's lines of raised sorcery!'
Shot to his feet, also, while the saucer
and cup rattled in trembling hands, the seneschal stated, 'Then you think
Captain Myshkael fought for the sorcerers?'
'He had to!' cried the prince, driven to
shrill despair. 'That war of invasion left not a single survivor among the
Efandi defenders!'
The seneschal stared back, aghast. Towers
above! Then our Anja is in terrible danger, indeed. She could be dead, or far
worse, a live puppet in the hands of a sorcerer.'
'She won't stay there!' Ripped to steel
determination, the High Prince of Devall rammed a path towards the door, scattering
anxious servants. 'By glory, for Sessalie's imperilled safety, now I must act!
You need that desert-bred captain
contained! I tell you, he's unspeakably dangerous.'
The seneschal thrust his burden of
porcelain aside. 'Myshkael can be
arrested, and by the king's writ. We only need proof of his perfidy.'
The high prince turned down the hall
towards his officers' quarters, his brisk strides streaming the sconces. 'Any
proof?'
Trailing him, breathless, the Seneschal of
Sessalie affirmed with sped haste, 'The king's case for trust is based on the
foreigner's record of honest service. Show he broke faith, or acted for evil,
Lord Taskin will turn out the guard and not rest until the fell creature's
arraigned.'
The High Prince of Devall glanced sideways,
his gold eyes angry as balefire. 'I will have your proof! Whatever it takes.
Can I ask your support?' Contempt crossed his chisel-cut features, then sly
irony, there and gone in a heartbeat. 'At least you can't mind if we listen at
doorways to gather the facts to seal the arrest.'
Then and there, a gaunt form clothed in the
night's looming shadow, the Seneschal of Sessalie granted the High Prince of
Devall his trembling assent. 'Bright powers, for the sake of our princess, I'd
do anything to see that sand-bred cur delivered to justice in irons.'
'Justice?'
The high prince slammed open the door to his guards' quarters, ripped to a
snarl of laughter. 'Oh, not justice. For Anja's life's sake, give the wretch over to me.' The princess's suitor
clapped his hands to summon his marshal, his explosive, cold fury a force to
prickle the hairs at the nape. 'Do that, and I'll have an accounting under Devall's
crown law! With knives and hot irons, I'll tear out what your false captain
knows from the cords of his screaming throat!'
* * *
Across the palace precinct, behind the west
wing, the warren of servants' tenements overlooked the block of the guards'
barracks. Commander Taskin mounted an outside stair that led to the one-room
apartment where Jussoud had chosen to settle since leaving the steppe country
far to the east. The windows were lit. Clay oil lamps brought from the tents of
his homeland cast a carmine glow on the sills, hung with their boxes of
medicinal plants, and the vines cultivated for tinctures. More pots of greenery
crowded the landing, their sweet, mingled scents a melange on the crisp spring
air.
Taskin knocked at the entry, painted red in
the eastern tradition, with the Serphaidian ideographs for prosperity and peace
set into a gold-leafed cartouche.
A barefoot step answered. Jussoud opened
the door, his silk robe tied by a broad sash, woven with an insignia of
dragons. His hair was unbound, tumbled in braid-crimped black waves to his
waist.
'Commander,' he said, his greeting
surprised, and his silver-grey eyes turned inquiring. 'You need me again? There
is trouble?' When Taskin did not immediately answer, he widened the door
without hesitation.
The commander accepted the welcome, his
dress and bearing no less than parade-ground precise. Yet the tension that rode
the trim set of his shoulders suggested the distress of a man unaccustomed to
losing his bearings.
Jussoud crossed his patterned carpet, the
bracelets worn on his ankles a thread of gold light against his saffron skin.
Not owning chairs, he offered the commander a grass-stuffed cushion. 'Sit. You
look like you need to. I can't recall ever seeing you appear this confused.'
Taskin showed no offence. Only a note of
clipped exasperation inflected his upper-crust speech. 'By every word for the
havoc of hell, I can't recall feeling this way, either.'
An iron pot steamed on a coal-fed brazier
next to the flame of the oil lamp. 'I have
sennia, brewed from Sogion beans. Will you have some?'
The commander shook his silver head. 'Thank
you, no. I can't fathom how you drink that damned tar, far less acquire the
taste for it.'
Jussoud laughed. 'Inborn habit, no doubt.'
He retrieved his goblet from the windowsill, a delicate vessel fashioned of
shell and artfully twisted wire. Then he settled on to the opposite cushion,
his innate grace a startling trait for a man of his massive stature. 'Our
mothers mix a black paste from the flowers to ease pain when their children cut
teeth.'
Across the saffron glow of the lamp, Taskin
sat still and said nothing.
'Troubled, indeed,' Jussoud observed. 'What
has Captain Mykkael done, now?' At the commander's snapped startlement, the
healer's round face showed a smile just barely suppressed. 'No other man's
capable of testing your nerves. Did you come here for insight or facts?'
'Truth,' Taskin blurted, amazed by the
stumble the moment he opened his mouth. As often as he had watched the masseur
pry open a man's heart to facilitate healing, he had never experienced the
skilled technique applied to his guarded reserve. No use but to fling wide the
floodgates, now, since emotion had sprung the first breach. 'Mykkael said you
were born to a royal house.'
'Why have I never confided?' Jussoud's
threatened smile became a soft laugh that wove through the hiss of the oil
lamps. 'Because the blood of my origins is a many-fold blessing, common as
grass on the steppe. Kings there are measured by the wealth of their harems.
The old despot who fathered me has no fewer than one hundred and eighteen
wives. That was the count of four years ago. The old terror will assuredly have
more women, now, and eight times their number in grandchildren.' The healer
sipped at his goblet, his measured gaze thoughtful as his northern-born friend
strove to assimilate his explanation. 'Nomad children from the great houses are
encouraged to leave home and travel the world, and return one day, bearing
knowledge. That is my heritage. Choice brought me to Sessalie. Preference keeps
me. Your crown serves my pay. However, you have become a great deal more than my
employer.'
As Taskin's relief swelled the following
pause, Jussoud added, 'No, don't speak! What's the use? You haven't the words
in you, anyway.'
Taskin shook his head, astonished as the
depth of compassionate friendship soothed him back into contentment. He
relaxed, made at home amid the shelves of stacked scrolls, and the cedar boxes
crammed with glass jars of rare oils and remedies. 'Well,' he confessed, 'I
came for an inquiry, after all.'
'I thought as much,' Jussoud said. 'You had
Mykkael cornered, did you not? Or why else would he strike out with that chosen
fact to upset your self-assurance?'
'Why? You tell me.' Restored to business,
Taskin rested his chin on the steepled tips of his fingers. 'The man's too damned secretive. He refuses to give sureties.
The demands that he makes tear holes through my security wide enough to let in
an invasion!'
'Why don't you start at the front of the
problem,' Jussoud suggested with equanimity.
'Very well.' Taskin shrugged. 'You'll have
to bear with the tangents.' He dug into the scrip at his belt, and removed a
sprig of fresh cedar. 'Could you burn this for me?'
Jussoud accepted the snippet of greenery
without question. He touched the frond to the oil lamp, then let the haze of
fresh smoke flare up and winnow around him. 'I routinely burn certain herbs for
protection in this space,' he admitted. 'An added round of cleansing won't be
taken amiss.'
The commander shifted his weight,
discomfited by much more than his barbaric perch on a cushion. 'Such uncanny
precautions are necessary, where you lived on the steppe?'
'Sometimes.' Jussoud scooped a clay bowl
from the shelf. The flat bottom was lined with sand and used ash. The nomad
stuck the burning evergreen upright and allowed the small fire to consume
itself undisturbed. 'We don't suffer attacks by cold sorcery, if that's the
assurance you seek.'
Satisfied the room held no uncanny sign of
demonic visitation, Taskin emptied the leather bag from Mykkael and handed over
the last copper talisman. 'What do you make of this?'
Jussoud noted the disturbing pattern of the
knots straight away. Turned cautious, he examined the disc in his palm. One
glance at the engraving cut into its face, and he closed his large hand, eyes
shut as he sucked a deep breath.
'You've seen this sort of talisman before,'
Taskin stated.
The masseur's fingers stayed clamped,
though his silver eyes had reopened. 'Yes, I have. It's an artefact from the
wars with Rathtet.'
Taskin scowled, eyebrows bristled above the
blade of his aristocratic nose. 'You were there also?'
'No.' Jussoud sighed. The mane of dark hair
spilled over his shoulders shadowed his sobered expression. 'My sister owns
one.'
'Sister!' Taskin stiffened, shocked,
prepared to apologize. But the nomad lifted his unburdened left hand, and banished
the need with a gesture.
'No words. It's all right.' The knotted
thong swung as Jussoud extended his shut fist into the lamplight. 'By this, I
presume that Mykkael has asked me to speak for him?'
'He didn't ask,' Taskin qualified quickly.
'He hoped, if I made the approach, that you might.' Every inch the commander of
the king's guard, he marshalled his unruly resources. 'As you say, let's begin
at the front of the problem. First of all, that disc may be needed for your
protection. I have one also. So does the king. Three have gone to my finest
guardsmen, including Captain Bennent. Another is held by the Duchess of Phail.
Will you wear the last, and become my silent observer, unknown to all others
but me?'
'Mykkael gave these to you?' Jussoud asked.
'If he has, you are honoured. They indicate you might hold something more than
his personal trust.'
'Better say what you mean,' Taskin said,
oddly ruffled to discover he might have been granted an unsought burden of
commitment. 'I have given the captain his provisional freedom, bearing on what
you care to tell me.'
'Nothing's changed, since we spoke in
Dedorth's observatory.' The talisman still snugged inside his bunched fist,
Jussoud spread his hands. 'I don't know
whether Mykkael came to Sessalie under the pay of another employer. If he has,
or has not, his mere presence is deadly.'
'Then why not tell me what you know of the
man?' Taskin's insistence was gentle, warned as he was that the ground he
assayed must be guarded by emotional pitfalls. 'I'll bear the tactical burden
of decision myself, whether the captain should be entrusted to uphold his crown
duty to Sessalie. The desert-bred told me, if your tribe was Sanouk, you might
have a relative who served under him. Am I right to believe that person may be
your dead sister?'
'Not dead,' Jussoud corrected, his delivery
made rough by reluctance. 'She was one of the unlucky survivors.'
Taskin held, unblinking and still, by the
wavering fire of the oil lamps. 'Unlucky?'
'Yes.' The healer unsealed his tight fist.
While the breeze through the casement breathed chill off the glaciers, the
clean shear of ice interwoven with the incongruous summer sweetness of flowers,
he regarded the engraved copper disc. Then he looped the stained thong over his
head as though the uncanny metal might burn him. He pulled his midnight hair
clear of the leather. The copper talisman dropped over his heart, framed
between the embroidered dragons stitched on his wide sash and the open lapel of
his robe. He spoke then, his proud face trained ahead, and his unfocused eyes
staring into a grim past. 'Orannia was one of the eighteen who walked out of
the Efandi capitol alive. Like most of the rest, she suffered from madness
beyond any power to remedy.'
'Myshkael
was her acting captain?' Taskin probed carefully.
'More.' Jussoud arose. Barefoot, he strode
to the window. For a racking, drawn interval, he regarded the black rim of the
mountains reared above the faint, starlit shine that defined the slate roofs of
the barracks. 'Mykkael was in love with her,' he said at last. 'They had
expected to marry. My father, the old despot, forbade the match, and banished
Mykkael from the Sanouk.'
Taskin would not soften his driving
impatience. 'Dishonoured?'
'No. Nothing like that.' Jussoud changed
his stance, faced back into the room, his features brushed gold against the
night casement. 'He had brought her home through great difficulty. Like the
desert tribes, my people have trained shamans. But their chanting could not
cure her, or restore her to her right mind. Our law says the mad may not marry,
and Mykkael would not abide.'
Taskin looked at him, testy. 'Bright
powers! Then you've known that desert-bred's background and name all along?'
Unmoved to rancour, Jussoud shook his head.
'I never met him, you understand. Only heard of his history by way of
correspondence with my distant relatives.' The nomad healer left the window,
paced past his boxes of remedies, and pinched out the flame on one of the
lamps, which was failing. While he scrounged for the phial to refill the
reservoir, he resumed his measured explanation. 'We are an insular folk, not
apt to welcome a stranger. The written record inscribed in the tribe's
chronicle used the Serphaidian ideograph for "dark foreigner" to
reference Mykkael's petition to wed into the royal clan. Orannia and I share a
father, a name. She chose the road to her heritage as a fighting sword among
mercenaries. I had not seen her since girlhood, and I did not revisit the
family until after the year she returned.'
Taskin glowered through the flare as the
lamp was relit. 'Well, certainly you must have suspected Sessalie's captain
might be the same man!'
'Not really. Even last night, when I saw
the vizier's mark under his hair, I could not be sure. The captain who loved
Orannia was a southern-born swordsman. The troops who fight sorcerers often
bear Scoraign blood, since the culture lends an advantage. Many veterans wear
similar tattoos, laid down for shielding protection. Our tourney champion might
have been a survivor from any one of a dozen campaigns. Though he bore two
styles of geometry, overlaid, Eishwin's lines are more subtle in nature, and
the light in the cellar was dim.'
Taskin tracked Jussoud's deliberate tread
as he returned to his cushion and sat down. While the healer recovered his
goblet of sennia, the commander
inquired with acid tenacity, 'Just when did you know your bold fellow for
certain?'
Jussoud set down his drink with a nettled
clink. 'Fires of mercy, would you have
asked him?' Before Taskin's straight silence, which said beyond doubt, that
no measure was too stiff for Sessalie's security, the nomad healer tucked his
robe under his folded knees as though to ward off a chill. 'I knew when I went
to the barracks this morning, and found the shaman's ward on his sword hilt.'
Taskin leaned forward. 'Not desert work?'
'No.' Jussoud returned a stunned shake of
his head, as always bemused by the commander's exhaustive, sharp faculties.
'Mykkael is not tribal, his birth people never owned him. The lines he bears on
his sword are Sanouk. A protection like that could only have been sung by our
shamans, in gratitude, on the hour Mykkael left our camp.' Finding his goblet
depleted, Jussoud used the oil lamp to refire the coals underneath his squat
iron pot. Then, easy nature restored, he provoked, 'Had I known you were
holding an interrogation, I'd have offered a pitcher of water.'
'No water,' said Taskin. 'We're trying to
forestall tears. I promise I'll pay you a social call once Princess Anja is
safe, and this threat posed by sorcerers is over.' He wrinkled his nose at the
pungency of warmed sennia. 'If you
don't burn your vocal cords drinking that stuff, I'm not done with today's
round of questions. What of Myshkael's
history with Prince Al-Syn-Efandi? Do you know aught of his flight from
Rathtet?'
Jussoud stared. 'From Rathtet? Bright stars of my ancestry, did he say that? If he
did, that should show you his bitter reluctance to speak.'
Taskin handed over the padded cloth to
allow the heated pot to be handled. 'Go on.'
Jussoud refilled his shell goblet, swirled
the melted liquid inside until it assumed the consistency of hot glue. 'To win
free, your captain had to cross
through the battle lines. Our record,
taken from Orannia's ravings, says this: he took twenty-five. They were his
best fighters, the core of his troop, and closer than brothers, or family. One
by one, he watched them die. Or go mad. He had Eishwin's mark in his favour.
Most didn't. The few who stayed sane arranged the diversion, and Mykkael
pressed through, alive. He kept those struck to madness upright on their feet,
made them bear weapons and keep fighting. He endured horrors our shamans would
not suffer our scribes to record to keep his oath and bring the Efandi princess
to safety. He cosseted his band of survivors through, drove them beyond near
starvation and disease to get back into friendly territory. Perhaps he held on
out of hope their ruined minds could be recovered. Perhaps he did so because he
had no one left, and the Efandi princess still to guard.'
'They couldn't be cured, then?' Taskin
asked quietly.
Jussoud shook his head. 'Most killed
themselves, after. What use to grieve? They had no future, no hope to win free.
But my sister had family with Sanouk beliefs. Our customs will not embrace
suicide. Mykkael tended her needs, saw her through the long journey home. Yet
even our shamans could not recall her to reason. The Rathtet lines of sorcery
burn in her mind without surcease. She still wakes up screaming from nightmares
and deranged memory. Night and day, she is guarded from sharp objects.'
The last question fell light as a whisper
against the backdrop of quiet. 'Myshkael
would not leave her before he was banished?'
Jussoud sighed, ran a troubled hand through
his hair. 'The last entry in the record was sealed by the ideograph for
everlasting endurance. Mykkael had no place to go, after all. No troop, no
cadre of specialized, trained officers. All his savings and supply trains were
lost when the Efandi capitol was sacked. The princess he saved holds his debt,
but no revenue. He became a lone sword, with no standing, then finally no hope,
I should think. The subsequent wound that ruined his knee would have forced his
retirement from mercenary service.'
'Why can't you swear to his honesty, then?'
Taskin pressured.
Jussoud's eastern face showed the bitterest
grain of his sadness. 'Because I know him through my sister's letters, the sane
ones she wrote through the years when she served with his troop. Her heart saw
the truth with all of love's dangerous clarity. Mykkael is a man who holds to
integrity before honour. Ethics mean more than his promise. He will act on his
human principles, first, and see himself damned if an oath, and right choice,
should come to be set into conflict.'
Taskin heard through the last testimony,
the braid trim at his shoulders straight as ruled brass in the flame light.
His gratitude stayed silent. He held no
regret. Nor would he demean the scouring exchange pressed to closure with the
syrup of pretentious apology. 'I am satisfied,' he said. 'As long as no man
comes forward with evidence that Myshkael
has broken his sworn bond, the king's word of trust can be used to stay the
prejudice of the crown council.' He arose, then, regretful for the last order
he must issue before leaving the healer in peace.
'Jussoud, would you take one further duty
amiss? I need you to call down to the gate keep tonight to dress that insolent
desertman's back.'
The nomad pushed his filled goblet aside,
his black brows set into a frown of thunderstruck tolerance. 'I'll braid up my
hair, then. How many stripes did he make you lay on him?'
Taskin answered, his proud head faced
forward, that not even Jussoud should observe the irritation and grief that
made shreds of his iron-clad bearing. 'On the streets, you'll hear twelve. I'm
not known to deceive. For the sake of the kingdom, and my peace of mind, please
make damned sure you strip him in
private.'
THE LATECOMERS WHO TURNED OUT TO HELP
SEARCH FOR THE PRINCESS PILED UP AT THE MlDDLEGATE guardhouse. Drawn by the
reward, or else moved by concerned generosity, their press in the street almost
rivalled last night's crowd of celebrants. On foot, since Taskin's industrious
watch officer had dispatched his horse back to stabling, Mykkael paused in the
shadow outside the flood of the gatehouse torches. Still stinging from the
commander's cavalier handling, he sized up the adventurers who had gathered for
audience with Crown Prince Kailen. They were a mixed lot.
Grizzled farmers who smelled of hayfields
and sweat came to loan their leashed hounds for tracking. Dairy maids and
goatboys who had been searching the hedgerows rubbed shoulders with velvet-clad
merchants and liveried servants. Jammed chock-a-block against the Middlegate's
brick wall, weather-beaten caravan guards in dusty leathers swapped tales of
road hazards and bandits with itinerant tinkers and wagoners. Two red-cheeked
laundresses gossiped with a frocked housemaid, while a young girl with emerald
ribbons flirted with a bravo bearing a sword that looked like an ancestral
relic.
Mykkael mapped their collective mood:
caught the notes of disaffected anxiety, deferred hunger, and strained temper
that would jealously guard the established position in line. No slinking tactic
acquired in the field would let him slip past unobserved.
The garrison captain snapped off a coarse
phrase in dialect, damning Taskin under his breath. Then he shifted raw
shoulders beneath his sheathed sword. Chin raised, face bare, he prepared to
brazen his way through.
At first, darkness covered him. The harsh
shadows thrown by the torches masked the vivid stains on his shirt. As he
worked into the press, recognition drew surprised murmurs of 'Captain!'
followed by the inevitable flurry of movement as petitioners shifted aside.
Brisk, but not hurrying, Mykkael reached the gate keep; and like the stir of
cold breeze from behind, the first voices exclaimed. Fingers pointed in
salacious discovery.
Unflinching, the captain arrived at the
checkpoint. He met and passed by his posted sentry's shocked gasp; disregarded
the sharp looks of inquiry. The watch officer's stunned questions were handled
the same way: Mykkael ignored them. As if the bleeding marks of fresh
punishment were nothing outside of the ordinary, he demanded a summary report
of the traffic since sundown, point blank.
The officer gaped, caught Mykkael's bark of
reprimand, then snapped to and started reciting. When his list was complete,
with the abnormally high numbers of Devall's off-duty honour guard duly noted,
the captain revised standing orders. He dispatched his gawping gate sentries to
sort out the adventurers and free the clogged street. Then he strode on his
way, without rising to comment, as speculation sparked like wildfire between
the men-at-arms left at their posts.
'D'you think they'd have shackled him?'
'No man would dare!'
'If he did, he'd be dead, no doubt about
it.'
'... without chain, who could hold him?'
.. suppose it was Taskin. Old icicle dick.
Sprang from the womb with a sword in one hand, and a pair o' steel bollocks in
the other.'
'Could've handled our captain, maybe, but
powers of glory! What disgrace on the record could have remanded a commissioned
crown officer for a lashing?'
A burst of rough laughter from the
gatehouse wardroom echoed down the dark street. 'Oh, get real, man! A sand-bred
cur holding a crown captaincy on his merits, and that's not a rank provocation?'
Mykkael chose the straightest route down
the thoroughfare, past the lit fronts of the wine shops. Hard-tempered nerves
from his years as a mercenary let him ignore the jeers of the dandies; the
derision elicited from tradesmen and shopgirls; the vindictive hoots from the
derelicts his men-at-arms had often collared for feisty conduct. Of far more
concern to his wary ear, the sword in the sheath at his back: he listened,
intent, to its silence. Yet no hum of warning arose from the shaman's lines
sung into its warded hilt.
That quiet provided him small reassurance.
Mykkael's senses crawled. Each passing second touched a pulse of tingling dread
through his skin. Danger moved on the wind, a coil of moving intent that
lurked, waiting, just under the range
of his instincts. Attuned to the triphammer beat of his heart, he grazed
against the black reflection of Anja's terror, as somewhere in a bramble-choked meadow, she stumbled uphill in the
dark.
The rumble of iron wheels dispelled the odd
current of witch thought. Mykkael dodged clear of the outbound slop wagon,
sharpened by the awareness that the oldster on the driver's box was not
whistling. The captain moved on, pushing the halt in his leg, and testing the
texture of Sessalie's calm with an ear tuned and listening for change.
The mild night around him might have seemed
ordinary, but for the wound pitch of a tension that sang underneath the
ingrained habit of normalcy. Trade folk spoke in lowered voices on the street
corners, their faces frowning and serious. Babies wailed from the lower town
tenements, their cries muffled behind snugly barred shutters. Lovers stole
kisses in the nooks between streetlamps, yet their embraces tonight seemed more
frantic. If the tavern boys hung jaunty baskets of flowers above the doors of
the taprooms, the talk at their backs held no ribald jokes, and no treble
female laughter. Tin lanterns cast their circles of light, gilding the first
shine of dew on the cobbles. Ahead of the mist, the air was dipped crystal,
alive with the calls of a nightjar floating down from a rich merchant's garden,
and the knifing chill breathed off the ice fields above Howduin Gulch.
While time fleeted.
Arrived at the keep gate, Mykkael heard
bullfrogs in the moat, sure sign the night's crew of rag men were not out on
their rounds netting salvage. Across town, the gist of the overheard gossip had
wound to the same grim thread: Sessalie wore a deep-seated unease underneath
her longstanding peace. People still tried to cling to complacency. They might
shrug off fear with a smile of self-derision. False security blinded them. Amid
the snug sanctuary of their mountains, the notion of deadly peril had been
dismissed as unfounded fancy for too long.
Such innocence had no language to measure
the magnitude of its helplessness. If Commander Taskin had ever once glimpsed
the terrors these folk might suffer under usage by cold-struck sorcery, the
iron courage of his commitment must surely falter, outfaced.
His face like cast stone, Mykkael greeted
his alert sentries. Since, by his order, no torches burned by the watch post to
spoil their night sight, he was spared their remark on the state of his back.
Ahead, the plank bridge wore snags of mist risen off the black water below. Mykkael
crossed the span, a scrape introduced to his stride by the knee overtaxed by
the belltower steps. Yet tonight, far deeper concerns eclipsed the trials of
his physical discomfort. The qualm in his gut as he stepped back on to stone
paving served him the clear-cut warning: that he walked over ground wracked by
the uncanny currents that moved where a sorcerer worked.
Mykkael approached the lighted bustle of
the keep, pursued by haunted thoughts. He held no illusions, not now. His
paper-thin tissue of peace had been torn since the moment he broached the
locked coffer holding the Rathtet war's artefacts. From Highgate, he carried
the bone-deep awareness that his baiting ploy with Taskin's crack archers had
gone beyond brazen tactics. Each breath, he wrestled the stripped cry of his
nerves. For King Isendon's oath, and for a princess who pleaded with painted
green eyes from a portrait, he wondered if he had the resilience left in him to
withstand the challenge a second time.
Behind
the balefire burn of Anja's live fear, he still heard Orannia's screaming.
The fierce pain he had no power to remedy still bled him, a scalpel cut through
the heart.
Two paces beyond the portcullis archway,
the glow off the fire pans set him on display. Men trained to a hair-trigger
edge of response took note of their captain's entry. The white shirt hid
nothing. Mykkael stepped across a lightning-struck silence, fast followed by
thunderclap as the first, amazed whistle creased the stilled air at his back.
The irritation all but unleashed his temper, that the guard had changed roster
at sundown. Reliable, taciturn Cade was off watch. Which stroke of fouled
timing launched Sergeant Jedrey to crowing satisfaction.
'Insubordination, striking a crown lancer
in the line of duty, insulting royal ambassadors, and oh, yes! While we're at it,
how many stripes decorate your dark hide for upstart insolence? How delightful
to see Commander Taskin's delivered the lashing you've richly deserved of your
betters!'
'Uncreative as all the rest of them,' Mykkael
agreed, his derision astonishingly amiable. He added, 'Get me a task force of
thirty men, soldier, armed and at the ready. I'm inside to the wardroom for a
fast bite to eat. They'll march on the moment I come out.'
Stalled in mid-diatribe by the brisk shift
in subject, Jedrey lost words for rejoinder.
'Duty!' cracked Mykkael. 'I'm calling a
raid on a Falls Gate tavern, and you, dandy man, get to flash that spotless new
surcoat at the forefront.'
'Which tavern?' asked Vensic, arrived for
the bloodbath, and richly enjoying the flush that steamed Jedrey's ears.
Mykkael smiled, all teeth. 'The Bull
Trough's overdue for a mucking, I think. There's still some stew left in the
kettle inside? That's good. To ream out that dive, a man doesn't march without
sustenance.'
* * *
Unlike the paved avenues in the upper-tier
neighbourhoods, the warren of byways adjacent to Falls Gate were packed dirt,
entangled and narrow as dropped string. Shopfronts battled for space to hang
signs beneath the roof beams of the tenements, strung with their raggedy lines
of hung laundry. No lamplighters visited these twisted, dimmed alleys, where
starving rats scavenged the midden heaps. Citizens who braved the district at
night brought candle lamps of wrought tin, or better, pine torches less apt to
extinguish if dropped in the heat of a fracas.
The garrison's task squad marched with
oiled lint cressets, unlighted. Sessalie's unbroken peace notwithstanding, Mykkael
would have no man in the king's falcon surcoat pose a target for covert
assassins. The lesson had gone hardest, to teach men to walk quietly, with
weapons and mail shirts damped silent.
For that reason, even the most furtive of
whispers carried through, as the plan for the raid was mapped out.
'Did you
see, man, he leaned back in his chair, marked like that, and ate sausage as
though nothing pained him.'
Mykkael snapped a finger against the strap
of his sword harness, which forced Jedrey to jump fast to still the loose chatter. Whether or not the sergeant
regretted his impulse to select the most dissident names from the watch list,
the garrison had been tuned for obedience. A war-hardened captain never
slackened his discipline to insist a man under his charge had to like him.
'Who wants to cover the bolt holes?' Mykkael
asked. His question cut through the barrage of coarse laughter that rolled from
the packed taproom beyond the alley. 'The Bull Trough has three.'
'Three!' exclaimed Jedrey, attentive at
last to his duty. Towers of daylight! Is that why you've never raided here?'
'No.' Mykkael's answer showed tolerance.
Under the faint shine of starlight, he glanced overhead and surveyed the row of
gallery windows, curtained in lamplit, rose chintz. 'The proprietor lies,
cheats, waters his brew, even spices his cider with aphrodisiacs. But the madam
who runs his upstairs brothel doesn't prostitute children.'
Given the fifteen volunteers he required,
the captain described the buildings whose cellars housed the escape routes.
Jedrey reorganized the remaining men, some to seal off the doors and windows,
with the coolest heads held in reserve for the frontal assault on the tavern.
'We raiding for unpaid crown revenues,
then?' asked the bold man just forcefully silenced.
'If you can pry out the proof there's a
deficit,' Mykkael replied. A woman's throaty chuckle drifted downwards, while
the outline of a lissom body crossed the candlelit glow of a curtain. Beneath,
the alley was poured pitch. If the captain's form melted into the darkness, the
stillness about him suggested the tension of a stalking lynx. 'That's your job,
soldier.' To Jedrey, he added, 'Position your men quickly. Move them in the
moment you hear the noise come back up in the taproom.'
'You won't be with us?' the sergeant asked,
startled.
Mykkael turned his head. Not smiling, with
teeth or otherwise, he said, 'There's a man inside I wish to interview. You'll
raid the bar and keep a lid on the bolt holes, while I bag my game in the
brothel.'
'You're climbing in by way of the wall?' someone broke out, incredulous.
'What in the reaper's thousand hells for?'
Eyebrows raised, Mykkael laughed outright. 'Easier, surely, to use the front
door and go in as a paying customer.' Before Jedrey's look of poleaxed
astonishment, he said plainly, 'Why else keep the splendour of my spoiled
shirt, if not to wring a martyr's applause from the riff-raff? On my chosen
signal, Sergeant. Have the men ready.'
Mykkael strode off, the hitch of his
worsening limp masked under the alley's clogged darkness. The men left in place
by the windows, and the strike force poised under Jedrey, watched their captain
take pause only once, his sharp, desert profile outlined in the light that
spilled from the Bull Trough's taproom. That split second gave him the bearings
he needed. A man on a mission far removed from the lusty pleasure of dalliance,
Mykkael tugged his snagged shirt from the grip of a scab, resettled his
sheathed sword, and strode in.
* * *
The smell and the noise assaulted the
senses in an overpowering blast: the fat reek of tallow like warm glue, binding
the miasma of heated bodies, spilled beer, yelling voices and shrieked
laughter, underlaid by the pitch tang of sawdust. The wolf pack seethe of
roistering patrons wore drab motley and homespun, or the worn leather aprons of
craftsmen. Seated on benches, or leaned in fierce argument across the rough
trestles, they spoke the tough dialect of woodcutters and drovers, and wore the
sweat-shiny muscles of smiths. Dice throwers rubbed elbows with shirtless men,
arm wrestling, while wagers were counted, and cheeky barmaids swayed through
the press with trays laden with foaming beer steins.
Until Mykkael's entry provoked a sharp
recoil. Sight of his features cast a hush as dense as a thrown blanket. The heave
of boisterous movement stalled. Pale faces turned, flushed red with stunned
recognition. Here, his dark skin framed a shout that spoke louder than the
crown's falcon surcoat, or his vested authority as captain of Lowergate's
garrison.
One too many of tonight's rabid gamblers
had lost a year's coin to the upset at last summer's tourney. Nor had the
insult subsided without strain. The changes flushed through the stews by the
Falls Gate by Mykkael's worldly experience had curbed the freebooting licence
left ingrained by decades of slipshod enforcement. His steel-clad patrols redressed
those inequities, which kept the smouldering sparks of old rancour well fanned.
'Well, well! Look what an ill wind just
blew in off the streets,' ventured a heckler towards the rear. A man at one of
the front trestles spat, while, staring challenge at Mykkael, a blowsy
seamstress pushed the stained hands of a dyer's boy into her gaping blouse. His
surrounding friends hooted, applauding with drunken encouragement. Once past
the shock of Mykkael's entry, the Bull's patrons realized they were a multitude,
pitched against one.
Sparks ripe for dry tinder, they were
primed to react.
Mykkael's strategic review had assured that
the horse thief he sought was not in the crush on the benches. Met on all sides
by aggressive hostility, he broke into full-throated laughter. 'Are you pigeons
starving for cheap entertainment? Never saw any lot stare like green boys at a
man who walks in to scratch the ripe itch.' He reached out, snake-fast. While
near bystanders flinched, his tossed coin rang on to a serving girl's tray. His
follow-through snagged a filled tankard. Mykkael sampled the brew. Eyes shut in
a grimace of striking contempt, he returned the vessel in nearly unbroken
motion. 'The whores better have nicer kick than the brew, here. Which skirt's
got steaming magma beneath? Only one, I hear tell, is worth asking for.'
'And which one's that, mongrel?' a
roisterer shouted. 'For you, she may not be in heat.'
But Mykkael had well hooked their male
curiosity. He swaggered towards the railed gallery, where the establishment's
ringleted madam set her nubile collection on display.
Taskin's left signature could not escape
notice. 'Looks like you been whipped out of one bed already.' a doxy remarked
from the sidelines.
'Just frisky, first round,' Mykkael
disagreed. His tigerish smile went and resurged as his dark eyes roved over the
mountainous form of the madam. Admiring her roped pearls and pillowed, pink
bosom, he leaned over the railing, kissed her rouged cheek, then chided before
she could speak. 'Ah, mother, relax. The hard edge is sawn off. I'm nice for
the women, tonight.'
The burst of coarse laughter shook dust
from the ceiling beams. Limp notwithstanding, Mykkael disdained the stair and
staged a fluid vault on to the platform. The onlookers were presented with his
insolent back as he inspected the live goods, half naked and simpering as they
flashed sheer lace petticoats, and preened in their ruffles and glass beads.
A few baited their prowess with cutting
enthusiasm, the boldest ones fingering his soiled shirt, or jostling his stance
with swayed hips.
'I'll cure that limp, soldier.'
'You walking three-legged, boy? C'mon. Let
me ride you.'
'Let's see how long I take to melt your
hard muscles to jelly.'
A coy redhead tucked a spray of daisies
through the strap of his harness. Mykkael plucked out the flowers with a
gallant's bow, then shied them into the crowd. He moved on, measuring the
line-up with jaded provocation, neatly sidestepping the vixen in scarlet who
tried to rake her nails down his shoulder. Her glare of contempt fixed full on
his face, she spat; and again, her stabbing spite missed its mark, turned aside
by his stunning, fast reflex.
'Try again?' Mykkael goaded, then frowned
towards the madam, his eyes shadow-dark and unreadable. 'I prefer my fights
with some steel in them, yes? So, how much for Vangyar's hot favourite?'
The huge woman smiled. 'Too late, randy
dog. She's already with him.'
'Is she, then?' Mykkael raised his
eyebrows, tossed one, two, three crown sovereigns with the sweet ching! of gold, into the silk-covered
trough of her lap. 'In that case, second best will have to stand in.' He shot
out a hand, clamped the wrist of the hussy who had spurned him, and laid her
fingers against the rough stubble of his jaw. 'This one will do.'
The madam nodded her triple chins, granting
obscene acquiescence.
His outraged selection screeched and spun
like a cat. She tried to savage him, and lost her other hand to his iron grip.
'Spit again?' the desert-bred captain invited. His expertise peerless,
harangued at each step by a shrieked tempest of curses and the glitter of
snagged beads, he manoeuvred his catch up the stairway..
He flung her off at the top of the landing,
then foiled her lunge for his throat by showering coins on the floorboards.
'Which room is Vangyar's?'
'What?
Are you crazy?' Dropped to her knees, her fingers scrabbling under his
boots to recover his scatter of silver, the doxy glared upwards through tumbled
hair.
'Dogs usually are.' Mykkael flicked one
last coin through the gloom, this one a gleaming crown sovereign. 'You looked
like you needed the night off the most. I trust you're well paid? Then enjoy a
good sleep.' Downstairs, the noise in the Bull's taproom resurged. The captain
spoke through its boisterous roar, each word punched with urgent clarity.
'Which door, right or left?'
'The one straight ahead,' snapped the
whore, left kneeling and breathless at the speed by which her lush charms were
abandoned.
Mykkael quartered the corridor with
soundless strides, the wasp hum of steel as he drew his sword at one with the
move that tripped the latch and eased open the panel. Slick as a wraith, he
slipped inside. The door he had barged clicked closed at his heels, a triumph
of timing, as Jedrey's launched raid broached the taproom downstairs, to a
thunderous burst of pandemonium.
For Vangyar the horse thief, the night's
pleasure turned sour between heartbeats. A callused hand grasped his naked
shoulder, and flipped him like a fish off the yielding, ripe flesh of his
woman. Thrown on to his back amid twisted bedding, his roaring shove to arise
was stopped cold by the edge of a longsword, touched against the shocked thrust
of his manhood.
'Stay put,' demanded the demon-dark
swordsman; then, 'Be still,' to the woman, whose painted eyes flew open as a
draught chilled the throb of desire left unpartnered between her gaped thighs.
Before her last moan shattered into a
scream, Mykkael snapped, 'Cover yourself. Leave. Do as I ask. If he does as
well, I won't harm him.'
A rushed flurry of cloth, as the whore
snatched a wrap, and fled on rouged feet through the doorway; then a bang on the floorboards, as something
downstairs rammed into the ceiling in the course of the ongoing fracas.
Mykkael regarded the long face of the horse
thief, dripping sweat off the trailing tips of his moustache. 'My soldiers are
raiding. They won't come upstairs unless I change their orders. Nor do I bear a
crown warrant with your name under seal as a criminal. Not yet,' Mykkael emphasized, the relentless sword pressed to
cringing, drooped flesh as Vangyar rebounded from shock into venomous fury.
'You will answer some questions, first pass, with the truth. If you don't, if
you lie, on my word, I'll draw blood you'll regret for the rest of your useless
life! Now, you don't want to ruin your manly joy? All you need do is stay
reasonable.'
Propped akimbo on braced elbows, Vangyar
glared past his belly, and into those pitiless desert-bred eyes. 'Ask,
bitch-bred cur. Then bend your stiff neck looking over your shoulder for the
rest of your days, which are numbered.'
Mykkael blinked, flashed white teeth
through curved lips without smiling. 'Fair enough. If I wanted to buy a particular
black horse with silver leopard dapples, four white stockings, and a
chevron-shaped star on its forehead, could you get him?'
Vangyar flopped backwards, the bristle of
beard on his chin thrust against the damp pit of his throat. 'I could,' he
said, sullen, 'except the brute beauty's been stolen.'
Mykkael tweaked the placed sword.
'Elaborate. Quickly.'
Through the shrieks of a woman, slashed
through the chorus of male bellows from below, the horse thief reassembled his
scattered wits and applied his professional knowledge. 'Horse you want's part
of a steed wicket team, three blooded pairs who used to be pastured upriver, in
the meadows behind Gurley's cow farm.'
'Owner?' prompted Mykkael. The blade in his
hand stayed, a needle of fire by the fluttering dip by the bedside.
Vangyar shook his head, swallowed. 'Don't
know. The wicket team was assembled several months back, and set into training
in secret.' To ascertain the unpleasant foreigner understood, the horse thief
took pains to qualify. 'Rich folk like to do that, enter what they call
"dark pairs" to tip the odds and enliven the betting. Sometimes they
upset a favourite to humble a rival. Blood's sometimes let, to keep such
surprise challenges under wraps. The batch with your black was close handled,
that way. Someone's rich boy from the Highgate brought coin for their upkeep to
Gurley. His sons did the riding to fit them, under lists of detailed
instructions.'
Mykkael absorbed the gist. 'This black
horse I'm wanting was stolen, you say?'
'Not only him. The whole team of six was
just lifted.'
Vangyar jerked his chin, snarling his
resentment. 'Let me free, you mad dog. I can try to find out who did the take.
Wanted to anyway. Six culled off one pasture is ravening greed. Don't need this
territory stirred by the heat as crown law sets the countryside boiling.'
Mykkael narrowed his eyes. 'When was this
wicket team stolen?'
'Last night.' Vangyar glanced with
exasperated rage at the sword blade, then assayed a broken-toothed grin. 'I
could get this horse, surely. With the princess gone missing, I much doubt the
king's magistrate has troubled to register the theft on the rolls. Likely fat
Farmer Gurley never got through the hubbub to file his complaint.'
'Then consider the incident registered,
now.' Mykkael lifted his sword blade. One fluid motion saw the steel run back
into the sheath at his shoulder. Throughout, his hard gaze stayed pinned upon
Vangyar, as though the man's narrow nose and slab cheekbones could be engraved
into permanent memory.
Downstairs, the noise rose in a crescendo,
then fell back like spent surf towards order. Mykkael spoke at length. 'I know
your face, Vangyar. That says you're a marked man. If you can't make your way
in an honest profession, I suggest you leave Sessalie tomorrow. Stay, lay your
hand on another man's livestock, and take my promise as your fair warning. Your
nice lady will weep at your hanging and sleep with another the day of your
burial.'
'Bitch-bred mongrel!' Vangyar kicked free
of the sheets, shoved bandy legs to the floor, and snatched in blind rage for
his clothes.
'Might do well to bide.' One moment more,
Mykkael grinned over his victim's stung pride. Then he strode to depart, all
flaunting grace in his disreputable, bloodstained shirt. 'Unless you want to be
snagged in my raid? Somebody downstairs tags you for a horse thief, Sergeant
Jedrey might haul you in.'
Hand on the latch, he sensed the sharp
movement. He had already engaged on trained instinct, as the thrown knife
parted the air. Dropped down, spinning back, even before the blade impaled
itself in the door plank, he embraced the crystalline state that framed the
reflex of barqui'ino awareness. Two
blows of his hands: one placed to stun nerves, and the next to drop his
attacker with a broken neck.
Vangyar reeled backwards, scarcely aware he
was dying until his head thumped into the bed frame. Out straight on the
floorboards, he realized he couldn't
be staring straight down at his own naked buttocks.
'Damned
fool,' snapped Mykkael, voice like iron above him. Then metal spoke,
whining clear of its sheath. The swift cut of the sword let in the night ahead
of the throes of last suffering.
THE DOWNSTAIRS RAID HAD REDUCED THE BULL
TROUGH'S TAPROOM TO THE TUMBLED WRACK OF A BATTLEGROUND. TALLOW DIPS still
burned in the bar's chandelier. Beneath their sultry glare, the upset trestles,
spilled food, and smashed crockery lay scattered over the sawdust, poked
through by the splinters of benches destroyed in the throes of combat. If not
peace, then the semblance of order prevailed. The last protesting bystanders
were being turned out by the fist of crown authority. Others, less innocent,
were being detained. Their railing objections raised mayhem enough to keep
Jedrey's task force preoccupied. The man-at-arms posted on guard by the stair
became the first to notice the captain's reappearance on the landing above.
Paused at the newel post to rest his game
knee, Mykkael surveyed the activity with professional acuity: the barmaids who
knelt with damp rags to minister to the bludgeoned fallen; the alert cordon
surrounding the bar, where, on the only upright stool, the garrison's
quartermaster scowled beside a salvaged candlestick, crosschecking the
establishment's books. The whores had all fled. Their provocative splendours
had been replaced by a sorry collection of scofflaws, roped by the wrists to
the platform rail, until an escort could be assembled to march them back to the
keep.
The loose end still remained. Mykkael
gritted his jaw, gave up his leaned stance, and pressed his limping step down
the stairway. His order collared the attentive young guardsman. 'Upstairs,
soldier. An exceedingly stupid man threw a knife.'
The man-at-arms signalled to a companion,
resigned. 'Fetch a plank, Paunley. We've got a corpse to haul down for a
pauper's grave.'
'Sadly,' Mykkael affirmed. The female
shriek to his left spun him round, prepared for a fit of hysterical grief, or
the mindless assault the bereaved sometimes launched to vent their outraged
denial.
Yet no lissom sweetheart leaped to savage
his face. Only the Bull's indomitable madam stood her ground, unmoved as the
mountain rooted to earth in her acres of flounces and skirts.
Eyes on her streaked face, the captain
inquired, 'Did Vangyar have any family?'
The madam shook her ringleted head. 'None
that I knew.' Her dimpled hands blotted the stream of her tears with the wad of
a sequined shawl. 'Haul him out as you please. His girl won't be claiming the
body.'
'She was a professional, I saw that much.'
Mykkael gathered his balance to pass on his way, then stopped stiff as the
madam's sensuous fingers clasped the wrist underneath his loose sleeve.
'You didn't lay.' She sniffed, her sorrow
replaced by a glare of ferocious offence. 'Did my dearie in scarlet not please
you?'
Mykkael laughed, not missing the wise,
queenly dignity underneath her run paint and histrionics. 'You have your pride;
I see that also.' Though in evident haste, he permitted her grasp long enough
to address her question. 'Your vixen has charm, but unfortunately, she also has
grit and integrity. I suggest you retire her. Some are born with too much
spirit for whoring. They're the ones who always get hurt, no matter how
forcefully you warn your johns you won't allow their rough handling.'
The madam sighed. 'I know that.' She
released her touch. Her searching pause reassessed him, blue eyes sharpened by
an intelligence at odds with her surface display of distress. 'But Maylie has
nowhere else she can go. Her brother's a halfwit who needs cosseting.'
'Send the fellow across to the garrison
keep,' Mykkael said. 'If he can sweep floors and not make useless trouble,
he'll earn his day's bread. He can sleep by the fire with the cook's brats.'
He moved on, then, without a glance back,
and demanded a summary report from the man set in charge of the prisoners. The
captain listened, as he had to the madam, with one hip braced to the railing to
ease his bad knee. If his stance seemed too easy, his attention maintained its
unswerving intensity. One wretch, he set free. If clemency ruled him, the
sheeted burden brought downstairs on the plank refuted the presumption he might
keep any slipshod habit of leniency.
All at once, his head turned. 'Who is
that?'
The officer just interviewed followed his
glance: saw the broad-shouldered man in plain clothing who had just raised the
sheet from the corpse. The jostle as the bearers paused for his review caused
the victim's head to roll off the board. Unsupported, it dangled, wrong way
around, like a melon hung from a string.
'Powers!' The officer minding the prisoners
swallowed fast. Through the scald of churned bile, he grated, 'That man,
standing there? He's the marshal of the high prince's honour guard. Came here
on leave time, until Sergeant Jedrey accepted his help.'
Before the last word, the captain was
moving. Mykkael crossed the wrecked floor, his limp grown pronounced as he
hoisted his leg across an overturned trestle. No such hitch marred his reach,
as he clamped a fast hand on Jedrey's immaculate shoulder. The grip must have
ground on a nerve, for the large man went boneless. Spun around and bowed
backwards against the bar, he lay gasping, the sweat springing down his
blanched face.
Behind, the keep's quartermaster shot
straight, his finger still pinned to the disputed sum in the ledger. He drew
breath, stopped, thought the better of speaking, then wisely moved back out of
range.
The captain's dark eyes kept their
merciless focus. Instinct deferred, shown a cold-cast ferocity that would act before mercy or reason.
'Devall's marshal leaves. Now!' The order
held a warning past compromise. 'No questions, and damn protocol. I'll have no
stranger's meddling given the sleeve to stir into garrison business!'
Released, Jedrey straightened. His face was
wrung pale. The stoop to his shoulders seemed flaccid and aged, and the arm he
required to brace his slack knees shook in spasms as he clung to the bar top.
'The high prince is our ally, you
slinking, dumb mongrel. Offend his Highness, and you'll turn our merchants to
paupers. No lowland port will ship goods out of Sessalie if your post-pissing
ignorance turns Devall's monarch against us.'
Mykkael said no word. Just moved, a blur
sprung from stillness no wary reflex might track. A snap cracked the air. The
sergeant toppled. Jedrey's frame hit the floor like an axed tree, his left
forearm snapped clean through both the long bones between elbow and wrist.
'Carry on,' Mykkael said to the dumbstruck
quartermaster. 'You heard my orders. Henceforward, you have the watch.'
At his feet, Sergeant Jedrey's stunned
effort to rise tangled with his horrifically mangled appendage. His shriek of
fainting shock sliced through the ignominy, as the garrison captain stepped
over him. 'You're relieved. Where I trained, we don't waste the time pissing
posts with citations and whippings.'
* * *
The raid on the Bull Trough Tavern took
over an hour to wrap up. Mykkael chose not to be present throughout, but came
and went, one man-at-arms or two at his heels, to prowl the back streets above
Falls Gate. The taverns he sampled seemed chosen at random. He quartered their
packed taprooms as though testing their mood, taking note of which patrons did
what, with no inclination to make more arrests. The Cockatrice, favoured haunt
of Prince Kailen, seemed more than usually raucous and jammed. There, Mykkael
lingered, absorbed by something he encountered in a dimmed corner, though the
guardsman beside him saw nothing.
Before the toll of the watch bell at
midnight, the garrison captain was at hand to enforce the quartermaster's order
to march, as the Bull Trough's catch of malcontents were moved under guard to
the gaol in the Lowergate keep. The straggling prisoners could not be moved
smartly, roped as they were, the tied wrists of each man attached to the left
ankle of the one in procession before him. Any wretch who tried bolting would
trip half the line, with the fallen as living anchor. By the time the coffle
reached the plank drawbridge, the night mists descended like layers of dropped
gauze. Mykkael's stride was visibly dragging, no longer quite noiseless as he
traversed the span over the moat.
For that reason, he led the way into the
gate arch, with guardsmen flanking the prisoners on each side, and the
quartermaster and a squad of six stalwarts holding position as rearguard.
Beneath the dank stone, thick with the rust taint of iron and the gritted smoke
of spent torches, the darkness was a jet shroud, punch cut by the ruddy glare
from the fire pans in the bailey beyond. What warned Mykkael, whether the brush
of stirred cloth, or the note of chance-struck metal, or some whispered change
in the air, no man knew.
His reverse was too sudden. The front pair
of captives jammed into each other, shouting, as his evasion crashed backwards
into them.
Whatever sprang without sound from the
shadow lunged after him, thrusting with murderous steel.
Moving with the assault, his shoulder
already twisting to narrow the available vital target, Mykkael took the
stabbing strike for his heart as a graze across chest and shoulder. The tip of
the blade jabbed a prisoner's arm, raising an ear-splitting yell.
Mykkael dropped, palms flat on wet stone,
then rebounded upwards, away from the trampling scuffle of roped legs. He drew,
sword screaming from sheath, met and parried attack, to a pealing shriek of
clashed steel. The blows exchanged came one after the other like licked fire,
scribed out in chance-caught reflection. The clamour belled in a crescendo,
then ceased. Something dropped, rolling, to a gurgle of drowned breath, jetting
stone walls and panic-stricken men with a spray of let blood.
By the time the roused watch sprinted into
the sallyport with lit torches, the dropped body drummed its heels through the
spasms of death. Mykkael bent above with his sword slicked bright scarlet. With
no pause to survey the carnage before him, he hoisted his fallen assailant by
the ankle, and began hauling him shoulder down towards the bailey. The lead
captives, milling behind in stunned shock, saw a stranger's face, still spasmed
by its final rictus. The dragged fingers, limp and weaponless, trailed over the
stone, splashed with the blood and urine that flooded, still steaming, from the
opened viscera.
'Dark powers of hell!' gasped a man, while
two of the tied captives dropped retching. The inbound guard with the torch
recoiled clear as his captain shoved past with his burden.
'Assassin!' snapped Mykkael, his temper
shaved thin. 'A boring damned nuisance, now that he's dead. First, there's a
captive with a stabbed arm that wants binding. Next, I want to know what the
moat watch was doing, that this crafty visitor slipped by them. Last, I want a
plank set up in the wardroom under good light. I will know what sort of creature
dared an ambush on my turf with the thought he could strike without penalty.'
The gate watch scurried, somewhat green at
the gills, as Mykkael proceeded with his fresh kill across the width of the
bailey. Soon engrossed in his promised review of the corpse, he snapped off
more orders. Stablehands were dispatched with buckets and brooms to sluice away
the spilled effluent. A boy caught staring was sent to recover the dropped
sword, and a knife, if he could find it. The moat watch was called in for reprimand;
then the rattled quartermaster was reminded to assert his authority. Men who
had never seen battle-raw violence mustered their shocked nerves, and resumed
their dropped purpose under their captain's brisk bidding. Chaos receded. The
jangled knot of prisoners began to be sorted, the wounded one doctored by
Vensic's firm hand, while Mykkael retired upstairs. Settled industry ruled for
scarcely a minute before upset erupted all over again.
The keep sergeant was left on his own as
the next sheet-wrapped body borne on a plank trailed in on the tail of the
crisis.
'He killed twice tonight?' Vensic sucked in a vexed breath, and swore as he
knotted the linen over the captive's unlucky puncture. 'Holy powers of mercy.'
He tried not to look at the hacked mess that lay, dribbling gore on the
wardroom trestle. Then, 'Don't go up there,' he snapped to the quartermaster,
who ventured an unwise step towards the stair. 'You need watch orders? I'll
handle the dispatch. Captain'll be a rank bundle of nerves. Let him unwind
first. Trust me, he'll come back down when he's ready.'
'You hear yet, he broke Jedrey's arm?' said
a man, somewhat shrill, as the neck-broken corpse was manoeuvred inside and
laid out alongside the first. More guards milled about, shaken and exclaiming.
'Poke a dog with a stick, it'll snap.
Sergeant Jed was a fool to provoke him.'
'Blighted bad call, for those wretches on
moat watch!' a bystander griped in commiseration. 'You hear what
Captain Mykkael said when he dressed down their sad hides for negligence?'
In no mood for gossip, Vensic cracked
orders. 'Canvas and needles, boys, keep it smart! We've got two stiffs to sew
up for the gravediggers. And this place to scrub down in the meantime. No man
sits on his arse till, floor to ceiling, we're mopped clean as the late queen's
pantry!'
As the room cleared, and the fascinated
pack broke away from Mykkael's morbid handiwork, the keep sergeant collared the
quartermaster to hear the official report.
Jussoud padded into the lull of the
aftermath, still wearing his fine robe and silk sash with the dragons. He
quartered the room once, reviewing the two corpses with unmoved professional
quiet. Even under the fluttering candles, the loose tunic and drawstring trousers
on the gutted one could not be mistaken for northern dress. As though foreign
assassins were commonplace visitors, the tall nomad met Vensic's leashed-back
distress with a calm like unruffled water. 'Since these two lie past need of my
services, where's your captain?'
'Taskin sent you?' Vensic shut his eyes,
released a pent breath, then set down the duty slate in his hand. 'I thank
glory for that.' Exhausted and troubled, he placed the chalk alongside as
though it was explosively fragile. 'Mykkael's upstairs. Mind how you handle
him. He isn't inclined to want company.'
'By nature, is he a man who craves a woman
to let down from the tension of violence?' Jussoud shrugged, the chink of glass
in his satchel too strident amid the strained quiet. 'Then bide easy. I'll
manage well enough on my own.'
Vensic rubbed his stubbled face with taut
hands, nodded, then moved with intent to roust stableboys. 'You'll be wanting
the wash tub?'
Half turned away to proceed up the stair,
Jussoud glanced back in surprise.
And steady, sensible Vensic gave way, his
voice cracked rough by an onslaught of shaking. 'Last I saw, Mykkael looked as
if he'd walked through an abattoir.
What's happening? Who sent the foreigner that just tried to kill him?'
Then, as the braced set to those eastern-bred features reached through, his
distress snapped to shattering fear. 'Bright powers, what's troubled you?
Jussoud?'
But the nomad had no assurance to salve his
deep worry, that fresh bleeding could be masked by the gore of a kill. 'Send up
filled buckets. Hot water. Leave them outside the door. If I need aught else,
I'll send down to you.' All business, he spun and mounted the stair, leaving
Vensic, struck desolate, behind him.
The door at the top of the landing was
ajar. The feeble glow of the clay oil lamp beyond spilled carmine light over
the stairhead, where Jussoud took pause to consider the difficult prospect of
entry. He shifted his satchel, to a faint clink of glass.
That distinctive sound, or perhaps the
earlier tread of his grass sandals, reached Mykkael's overstrung senses and
woke recognition. His flint voice came muffled, from behind that gapped panel,
the phrasing in high-caste Serphaidian. 'Jussoud? Come ahead. Only you.'
The nomad contained his stark apprehension,
pushed open the door, and stepped through. The sweet-burning fragrance of
incense filled his nostrils, underlaid at next breath by the coppery tang of
let blood. Jussoud all but flinched as his tentative first footfall mired in
Mykkael's dropped shirt. The fabric was sodden, more scarlet than white. Rinsed
in hellish tones by the lamp on the trestle, Mykkael knelt before what looked
like a clothes chest. His posture was upright, buttocks propped on the heel of
his good leg, with the bad knee extended at a sideways angle that suggested the
scream of pinched nerves. His naked, marked back showed Taskin's three stripes,
the scabs rubbed raw where his harness had chafed. His head stayed bowed, and
his hands, tucked before him, were not visible.
He might have been settled in meditative
contemplation, except for the tremors that chased in sharp waves through the
musculature alongside his spine. 'There is always reaction,' he said, almost
steady. 'It will pass. Take care to move slowly until then.'
Jussoud took a deep breath, sampling the
incense for narcotic drugs. He smelled none, only the mild blend of herbals
used in southern physics for calming. Left to wait, allowed no direct outlet to
allay his concern, he softly set down his bundle of remedies. The stained
shirt, untangled, showed him two rents: one across the left-hand side of the
chest, and beside that, another razor-clean slice through the upper sleeve.
Anxious about bleeding, but granted no invitation, the healer crushed down his
urgent impatience.
The incense unreeled serpentine smoke,
tinted rouge in the flutter of the oil lamp. Mykkael drew in the scent with
shuddering long breaths, as though all five senses could be condensed down to
one, with the meadow-flower fragrance the ephemeral nail upon which he hung his
strained consciousness. Cued by the intuitive awareness that tonight, the
ritual was not going to ease him, Jussoud dared a cautious step forward. 'I'm
coming across.'
The captain did not forbid him; only the
tremors grew worse as the healer's slowed step approached. Jussoud reached,
ever so carefully gentle. He touched the unmarked right shoulder, felt the
animal flinch of recoil, then the lightning-fast surge of roused sinew as the
man underneath his poised fingers strangled down the reflexive barqui'ino response.
'All right,' Jussoud said. 'Settle back.
You can trust me.'
'Orannia's brother,' Mykkael whispered, the
next wracking shudder all too close to the wrench of a sob stifled silent.
Jussoud knelt, gathered the tortured knot
of bronze flesh into his steady embrace. 'In a kinder world, we should have
been family.' There he held for long minutes, while Mykkael trembled against
him, head turned aside in choked grief. Over his shoulder, on the lid of the
clothes chest next to the incense, Jussoud saw the object that had held the
captain absorbed: an intricate wooden seal inlaid with gold patterns, until
what looked like an axe blow had hewn its symmetry into quarters. 'Brace up,
now, Captain. I'm going to raise you.'
Mykkael cursed his knee, which had forced
his collapse, then swore with more venom as he saw the silk sleeves of the robe
Jussoud had just spoiled with bloodstains. The inventive, rich phrasing
startled the nomad to laughter. 'I can see we won't waste any candles testing
your eye reflexes for a concussion.'
'My head wasn't dunted,' Mykkael agreed.
Leg under him, his wrecked balance back under command, he managed to perch on
the stool with his bloodied hands braced on the trestle. 'Did you know Anja?'
he asked, point-blank.
'Yes. Forget memory. She is not like
Orannia. Let her quandary bide for the moment.' Jussoud withdrew his steadying
touch, caught blindsided as an explosion of tuned instinct whipped Mykkael back
to his feet. The move erupted too fast to resist. The nomad stopped cold,
awareness shocked through him that, had he owned the speed of reaction to try,
the attempt might well have destroyed him. Since the aggression seemed caused
by someone's step on the stair, he chose words in rapid Serphaidian. 'It's a
boy bearing buckets. Hold fast, do you hear?'
Mykkael disarmed reflex, spun, and propped
his stressed frame on the trestle. His hurt tucked into a protective posture,
chin averted, he said, 'I should send you out.'
'You're not going to. Stay still.' The
nomad moved, intercepted the boy on the landing. He returned with the steaming
buckets, shut the door, then recovered his satchel of remedies. He rummaged
inside, trimmed the wicks of four candles, and set them alight one by one. Now
able to see clearly, he approached Mykkael and started his treatment in
earnest. 'Do the do'aa ever poison
their blades?'
Mykkael turned his head, jerked stiff with
surprise. 'You knew that assassin was oath-sworn?'
'To mark you? He had to be.' Jussoud
completed his cursory assessment, then selected a soft rag, several herbals and
two oils. He tested the first bucket, and made an infusion with the hot water.
'Answer.'
'They don't.' Mykkael subsided, eyes shut,
while those quick, knowing fingers probed at the gash on his chest, then the
shallower graze on his bicep. 'The swords they carry are quite sharp enough.'
'So I see. Nothing you have here should
cause undue worry.' The nomad dipped his clean rag and pronounced, 'This will
sting. I am sorry. But stitching would badly impair your mobility, and naught
else will reliably stanch such a razor-clean cut.' Fast and sure, he wrung the
hot linen and began the unpleasant chore of cleaning the open flesh wounds. No
need to waste words to note how a hairsbreadth change in angle would have let
the sword's point pierce the chest wall. Mykkael surely knew how close he had
come to the death that had danced with him in the dark.
As often happened, Jussoud's steady silence
invited the overstrung mind to unburden.
'Had they sent a southerner, I would have
died,' the captain admitted straight out. 'The fact he had northern skin let me
place him.' He sucked a sharp breath, as Jussoud's ministrations moved on to
the angry slice on his arm. 'A man sent from that do'aa may have known of the knee. Even odds, and surprise, he
should have been able to take me.'
'Yet he did not.' Jussoud rinsed his rag,
packed the wounds with clean lint, then added a salve that eased the virulent
sting like a tonic. 'Life's too short to waste looking back.'
'The two masters I flouted don't think so,'
Mykkael said, his sadness turned savagely wrenching.
Jussoud rummaged for dry linen, then
uncapped a tin with turpentine gum, and softened the contents over the candle.
'Well, they must get tired of losing trained men.'
'You saw the seal?' Mykkael retorted.
'Smashed crosswise, that means they will quarter the known world. It is sent as
an oath-breaker's promise of vengeance. I had hoped, of the two, Kaien's do'aa might release me.'
Jussoud dipped the linen into the tin, let
the melted gum soak through the fabric. 'Do you care very much if you itch as
you heal?'
Mykkael curled his lip at the strong reek
of pine gum. 'That concoction you've got's going to spare me from having my
torso done up in strapping? Great glory. I'll scratch like a dog, and be
grateful.' Then he flinched, gasping swearwords, as the healer plastered the
heated strips over his traumatized flesh.
To divert him from the pain, Jussoud posed
a sensitive question. 'What made you think Kaien might grant you release?'
Eyes shut, head thrown back, with the sweat
rolling off his temples in drops and soaking his sable hair, Mykkael jerked out
his answer. 'Such a seal is given, master to student, On the swearing of oath.
It is kept on display, then awarded with ceremony upon completion of training.
I did not finish my schooling. Not then, not ever, with Kaien's do'aa. When I deserted without given
leave, the master smashed my seal, for dishonour. The first assassin he sent
delivered that token. Though that aspirant died by my hand, I sent his disc
back, unbroken, along with his ashes. For the second man, I did the same. By my
respect for their dead, they would understand I had never shared secrets
between do'aa. Tonight, as you see,
they dispatched their reply. Third is final. My appeal is not going to be
heard.'
'Outcast,' Jussoud said. 'Did you murder that
beggar girl?'
That snapped Mykkael out of pain-shocked
stupor.
Riled beyond hurt, his eyes open and angry,
he slammed his taut fists on the trestle. 'With these hands? No! The spilled
blood stained another's. But, by allowing such knowledge to exist in the world
- yes. Which weapon strikes down the victim, the living man or the sword? All
of us in that do'aa killed that
child. Saddest of all, maybe, that I was the only one there who was shamed
enough to walk out.'
'I spoke for you, today, when I wasn't sure,'
Jussoud said, in one measured sentence drawing the sting from his test of the
captain's integrity. 'Brother I lost to Orannia's madness, I say here, you were
good enough to have wed as a prince of the clan.'
That undid Mykkael. He stared, thrown off
his balance in surrender, while the nomad's deft touch steered his unsteady
steps towards the pallet. Settled, face down, the tears almost came that the past had never wrung from him. 'Demon,
begotten of demons,' he murmured, exhausted down to the bone. 'I had better be
good enough now, to recover Isendon's daughter.'
Jussoud moved in staid calm and fetched the
clean bucket. Endlessly patient, he sat on the edge of the cot, sorted among
his oils and remedies, and made up a second infusion. This one did not sting,
as the warm cloth tenderly swabbed the three livid welts on the desert-bred
captain's back. Jussoud cleaned the spatter of bloodstains, also, everywhere
else he could reach. 'You cannot help her Grace by any means if you don't keep
your head and stay free.'
Mykkael sighed, eyes half lidded and weary,
now that he was stretched prone. 'By that, you know I have a garrison man
turned informer?'
'Do you?' That steady, soft touch scarcely
faltered.
'The assassin's dropped sword wasn't found
in the archway when I sent a boy to recover it,' Mykkael stated, and this time
the bitterness blistered. 'You learned the fact I had two masters from your
tribe? Not Taskin.' Satisfied once that point had been clarified, the captain
closed his eyes fully. 'How much is my oath-breaking likely to cost? If Taskin
kept silence, I have to expect the unpleasant truth that somebody knows how
severely I'm forsworn with one, if not both of the do'aa.'
With practised mercy, Jussoud ripped off a
stuck scab to cleanse the festering flesh underneath. 'The bald truth you've
asked for is ugly enough. The king's trust in fact rests upon your past record
of loyalty, and you are foreign-born, which draws enemies. That could see you
bound in chains on an implied charge of treason at the slightest hint of
provocation. Will you go if you're summoned?'
'I don't know.' Mykkael shifted his knee,
fretful, the fine tremors now more due to pinched nerves than the backlash of
excess adrenaline. 'As your people have said, it's the ancient problem facing
the starving snake who foolishly swallowed its own tail. Go or not, I would
find myself damned. Break my oath of crown service by jilting Taskin's
authority, or submit to the chain of command by free choice - Sessalie's
chancellors would clamour for my arraignment either way.'
Jussoud blotted his handiwork dry, then set
to with more lint and salve. 'Short-term decision,' he pronounced at due
length, breaking through the strained quiet. 'Cover these, you'll feel more
comfortable, later. After the last, can you bear it?'
Mykkael swore. 'Do your worst, healer. By
such grace, the doomed man counts his blessing of life. If I pass out, asleep,
just be sure that my sword is left underneath my right hand.'
Arisen to warm his tin of congealed resin,
Jussoud recovered the harness and blade from the floor. He could not avoid the
tragic glance sideways, or fail to acknowledge the sad altar made over the
battered wood of the clothes chest. The stick of lit incense had long since
burned out. Under the lucent flames of wax candles, the smashed token disc
blazed like a brand. Moved by sharp impulse, Jussoud bent and veiled it. He
snatched up the stained linen just used to swab down Mykkael's back, and saw,
amazed, that his hand was unsteady with anger.
For long minutes, he walked the floor,
after that. He paced until he was certain his hackled emotions had dispersed
back to centring calm.
Mykkael watched, eyes slitted with irony.
He slept the moment the cold mark on the sword hilt was slid underneath his
slack hand. Lightly breathing, he scarcely stirred as Jussoud sealed his back
under strips of resin-soaked bandage. Battered unconscious by blinding
exhaustion, he thrashed once in a dream, and called Anja's name. Or perhaps his
appeal was Orannia's. His whisper ran on in an unknown tongue, a wracked cry of
desperate, hoarse agony.
Jussoud wept, then blotted his run tears in
relief for the gift of blank silence, restored. His hands faltered, then moved
on, careful, so careful, not to brush against the bronze skin with the knife
blade he required to cut away the stained wrap that supported the lamed knee.
Mykkael rested, oblivious. His hands on the coverlet stayed slack and trusting,
as perhaps they had during childhood. As the candles burned low, and the mist
spun white tendrils past the arrow slits, the masseur finished his labour in
unstinting quiet. He eased what he could. At the end, when the oils and the
strength of his hands had achieved all the healing he knew, he sewed a fresh
binding over the damaged joint with its crippling scars.
This time, with no pang of regret, he used
the fine eastern silk embroidered with the Sanouk royal dragons, cut away from
the sash at his waist.
The
horses gave her their hearts under cover of darkness. Their shod hooves struck
sparks, clambering over sharp rock, and sliding on perilous footing. The game
trust that risked slender legs to a lameness brought tears to her anxious eyes.
Should a misstep cause injury, the distressed animal would draw marauding
kerries, an event sure to betray her desperate flight, and cast her, helpless,
back into the reach of her enemies ...
RETURNED THROUGH THE HlGHGATE IN THE STILL
HOURS BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAWN, JUSSOUD MADE HIS WAY through the stately
streets that wound behind the east wing of the palace. The houses here belonged
to old blood nobility. Even so late, the candle lamps cast fuzzed light over
dooryards and carriageways, glinting on the glazed panes of sash windows. The
beautiful town home surrounded by cherry trees had been in Taskin's family for
centuries. Though the seat of the earldom bestowed on the patriarch was a hall
on a country estate, the house in the citadel was never unoccupied. Younger
sons often served in the royal guard, or held a chancellorship in the crown
council. For this generation, the tradition of palace residence fell to
Commander Taskin.
Jussoud passed the carved lions flanking
the entry, tired down to the bone. He knocked quietly, knowing a servant would
answer, despite the uncivil hour. Admitted by a punctilious bald man in an
immaculate jacket, the nomad healer shed his grass sandals. He accepted the
house stockings he was offered, relieved that the servant had the grace not to
comment on the spoiled state of his clothes. Then he padded where he was led,
over floors spread with antique carpets, past ancestral portraits and darkened
doorways that smelled of walnut oil and lavender. The servant admitted Jussoud
to the drawing room, where Taskin's widowed daughter sat beside a lit
candelabra, the quilted wrap in her arms filled with a squalling infant.
'Teething,' she explained. Her shy glance
towards the nomad held genteel apology, while the scarlet-faced child in her
slender arms hiccoughed and kept on howling. 'The little warrior wouldn't quiet
for his wetnurse.'
Jussoud smiled. 'If I offered the remedy we
use in the steppelands, your father might never forgive me.'
'A Sogion bean mash?' The young woman
smiled, rocking the babe, as she probably had been, for hours. 'The old soldier
came home muttering the substance must be addictive, or why else would any sane
human being suffer the hideous taste.'
'The plants themselves aren't narcotic,'
Jussoud said, searching the scatter of rich furnishings for a chair that was
not ancient, and delicate with carving. 'Infused, the roots and the leaves act
as a tonic. Only the seeds react on the nerves. They cause numbness along with
a mild euphoria, which is why they work best to ease pain.'
Porcelain fair, the young mother watched
with amusement as her nomad guest awkwardly perched his large frame on a
tasselled tuffet. 'Well, that explains Father's rigid disdain. He has always
distrusted ebullience, wringing his happiness out of hard work.'
'He's awake, still?' Jussoud inquired,
hopeful.
The daughter shook her head, hands adorned
with sapphire rings smoothing the child's corn-silk hair. 'Your commander's
asleep. He needs the rest. This uproar over the princess's disappearance has
worn him until he is driven.' She regarded the healer's stained sleeves, her
social verve clouded to apprehension. 'I expect you've come to report from the
garrison? Is there aught that can't wait until daybreak?'
Jussoud measured the pleading love in her
eyes, sparked by a concern that was also fuelled by an unsettled, formless
fear. 'I can imagine Taskin would be exhausted. He was strained when I saw him,
earlier.' Too worn himself to shoulder another round of dissecting interview,
the nomad firmed his decision. 'Let the man rest.'
'Father will be duty-bound to rise before
dawn,' the daughter said, gracious. 'If you wish, I can have a spare place laid
at breakfast. Be here, and I promise you'll see him before anyone.'
Jussoud stood, a towering figure robed in
spoiled silk, and the remnants of a sash that had once borne a magnificent work
of embroidery. The uneasy trouble his presence implied sat ill in that chamber,
amid the inherited comfort of genteel years of tradition. 'I'd be grateful.
Expect me. Only one message I carry is urgent. Tell Taskin by my word, sealed
upon the blood of my ancestry, to trust Captain Mykkael above everything.'
'Your commander will hear what you ask upon
waking,' the young woman avowed, while the attentive servant arrived at the
door to attend the tall nomad's departure.
Jussoud crossed the palace precinct and
retired to his quarters, where, ground down by weariness, he warmed a goblet of sennia to soothe his lingering tension.
Then he slept through the night, unaware of the price his kindly solicitude
might exact from two men whose sworn vigilance defended the realm.
* * *
Two hours before dawn, when the teething
grandchild at last quieted in the arms of the exhausted young mother, a
thunderous pounding at Taskin's front door upset the household's routine. The
same well-groomed servant answered the knock. This time, the candle lamp
scattered reflections on jewels and gold, the maroon velvet of Devall's royal
livery, and a tight pack of official faces still puffy with sleep. No chance
was given to make civil inquiry, or to observe the custom of house stockings.
All but bowled aside, the servant could only bow and make way before
birth-given rank and urgent authority.
Heading the pack, the High Prince of Devall
eschewed court manners and demanded the Commander of the Guard. Just behind his
shoulder came the seneschal, Lord Shaillon, looking harried in yesterday's
creased finery. At his heels trouped Devall's perfumed retainers, half a dozen
mail-clad lowland honour guard, and two of Sessalie's chancellors, brought up
from the rear by Captain Bennent in his falcon surcoat.
The invasion aroused Commander Taskin. He
arrived in the hallway, no less competent for the fact the disruption had
caught him in bed. His silver hair was combed. Without slippers, he had thrown
a dressing robe of dark wool hastily over squared shoulders. 'Lord Shaillon,
what is amiss?'
The seneschal spun, brandished a rolled
parchment, then bobbed in deference to the High Prince. 'Tell him, your
Highness.'
'Perhaps we should retire where your
lordship can sit down?' Devall's heir apparent suggested. His veneer of state
courtesy masked smouldering rage.
'By all means.' Commander Taskin inclined
his head.
The flustered servant led the way into the
formal dining room, then scrambled to light sconces and arrange chairs. Royal
rank assumed precedence; Devall's prince led his glittering retainers. Taskin
granted a host's deference and permitted the disgruntled chancellors to follow,
the stout one shaking his head in apology, and the gaunt one stone-faced and
silent. As the seneschal stalked past, the commander ventured an ice-clad
whisper: 'You had better hold a writ from King Isendon's own hand to excuse
this uncivilized intrusion.'
Lord Shaillon fielded the pressure in
silence, his face showing smug satisfaction. Taskin trailed the ranks of his
uninvited company, his last word to his captain to stand at the doorway. 'Do
you know what's happened?'
Bennent's demeanour stayed grim. 'Let their
own words inform you. It's not good.'
Fine cloth rustled, and jewels flashed
through the moving tableau, as the household servants scrambled to accommodate
the party of distressed dignitaries, and foreign-born courtiers sorted their
disparate stations. They settled at last, the high prince installed in the
high-backed head chair, with his marshal and his advocate at right and left
flank. Taskin selected the foot of the table, and by preference remained
standing.
Lit from behind by the flare of fresh
candles, he measured his guests with a glance coldly hard as any bestowed on
his guardsmen. Then he addressed the High Prince of Devall. 'Your Highness, I
would hear what has passed, stripped of the dance steps of protocol.'
Through a disruption at the door, as
Captain Bennent forestalled the distressed inquiries of the household, the High
Prince of Devall inclined his fair head. His sculptured features seemed
haggard, his circlet of rubies blood red in their burnished gold settings.
'Your Captain of the Garrison has been charged with treason. The Seneschal of
Sessalie holds the royal writ commanding his immediate arrest.'
Taskin advanced and received the parchment
from Lord Shaillon's lizard-thin hand. He snapped off the ribbon, unrolled the
document, and read, quick to ascertain the fact the seal at the bottom was
genuine. 'I don't see the king's signature,' he admonished.
While the partridge-round chancellor
squirmed in his chair, the thin one cleared his throat. 'My Lord Taskin, five
of the high council have stood as signatories. Of eight, that presents a
majority.'
Taskin slapped the parchment down on to the
table, where it rolled itself up with a hiss. 'Where are the other three
worthies who did not set their mark? Still in bed?' His blue eyes flickered
back to Lord Shaillon. 'As the king surely is, also, at this hour.' Arms
folded, he stalked back to his place, his sangfroid unmoved by the hot-blooded
haste crowding the chairs in his dining hall. 'I will breakfast, and dress, and
consult with his Majesty once he arises.'
Which unhurried authority at last broke the
high prince's patience. 'Shining powers above!' His fists slammed the tabletop.
The cut-glass salt cellar jumped, sheeting costly white crystals over the lace
doily beneath. 'Your princess is in deadly danger! While this desert-bred
officer stands at the heart of conspiracy, free to seed ruin at will, how can
you think of delay? Action is
required, not breakfast, not dalliance with consulting a witless old man!'
'Who is my sworn king!' Taskin cracked.
'Take care how you speak of the sovereign whose realm graces you with guest
welcome.'
'You will act to guard Anja!' the high
prince erupted, 'or by the nine names of the demons of hell, I will see you cut
down for obstruction.'
The mismatched pair of chancellors pitched
into the clamour, one stammering to placate, and the other adding the threat of
high council authority. While Devall's retinue coalesced, seething, the
seneschal's distressed appeal to see reason razed through the noise.
'Commander, you hold a lawful writ, set
under seal of the realm!'
Taskin glared. 'I have seen a sealed
parchment scribed with empty words. No proof! No grounds whatsoever to depose a
crown officer.' As his rebuttal imposed a strained silence, he added with
forceful finality, 'Nor will I stir one man of the guard to call down another
for treason with no shred of evidence in hand.'
'But we do have evidence,' said the
seneschal with shattering dignity. His expectant glance swung towards the head
of the table, where the heir apparent of Devall nodded his affirmation.
Taskin returned no trace of thawed warmth.
'Show me.'
Rubies glittered as the high prince gestured
to his marshal-at-arms. 'Bring the sword.'
That muscular worthy arose at his prince's
bidding. His hands were a fighting man's, ringless and direct, as he laid a
cloth-wrapped bundle on the tabletop.
'Lord Taskin,' invited the high prince. At
his gesture, the marshal slid the object across the waxed wood. 'See what you
make of this weapon.'
Heads craned, while Sessalie's crown
commander flipped back the cloth. The folds fell away to unveil gleaming steel,
raised to an exquisite temper. The sword's handle was strapped in black
leather, the guard ring at the hilt a foreign style engraved with symbolic
patterns.
'Assassin's blade,' Taskin identified.
'Though I don't know what sect.' He glanced up, his eyes as relentlessly
ruthless as the sheen on the weapon before him. 'Does this belong to Captain Myshkael? If so, I would ask how he came
by it before I jumped to suspicious conclusions.'
'That blade is not Myshkael's.' the high prince corrected. 'It belonged to the man just
dispatched to kill him.'
Unmoved by drama, Taskin shrugged. 'Dead?'
'Violently so,' burst in the seneschal.
'Your desert cur all but slashed him in half before the eyes of the Lowergate
garrison!'
'This should concern me?' Taskin provoked.
'If the captain's still standing since the attack, he's certainly competent to
mind his affairs without intervention on my part.'
The seneschal bristled, all but launched
from his chair. 'If his affairs run counter to Sessalie's wellbeing, your
concern becomes paramount.'
'Then get to the point!' Aggressive,
impatient, Taskin poised to stalk out. 'Show me there's a threat to the realm
beyond circling, cat-and-mouse rhetoric.'
The High Prince of Devall raised a
placating, ringed hand. 'I'll speak. My marshal assembled the evidence, after
all. If the princess is restored to us, living and well, her recovery may ride
on the fact he recognized the pattern on that hilt for the mark of a barqui'ino do'aa.'
While the seneschal subsided, and the
chancellors watched with uneasiness, Taskin's blistering glance encompassed the
marshal's bull-necked complacency. 'How do you know? You have no such
training.'
The prince quelled his man's nettled surge
to arise. 'No training, that's true. Yet Devall has wealth, exposure and
enemies. My lineage has lost kings when men bearing such weapons crossed inside
of our borders. When the powers that hired them found us, or our allies, too
troublesome, necessity compelled us to know things your backwater realm need
never address in detail.'
Taskin hooked a chair, and conceded enough
to sit down. 'I am listening, your Highness. Tell me facts, not conjecture,
since I am informed enough to realize that no barqui'ino master ever sells his oath-sworn as assassins.' As
though he wore royal surcoat and sword, and not plain woollen dressing robe, he
directed his drilling regard down the length of the table.
The High Prince of Devall inclined his
head, bright as a gilt icon against the dark panes of the casement. 'Let my
marshal explain to your lordship directly.'
'The
do'aa don't hire out assassins, this is true,' Devall's ranking guardsman
conceded. 'But they do send them to carry out deaths on their own account. An
oath-sworn who breaks their tradition of integrity is cut down so, without
quarter. Since an outcast initiate will
sell his sword, and since his trained background makes him all the more deadly,
we in Devall have studied barqui'ino
traditions. Your Myshkael is such a
creature, forsworn.' The high prince's officer concluded his case with
patronizing assurance. 'The man your desert-bred gutted tonight was sent from
Kaien's do'aa to dispatch him. Your
proof is the pattern engraved on this sword. That your captain broke loyalty is
beyond any question. Three men at the Lowergate garrison saw him search the
corpse. He found and removed a seal fashioned of wood and gold wire that had
been quartered in fragments. Such a token would have been ritually broken by
the master whose tradition he dishonoured. Sergeant Jedrey has the names of
your witnesses, if you wish to crosscheck for veracity.'
The seneschal rushed to drive home the
inequity. 'The king's trust was based upon Myshkael's past record. You heard his Majesty state that condition,
with the Duchess of Phail in attendance.'
'Sessalie's council must support the
arraignment,' ventured the slender chancellor down the table. His pearl studs
and lace emphasized his distress, as he swept a hand towards the unwrapped
weapon. 'Here we have proof the foreign captain is forsworn, and unfit to
invest in crown service.'
'That's a long leap, from the inference of
one broken promise, to cry a man down for treason,' Taskin remarked. His glance
raked over the assembly. 'Should King Isendon choose to dismiss him, and we
don't know that his Majesty will - the case has not been heard - Myshkael would be still entitled to
freedom. The council's writ for arrest is not legal. I cannot call out my
guardsmen against a man who has committed no crime against Sessalie.'
'Then it is my realm's honour your planted
feet will offend!' the high prince interrupted with heat. 'I want that
desert-bred captain detained! Let the wretch answer to my charge of treason
against my future wife's standing as queen of Devall.'
'Your suit for marriage has not yet been
signed,' Taskin responded, unmoved. 'Your slighted honour at this point rides
upon nothing more than conjecture.'
Accosted by a spitting explosion from the
chancellors, and condemnation from the seneschal concerning disastrous losses
to trade, the crown commander held firm. His enamel eyes bored into Devall's
high prince. As his survey detected the masked signs of unease, reflected again
by the slight, fretted movement that stirred through the royal retinue, Taskin
resumed his sharp challenge. 'What aren't you telling us, your Highness? What
hidden motives lie outside Princess Anja's feminine charm? For whatever harm
has breached our borders, I presume to suggest that Devall's might and wealth
would be the more likely attraction to set her Grace under threat in the first
place.'
'You place our high prince's dignity below
an outcast foreigner whelped like a stray dog in a ditch?' the crown advocate
pealed in struck shock.
Before Taskin's withering contempt, the
heir apparent flushed, pride reversed into startling contrition. 'No, this is
not what you think! I don't speak out of spiteful prejudice.' He adjusted his
chair, then glanced down at his hands, torn and suddenly reticent. 'Devall has
enemies,' he confessed in discomfort. 'Very deadly ones, at this jointure.'
Taskin sharpened his nailing regard.
'Better talk plainly, your Highness, and fast, since you think they've
endangered our princess.'
'Who else could have possibly struck at her
Grace?' the high prince cried with breaking anguish. 'I value her spirit, would
never have risked her to harm! But the burdens of crown responsibility
sometimes cause a man to make unpleasant choices. Yes, I love Princess Anja!
Yes, I courted her for her exceptional wit and her exquisite beauty. But I must
tell you now, she is also desirable to Devall because Sessalie could offer my
heirs a safe haven should our lowcountry lands be invaded.'
Taskin cut across the shocked clamour that
ripped through the gathering. 'You say Devall has attracted the enmity of a
sorcerer?'
The high prince swallowed, his stiff
bearing in shreds. 'I fear so.' Pinned down under Taskin's relentless scrutiny,
he divulged the shaming truth. 'Mercy on us, we have. The threats are direct,
but not public. For that reason, your garrison captain could easily be the hand
of that evil, among us. Myshkael is
an oath-breaker, condemned by Kaien's
do'aa. And our enemy has been well known to contract such outcasts and send
them as weapons against us. For the wellbeing of your princess, I beg you,
constrain him! If he has been hired as catspaw to strike down my alliance with
Sessalie, your royal family will see blood and tragedy, I promise.'
The heavyset chancellor appealed directly
to Taskin. 'Can you swear, or show proof that this desert-bred's not acting
under the pay of a foreigner?'
'No.' Taskin addressed that shortfall
without flinching. 'Such things can be checked.'
'But an investigation in depth will take
time,' his lean colleague argued. 'Dare we allow the creature his liberty, with
Anja's safety in question?'
'The council can appoint Sergeant Jedrey to
take charge of the garrison,' the seneschal pressed, the parchment bearing the
writ for arrest tucked back under protective fingers.
'Cade's better suited,' Taskin snapped,
while the High Prince of Devall stood back from the argument, and Captain
Bennent, from the doorway, gave professional opinion that even young Stennis
handled the men more effectively.
'But Jedrey's their senior, and born above
Highgate,' the seneschal took pains to point out. 'On the heels of a traitor,
the nobles would raise less complaint over one of their own.'
'I will agree to detain Captain Myshkael!' Taskin cracked across the raised
climate of vindication. 'He'll be held for questioning until his word to the
crown can be tested. Yet until my investigation establishes guilt, or unless
King Isendon's personal ruling sets the crown seal to his arraignment, he is a
commissioned officer of the realm, and not to be named as a traitor.'
'We are satisfied.' The High Prince of
Devall flicked a nod at his marshal, and as one, his liveried retinue arose.
Although he was entitled to royal prerogative, he graciously allowed the
seneschal and chancellors to leave the chamber ahead of him. As they filed
towards the doorway, conferring in subdued tones, Taskin signalled for Captain
Bennent to let the room clear without hindrance. Unmoved, except to rise to his
feet, Sessalie's Commander of the Guard waited, dispassionate, as the heir
apparent of Devall detached from his retinue, and strode to confront him face
on.
'We have been at odds, your lordship. I am
regretful for that.' Chin raised, his neat hair caught back in a ribbon beneath
the diadem of worked gold, the high prince displayed his wealth and refined
breeding with unabashed grace in adversity. 'Can we lay our differences aside?
Sessalie and Devall are now joined as allies. We share the same wish for her
Grace's secure future. The hope of her swift recovery assuredly aligns us on
the same side.'
Taskin returned his most freezing regard.
'We may hold the same wish for the princess's safety, your Highness. Yet after
the truths you have disclosed today, never again presume to suppose that we
might join hands in alliance.'
The handsome prince stiffened, gold eyes
flashing fire. 'I will marry Anja. She will be honoured as queen in my realm.
If she dies, or sees hurt because you stayed your hand, or if you fall short of
your word to kennel your desert-bred captain, then I promise: I will see
redress. In Devall, such insolence as yours would be broken, one bone at a
time, on the wheel.'
Taskin smiled with a punctilious precision
that mocked. 'But this is not Devall, your Highness. Since my service to Sessalie
does not involve making arrests in a dressing robe, you alone are responsible
for preventing me from direct execution of my duty.'
'Then I commend you to action, your
lordship. I insist, we should not be at odds.' As a last, gallant gesture, the
prince extended his hand.
The crown commander no more than looked on,
his stance stilled to frosty amazement.
Stonewalled, as the young royal jerked his
offered touch short, a recoil as abrupt as a scalding. 'Forgive me, your
lordship! I should have expected your insular pride might refuse a foreigner's
familiarity.'
Taskin returned a bow of dispassionate
correctness. 'As a foreign royal, given guest right under my sovereign's
protection, I must ask your Highness to remain under guard in your quarters. I
will assign men to address your security. For if Devall's enemies have moved
against Sessalie through your proposed suit to our princess, logic follows that
the acts of such heinous conspirators might also place you at risk.'
The prince stiffened. 'You overstep your
authority, Commander!'
'Do I, your Highness?' Taskin matched the
younger man's fury, his features unmoved as cut marble. 'Then present your
complaint to the king when he wakens. I'd ask you in for the audience, anyway.
Whether or not you'd choose to be present when Captain Myshkael answers your charges, be certain I will have Isendon's ear
when I interview you at exhaustive length. Once I return, you will explain the
peril you have drawn to our heart through the ties to your kingdom's enemies.'
Unasked, both marshal and retinue moved in.
They surrounded their prince, then escorted him out in their circle of liveried
protection.
To Bennent, still on station by the door,
Taskin gave disposition. 'Hear my orders, Captain. See to the high prince's
security. Assign eight men with sharp eyes and keen ears. I will dress, and
attend what needs to be done to fetch Myshkael
in from the garrison.'
Captain Bennent absorbed this, the
implication of posting surveillance turning his frown deeply troubled. 'You
don't completely trust Devall's motives?'
Stepped back to the table, Taskin regarded
the sword, then snatched the veiling cloth overtop as though the sight of the
steel gave offence. 'His Highness of Devall is a coward,' he said.
That's harsh.' Bennent murmured. 'The
princess adores him.'
'Oh, yes.' Taskin tugged the lapels of his
robe close, as though he suffered a sudden chill. 'A statesman will always use
his best attributes. This one has shamelessly snared her Grace's affection and
wrangled our merchants' ambitions to buy the toehold for an alliance. The prize
glittered, and blinded us. Our failing king blunted sound judgement. We saw our
princess as a jewel of incalculable worth, and quite failed to weigh our
kingdom's stability as our most precious asset. Powers above! Who thought rich
and powerful Devall might broker a
bid for survival? Shame on us all, if our Anja should pay with her life as the
pawn of lowcountry entanglements. How dare the crowned King of Devall think so
low, to play Sessalie's peace on a game board encroached on by sorcerers!'
A jagged pause followed, while the candle
flames shimmered, and the stilled air hung like liquid glass.
'Do I trust his Highness?' Taskin
straightened trim shoulders as though to dislodge a stinging fly. 'Captain Myshkael does not. By his ornery nature,
he's told me straight out. Now, that could be because he's employed by Devall's
enemies. Or he could be loyal, and Isendon's sworn man, in which case, I want
the high prince kept under tight watch until we know whether these accusations
hold any substance.'
Framed against the dimmed corridor, Bennent
showed surprise. 'You think Devall's charges are spurious?'
Taskin scarcely hesitated. 'Let's just say
that, given what I know, I don't see that desert-bred accepting the employ of
any faction that associates itself with a sorcerer.'
Now Bennent looked troubled. 'Without the
king's direct intervention, you have no legal choice but to bend to the will of
the council. The arrest their hasty vote has demanded will have to be carried
out.'
'That's the meat of the problem, exactly.'
Taskin brushed past towards the stair, the hem of his dressing robe slapping
his bare calves to his tempest of testy irritation. 'If you say prayers for any
one thing, beg the powers that be for a miracle. Let Captain Myshkael be convinced to abide by
convention, and come into custody quietly.'
WORD OF TASKIN'S ARRIVAL AT THE LOWERGATE
DRAWBRIDGE REACHED VENSIC AT THE GARRISON WARDROOM. Caught with chalk slate in
hand, upbraiding a laggard, the breveted officer stared at the man sent in with
the news from the watch.
'The king's first commander? Here!' he exclaimed, disbelieving.
'Himself,' the messenger affirmed, winded
yet from the sprint that had brought him ahead of the cavalcade. 'He's got ten
outriders with lances behind. To judge by their mounts, they mean business.'
The demands of meeting Captain Mykkael's
stringent discipline taught a man to respond to the unexpected. Vensic cast
down the slate where he stood, and sprinted flat out for the bailey.
He burst out of the keep just as the task
squad from the palace drew rein inside the archway. Mist hung, blanket-thick.
The hour preceded the change in the watch, when the yard stood all but
deserted. Men out on patrol had not yet returned, with their relief, soon to
arm, not quite due to call in for duty. The stone enclosure as yet held no
bustle of industry, no drills or sparring recruits, no cook's boys or washing
women, and no busy clamour of armourers. Against early silence, the crack of
shod hooves on the cobbles raised deafening thunder.
All Highgate guard veterans, the riders
pulled up in formation, then held there in ominous quiet. Vensic peered through
the fog, attentive to the man at the head of the column who dismounted and
tossed the reins of his grey charger to the first groom who rushed from the
stable.
Taskin strode over directly, the gleam of
his helm marked by hellish reflections thrown off the coals in the fire pans.
His blue eyes raked over Vensic just once: a scouring assessment that mapped
the young sergeant's neat surcoat and immaculate weapons, and no doubt
discerned the farm mud on the boots of his origins.
Still, the crisp challenge would have done
Mykkael proud. 'I'm acting officer of the keep, Lord Commander.'
Taskin returned a clipped nod, his glance
showing tacit approval. He would have already noted the keen stance of the
sentries minding the walls. Now, his scrutiny swept over the bailey, noting the
rigorous tidiness, the cord of piled wood, the ready response of the grooms and
the vigilance instilled in the gate watch. 'I've come for your captain. Is Mykkael
asleep?'
Struck to unease by the precise choice of
accent, Vensic breathed easier, that this summons at least would catch no one
in bed. 'Captain's up and gone out, lordship. Sergeant Stennis has the Falls
Gate patrol. Sergeant Cade reports with the relief in an hour. Meantime, what
can I do for you?'
The guard's first commander gave no inch of
slack. 'Tell me where Captain Mykkael has gone.'
Vensic's crown oath foreclosed the evasion
that even Mykkael's imposed standard of conduct would have expressly forbidden.
'He dreamed badly, he said. Something he wished to investigate took him out to
the tourney field beyond the walls.'
Taskin fielded this news in his stride.
'Stay here. Mind the garrison. When Cade comes on duty, as there's news, I will
send.'
Footsteps approached; someone's hasty
arrival tossed a restive disturbance through the closed ranks of the horsemen.
Vensic noted the upset without time to
react. As foreboding broke into a clear jab of warning, he had eyes for nothing
except the commander before him. 'Bright powers, what's happened, to bring such
as you down from Highgate?'
'I'll tell you what!' Sergeant Jedrey burst
in, just returned with his arm bound in splints, and his temper combative with
malice. 'Mykkael's now under the king's writ for arrest. He's being charged
with treason.'
'You've been relieved,' Vensic said without
heat, his attentive inquiry still fixed on the crown's first commander. 'Go
home, Jedrey.'
'Oh, I'll stay.' the outraged sergeant
said, self-righteously indignant. 'The council will shortly hand me the
garrison. Trust me, farm boy, when that happens, I'll burn the letter that gave
your promotion, and you'll be the one cut from rank.'
Taskin never deigned to glance sideways.
'You're breveted?'
Vensic took heart from the commander's
steel nerve. 'Yes. Last week. Under Mykkael's signature, on grounds of merit.
The note was to go before his Majesty along with the bursar's monthly lists for
requisition.'
'I see,' Taskin said. His chilly regard
swept the keep officer again, measuring with a depth that raised dread, though
the bailey, the gates, and the garrison grounds were all well in hand, each
detail kept in sharp order. Decision followed, as surgically swift. 'Then under
my auspices, you'll swear your officer's oath to your king. Today. Have your
letter on hand at the change of the watch. You'll go with my riders through
Highgate.'
Courage spoke, then, despite that hard
gaze. 'I stand behind Mykkael.' Vensic lifted his chin. 'My captain has not
betrayed Sessalie.'
For one brief instant, amid rag-thick mist,
Taskin's features seemed something less than frost over chiselled granite. 'The
accusation of treason is specious, I do realize. King Isendon's faith in the
captain is not compromised. Yet to dismantle the council's distrust fully, Mykkael
has facts he must verify in front of a Highgate magistrate.'
'Let them wait,' Vensic pleaded. 'His
mood's worse than brittle. There's something uncanny abroad in this kingdom.
Mykkael's in pursuit with an unswerving focus that's frankly been frightening.'
'A mad dog that wants chaining,' Jedrey
interjected. 'Broke my damned arm in a crazed fit of temper. If your lancers
are here to drag that one in, I suggest you arm them with boar spears.'
Yet again, Lord Taskin refused the
distraction. To Vensic, in closing, he said, 'Have your letter in hand at the
gatehouse when my riders return. We act on parchment law, without shackles.
Once Mykkael agrees to submit to my custody, I'll see you through to stand for
your captain as witness.'
Vensic nodded, not relieved, but at least
reassured that Taskin's handling of crown justice would be fair. 'Expect me.
The discipline problem in this garrison, meanwhile, I claim as wholly mine.'
Taskin's sudden, spontaneous laughter
cracked through the oppressive darkness. 'By all means, soldier. For myself,
I'd have tested the suggestion of boar spears on the whiner, were your
insubordinate something more than a weakling, and not tasked with a broken
arm.'
The crown's first commander snapped his
fingers to signal the waiting groom. He remounted his gelding forthwith. In
stark disregard for the outflanked dismay of the garrison's disgraced sergeant,
he wheeled his outriders through the main gate, and vanished into the mist.
* * *
The fading grip of night still cloaked the
valley outside the citadel. The misted tree limbs shed their burden of dew in a
whispering patter of droplets. Sound carried. The snorts of the horses and the
jingle of harness would have warned any war-wary man of the company now
clustered at the verge of the tourney field. The smells of skinned grass and
oiled steel struck through the tang of hot horseflesh.
'I am not stalking quarry!' Commander
Taskin snapped, irritable as his hovering officer attempted one last round of
protest. 'I go forward alone. If I fail, if the man under writ has sworn a
false oath to the kingdom, or if he refuses to bend for lawful -'
'You'll be down, likely injured,' the lance
captain argued in sharp misery. 'All for the sake of a ditch-bred mongrel
outcast from his tribal background. Why in the nine names of hell should you
shoulder such risk in your king's gravest hour of need?'
Taskin forced a deep breath. 'Stand fast,
by my order! If I'm wrong, if that desert-bred kills me, you may all hunt him
down at will. Yet until the unlucky hour I fall, remember that I'm in command
here!'
'Your lordship, don't go!' The lance
captain swallowed, glanced aside, and with wretched reluctance, backed down.
Taskin passed the soaked reins of his horse
to the rider who normally bore the king's banner. 'If I need you, if backing is
wanted, I'll shout. Damned well hold
your line unless you receive my clear summons.'
Straight back turned, the commander strode
off through the dew-sodden grass of the tourney field. He knew what he risked
in the darkness ahead. At the crux, he understood well enough that he might
face worse than a wounding. Resolve firmed his step. He would not yield for
politics. The killer he had disarmed in the belltower had been anything else
but a madman.
Overhead, the mist showed the first murk of
grey dawn. Still mantled in gloom, the ground stretched ahead, the greensward
gouged here and there by the hooves of the horse wicket teams brought out for
gallops and practice. The tang of manure was not out of place, except for the
fact it was fresh. Taskin heard the creak of saddle leather first, then the
whisper of equine breathing. His cautious sally soon encountered the horse, no
less than the war-trained chestnut sent on loan from the palace stables.
The rank creature had been hobbled,
steppeland fashion, in ties of leather and felt. Its bit rings and stirrups
were muffled in rag, with the knotted reins run under the leathers, and the
empty saddle left girthed. The rider was nowhere in evidence. Taskin avoided
the beast's surly kick, well warned in advance. Whatever activity Mykkael
pursued, he had taken pains to ensure his mount would not wander.
Taskin pressed onwards, constrained to
caution. Because he moved slowly, he did not entangle himself when he
encountered the first line of staked string.
The twine was strung on thin wooden palings
driven into the ground just under waist height. An exploratory touch
established another, set at an angle to the first. The intersection where the
two lines crossed had been tied with a white twist of rag. Utterly mystified,
Taskin took pause; and so heard the nearly soundless footfalls approach his
position from the left.
'I am mapping the contours of pattern and
flow,' Mykkael explained, conversational. 'You can help.'
'How?' Taskin raised his eyebrows, amazed
by the note of restrained calm from a man who would not be unaware of the nervous lancers grouped at the edge of
the field.
'Hold this.' Mykkael approached, a wraith
disgorged from the gauze layer of mist. If dark hair and features kept his
expression invisible, his spare form was clad in the spotless, crisp cloth of
Sessalie's falcon surcoat.
Taskin suffered a pang of regret, to see an
order delivered as punishment observed to the letter of obedience.
'The sword is sharp, too,' Mykkael assured
him, his humour shaved thin by dry irony. 'I give you my word I cleaned off the
rust. Shall we not set the proof to the test?' He knew of the lancers; yet his
touch was quite firm as he passed over the rough ball of twine. 'Draw the slack
taut, will you?'
Taskin grasped the string, equable enough
to let matters unfold in due course. The string, he noticed, held the pungence
of fish; had in fact been soaked in cheap lamp oil. Curiosity piqued, he
followed Mykkael's lead, watched as the clever fingers tied off a fresh
streamer to mark the site of another junction. He forbore to question. The
desertman forged onwards, his carriage suggesting the listening intensity of
senses trained into stripped focus.
Mykkael hailed him, next stride. 'Come
ahead. Can you feel this?'
Still bearing the twine ball, Taskin
approached. A dark hand grasped his wrist, gently guided until he felt a
ranging chill pour down his skin. 'That's no breeze,' the commander admitted,
uneasy enough to pull back as the captain released him.
The answer came quiet, out of the murk. 'No
wind, truly. Such energies flow through the ground and the air when a sorcerer
works. The closer the spacing, the more powerful the lines of his casting. Yet
after sunrise, through the day when the wind moves, the disturbance we feel now
will become almost too subtle to measure.' A rustle of cloth, as Mykkael set
another stake into the turf. Then he reached out, accepted the twine, and
deftly tied off a half hitch. 'This way, most likely.' He bent his lame step
leftwards, and added, 'Though, truth be told, I'd prefer if my hunches proved
wrong.'
Guided past a drain swale by a hand on his
arm, Taskin shivered as another chill ruffled his skin.
'Bright blazing hell!' Mykkael stopped, crouched down. He ran questing fingers
over the earth, then rammed in another wooden marker. 'That's close, too damned
close. Tie the string,' he instructed. 'Then, if you pray, appeal to your
trinity the pattern we're mapping ends here.'
In fact, it did not. More stakes were set.
Soon a webwork of string fluttered with cloth knots at the multiplicity of
revealed junctions. While the clinging mist slowly dampened his surcoat, Taskin
realized he sensed the nexus points most clearly when the desert-bred happened
to touch him.
'Shared resonance,' Mykkael explained.
'Probably the effect of Perincar's mark, though I can't say for sure, not
knowing what untamed gifts ride my fate by way of my bloodline.' His sudden
grim bitterness could not be mistaken as he fixed the last stake, then tied and
cut off the oiled string. 'We don't have much time. Since you didn't come down
here just to talk, we'd better hold serious conversation.'
Overhead, the sky showed the first gleam of
pearl, too ephemeral to read the stance or expression of the dark-skinned man
close beside him. Taskin fought back his pervasive dread, and forced his speech
to stay mild. 'You have a report to make, soldier?'
Mykkael chafed his hands, as though easing
an ache touched through the live flesh of his fingers. 'This much. You have a
powerful sorcerer at work, definitely. His spell-craft grows bolder. I found a
watch vortex set at the Cockatrice Tavern, where Prince Kailen drinks. Didn't
dispel it. The taproom was too crowded not to cause widespread panic. Just
realize: whoever speaks in that place, your sorcerer's going to be party to
every whisper.'
Then, too acutely aware that the silence
had acquired a cut-glass intensity, Mykkael pressed the question. 'What's
wrong? Commander?'
'Such watch marks.' Taskin said, gruff.
'Can they be seen?'
'In low lighting. Sometimes. Better say why
you're asking.' Mykkael listened with an unsettling, stilled patience, while
Taskin explained King Isendon's queerly insistent behaviour, then the
fountainhead of pent energy released when the cedar had been burned and the
fumes swept through the royal chamber.
'Watcher's mark,' Mykkael affirmed, 'which
you unstrung with a banishing. That means your sorcerer's now warned your
king's guarded. He'll move openly, very soon.' Then the bitterness resurged,
starkly caustic. 'Perhaps already has. You're here, after all, with your troop of
armed lancers. Which faction at court wants me captive?'
'Political formality,' Taskin reassured him
quickly. 'You'll be granted a royal hearing the moment the king's lucid, with
my earnest expectation you'll be discharged.'
Mykkael's interruption sheared across his
next line. 'No. Don't speak. Hold the wretched details for later. You've said
things that raise questions which have to be answered.' Without waiting, he
plunged on. 'Does your king seem to see things that others do not?'
Discomfited, Taskin braced his trim
shoulders, scattering droplets off his sodden surcoat. 'His Majesty used to
make light of what he called his "cold starts". Now, since the onset
of his affliction, the courtiers attribute his maundering to spells of blank
wits.'
'He sees things,' Mykkael stated in
stripped apprehension. 'Powers, of course! It makes sense that his daughter has
likely inherited that attribute. That's
why she ran! Her Grace would have sensed the invasion of Sessalie's court.
She certainly realized her life was in danger.'
'But you can't show me proof,' Taskin
snapped, immovably cornered by the frustration served up by the high council's
writ.
'I can try.' Aware of the challenge pending
against him, Mykkael fought to contain ebbing calm. He assessed the brightening
sky overhead, the last shadow fading moment by moment as sunrise broached the
east rim of the peaks. 'Within a few minutes, we'll have enough light.'
'To discern the pattern?' The crown's first
commander folded his arms against the encroaching chill. 'Yet I'll scarcely
know what I'm seeing, will I?'
Mykkael dug into his scrip, used his flint
to strike sparks and ignite the cut length of oiled string he planned to use as
a touch match. 'I may not know, either, except that by complexity and close
spacing alone, I already sense something shaping that runs outside the concept
of frightening.' Here, he paused, string cupped in dark palms as he blew to
make the spark catch. Then he held, his stance coiled, as though measuring the
air for the slightest suggestion of movement. 'The greater flow of a sorcerer's
energies is reflected in mirror image, at nexus points. Without wind as
influence, when we set the string alight from its easternmost point of
alignment, we'll see which direction the flow of the energy draws the flame.
You'll know which junctions are crossings, and which are divisions. A
sorcerer's lines always stream towards his origins, and run to ground through
the site of his primary bonding with power. As the string burns, you will
clearly discern where Sessalie's enemy has come from.'
The sky overhead turned from pewter to
silver. The tips of the near stakes were now visible in hazed outline against
the grey scrim of the ground. The white cloths tied at the junctions hung limp,
already burdened with moisture.
'Now,' Mykkael murmured. He bent, set the
flame to the string, then stepped back as the oiled fibres caught.
The fire raced down the twine, consuming
fuel at a pace that outstripped any natural combustion. Spitting into the first
junction, the damp rag burst into an explosion of sparks. Split runners of the
flame rushed down the string on both sides, and also carried on down the centreline. Dew-dampened cloth posed the
conflagration no impediment. Taskin, as onlooker, felt an ugly prickle of dread
raise the hair at his nape. No word need convince him that he stood witness to
the play of demonic powers.
The next junction passed, a division, and
the third proved the very same. When the fourth and the fifth split the energy
further, with no doubled-back loop for renewal, Mykkael began swearing in
tongues; as the sixth, then the seventh rag raged into fountained sparks, and
the energy paths only widened, he lapsed into a more ominous silence.
'Have you seen a pattern like this one
before?' Taskin asked, all but desperate to crack the unbearable tension.
The captain returned a stressed whisper.
'Never. Merciful powers, nothing
determined as this. There are no
crossings, only branches. We are looking at conquest on a scale
unimagined.'
'Beyond Sessalie?' Taskin demanded.
Mykkael regarded the remnants of his laid
strings, the rushed lines of fire a reflection imprinted in his eyes as the
last junctions flared, the revealed branches fast flying towards immolation.
'Mehigrannia show us the will to preserve, your Sessalie's no more than the
stepping stone to launch an invasion across the barrier of the Great Divide!'
His stunned horror lingered, pervasive as the stink of plumed smoke, while the
last span of twine fizzled into wisped ash, with one stake left burning like a
torch.
'There,' Mykkael pointed. 'Sight a line
from where we stand through that post and extrapolate, and there lies your
sorcerer's origin.'
'Lowcountry,' Taskin affirmed. 'Devall,
most likely. The high prince came clean, damn his pride and his reticence. He
finally admitted his kingdom has earned a savage array of strong enemies.
Still, how do you know the sorcerer's origin is not on the same line, but
behind us?'
'Because the east stake's gone cold.' Mykkael
stowed his twine, then plucked a twist of grass and wiped the residual oil from
his fingers. His features remained in cut silhouette as he took fate in hand
and tested the current of Highgate's prevailing politics. 'Was his Highness of
Devall behind the outcry that's called you out with your lancers?'
Taskin sighed. 'From the start, each of you
has entreated me not to trust the other party to act in Sessalie's best
interests.'
Mykkael stepped back. He replaced his
flint, then refastened his scrip with controlled deliberation. 'Then you'll
have to decide on our merits, Commander.'
'Captain, I already have.' Against
brightening day, the commander confronted him, his unwavering stance that of an
icon wrought out of antique silver. 'My lancers are here bearing arms, but they
don't carry prisoner's shackles.'
The dark captain weighed this. 'You're
asking me to come in, voluntarily?'
'Not asking.' The steel in that tone was
not malleable. 'The seneschal, Lord Shaillon, is an inflexible man. His sway
leads the voice of detraction. The lure of Devall's sea trade has won the high
council's backing, and cited proof off the assassin you just foiled has framed
a writ demanding your arrest. King Isendon can overturn the document through a
hearing.' Pressured by Mykkael's undivided attention, Taskin finished his case
with crisp delicacy. 'I know first-hand that his Majesty trusts you. On my
assurance, you must stand down. Come back through Highgate under the protection
of my lancers, and bide under guard until the king's lucid word sets you free.
You have my fair backing. Stand firm on your sworn oath to Sessalie, and
Devall's case fails. You can be restored to your post in the garrison with no
loss beyond a few hours.'
Mykkael turned his head, regarded the
forlorn array of his stakes, and the last, sullen glow of the burned one, as
the flames subsided to embers against the lead backdrop of mist. 'Tell me,
Commander, has the High Prince of Devall ever once tried to touch you since you
accepted my talisman? And if he has, did his Highness draw back from the
contact as though he was burned?' Aware of the answer before Taskin spoke, the
desert-bred hurled down his conclusion. 'Your enemy is flushed, Taskin. Whether
the creature has cast his influence through Devall's heir apparent as a
catspaw, or whether his Highness has become a bound minion pulled on puppet
strings, the attack upon Isendon's crown is going to move into the open. Go
back to the Highgate! Protect your king. As you love Sessalie, leave me at
large to safeguard the life of your princess.'
'Your case cannot be made to stand in absentia,' Taskin was swift to point
out.
Mykkael stepped back another pace, the
poised change in his carriage unmistakable. 'Find a way. Understand me! This
charge to entrap me is part of a sorcerer's plot to extend the range of his
power. Hold me in restraint, you will doom your princess. Your enemy knows me, surely has since the moment I entered the royal
presence without the protection of the shaman's mark on my sword! Force me
above Highgate, and I very much doubt that I'll be set free with my life.'
'You realize you're asking a traitorous act
of me.' Taskin raised his opened palms. 'Until the king speaks, I'm bound by
realm law to enact the will of the council.'
Mykkael shook his head. His fist closed,
with distress, on his sword hilt. 'Choose. I can't plead.'
Shown the bared force of character behind
Jussoud's assessment, Taskin drew a breath just as shaken. Here was a man, a trained killer, who would hold his integrity above
spoken promises. The question demanded an accurate answer: which faction
claimed the weapon of this desert-bred's resolute initiative?
Taskin collected the strained cloth of his
faith. Only one course of possibility remained to dismantle the council's
ruling, based in law, by the king's witnessed word. 'For Anja's life, then,
answer me truthfully. Can you swear to me, Mykkael, that you never broke oath to Kaien's do'aa? That the assassin you felled was
not their man, sent out to call your life forfeit?'
The reply, forced through anguish, seared
for its straight honesty. 'Oh bright powers and Mehigrannia's mercy! I breached
honour with Kaien, but not for the cause you might think.'
'Then the only shred of hope you have to
establish your innocence is to hold your crown oath to Sessalie inviolate.'
Aware of the tenuous, last rags of trust shredding like tissue between them,
Taskin extended himself beyond pride in appeal. 'Captain, you won't plead. I
will, for your honour! Show me the loyalty you gave the Sanouk for Orannia.
Come in with my lancers and testify!'
'Save your king as you can,' said Mykkael
with regret. He turned his back, walked, but not in submission. Ahead of his
dreadfully purposeful, limped stride, the smudged form of his hobbled gelding
loomed through the mist.
He would mount up and ride, Taskin
realized, overwhelmed by his shattering failure. Sessalie's fate no doubt
rested still on the unknown, unproven alignment of this desert-bred's fixed
allegiance. A split second of time, to enact the decision: whether to reject
the case in the untested belief set in foreign talismans, and arcane patterns
of fire and string, or to hold out for the bedrock surety of evidence that this
killer was not the tool of Devall's shadowy enemy.
This, boiled down to the one damning fact:
that Mykkael had not chosen to lie. 'Save
your king as you can.' The last sentence became too ambiguously damning.
Taskin understood, in cold fury, that he was outfaced without quarter. He would
have to bid for hard proof.
'Stand fast, soldier!'
No response; Captain Mykkael advanced. Deaf
and blind to persuasion, he rejected just hearing under King Isendon's ear, and
the ties of his oath to crown law.
Taskin closed his hand on his sword hilt
and cleared the blade with a warning ring from the scabbard. The next word he
uttered must summon his lancers in command to ride down a fugitive.
Except Mykkael stopped. Faced about, he
held his bared sword in hand, though no sound had attended its drawing. He did
not speak. In the waxing light, through the dense mist, his features were
expressionless stone. Eyes locked to the form of the crown's first commander,
he took a deliberate step back, then another.
Three more, and Mykkael would reach his
saddled gelding. A single, swift stroke would sever the hobbles. His vault
astride would happen before any mounted troop could cross the tourney field,
far less react in armed strength to prevent him.
Pressed beyond options, Taskin shouted, and
sprang.
His steel met the captain's experienced
parry with a virulent clangour. The sound would spur the lancers to charge.
Crack men, each one devoted to Taskin, they would converge at a gallop to
attack and cut down a traitor.
SOUND CARRIED WITH BRUTALLY MAGNIFIED
CLARITY UNDER THE STRANGLING MIST. THE SHRILL CLANG OF STEEL meeting steel in
close combat rang over the oncoming hooves of the destriers. Fist closed on his
lance, the wet sting of his horse's mane lashing his wrists, the guard captain
urged his troop on at a gallop. Though Taskin's skill as a swordsman was
legend, the fast-paced exchange veiled under the fog bespoke a ferocity that
outmatched every gift of trained reflex, and defied every skilled trick of
intellect.
The select troop of guardsmen racing to
intervene heard crossed blades scream, again and again, without let-up. Blow
met tortured counterblow at breathtaking speed. The clamour of stressed steel
left no opening for mercy. The desert-bred creature who attacked their
commander was barqui'ino-trained, a
war-hardened butcher without conscience. Ten men-at-arms spurred their mounts
with one thought: to cut the cur down without quarter.
'The mongrel foreigner's got a lamed knee,'
gasped the rider alongside the lance captain. Taskin will take him, he's bound
to!'
Yet the belling fury of each passage
described nothing else but a ruthlessly desperate contest.
'Hyaa!' screamed the captain, and drove his
mount harder. But the horse underneath him jibbed and broke stride, forced to
swerve to avoid a diabolical array of placed stakes. The air smelled of char.
Through veiling grey, a sullen flicker of orange shone where a grass tussock
had been set burning. Chilled by the thought he might ride over ground worked
by a sorcerer's lines, the lance captain bellowed a terrified warning.
As he grappled the agonized question of
whether or not to rein up, he heard, close at hand, the dissonant scrape of a
blade yanked clear of a bind. There came no following chime in riposte. The
mist cloaked a field draped in terrible silence, ripped across by advancing
hoof beats.
One man would be down. Not knowing which of
the two fighters had fallen posed his lancers a lethal danger.
The troop captain shouted the order to
halt. He dragged his mount, sliding, on to its haunches, only to feel the reins
give way in his hands. He yelled for back-up, already too late. Emerged from
the fog, a shadow wearing the king's falcon surcoat had sliced the strap
leather clean through. While the captain rocked, off balance, and clawed to
grasp mane, an iron grip closed over his wrist and jerked him headlong from the
saddle.
Spun, reeling, then thrust with brute force
to the ground, he fell sprawling across a limp body.
'Stanch his wound!' snapped a voice from
the air just above him.
Stunned breathless, the lance captain
realized the sodden, warm bundle beneath him was none else but the crown's
first commander.
'Taskin!' He groped, felt the hot gush of
blood drench his hands. 'Merciful powers, he's killed you!'
Yet the commander's tortured breathing
rasped on. The blue eyes stayed open, demanding. Alive, he still fought. The
strong flood of bleeding affirmed a vitality fast ebbing with every rushed
heartbeat. 'Taskin, hang on! We'll fetch Jussoud.'
Yet the toll of inflicted damage wrecked
hope. The lance captain snatched the long hem of his surcoat in desperate
fingers, and crushed wadded cloth to the gash that had all but severed the
commander's right arm at the shoulder. Then he shouted to order his company.
'Grigori, Mistan, to me! I have Taskin. He's down and in need of a field
dressing! You others, ride! The
traitor's on foot, running east!'
Through the mazing impediment of
mist-cloaked stakes, amid confusion and yells of disbelief, the lance company
wheeled and gave chase. The two men singled out spun their horses and came.
They stripped off their surcoats with hurried hands, and took over the grim
task of bandaging. Taskin shivered, not lucid, then lay slack and chilled.
While day brightened the fog to a tissue of silver, the surge of his pulse
turned erratic and shallow.
'Powers that be damn that murdering
desert-bred!' Mistan cursed in frustration. 'We can't lose the commander, not
now!'
'We won't,' murmured Grigori, determined.
Against daunting odds, he wiped scarlet hands and bent to the grim work of
necessity.
Beneath his frantic efforts, the laboured
draw of Taskin's breathing sawed on, the rushed blood flow contained by hard
pressure. While the pound of galloping hoof beats receded, and men's shouts
diminished with distance, the ugly, deep wound was strapped in tight bindings.
'Stay with him. Don't quit! Mistan, go. Get
Jussoud down here fast as possible.' The lance captain left the fate of his
fallen commander in Grigori's capable hands, and plunged into the white pall of
mist. He caught his loose horse, unbuckled both stirrups, then fixed the
stripped leathers to the bit rings to replace the slashed ends of his reins.
Remounted, he charged in pursuit of his company, heartset to ride down the
criminal foreigner who had spurned his crown oath.
* * *
He found bodies, first off: three fallen
riders cut all but in two, and past help, where they sprawled in pooled blood
and the stink of rent bowels. The steaming, spilled viscera flung over drenched
grasses became graphic evidence of the violent stroke that had dropped them.
Lashed to wild rage, the lance captain raked his mount with spurred heels. He
pelted ahead through the cotton-thick mist. Across the verge of the tourney
field, he crashed into a stand of woods, a brush-choked windbreak that bordered
a village steading of hamlets and farmland. The next lancer he encountered was
limping on foot. He reined in and called him by name. 'Ebron! Where's that
fugitive desert-bred?'
'Gone for the low road, flat out like a
fox. The pace he's set's likely to run the horse underneath him to blazes.' The
lancer managed the rest in harsh gasps, his forearm pressed against four
cracked ribs from the drubbing blow that had felled him. 'Kills like a fiend.
Nobody gets near him. He ducked under
Kevir's lance, the damned spider. And he's riding that ugly hammerhead
chestnut. Our horses know that brute's heels much too well. Spurs or not, the
creatures refused to close in, or stand their staunch ground when we cornered
him.'
'Your mount?' snapped the captain.
'Dead,' Ebron said, heartsick and furious.
'Slaughtered from under me like worthless meat. I was lucky not to be crushed
as she crumpled.'
'How many of ours are left standing?' the
lance captain snapped.
'At best count?' Ebron's voice broke.
'Maybe none. Under mist, we're blind targets. The murdering creature still
wears the king's surcoat. He can't be marked out unless he's on top of us, and
nobody realized until much too late: he carries a desertman's blowpipe and
darts, and shoots tips that are certainly poisoned.'
'Go back!' cried the lance captain. 'Take
Grigori's horse and ride for the garrison. I want reinforcements. Trackers and
dogs. Get a runner to Highgate. Have Bennent send archers. Mistan's already
gone for Jussoud to do what he can to save Taskin.'
'You're pressing ahead?' Ebron asked, his
concern overriding the misery of grief and the seizing pain as his chest
cramped.
'No choice for it.' The lance captain
wheeled his mount onwards, his last words hurled over his shoulder. 'The
desert-bred wretch has now shown his true coat. I'll enlist help from Devall's
guard, if need be, and see him chased down like hazed vermin.'
* * *
A prodigy blessed with keen judgement,
Vensic had Jedrey confined under house arrest, with four unflappable garrison
men dispatched to stand by his door as enforcement. Then he sent a messenger
sprinting to Cade, bearing the summary report of the night watch's worrisome
developments.
That insightful forethought brought the day
sergeant in early. He strode through the keep gate, his sheathed sword in hand,
along with the belt that had not yet fastened his billowing surcoat. Though his
mood seemed disgruntled, only the foolish presumed that the same disarray ever
clouded his mind in a crisis.
The guard lancer, Ebron, encountered this
fact at first hand, arrived aching and hot from his savage ride in from the
tourney field. Used to Taskin's brisk handling, he delivered a terse account of
Mykkael's defection. Then, lulled by Cade's laconic quiet, he tried imposing
his lance captain's demands for trackers and dogs, and armed search parties.
'Soldier,' Cade stated, unmoved as fixed
stone, 'this is Lowergate's garrison. By rank and crown standing, I am the
watch officer. If Mykkael is disgraced, I don't see lawful discharge. If Taskin
fell to his sword, who stood witness?'
The Highgate man stiffened in outraged
disbelief. 'Powers preserve!' He suppressed a pained cough, his discomfort made
worse by the fumes from the garrison cook's insane practice of burning
evergreen under his stewpot. 'Are you
daring to shield a proved felon? Most of my mounted company are struck
down! Three were just gutted by your murdering desertman's sword. Three others
lie paralysed, dart-shot. I've got broken ribs, at your captain's hand. His was
the blow that unhorsed me. If that's not firm evidence, you all risk your necks
as a sorcerer's willing collaborators.'
Sergeant Cade sheathed the knife he had
just inspected for sharpness; went on to fasten the baldric that hung his
well-used, classic broadsword. 'But Mykkael's no sorcerer. Quite the opposite,
in fact.'
Ebron sat, shocked, by that quiet delivery.
The wardroom bench was too hard to ease him, and the noise of the dawn watch
arriving, too disruptive to let him field setback with equanimity. 'You've been
duped by witchery,' he accused, his voice rising.
'You're an expert with spell lines? How
amazing. Where in Sessalie did you find the experience?' Bald, stolid Cade
stared Ebron down. He seemed not to care that any man in the garrison might
overhear such a sensitive confrontation. 'Before you spout off your
pig-ignorant hysterics, you might wait to see how Captain Bennent weighs up the
facts.'
'Mykkael has fought sorcerers three times
before this,' Vensic filled in from the sidelines. He stepped back, making way
as the cook's boy shoved past, arms laden with more fronds of cedar. 'He's
taught us the means to lay down tight banishings, and left instructions to
safeguard this keep. Has the guard above Highgate taken similar precautions?
No? Then who's to say, but an expert, that your high council, and even your
lance captain, weren't suborned?'
Ebron shoved to his feet, drawing stares
from the men who snatched breakfast before they marched out for duty. 'I have
comrades cut dead! Some were
wretchedly poisoned. And Taskin's down, gravely hurt with a wound that might
kill him, or worse, cripple his sword arm past mending.'
Cade took that ugly news in stiff stride.
'Vensic will appoint a task squad to bear litters. They'll take up your fallen
and assist with the living. Oh, yes,' he resumed, before Ebron's hackled
startlement. 'We've been well versed, and by Mykkael himself. Your dart-shot
companions could pull through and survive. Not every nerve poison is fatal, and
of those that are, all but the worst ones have antidotes.'
The lancer's enraged protests were
strangled mid-word, as Sergeant Cade gave the matter his adamant dismissal.
'You'll have a fresh horse to ride up to Highgate. Make your report in due
order. Until Captain Bennent responds with a direct command, my obligation to
the crown of Sessalie is quite clear. Every man in this garrison will secure
the city gates. If, as you say, Captain Mykkael's a turncoat, he's already
outside and running. Inside keep walls, the safety of the king and his lawful
subjects must claim my highest priority.'
Cade called for a groom to saddle a
remount. Next, Ebron was hustled off to the stables, still viciously fuming,
his arms clamped to brace his cracked ribs.
For one stricken moment, amid the
purposeful racket brought on by the change in the guard, Vensic and Sergeant
Cade shared a deep glance of frustration.
The older man, as senior officer, was the
first one to speak. 'Your take and mine would appear to agree.'
Vensic's frown remained grim. His reply
rang with venomous irony. 'That Taskin's not dead outright must mean that Mykkael
thought the guard was misguided, and not suborned by the enemy. He would have
counted the princess's safety over everything else. How much time can you give
him? And how long do we have, before we might face a sorcerer attacking our
flank?'
Cade rubbed his pink head, uneasy as he
measured the desperate pitfalls that mired the course of the future. 'I can
send out green trackers. Mykkael won't be found right away, at least by any of
ours. If Devall's men ride, they won't know the country, and they'll be several
hours behind him. No more can be done, beyond minding the walls. Here's acting
orders, on behalf of this garrison. You'll accompany the litter-borne lancers
past Highgate. Find Bennent. Be sure, if you can, that Taskin stays under
warded protection. The commander alone holds the power to muzzle the guard, and
unconscious, he's desperately vulnerable.'
'I'm away,' Vensic answered, cued at last
by the nod from his staffer that his picked squad of bearers were assembled and
ready to march. 'Stay firm. We'll survive this.'
The careful, strong sergeant who handled
the day watch arose, all his gear set to rights, and his manner as stern as
forged iron. 'Powers keep you close, man, and save your damned prayers. It's
your captain's survival that's cast into jeopardy. The only way he can clear
his name, now, is to deliver King Isendon's daughter alive, and keep faith that
the crown doesn't fall in his absence.'
* * *
Flat on his belly in dew-drenched brush,
Mykkael crumpled up the tail of his surcoat and muffled the frantic rasp of his
breathing. He had two darts left. Around him, the mist swirled in heavy white
billows, that soon would disperse under sunlight. His bad knee shot fire down
the nerves of his leg. Without the chestnut just turned loose as decoy, he had
no chance at all of outrunning the lance captain's rabid pursuit.
Worse still, Taskin's sword had left him
well blooded. An ugly stab wound punctured his thigh. His right knuckles were
opened, a surface gash that promised to stiffen like vengeance as swelling
impaired the tendons. Altogether too many hurts marred the focus of his
attention.
Eyes shut, shaking through the whiplash
reaction from use of his barqui'ino
reflexes, Mykkael strangled back the distraction of grief. He could not change
fate, must not torment himself with the useless wish, that the commander's
skilled swordplay might have left him one
opening for a less drastic response. Remorse did not ease the demands of
necessity. Ahead, Mykkael. measured the daunting odds set against Princess
Anja's survival.
Behind, first of the unpardonable string of
casualties, the crown's most loyal defender was down with a crippling wound,
and in peril of losing his life.
Stretched out in damp leaves, the
desert-bred captain marshalled the cold force of his discipline. He breathed
until his raced panting and pulse rate subsided. Subservient to his mind, his
stilled body melded into the natural landscape. Overhead, a foraging sparrow
flitted through interlaced branches. Patient as a stalker, Mykkael eased the
cloth away from his face. He grasped the blow tube, then drew out his last
darts. These had been simply fashioned, no more than a tinker's needle fixed
into a dowel plug, with a wisp of fletching attached. Since the sparrow showed
no sign of alarm, he snatched the moment to his advantage. With the needle of
one dart used as a stylus, he scratched a row of small characters into the wood
stock of the other. Chance stayed in his favour. His tremors had steadied
enough to allow his rushed hand to stay legible.
Then he dipped the point of the marked dart
into the phial of poison tucked into the flap of his scrip. No instant too
soon; after he loaded the blow tube, the sparrow spread slate wings and flew.
Mykkael waited, listening. This thicket masked him like countless others,
snatched as havens in enemy territory. As he had through defence of the Efandi
princess, he sensed the live thrum of a sorcerer's lines course through the
earth and the air. That uncanny, sawing awareness flicked and snapped at his
sensitized nerve ends. Mykkael held, touched by witch thoughts, and racked into
sweat by the brushed sense of Anja's raw fear.
Too late for regret that high council
politics had sparked the fire to precipitate crisis: his choice to escape for
her Grace's survival was a cruel, two-edged bind that must raise the stakes and
cause Sessalie's enemies to unmask.
The garrison, the royal guard and the
failing old king would all too likely become torn apart by that consequence.
Mykkael strangled the ghosts of old
sorrows, along with new ones that cut him as fiercely. As he once had, bound by
Prince Al-Syn's death wish, he took charge under ruthless priority. He shifted
his breathing, as he had trained, and suspended his mind, a heartbeat removed from
the primal state of trance that would unleash his volatile reflexes.
The crackle of disturbed brush that had
startled the bird approached the thicket, moving uphill. An equine snort tagged
the determined last guardsman, pursuing his quarry, alone. Mykkael poised the
blow tube against his lips. His motionless body went nerveless. Fixated, he
watched the drift of the mist.
The lancer came on as a stalking shadow,
blurring the gapped trunks of the aspens. Mykkael hung back. Shoot too soon,
and his dart might bounce off the man's armour, or snarl amid the bunched folds
of surcoat or cloak. The desert-bred waited, unmoving, until the horse was all
but on top of him, and the man's florid face plainly showed through the film of
the fogbank.
The mind, stripped of reason, recorded
details: fair moustache, blue eyes, a lance captain's insignia above the
crown's falcon blazon on the breast. Highgate ignorant, or else sheltered by
parade ground arrogance, the officer had couched his pennoned lance forward,
ready to charge. The hunter lying in ambush weighed out the pitiless odds,
knowing the unwieldy length of the weapon would hamper the horse's instinctive
evasion. Attuned into passionless,
barqui'ino reflex, Mykkael spat the dart at the optimal moment.
The lancer flinched, slapped his neck where
the sting bit. That unthinking response drove the needle point home. Not
entirely foolish, as he reeled in his saddle, he reined left, towards the source of attack.
Moving already, Mykkael launched from
cover, the snatched length of a stick deployed like a short staff between his
spread fists. He hammered the braced wood into the rider's upper arm, backed by
the hurled weight of his body.
Shocked nerves threw the lancer's muscles
into spasm. He toppled, while the horse kited sideways and bolted, emptying him
from his saddle. Mykkael pressed his fallen prey flat in the bed of soaked
leaves. Throughout the bucking throes of locked struggle, he jammed his palm
over the dart embedded in the lance captain's neck. The moment the rider's
downed bulk ceased from thrashing, he eased up. He jerked out the needle, and
left the point nipped like a pin through the collar of the man's surcoat.
'Mehigrannia forgive,' Mykkael whispered,
then arose, skinned moss and dead leaves stuck to his gore-splashed surcoat.
'Let Jussoud find you in time.'
Campaign warfare had tempered all of his
skills. Sessalie's guard scarcely tested his ruthless experience. Eight men
down had bought him the narrowest interval to outpace the roused wrath of a
sorcerer. Mykkael recovered the fallen lance, used the stout shaft to brace his
bad knee. Later, if he lived, he could attend to the puncture Taskin's sword
had jabbed through the meat of his leg. For now, stark necessity forced him to
take flight. If he could, he would have to catch the loose horse, and use it to
lay a false trail.
* * *
The morning mist lifted. While the valleys
lay cloaked, the shimmering snow of the peaks etched a flawless blue sky, and
cleared sunlight streamed into lace-curtained windows. Rainbow refractions
shimmered through a crystal vase of cut flowers, except as the shadow of
Taskin's daughter swept past. Her fretful pacing had not eased since Jussoud
had arrived to discover his promised conference at breakfast would be deferred.
Though her teething infant at last slept in peace, the young mother could not
bear to settle.
Not after seeing the healer's anguish on
the moment he learned Commander Taskin had ridden out before dawn with a sealed
writ for Captain Mykkael's arrest.
The household had been upended by the
nomad's agitated demand for a horse.
'Bridle only!' he had shouted after the
servant who raced for the stables to comply. 'Don't waste one second for a
cloth or a saddle!'
When, minutes later, the clatter of hooves
by the entry informed of the horse's arrival, Jussoud had given the daughter's
alarmed questions no satisfactory answer. 'Just pray to your trinity that I'm
not too late.' He squeezed her hand, an inadequate comfort, then thanked the
plump steward, and breathlessly sprinted outside. The sleepy groom who led in
the gelding was shown an astonishing display of steppeland horsemanship as
Jussoud vaulted astride in a whirl of silk and pitched the horse to a scorching
gallop.
Early morning wore past. Under the dappled
shade of the cherry trees, the great house lay in wait, secluded from the
palace precinct and the wildfire eruption of rumour.
The knock, when it came, was loud and
direct, not the tap of a genteel visitor. Too anxious for restraint, Taskin's
daughter entered the carpeted hall as the steward opened the door. Outside
stood a distressed man-at-arms, wearing the plain linen surcoat of the
garrison. He did not shove inside, or display uncouth manners, but bent his
blond head and broke his news with straightforward gravity. 'Your king's first
commander has been grievously wounded, a sword cut in the right shoulder. He's
alive, though not conscious. Jussoud is bringing him up in a litter. I'm here
to ask, can a room be made ready? With him, as well, are four fallen lancers,
including their ranking officer. For expediency, is it possible to ask whether
the healer can treat them together under this roof?'
The door steward deferred as Taskin's
daughter stepped forward. Her blue eyes reflected her terrified anxiety. Only
the steel of her family heritage sustained her steady reply. 'You require four
additional beds? The servants will provide for the wounded as necessary.' Her
graceful gesture excused the steward, who departed on hurried feet.
The lady was left with the Lowergate
messenger, to master the hurdles of courtesy. 'Taskin would make you welcome
inside. In his place, what can I offer to ease you?'
The young officer surveyed her imploring
expression, then answered the cry of her heart. 'I have seen your father. He is
in the best hands. I'm sorry I can't offer more hope.'
Tears trembled, unshed, on her lower
lashes, though her remarkable voice scarcely wavered. 'You are called -?'
'Vensic, my lady.' He came in, braced her
arm, and eased her into a nearby chair. 'I am here on garrison Sergeant Cade's
direct order to stand guard by Lord Taskin's bedside. Will you allow me?'
She stared at him with her father's eyes,
the granite behind unmistakable. 'You are Myshkael's
man, Vensic? And Myshkael's sword struck
my sire down?' She had not missed the demeaning detail, that the tall man
before her was weaponless. Assumption followed, that the Highgate guards must
have disarmed him as a precaution. 'Why should my father require protection
from such as you, in the security of his own house?'
The officer gave his pained effort at
truth. 'The one man who might have answered that question is now set on the run
as a fugitive.'
She said, 'Who are Sessalie's enemies,
then? Has her Grace fallen foul of a sorcerer?'
'I fear so, my lady.' Where her father had
been haggardly reticent to speak, Vensic faced worse without flinching.
'Men have died out of ignorance, with the
king's council backing the wrong side to fulfil their self-righteous need for a
scapegoat.'
'Bold words, with no proof,' said the lady,
her lace collar trembling to the raced beat of her heart. 'Bold man, to expect
I should trust you.'
Vensic bowed his head. 'You are Lord
Taskin's daughter. I am Mykkael's loyal officer, sworn, as he is, to uphold an
oath to the king. The same as your sire, you'll have to choose.'
Her grief all but broke her. 'If your
father lay dying, how could you?'
The young garrison man looked away,
anguished, all of a sudden flushed with the unease of a hamlet-born farmer
thrust into a setting of titled wealth. His hobnailed boots held their stance
in the hallway, heedless of the priceless carpet. 'My lady, I could not speak
for my father. His spirit already rests with the trinity. For yours, since he
still clings to life, I will beg in the name of my captain. Don't repeat the
mistake that might kill him.'
Silk slid with a sudden, whispered scream
as the lady covered her mouth with taut fingers. Then she gathered her courage,
gripped the shreds of her dignity, and questioned with crisp asperity. 'Jussoud
was the one who sent you as messenger?'
Vensic affirmed, straitly still.
'Then you'll answer to Captain Bennent on
the matter,' the lady said in conclusion. 'In the event of Myshkael's defection, or in his blameless
absence, the Highgate's second in command becomes your acting officer.' She
arose, forewarned by the uproar outside that the litter-borne wounded were
arriving. 'For now, I expect you'll stay busy as the rest of us, nursing your
desertman's rough handiwork.'
The front door cannoned open. Bearers
streamed in, directed at once by the cohort of house servants sent by the
steward to accommodate them. Jussoud's towering frame ploughed through their
midst, the sleek tail of his braid striking as midnight amid the sunny
preponderance of towheads. He saw Vensic first, then the strained presence of
Taskin's daughter.
His compassion answered her desperate
composure without a second's delay. 'My lady, your father still lives. The
litter that carries him follows, more gently. Join the bearers, as you wish,
even walk at his side. He's not conscious. Please don't try to rouse him. He's
at worst risk from blood loss, and must be protected from jostling.'
As Taskin's daughter broke and ran in a
flutter of marigold skirts, Jussoud's next order was addressed to Vensic.
'Sergeant! I want this household set under the same protections your captain
detailed for the garrison.'
'Done!' Vensic surged forward, collared a
servant, and listed his urgent requirements.
Milling chaos resolved into industrious
order. The stricken were installed in the parquet ballroom that Taskin kept
unfurnished to practise his sword forms. The steward had already brought cots
from the servants' wing. Staff from the kitchen trooped in with braziers and
pots. These were trailed by three red-cheeked laundresses, bearing the linens
the housekeeper's thrifty eye had culled from the closets for bandaging.
Candles were lit. Piled blankets were
unfolded. Hands shifted the prostrate men from the litters, while Taskin's
taciturn valet gathered cloaks and unbuckled spurs, and pried off four pairs of
boots.
Jussoud himself knelt at the lance
captain's side, dictating symptoms to the house's elderly secretary, who set
fast-paced notes down in ink. When Vensic returned, wafting a torch of lit
cedar, the huge nomad looked up, his hand still clasped to the guardsman's
slack wrist, and his grey eyes sharply beseeching. 'Which nerve poison did your
captain use on his darts?'
Chilled despite the close heat of the
flames, Vensic recognized the flaccid pallor of a man unmistakably dying.
'Mykkael knew them all.' Undermined by a
surge of terrible doubt, he forced the discouraging answer. 'How can I guess?
The fast-acting ones were most fatal.'
Jussoud swore, turned back to his work, and
addressed two hovering houseboys. 'Get this man stripped. The last hope I have
is to force him to sweat. The effort won't save him. But heated towels may ease
the rictus that's starting. He surely can't die any faster.'
The healer's rapt face showed compassionate
sorrow, seared through by self-poisoned regret. Even still, his care did not
falter. Working to loosen the victim's tight collar, the nomad encountered the
minuscule dart, deliberately pinned through the fabric. 'That torch! Vensic,
hurry! Bring the light closer.'
Under the flood of illumination, the line
of tiny characters showed clearly, scratched into the stained wood of the
shaft.
'What do you make of this?' Jussoud's
urgent gesture invited the secretary to lend his considered opinion.
The wispy man traced the letters, lips
moving. 'Fane Street.' He blinked and looked up, his pouched face apologetic.
'But I don't know the foreign symbol that follows.'
Vensic expelled his stopped breath, hope
revived. 'A physician from Fane Street sometimes serves the garrison. He could
read that, I'm sure! Powers preserve! You're probably holding Mykkael's coded
key to the antidote.'
'I know that fellow. He's a worldly,
learned man.' Jussoud surged to his feet, his voice raised like a storm over
the bustle of activity. 'I need a groom with your fastest horse for an errand
down to the Falls Gate!'
The
cry of the horns rebounded off the peaks, each clarion call a torn strand from
the life left unravelled behind her. For of course, the notes framed the
heartbreaking reminder of the carefree days when she had ridden out hunting.
Now, as she thrashed through the thickets, the same music lashed her to terror:
the ox horn of Sessalie's master huntsman blended into the descant bugle of the
crown prince's trumpet, sounding to muster the hounds. When she also picked out
the deep, belling tone of Devall's distinctive conch shell, she bolted in
sweating panic ...
THE PORTLY LITTLE PHYSICIAN FROM FANE
STREET TUGGED TO STRAIGHTEN HIS DISHEVELLED JACKET, THEN BENT under the light
of Vensic's held candle. His soft hands stayed gentle as he prodded and
murmured. He presently asked Jussoud to cradle the sick man's head. Then he
knelt with his elbows braced on the pillow and peeled back the lid of the
unconscious lance captain's eye.
'No, keep on with your work, child,' he
encouraged the aproned cook's girl, who had hesitated to give him space. She
reddened, then resumed squeezing a vile-smelling remedy from a rag into the
flaccid man's mouth.
'Don't worry, the poor fellow's not going
to feel this.' The physician pressed the red flesh on the inside of the eyelid,
and measured the interval as the capillaries refilled. He peered, his brow
furrowed, as the pupils he examined for reflex stayed sluggish beneath the
flared spill of the flame. 'You saw this?' He pointed out the tinge of dull
yellow that sullied the whites of the lance captain's eyes.
'Distressed liver,' Jussoud murmured from
his hovering stance, as he unclasped his hands and resettled the victim's
lolled head. He addressed the next question without flinching. 'How long? The
symptom only just started to show the hour before your arrival.'
'Oh dear. That's not good.' The physician
tucked the blankets back up, and by habit ran a soothing hand down the stricken
man's arm. 'Your fellow might suffer impairment of balance, or perhaps, a
lingering numbness of the skin. Time and rest will eventually heal all the
damage.'
At Jussoud's expression of naked relief,
the pink-cheeked physician hastened to give reassurance. 'Oh, my, yes, he'll
survive. All four victims will. This one just might take a bit longer to pull
out. The venom from black-legged spiders kills gradually, after paralysis sets
in. Knows his poisons, does Mykkael. He's dosed this just right. What criminal
charges lie over these men, to have called for such drastic measures?'
The silence that followed rang on the ears.
'You don't know?' Vensic grated, stunned speechless by the iron-clad
discretion shown by Taskin's household servants.
The physician blinked in mild offence. 'I
was treating an elderly man with a boil when your message boy hammered my door
in! I left the poor fellow soaking in salts, while my housekeeper rushed to
drag my assistant away from his breakfast. Cafferty's steady, but sour as crab
apples on mornings when he doesn't eat. Will somebody tell me what's
happening?'
Vensic swallowed. 'I apologize.' Since no
one else volunteered, he stood as his captain's spokesman. Even given the
gentlest phrasing, the debacle that had occurred on the tourney field seemed an
act of unparalleled ferocity.
'You've driven out Mykkael?' The portly physician thrust to his feet. 'Powers save
us, that's madness! That desert-bred knows more about marauding sorcerers than
any man I've ever known who's survived the vile touch of experience. Hates
spell lines so deeply, he's scarred from within. He would lay down his life
before serving such evil!'
Jussoud stared at his empty fists. 'We
already know. It's Sessalie's high council, and northern-born prejudice, that's
forced Captain Mykkael to take flight.'
The physician stared, poleaxed, his dimpled
hand pressed to his shirtfront. 'Such stupidity could kill us,' he whispered
point blank. 'I would offer to testify, though I see you don't think words of
character will be any use to mend a good man's maligned standing.'
The nomad healer extended a massive, warm
palm, and steadied the physician's rocked balance. 'Come upstairs,' he urged.
'Help me treat the wound in Commander Taskin's right shoulder. I'd appreciate
your trained touch. After that, if you think Mykkael's plight is not hopeless,
we will all weigh his problem, and hear through your list of suggestions.'
* * *
In the upstairs seclusion of Taskin's
bedchamber, the mullion windows stood open to let in the light. Morning breezes
flowed off the ranges, sharp with the ice scent of snow. The air carried sound
with high-altitude clarity: the echoes of horn calls drifted up from the vales,
cut by the baying of hounds.
Vensic tried not to let the distant
progress of the hunt drag his thoughts to fretful distraction. He trailed
Jussoud into the brightened room, where Taskin's daughter kept anxious vigil
from a quilted chair by the bedside.
'You may not wish to stay,' the nomad
opened. 'Your father's wound is severe. The treatment he needs will be
difficult.'
The young woman straightened, determined.
'I will stay, if you will permit, and hold his hand throughout the duration.'
The physician from Fane Street resettled
his spectacles. 'Brave heart, your presence can do nothing but help.' He sized
up the room, with its lofty ceiling, its dyed carpet, then the four-poster bed
spread across with fresh linen and bleached wool, which couched the stricken
commander.
His uncertain glance flicked back to
Jussoud. 'Are you sure the setting's appropriate?'
Jussoud tempered his answer as much for the
distraught lady. 'I can't promise that the procedure will be neat. However, the
commander will do best not to be moved. This east-facing chamber provides the
best light. If you wish, ask the servants to spread canvas.'
Taskin's daughter arose, fingers laced
through her father's limp hand. 'I thought you just said it was dangerous to
move him.'
'I can't do the fine work of stitching on a
mattress,' Jussoud explained, unwilling to hide his deep apprehension of the
trial that must lie ahead. 'Your father will need to be strapped to a plank to
hold him perfectly still.' The nomad swallowed, grey eyes locked to the woman's
pinched face. 'We don't dare dose him numb with a soporific. His vitality is
already too low.'
The daughter gamely lifted her chin. 'I
won't leave him.'
'Very well.' Jussoud signalled to Vensic,
who admitted the servants to make preparations. Swift hands rolled aside the
rich carpet. Under the house steward's tireless efficiency, plank and trestle
were readied, and trays and tables arranged within a matter of minutes.
When Jussoud and the rotund physician moved
at last to shift the stilled man on the bed, Vensic trailed them. 'I might help
support him, if you wish.'
The physician nodded encouragement, then
noticed the daughter's small start of alarm. 'Don't worry. The garrison men
have been rigorously trained. The young sergeant knows how to handle the
injured.'
She released Taskin's hand, stepped aside
with reluctance. 'The desert-bred's work?'
'No one else's.' Vensic took charge of the
rag strips, hung them over his sturdy shoulder, and moved close as Jussoud
peeled back the sheets.
Two stout servants steadied the plank,
while three pairs of hands moved in smooth co-ordination and eased Taskin's
prone form on to the rigid support. The commander showed no sign of awareness
throughout. The sculptured, lean limbs they arranged at his sides stayed cool
to the hand as grain marble.
'Nice job, with the field dressing,' the
physician admired. 'The shoulder wound has cut terribly deep?' He absorbed the
details of Jussoud's murmured answer, while Vensic dispensed strips of flannel
rag and helped bind the commander's slack frame across chest, wrist, thigh and
ankle.
'Support his head, please,' Jussoud
requested, then asked Vensic to bear up one end of the plank.
Slowly, with no jostling bump, the delicate
burden was transferred to the waiting trestle. The cook's boy brought wooden
stools from the pantry, then filed out with the other servants. Only the
grizzled head stableman stayed. He had handled enough ugly wounds with the
horses to manage the requisite steadiness. Bashfully silent, he stood by the
brazier, ready to heat irons for cautery, or shed more light with a mirrored
candle.
Jussoud shed his silk robe. The fitted
garment he wore underneath was fine linen, tied with a sash at the waist. From
his satchel, he added thick cotton wraps to catch sweat that might stream down
his wrists, then a brow band tucked around his head. Last, he washed his hands
in a bucket of salt water, then dipped them in a soak of strong iodine. 'Do the
same, if you please,' he asked of the physician. 'I expect you've seen use of
clamps, before this? That's good.' Next, the nomad tipped a nod towards Vensic.
'You wash as well. Do you think you can mind the tray with the instruments?
Just pass over those items I ask for.'
'Should I falter, I'll tell you.' The
garrison man tried not to look at the face of the proud man Mykkael's sword had
left senseless. Taskin seemed far removed from the vigour of life. His chest
scarcely stirred with the effort of breathing.
The daughter was already poised at his
side, her fingers clasped to her father's hand, and her head held high as a spirited
hawk's in the grip of unflagging hope.
'Make sure he stays warm,' Jussoud
instructed her. 'Over there, on the stool, do you see? I've got bladders of hot
water folded into the blankets to heat them.'
'All right then, we're ready.' The nomad
reached out, slipped the tight knots binding the bandages, while the physician,
unasked, unwrapped the bundle containing the healer's instruments.
The bleeding gushed no matter how deftly
the sodden wrapping could be eased away. Jussoud's swift touch moved and pressed
down on a point at the shoulder, and another between the layered muscle above
Taskin's elbow. The physician proved to be deft with the clamps, in spite of
his stubby, plump fingers. In terse bursts of movement, the deep, severed veins
were pinched off in the grip of locked tweezers.
'I'll need that lamp,' Jussoud said to the
stableman.
Despite clammy palms, Vensic threaded a
strand of gut filament on to the smallest, curved needle. Time trickled by in
strung tension. No one spoke, as Jussoud's patient hands tied off the severed
veins, and one by one, stopped their bleeding. The delicate task was
accomplished at last, without falling back on the scarring expedience of
cautery.
'Amazing, how the swordsman managed to
avoid cutting the exposed artery,' the physician murmured, rock-calm. 'You have
damage, assuredly, but most can be sewn.'
Vensic stole one fleeting glance at the
wound, and wished in sick fury that he had refrained. The tendons were sliced
just over the joint, with the gaping, raw meat of the muscle sheared from the
bone to lay bare the cartilage cuff of the shoulder.
A moment longer, the two healers conferred,
crosschecking their store of skilled knowledge. Techniques might differ, and
yet they agreed in their cautious prognosis.
'We can save the use of his arm, perhaps,
lady,' Jussoud informed Taskin's daughter. 'If blood loss, or infection, don't
bring him down first, he could heal strong enough to bear weapons. But I warn
you, if he lives through the shock, the convalescence will be severe and
prolonged. No remedy can make such a shoulder wound comfortable. If he wakens,
and I can't promise he will, he'll face a fortnight of intractable pain. Many
weeks after that, he can't be permitted to lift anything, or raise his right
arm, even to put his wrist through the sleeve of a dressing robe. If he tries,
he will tear these slashed tissues past mending. If we do the hard work, can
you handle him?'
'If she can't, I will,' Vensic vowed in
dead earnest. Across the stilled chamber, the door latch clicked open, but
failed to draw anyone's notice. 'I can't believe Captain Mykkael intended to
leave the king's first commander a cripple.'
'Bright powers!' cracked an incredulous
voice from the threshold. 'How can you and Cade still maintain the belief that
your disgraced captain is innocent?'
Vensic turned his head, the tray bearing
the instruments jostled by his startled movement. 'I don't know what Cade
thinks,' he said, icily truthful. 'Though he may well feel as I do, having
served under the man for eight months.'
Guard Captain Bennent strode into the room,
imposing and angry, and wrestling unrestrained grief. 'And how do you feel, soldier?'
'Not here!' Taskin's daughter implored. She
thrust to her feet, ready to spring like a wildcat to keep peace in her
father's sickroom. 'No discord, I beg you. Please hold your argument
elsewhere.'
Yet Bennent was too riled to placate.
'Lindya, go out. This is become a matter of crown security.'
Raised with the unmalleable tempers of
fighting men, Taskin's daughter had the wisdom to realize when she had no
choice but give ground. She bestowed a razor-edged glower of warning before she
slipped from the room. Bennent's jerked nod excused the staunch stableman, who
set down his candle lamp and left as well, without daring a murmur of protest.
Bennent's attacking tread advanced across
the stripped floor. 'Catspaw? Or worse, a traitor's accomplice? Answer my
question at once!'
Vensic stood his silent, rankled ground,
and passed Jussoud a freshly strung needle. The extreme tension built, while
the physician looked on with shrinking apprehension. Only Jussoud stayed
unmoved. Raised outside dissent by intense concentration, the eastern nomad
applied steady hands to his work. The example of his determined calm restored
the footing for patience and reason.
Vensic drew breath, and somehow held on to his temper. 'How do I feel?' he repeated,
accusations put aside before the looming threat facing his endangered homeland.
'That I have never in my life known a fighting man of such unparalleled
competence. Mykkael is direct. He's hurtfully honest with everything he
undertakes. If he were the ally of Sessalie's enemies, by now, we would lie under
conquest.'
Bennent's heavy footsteps snapped to a
stop. What he saw, raw and brutal, under Jussoud's skilled fingers disallowed
any grounds for appeasement. 'Then why should your vaunted outsider draw
killing steel against Taskin?'
'Ask Taskin!' snapped Vensic. 'If Mykkael
cut him down, the mere fact he's not dead begs the question.'
'There's truth, if you'll hear it,' the
physician interjected. 'In my time, I have served on my share of battlefields.
Your commander stands a reasonable chance to survive. The foe who wished harm
would have severed his arm, and with far less effort than the friend with the
presence to pull the hard stroke that inflicted this desperate damage.'
Yet it was Jussoud's soft testament that
defanged the aggression bristling between the two officers. 'I would have been
proud to count Mykkael my brother.'
Forced to take pause, aware as he was that
Taskin himself had respected the desert-bred's competence, the guard captain
loosed his clenched fists. 'I have to pursue him as fugitive, regardless. The
council is adamant, and the High Prince of Devall won't be satisfied. His
Highness's honour guard has already mustered. They ride out under Prince
Kailen's backing, and no power short of King Isendon's word can raise the
authority to stay them.'
Vensic cut off a fresh length of gut. On
flat courage and nerve, he bent to the task of threading another fine needle.
'You can at least keep the garrison from Jedrey's brash hands?'
Again Bennent demurred, this time with
sincere irritation. 'I can press my influence, but not guarantee. Until the
king's lucid, the council's writ rules.'
He refused to elaborate the grim prospects.
Princess Anja's disappearance had fanned Highgate prejudice the hotter, and
cast fresh suspicion on the foreigner's upset of the past summer's tourney.
Worn raw from an obstructive encounter with the seneschal, Bennent knew best of
any: the storm winds of politics were unlikely to reverse in Cade's favour any
time soon. His pause turned thoughtful as he marshalled what resource he could
in retreat. 'I can reassign you, as Taskin's ranked second.' To the garrison
man, who showed evident character, he offered by way of apology, 'Where would
you serve, given choice?'
Vensic's frank startlement changed to
resolve. 'Appoint me to guard Taskin's door, if you please. His lordship must
have a sharp sword to stand by him, and someone without court ambitions will
need to make sure his sickroom stays warded with cedar.'
Even Bennent was forced to acknowledge such
fierce heart. 'You do realize, if Taskin dies, you'll be blamed as a traitor's
accomplice.'
Vensic's jaw tightened. 'That's why
Commander Taskin can't die,' he agreed. 'On Highgate turf, Mykkael has enemies
who may not act for Sessalie's best interests. Cade dispatched me here with
sound forethought.'
The unpopular fact that the commander's
staunch loyalty had the audacity to shed doubt upon Devall's motives now left
him a helpless target. Captain Bennent was anything but a fool. 'All right.
Under my auspices, Cade's assignment will stand. You stay to guard Taskin's
safety.' His blue eyes were flint, as he finished. 'To uphold that honour, one
of mine would not hesitate to lay down his life, if need challenged him.'
Vensic nodded. 'I've already helped carry
such devoted men here, three of them laid out for burial.' He passed the
readied needle to the physician, who had seamlessly offered to spell Jussoud's
efforts. Freed, for the moment, to match Bennent's regard, the young officer
returned a calm that was almost provocative. 'How dare you expect I would do
any less, for your man, or the captain who trained me?'
Bennent gave back his rapacious approval.
'Powers! You'll serve. I'll have the Highgate watch release your held weapons.'
He paused, shook his head, then mused somewhat rueful, 'You'll stand out in
this house, looking coarse as a farmer. I realize you're not shamed by your
Lowergate origins, but unfortunately, right now, appearances carry a
bloodletting weight of significance. You'll unbend your loyal neck for
necessity? Good. Then go downstairs at once. Tell the first servant you find to
fetch you a palace guard surcoat.'
While Vensic relinquished the instrument
tray and let himself out of the sickroom, Jussoud murmured, 'No, that talisman
stays. We'll tuck the disc and the cord out of sight underneath the cloth
strapping we use to bind up the shoulder.'
'I was already aware,' the physician
answered, leaving the copper disc undisturbed against Taskin's wax skin. 'Mykkael
left me one also, I'm grateful to say, after the sorcerer's mark claimed poor
Beyjall.'
Jussoud glanced up, startled. 'You're
protected as well? Bright powers, and give thanks for the blessing! I feared I
might have no learned help.'
Across the gaping wound that engaged their
shared efforts, spoken words fell disastrously short. Allied by their store of
worldly experience, the healers who tended the king's stricken commander both
sensed the pressure unbearably building: unless Mykkael was brought down,
either killed or discredited, the sorcerer that had targeted Sessalie's crown
for destruction would strike openly, turning unimaginable power upon innocents
with horrific and violent force.
* * *
The sound of horns and the baying of hounds
always made Benj the poacher querulously restless. If game was being coursed,
or a man hunt was in progress, he liked to observe from the hilltops, or follow
along from the covert thickets. If the affray was no commoner's business, he
always insisted his livelihood required such prying vigilance.
A man who trapped out of season ought to
know where the crown's wardens were treading. Benj preferred his lazy time in
the taverns, rather than waste himself tramping over disturbed ground unlikely
to harbour worthwhile quarry for days. Never mind that a fool might get caught
red-handed, if he returned to collect from a snare the crown's huntsman might
have discovered.
That Mykkael's silver confined him at home
left Benj in a pacing bad mood. He was particularly vexed, since the clever man
himself had broken last night's promised rendezvous.
'Well, he's paid you enough for the
privilege of sitting,' Mirag scolded, cheeks flushed as she drubbed dirty
shirts in the wash tub. 'You should kiss the soles of your boots and be
grateful. While the rest of us work, and the girl weeds the melon patch, you
get to rest on your arse doing nothing.'
'I could do that part better at the Bull
Trough, or the Cockatrice,' Benj carped. He stalked away from the window, shot
a liverish glance at his wife, and then added, 'As for well paid, I've not seen
a copper! How should I know? This stash of coin on your bragging tongue may not
even exist!'
Mirag unloaded a sopped wad of cloth and
brandished her soapy fist. 'Just because you lie like a fish? Doesn't mean all
the rest of the world acts dishonest and mulishly brainless!'
'Woman, you're a trial on all of my nerves,
not to mention everyone else's.' Benj lashed a kick at a footstool. Deprived of
his gin, and ornery as a bagged viper, he relished a bloodletting argument. 'A
cow with a bee-stung udder's more reasonable. If this bribe Mykkael left us is
more than a figment, show me the hard silver, woman. Else I'm going out, and bedamned
to your louse-ridden promise that I shouldn't drink!'
'No boozing.' Mirag wrung out the suds,
then heaved the sodden clothes into the rinse bucket. 'Nor have I wool plugs
stuck in my ears. Married to you all these desperate years, I can hear if a hound
pack's coming or going. That lot's not coursing the forest at all, but hellbent
down the road towards the lowcountry.'
'Not all of them,' Benj contradicted her.
Awake or asleep, his ear stayed attuned to a pack's belling music. He stomped
an undaunted course to the doorway and snatched up his mud-crusted boots.
The wife dropped her laundry and bolted to
stop him. 'Just where do you think you'll shove off to, old man?'
Benj flashed her a glare. 'Outside,' he
answered. 'Have to cut loose the hounds. You want my pack requisitioned on
crown business? Those are Highgate horns. Hear them?' In Benj's opinion, the
king's uppity officers were pinch-fists. They took what they pleased upon
grounds of privilege, with no thought of hard use on the dogs.
'My pack's better off out scaring up
rabbits,' Benj insisted. 'Won't risk leaving them tied for the taking. They're
wont to pick up bad habits like ticks, mishandled by Highgate's slack
huntsmen.'
Mirag frowned and clawed back a stuck wisp
of hair. Her crafty awareness had noted the horns, as well as the call of the
conch shell sounded by Devall's overdressed retinue. That a foreigner's men
rode out in armed force boded trouble, by all common sense. 'I promised Mykkael.'
'Bedamned to the wind in your nagging
mouth, woman!' Benj shoved through the doorway, still talking apace. 'I don't
loose the pack quick, we'll have none to offer if and when yon dark foreigner
gets here.'
Sharply afraid for no tangible reason,
Mirag hiked up her splashed skirts and plunged out of the cottage, hard on the
heels of her husband. 'Here, Benj. I'll help.'
As the oddly matched couple dashed into the
yard, the dogs burst into yapping pandemonium. Leaping and yammering against
their chains, they surged towards a man whose shadowy form emerged from the
breaking mist. He carried a sword, worn shoulder-slung over the crown's falcon
surcoat.
'Damn all to the nethermost pit of red
hell!' Benj cursed. 'We're too late off our arses to make any difference.'
Mirag snatched his wrist. 'No. Maybe not.'
For when the figure knelt down and offered
a hand, the mastiff bitch stopped her snarling and quivered with exuberant
welcome.
'Well expose me for kerrie bait!' Benj
slapped his gawping jaw with relief. 'About damned time that scoundrel of a
captain showed up to claim his due service.'
The rangy poacher hastened his stride,
Mirag puffing beside him. They reached the kennelled pack just in time to see
Mykkael himself bending down to free the hounds' shackles.
'They'll be requisitioned,' the desertman
warned, untying rope collars at speed. He was out of breath, and hampered by a
gash that had recently laid open his knuckles. More bloodstains marred his
surcoat and breeches. 'Hurry on. We don't have much time.'
Where Benj had no eyes, beyond liberating
dogs, Mirag's sharp wits never rested. 'They're after you, Mykkael?'
'Yes.' His sharp face stayed absorbed, and
his flying hands did not falter. 'The result of misguided politics and an enemy
who's by far too clever and dangerous. I've been framed.' Passing the stripped
collars into Mirag's stunned grasp, the desert-bred added, contrite, 'You don't
have to shelter me, or shoulder the risks of an innocent promise made
yesterday. Here and now, you're released from my claim over Benj's skilled
service.'
Through the instant that Mirag stood
fish-eyed and speechless, Mykkael unsnapped the last brace of chains, peeled
off the final two collars, then pushed erect with a forced hiss of breath. He
looked like a man who was hurting as he gave Benj his strait-laced apology. 'I
can settle for information alone, and be gone. Keep the coin. You'll have
earned it if you still know where your boy has holed up near those horses I'm
chasing. But we're going to have to speak quickly.'
Mirag stiffened, offended. 'That's unworthy
nonsense!' Never before had she turned off the needy, or delivered a friend to
crown justice.
Her husband agreed. 'You can hide in the
straw at the back of the mastiff's barrel. No fool searches there. Lose a hand
if he tries. Old bitch likes nothing better than mauling a meddling stranger.'
Mykkael glanced from husband to wife, his
eyes obsidian-hard, and his tension as ruthlessly measuring. 'I can't do this.
Far too dangerous. The High Prince of Devall's lured a sorcerer to Sessalie.
You could both be condemned to die, or much worse, if you're caught harbouring
me as a fugitive.'
Benj surveyed the desert-bred with
professional acuity, then delivered his withering assessment. 'You try to run,
cut and bloodied as you are, even those fat, stupid hounds down from Highgate
can't help but nose you out.' He scraped his jaw, spat, shared a glance with
his wife. 'Never took you for foolish, Captain.'
Mykkael said a word in blistering dialect,
then winced as he tested his bad knee. 'You're right, of course. I've no choice
but accept.' He looked up again, his bronze features desolate. 'No coin I have
can repay you for this selfless kindness.'
'No matter,' said Benj, already moved on to
eye the stained surcoat, then the holed breeches and splashed boots. 'Strip,'
he said, terse. 'Every damned stitch. Have to bury your clothing under the
midden. No way else to keep the damned tracker's pack off you. Wife!' he
bellowed, though she still stood beside him. 'Shout up to the melon patch. Tell
the girl to fetch out the phial of fox piss I use to mask scent for my
trapping.'
The woman glared at her spouse, both her
ham fists jammed with dog collars. 'Oh, you wouldn't!' Her eyes widened,
horrified. 'The idea's a straight cruelty.'
Benj shrugged. 'Unpleasant, I warrant.' His
pale eyes shone, adamant, through his lank forelock. 'Nonetheless, I'd rather
be safe than rock-stupid.'
The raw-boned woman sighed in apology.
'I'll wash the clothes, Captain. Don't fret for your dignity.' Still, she shied
from Mykkael's too direct gaze as she faced the errand just asked of her. 'For
your poor, abused person, I'll promise to have the lye soap and hot water
waiting.'
'Mirag, I'm grateful.' The desert-bred
caught her hand one brief moment, and touched her chilled palm to his cheek. As
he let her go, his smile burst through, swift as lightning flashed through a
stormfront. 'No doubt I've smelled worse in my time on campaign.'
Old Benj slapped his knees in uproarious
delight. 'Oh, no, my fine fighting cock, you surely haven't. The recipe in that
phial's a trade secret, besides. I'm going to enjoy every moment, watching your
eyes stream with tears as you sluice yourself down. The gagging aroma's my
rightful revenge, I tell you. Fair penance for the wretched dunking you served
me the past night in the moat!'
BY MIDDAY, WORD OF THE DESERT-BRED'S
BUTCHERY HAD SPREAD FROM THE FALLS GATE TO THE SALONS ABOVE Highgate. Mykkael
had always aroused stirring controversy. Sown in the wake of his discredited
character, new rumours sprouted apace. Opinions were bandied about in the
market, or across idle glasses shared in the wine shops. Conjecture turned
vicious, until Sergeant Cade was forced to rein back heated talk in the
garrison. For the handful who maintained that Mykkael might be innocent, others
insisted his hand lay behind the abduction of Princess Anja. Men-at-arms voiced
their outrage by chafing to join the Prince of Devall's rabid man hunt.
The belief Mykkael practised dark sorcery
was widespread, since the uncanny construct made of stakes and singed string
had been found on the blood-soaked tourney field. Such lines had too likely
been some fell snare, drawing men like live prey to their doom.
Above Lowergate, servants returned from
their shopping agreed: the uncanny foreigner had surely been a paid conspirator
all along. The misfortunate princess's fate, at his hands, ranged the gamut,
from a captive held for extortionate ransom, to a victim earmarked for torture
to feed the dire evils of spellcraft.
The litters seen bearing up wounded and dead
had quashed the last whisper of uncertainty. Through bloodshed and poison, one
ditch-bred savage had just butchered a company of lancers. The Middlegate
merchants who shipped goods to the southern coast aired their entrenched
distrust of the Scoraign Wastes' scattered tribesmen. Such creatures lived
rootless as wandering beasts, with their singing shamans and queer fetishes and
their clannish, uncivilized ways. As wealthy matrons gathered for their morning
teas, the old tales resurged: yet no desert warrior in their husbands'
experience ever slaughtered as wantonly as this one.
Above Highgate, where discussion of lurid
detail was considered unseemly manners, the privileged court ladies were
compelled to react with constraint and circumspection. Taskin's house staff was
notoriously close-mouthed. With his stately wife departed for the season to the
duchy's lavish estate, social callers were firmly discouraged. Lady Lindya's
retirement to attend her father forestalled direct questions after the noon
vigil held at the Sanctuary. Inquiries were pursued with gloved velvet
discretion, until a court lady with a relative in the guard at last confirmed
the sad news.
'Yes, the vile rumours are true. The
low-caste Captain of the Garrison has struck down a brave company of the king's
men-at-arms.'
Closest to the palace, Lady Shai affirmed,
'Lord Taskin lies gravely wounded, and there were deaths among the guard. Since
Lady Phail deemed the trouble too distressing for the king's ear, the seneschal
was forced to press charges for treason through the council, then call for the
precedent of having Prince Kailen sign the death warrant on behalf of the
crown.'
'Four more companies of lancers have been
commandeered from Captain Bennent,' the guardsman's relation ran on. 'They are
scouring the countryside for the fugitive, with assistance from Devall's elite
honour guard.'
Since the sorry affray was now public
knowledge, the wife of a prominent high chancellor added in lisping sorrow.
'Oh, yes, we have harboured the minion of a sorcerer, or his accomplice, all
along. A dreadful tragedy, that Princess Anja should be taken by such evil on
the eve of her formal betrothal.'
Her veiled face turned sideways to acknowledge
Bertarra's insistent question. 'Indeed, Lord Taskin is far gone. Sadly, he may
not survive.' Commiseration followed for young Lindya, who had already lost her
gallant husband to last year's fever.
Moral duty demanded the charitable
response. Of one mind, the court ladies gathered, bearing baskets of food. They
assembled clean linen, helping hands, and cut flowers to ease the burden set on
the afflicted.
Taskin's house staff intercepted their
offerings at the door, then dispatched volunteers to assist in the sickroom.
The refined manners of Highgate did not condone uselessness. With cheerful good
grace, the court ladies shouldered the unpleasant chore of cleansing and
feeding the bedridden convalescents.
The Fane Street physician patted their
ringed hands, and gave calm reassurance that the infirmity they witnessed would
pass. One man had already started to stir, and required diligent oversight to
keep him from mindless thrashing.
Lady Shai knelt at the tormented man's
bedside. 'Here, let me,' she murmured. Her violet eyes unflinching in kindness,
she took over the physician's place on the stool.
'Bless your care,' he said, grateful, and
moved on his way to mix remedies.
Shai graciously nodded. She soothed the
sick man's flushed forehead with lavender water and made no complaint for the
stains on her embroidered sleeves. Sessalie's security had ever allowed such
selfless charity to flourish. Wakened to threat by the loss of their princess,
and now shown the first ugly casualties, the ladies of Highgate fought for
their graceful lifestyle the only way that they could. They made themselves
useful tending the helpless, and eased cruel infirmity and suffering.
Except for Bertarra, whose kin ties to
royalty would bow to no living impediment. She brushed aside the importunate
servants. Arms clasped to a gargantuan vase of fresh flowers, she barged up the
stairs like a siege ram. There, she all but cannoned into the young guardsman
posted outside Taskin's bedchamber.
Her attempt to plough him aside met blunt
force, and a farmhand's uncivilized accent. 'Woman, I don't care blazing powers
if you're cousin to ten royal donkeys. You could be born marked with the
trinity's blessing, and not pass this doorway without Jussoud's word, and Lady
Lindya's approval.'
'Take your hand off my wrist!' Bertarra
bristled. She tipped her powdered face past the flame blooms of the lilies, and
bestowed a withering glare. 'Wrap a pig in a crown guard's surcoat, he still
stinks of the sty.'
Vensic returned his best imitation of Mykkael's
razor-toothed smile. 'Dress a milch cow in jewellery, she's still a cow. What's
your name, Bessie? Who shall I say's come ploughing the gate?'
Bertarra blinked, stonewalled. 'You
insolent sprig! Move aside! Apologize at once, or I'll see you publicly
gelded.'
'In a crown guard's surcoat? Now wouldn't
that show set a farmyard precedent on the elegant lawns above Highgate!' Vensic
tucked her plump wrist back over the flower vase to forestall its alarming
tilt. 'Since I won't apologize, and you can't shove past, you need not threaten
my bollocks, madam cow. Looking at you would dismast any bull who ever had the
healthy urge to rut.'
Flustered to outrage, Bertarra flounced.
The vase disgorged a dollop of chilled water, which slopped down her bulging
cleavage. Her furious shriek all but cracked the ceiling's antique plaster.
Brisk footsteps approached from behind the
shut door. Then the panel snatched open, and Jussoud appeared, black eyebrows
snarled into a frown like a stormfront. 'You'll be quiet, or I'll come out with
a gag. Choose which, lady. Quickly! My patience is spent.'
'Jussoud, leave be,' interjected a female
voice from the top of the stairway. 'Everyone at court knows it's useless to
thwart Lady Bertarra's curiosity.'
The Duchess of Phail had slipped up from
behind, discreetly dressed in robin's-egg blue, with peacock feathers tucked
through her netted white hair, and her leaning hands crossed on her cane.
'Bertarra, please! Your noise is a trial to Lindya, whose child has awakened.
One wailing infant cutting new teeth is quite enough to upset the peace.'
Bertarra flushed pink. While she shed her
vase on a side table and routed the spill from her bosom with a handkerchief,
Lady Phail tipped up her diminutive chin and cast her inquisitive glance over
Vensic. 'Stand aside, soldier. I promise to keep Lord Taskin undisturbed, and
to answer to Jussoud's instructions.' Then, in polite expectation the young
guardsman would yield, she called past the nomad's obstructive form into the
curtained chamber. 'Lindya, let me spell you. Take your time, dear. Go on and
wash up, and visit your son in the nursery.'
Jussoud stepped aside, and Vensic backed
down, clearing the doorway as Taskin's daughter emerged, looking wan and
transparently grateful. 'My Lady Phail, you're sent by divinity itself. I've
left a bowl and a rag on the tray. Could you try and drip broth into Father's
mouth? He's lost blood, and needs to take fluids.'
'Out, Lindya, I'll see to him.' Without
looking aside as Taskin's daughter departed, Lady Phail added, acerbic,
'Bertarra, the lilies look lovely right there where they are. Downstairs, the
ladies are serving cake to the neighbours who have come asking for news. Your
help would be greatly appreciated.' With no further ado, the Duchess of Phail
hefted her cane and pattered into the commander's sickroom.
Bertarra craned her neck this way and that,
to peer past Jussoud's thwarting bulk.
'Do you wish to follow?' the nomad said,
deadpan. 'I could use assistance emptying the slop jar.'
Yet the late queen's niece gleaned little
from the dimmed room, beyond an uncouth reek of cedar smoke, and a pale and
motionless form masked in tucked sheets to the chin. No bloodied bandages
showed; no bustle of life-and-death drama. In fact, Bertarra found the
astringent quiet of Jussoud's management dull.
'I've mopped up enough water already, thank
you.' After one scathing, last glower at Vensic, Bertarra beat a mollified
course back downstairs.
Jussoud granted his Lowergate sentry a
broad grin for diligence, then gently closed the chamber door to restore
Taskin's dignified privacy.
Lady Phail, in her inimitable way, could
put Bertarra's brash nature to shame. Her first, shocked assessment of the
commander's low state caused no hitched breath, and no outcry of feminine
sympathy. She simply stood by the bed with closed eyes, perhaps recalling the
exuberance of today's stricken man, when she had doctored his skinned knees
during boyhood. Then, in upright resignation, the duchess marshalled her poise.
She checked the comfort of Taskin's blankets and pillow, and assumed the lapsed
duty with broth bowl and rag that Lindya had left in her charge.
Before the nomad could regroup and sit
down, she demanded, 'What can you tell me that might grant an opening to settle
the seneschal's hysterics?'
Jussoud blinked, clasped the palms he had
scoured shiny from strong liniments, and tempered his chafing distress.
'Nothing Lord Shaillon would regard as substantial. He's not much inclined
towards a foreigner's opinion concerning Mykkael's sterling character.'
'The bright stars of your ancestry aren't
going to impress him.' Lady Phail agreed with acute honesty. 'Not that you
would waste such an oath on the cause of this morning's debacle.'
'In fact, I do swear, and my oath is not
wasted,' Jussoud said, his scarce buried rage the surprise of a whipcrack
unleashed across silence.
Rings sparkled to the bounding start of old
hands as the duchess dropped the linen in the broth bowl. 'Blinding glory,
Jussoud! How can you demean the honour of your family name for the sake of a
renegade savage?'
The nomad laced his strong fingers in taut
effort to stay his explosive frustration. 'Mykkael,' he said, firmly, 'is the
most civilized man I have the privilege to know. He was to have married my
sister, who is royalty. Before a misfortune ended the match, my clan viewed his
suit favourably. By my word, as a legitimate blood son of Sanouk, your Taskin
lies here through the fault of the council, and the impetuosity of the High
Prince of Devall. They led the factions that forced your commander to undertake
Mykkael's arrest.'
Yet the duchess showed that strong
endorsement short shrift. 'Someone had to drag in that misbegotten desert-man.'
The disturbed bowl resettled, and rag back in hand, she gently began to
administer broth to the comatose man on the bed. 'If Lord Taskin realized the
degree of his peril, he was a rash fool not to delegate. The risks should have
fallen to others who bear Sessalie less critical responsibilities.'
'You don't understand.' Jussoud's grey eyes
shone fierce in the dimness as he, also, reclaimed the solace of work, and took
up mortar and pestle to grind herbs for a poultice paste. 'Captain Mykkael is
the one grievously wronged. The sealed accusation for treason set a bind on the
desertman's honour. He had to choose between a lawful detainment that would
assuredly see him condemned, and the freedom to act he dared not set at risk,
to defend the life of Princess Anja.'
'And her Grace perchance is still alive?'
cracked the duchess, no room in her grief for vain hope.
Jussoud spared her astute mind no grace of
ambiguity. 'Mykkael struck down Taskin upon that belief.'
The granddame who had succeeded Queen
Anjoulie as mistress in the king's bed weighed that startling viewpoint in
silence, while the scent of crushed tansy wafted through the pungent smell of
cedar burning in the brazier. Her voice was steel, when finally she spoke.
'You're suggesting I made a mistake to shield Isendon from the unpleasantness?'
'Lady Phail,' said Jussoud, his threadbare
anguish revealed, 'how could I presume? My word does not offer one shred of
proof to appease the High Prince of Devall, or to sway the unsettled fears of
the council.'
The duchess sopped more broth from the
bowl. Her profile still recalled the sweetness of youth, as with tender
patience, she nursed her unconscious charge through another lifesaving swallow.
'The seneschal would not bend now for hard proof. Nor will the council risk the
advantage to trade by leaving the high prince dishonoured and slighted.' Her
head turned. Blue eyes held the sorrow of hard wisdom as she said, 'Time
passes. The day must arrive when Sessalie's welfare is no longer our burden,
but our legacy. Would you leave Crown Prince Kailen the role of a child? Force
him to back down from his first test of sovereign authority, and I tell you,
the strength of his spirit will stay stunted.'
Yet Jussoud remained adamant. 'His Highness
can't blood his sword on this peril. Do you know what we face? Have you words for the concept? Mykkael
is the only weapon we have to stave off a cold-cast invasion by sorcery.'
Lady Phail sighed. Her aquamarine earrings
flashed like iced fire as she raised her chin in staunch resignation. 'If the
tiresome strivings of politics matter, the king never came lucid this morning.
I pretended otherwise. The implied threat, that his Majesty might intervene,
was the only tactic I had to restrain the irate tenor of the council. If the
High Prince of Devall and the seneschal had prevailed as they wished, Crown
Prince Kailen might have received council endorsement to stand as legal regent
of Sessalie.'
The duchess let that bald-faced effort to
placate work through the widening pause. Ever tactful in aggression, she
reached for a napkin and blotted an undignified dribble from Taskin's slack
lips.
Yet the nomad's scorching rage failed to
abate, a departure of shattering precedence.
Though mystified by his doomed loyalty to a
murderer, the Duchess of Phail could not abandon her backbone of moral
compassion. 'If the king wakens tonight, I can ask his Majesty whether he's
willing to hear your appeal for the cause of Mykkael's good character. Oh dear,
Jussoud, no! This affray is too cruel to allow for such hope. I've known his
Majesty since we were children together. He is not going to rule on this matter
quietly. With eight guardsmen down, and one of them Taskin, I can already say
that your desertman stands little chance of receiving a royal reprieve.'
'Someone must try.' Jussoud insisted. He
broke off as a heavy tread approached from the corridor outside.
Captain Bennent's bass tones carried
through the closed door as he broke the morning's ill news to young Vensic.
'I'm sorry, soldier. I did all I could, but Jedrey's been reinstated. Command
of the garrison now lies in his hands, unless King Isendon reviews the case and
countermands council edict. You haven't eaten? By all means, go on down to the
kitchen. My sword will guard Taskin throughout your absence.'
When the expected sharp rap demanded an
entry, the nomad arose, wraith-silent, and lifted the latch.
Captain Bennent strode in armed in
chainmail and sword, the immaculate gleam of his spired helm catching the slice
of light through the curtain. His surcoat brushed the waxed shine of his boots,
a sure sign he had come straight from the council hall.
The fresh pungence of horse wafted from
him, regardless, ingrained in the stained saddle blanket draped in the crook of
his forearm. 'I need you to look at this,' he announced point blank, and
offered the item for Jussoud's inspection. 'The physician downstairs could
translate the lettering. But the language as written was strange to him.'
Never one to be hurried, the nomad set
aside his mortar and pestle. He flattened the horsecloth against his crossed
knee, his eyes running down the fuzzed strings of characters under the glow
from his brazier. 'Where did you get this?'
'The trapping came off the lance captain's
mount, recaptured at large in the countryside. The groom found the marks when
he stripped off the saddle. As you see, the message was scrawled on the
underside, where no casual observer would find it.'
'Mykkael's?' Jussoud's inquiry was sharp as
he moved to the window, and widened the curtain to let in more light.
'The physician thinks so.' Armour flashed,
blinding silver, as Bennent nodded to acknowledge the duchess. Then he settled
with laced hands on the brocade chair, away from the rippling blaze on the
hearth. 'It doesn't carry worked sorcery, so he said, since the talisman we
wear doesn't warm to it.'
'This is no sorcerer's line,' Jussoud
affirmed.
Bennent turned his harried glance towards
the figure swathed in the bed. The face, with its imperious hawk nose and wide
brow, remained still as a carved marble effigy. 'How's Taskin? No change?'
'His pulse has strengthened, an encouraging
sign.' Jussoud stated without looking up. 'The progress is slow, but we've
managed to lessen some of the shock caused by blood loss.'
Bennent shifted his boots, distinctly
ashamed for the haste that deferred the propriety of house stockings. 'No wound
fever?'
'Too soon to tell.' The daylight limned the
nomad's absorbed profile, and nicked leaden highlights through his jet braid.
He shifted the horsecloth, and spoke at last, his heartsore regret leashed
behind an unshakable dignity. 'The message is Mykkael's, and yes, I can
translate.'
The desert-bred warrior he had embraced as
a brother might lack birthright knowledge of the Sanouk royal ideographs, yet
he spoke all three castes of Serphaidian dialect with native nuance and
fluency. The words written here had been framed in that tongue, but marked in
the phonetic characters used by merchants for trade correspondence.
Lady Phail broke through the conflicted
pause. 'Did Myshkael send an appeal
for a stay of clemency?'
'He did not.' Jussoud's gaze stayed fixed
on the cloth, as though the sight burned. Or else he still agonized over the
script, stained into fabric with an ink mixed at need from blood and crushed
charcoal. The eastern-bred nomad roused himself finally, shook his head, then
resumed his lagged explanation. 'By Mykkael's strict code, he has not broken
faith with King Isendon.'
'Three slain lancers, and five others
wounded would give that specious statement an argument.' Captain Bennent jerked
off his helm, worn ragged from battling unsubtle intrigue and the outcries of
shaken chancellors.
The Duchess of Phail pressed the anxious question.
'Presuming we aren't being duped by a liar, what did the desert-bred send?'
'Instructions. In depth.' Jussoud gentled
his wounding delivery as hope died on the old woman's face: that the renegade
captain had not, after all, delivered first news of the princess.
'Just share what he says,' Bennent barked,
out of patience.
Silk shimmered in the draught through the
casement as Jussoud closed his eyes and recited. 'Mykkael warns that the balk
of his capture will cause the sorcerers against us to unmask. We must prepare
ourselves for attack. Devall's enemies will most likely seek to unseat
Sessalie's crown at one strike. The common folk should remain unmolested, at
first. Chosen targets will be King Isendon and his trusted circle of warded
supporters, for the plot as it stands is spearheaded to unseat the crown
quietly. According to Mykkael, the realm's best chance, and ours, to bid for
survival, is to withdraw to the tallest, most fortified stone tower, and to lay
down drastic measures in warding. The particulars brought to our attention are
precise, and clearly listed.'
The nomad smoothed the horsecloth beneath
disturbed hands. When he steeled himself to confront Captain Bennent, his
affable features showed fear. 'Guardsman,' he ventured in sober entreaty, 'I
beg you to take this advice seriously.'
For the closing, scrawled line, now
decently masked beneath the damp clasp of his hand, had used desperate words,
couched in the most sacred privacy of the Serphaidian idiom. 'Jussoud, as you read this, my breath as
word, sworn under the sure vengeance invoked by the fires of Sanouk royal
dragons: had Prince Al-Syn-Efandi done these few things, as advised by his
vizier Perincar, he may have held out with his life. Willing servant, under the
stars of your ancestry, consider my sword your right arm. After Isendon's
charge to safeguard Princess Anja, expect I will try to send help.'
'Isn't that nesting the good eggs in one
basket?' said the Duchess of Phail, smashing through tensioned silence. 'Quite
a risk, to place the king's life at the bidding of a foreigner we have no firm
proof we can trust.'
Jussoud strangled his rushed protest.
Denied Taskin's cool intellect, he must rest his appeal on the palace guard's
ranking captain. Yet hope crashed headlong. Through the experienced eyes of a
healer, Jussoud watched Bennent weigh Mykkael's warning, not as information
dispatched at great risk by the hand of a hard-pressed ally, but coloured by
the prevailing suspicion of outside blood cast as adversary.
'Bad tactics,' said Taskin's second in
command with the flint of a fixed decision. 'We dare not hole up with the king
in a tower. We'd just become sitting targets. What better way for a sorcerer to
destroy Sessalie's crown, than to mew up the royal defenders? If we didn't die in
the pre-emptive first strike, we'd be pinned down to starve in confinement.'
'We'd stay alive,' Jussoud stated in
clashing reproof.
'I will not see King Isendon held hostage
on my watch!' Bennent arose, resolved, and offered his arm to the Duchess of Phail.
'Lady, you'll have my escort back to the palace. Please stay with his Majesty,
as Taskin directed. I'll be rearranging the guard and bolstering the noon
watch.' As he eased the old woman's frail step towards the door, the guard
captain issued his last order. 'Jussoud? You are to burn that horsecloth,
forthwith. Best not to take foolish chances.'
Left alone to guard Taskin behind the shut
door, and bearing the distress of a loyal man's earnest message, the nomad
wrestled his shocked disbelief. The saving grace of this hard-won knowledge,
wrested out of the ruin of a shattering past failure, had been repudiated at
one stroke. The rejection begged a repeat of the tragedy that had once
destroyed Mykkael's life. Jussoud could have wept for the terrible irony. The
desert-bred's effort to settle in obscurity as a garrison captain in Sessalie
had not brought him the respite of peace.
Lamed
and alone, he would shoulder bad odds and strive under his oath of protection
to another doomed king. And if he survived, and again he won through, his
sacrifice would be wasted. He would live to see another royal family
slaughtered, and a second proud princess reduced to a lifetime of purposeless
foreign exile.
Jussoud stared straight forward, stunned
beyond thought. First-hand, he had witnessed the horrific damage a sorcerer
could inflict on the living. With the
sight of a healer, he had looked into Orannia's eyes. There he had sounded a
madness of such scope, the dark depths would have shredded and drowned him.
He masked his bleak fury, that he had renounced the way of the Sanouk warrior.
Taskin's helpless trust stung his heart like reproach, set alongside the lesser
betrayals that galled like stuck thorns in the flesh: that Vensic had not been
allotted due time to finish his meal in the kitchen, nor Lindya, to return from
her promised leave to visit her child in the nursery.
Jussoud flung the horsecloth aside as
though scorched, his anguished entreaty a whisper bent towards the commander
laid out on the bed. 'Taskin, my friend, you must waken and fight. More than
ever, your king's people need you.'
For the sorcerer who stalked Sessalie had
been freed to step through the breach of a sheltered courtier's rank ignorance.
The palace guard captain appointed for his
staunch reliability under pressure now danced with a peril outside the scope of
imagined precedence. Faced by the unknown, Bennent lacked the courage to
grapple the shadows, where precepts of honour became entangled with the mercy
of human integrity. So often, the still, quiet doubts of the heart became
strangled as the rigid assumptions of law struck them mute.
In all of Sessalie, only Taskin had the
tenacious perception to question appearances with unbiased strategy. His
anxiety became a springboard for deeper thought. He mined fears for their
hidden advantage. In daring to see past tried ground and experience, he
accepted the pitfalls only as they became proven as facts. The flexibility left
at play between mistrust and honesty had let him discern Mykkael's unassailable
character.
Jussoud took up the condemned square of
horsecloth, and hissed a scalding oath through his teeth. Moved by the
hammering force of his grief, he shoved to his feet, ripped open his satchel,
and dug out his notebook of remedies. Then he took up stylus and ink. Before he
enacted Bennent's rash order, he committed the words of Mykkael's scribed
warning into Serphaidian ideographs. Empty-handed at last, while the flames in
the hearth performed their voracious office, he busied himself with Taskin's
welfare, and took up the broth bowl and rag.
'It's tragic how the lack of imagination so
often shapes our defeat,' he confided, though the friend who languished near
death on the bed was in no state to respond with his usual insightful rebuttal.
AFTERNOON SUN BLAZED DOWN ON THE KENNEL
BARREL, BAKING THE INTERIOR TO STIFLING HEAT. BEN'S MASTIFF lay belly down in
the dirt, hackled growls interspersed with her panting. Between snarls, she
rested her muzzle between her splayed paws in the sliver of shade cast by her
water trough.
Mykkael could secure no such marginal
respite, with the yard outside crammed with lancers.
Sweating under thick straw, knees tucked to
his chin, with his nostrils inflamed by the gagging stench of the poacher's
concoction of trap scent, he endured parching thirst with equanimity. His limbs
stayed relaxed. The company of guardsmen milling outside scarcely excited his
pulse. This mounted party was the third pack of man hunters arrived to raise a
crown inquiry. The renegade captain remained unconcerned, as long as the sword
hilt under his hand showed no warning hum of raised resonance. Since Mirag's
house had been searched twice over by armed predecessors, and the mastiff had
already dispatched one zealot home with a savaged wrist, the Highgate voices
declaiming outside sought fresh dogs for the trackers, not fugitives.
Mykkael closed his eyes and let himself
drowse.
Paradox almost raised his smile of sympathy
for the lancers' confounding predicament. He had once experienced their frustration
at first hand: old Benj could spin his laconic lies one after the next like a
champion. His hounds were long since gone into the hills. Any huntsman must
realize they would answer to no man until hunger wore down their exuberance.
Soon enough, the king's riders untied their
mounts and departed. The mastiff bitch lapped a drink from her trough and
subsided back to her panting. The desertman wedged at the back of her barrel
lapsed into exhausted sleep.
Time's flow suspended, and he slipped
unremarked into the half-world of dream ...
* * *
Dogs
hounded her trail. She had fled their baying for hours, as they worked her
scent through the foothills. Hunkered down, breathless, behind the screen of a
stunted tangle of balsam, she understood she would be run to earth like any
other doomed prey chased down by a fervent pack. Harried into the stripped rock
of the ranges, she wrestled to stem the panicked awareness that her position
was fast growing hopeless.
Only
the horses were safe, left grazing in a hidden glen.
'May
the threefold light of the trinity keep them,' she gasped between stabbing
breaths.
She
had thoughtfully kept them well guarded from dogs, tucked away between the
clefts of two tumbling streamlets. Huddled into herself, and fighting despair,
she cursed the weakness that had prompted her downfall. Hunger had driven her
out to try foraging. Had she stayed in the glen, the quartering search party
would not have crossed over her trail. Now their pack had wind of her, they
were not going to let up ...
*
* *
Mykkael aroused, gasping, the cry on his
lips instinctively muffled behind the clamped force of his hands. Anja's terror
still gripped him. His heart raced too fast, and his breathing ran ragged,
attuned to the rush of her panic. Cast back into himself with a plummeting
wrench, he fought for the presence of mind to regain his own sense of identity.
The fust of straw mould still clogged his
turned senses, laced through by the ammonia reek of Benj's prized trap scent.
Mykkael blinked stinging sweat from his eyes, then shuddered through a spasm of
nausea. His knee pained him. Jussoud's pine-gum dressings itched his wounds
like hell's vengeance, and everywhere else the cloth strips did not cover, his
stinking, bare skin had been nipped by the mastiff's shed fleas. He shifted,
unable to make himself comfortable. Inside the cramped barrel, the pain of
pinched nerves wrung him dizzy, while the puncture from Taskin's sword-thrust
throbbed, tight and hot with fresh swelling.
Outside, he still heard the belling of
hounds. Mykkael cursed their ill-starred persistence. He tipped back his head,
rubbed sweat from his brow, and pitched his crawling nerves to endure. He had
suffered far worse in his past. No risk undertaken to ease his distress would
excuse the mistake if the citadel's searchers should trap him.
Time fleeted. He measured the cost of each
second passing, and wrestled to bind his fraying awareness to the immediate
present. Weariness defeated him. Or else the attrition of stress let in chaos,
and witch thought sucked him under again.
The cries of the pack hunting near at hand
melded into the yelps of another, far distant...
* * *
Her
efforts to circle behind her pursuit had led to disastrous failure. Again and
again, the steep gash of the ravine forestalled any chance of escape. Though
she tried, she could not flee down the back of the ridge. Her shins were
scraped and bruised, from the tumbling fall she had suffered the desperate time
she had tried. Old rock slides had scoured the unstable slope. The scarred
rubble left behind was a precarious trap of loose scree, dead trees and smashed
boulders.
Her
hag-ridden flight had pressed her too far up the mountain.
The
scant cover provided by storm-ravaged evergreens could not hide her from mounted
riders. The huntsman in charge of the pack at her heels knew his grim trade too
well. He worked his hounds with unshakable patience, undeterred as the sun and
wind leached away the moisture binding her scent. Each time the dogs circled in
baffled checks, he whistled encouragement to his lead couple, and cast his
seeking pack wider. Patiently thorough, he covered each hollow and patched
scrap of shade until her path was unravelled again.
On
bare rock, where the trail had gone cold, her pageboy's shoes had crumbled the
dry lichens. The tracker's diligence found those faint signs, and the hunt
dogged her heels without let-up.
She
sweated, wrung by exhaustion and crushed hope. While the hounds relentlessly
zigzagged up the ridge, hied on by shouts from the riders, she faced the
futility of trying to run. The scoured rocks of the peaks held no haven. While
she panted, pressed to tears of trapped rage, she glimpsed furtive movement on
the slope down below her.
A
boy in brown homespun slipped out of a thicket, dragging what looked like a
bundle of stained hide over the ground with a pull rope. Too young for a beard,
he moved like a wild thing, blending into the minimal shelter of tree and stone
and dry gulley. His towhead stayed attentively turned, as though he gauged the
cry of the hounds and measured their closing distance.
At
the crest of the ridge, where the scars of the slides had savaged the flank of
the mountain, he paused and rolled his bundle over the brink. Then he bolted,
dodging towards the ravine, perhaps agile enough to clamber down, or else aware
of a hidden cleft with the saving grace of a footpath. She watched him go, and
considered the risks of attempting to follow his footsteps.
Yet
before she could act, the hounds burst upslope. Scattered and questing to trace
a cold trail, they struck the fresh line the boy had just dragged across their
path of pursuit.
The
lead couple nosed the hot scent. Their wild tongue rallied the pack like a
torrent. Seized by primal instinct, they swerved and ran riot.
The
huntsman frantically sounded his horn. His shrilled call was ignored. The dogs
plunged away in hysterical frenzy, straight for the rim of the scree slope.
Running flat out, they charged over the brink, nose to ground in yapping, full
chorus.
'Powers
of hell, they've picked up a deer!' the huntsman yelled in frustration. He
spurred through the scrub, too late to head off the disaster.
Before
his eyes, the hounds plunged ahead. Intoxicated by the scent laid to trap them,
they streamed through a rattling fall of loose stone. Rocks and boulders
shifted, turned over, and rolled. The pack scarcely faltered. Their belling
changed pitch to shrill yelps as they tumbled, milled head over heels as the
unstable footing let go with a ground-shaking roar.
More
riders pelted out of the woods. These wore guard surcoats, polished helms and
mail byrnies, and with them were Taskin's crack archers.
'There!'
cried the huntsman. He pointed towards a disturbance that shivered the brush.
'That could be the two-legged quarry we're tracking!'
'Bring
him down!' snapped the officer leading the company. 'Whether or not he's the
man on crown warrant, he's run interference on behalf of a criminal and
destroyed the king's favourite hunting pack.'
At
his order, four men reined up short and nocked arrows. They bent their bows,
aimed, and released a tight volley after the fleeing boy ...
*
* *
The flight of the shot arrow snagged the
thread of his dream, and consciousness plunged into darkness. The tug of blind
instinct let Mykkael sense the choked-off cry that Sessalie's princess stifled
to silence.
'Your Grace, stay still!' he gasped in
warning, as though the fierce will behind whispered words might pierce through
to her distant awareness.
Anja's peril was desperate. If she gave in
to fear, if she moved or called out, the armed party of hunters who chased down
the boy would resume their diverted pursuit.
Deprived of their dogs, they still had a
skilled tracker, and hours of remaining daylight.
Mykkael thrashed in his sleep, his
oath-sworn charge to defend her safety granted no outlet for release.
'Anja!' he whispered.
Frustration tore through and broke the
connection. The princess's lingering anguish remained, seared through his
being, heart-deep. Remembrance of another woman's suffering woke his past, and
unleashed the dire force of his nightmares.
Crammed in the dank straw at the back of
the kennel barrel, Mykkael rode that slipstream of horror. Again, he
experienced the rolling grass of the steppe, where a camp-circle of painted
elkhide tents slapped in the tug of the breezes. The harmonic chanting of
Sanouk shamans lapped him under layer upon layer of raised power. Their
quickened conjury crackled over his skin, and that of the woman he cradled.
Song swelled and subsided, all to no avail. No shimmering ward of unbinding
could lend him the foothold to speak her name and be heard. Try though he
might, all the love he possessed could not lift the fires that raged through
her violated mind. Again he beheld the mad, silver eyes of Orannia, whose days
and nights framed a prison of agony, lost to the torment of Rathtet spell lines
that no power he knew could release.
Crushed by helpless despair, Mykkael caught
her hands. He subdued their blind fight. As he had, countless times, he fell
back on endurance and constrained her reasonless thrashing. When she finally
wore herself down to a state of limpid exhaustion, the shamans broke their
circle again. They laid quiet hands on his shoulders, dusty and bronze and streaming
with sweat from the throes of his adamant striving.
He remembered, unwilling. The sun had
poured down like liquid gold, as the silenced Sanouk singers filed out one by
one, and left him with their defeat.
The dream ended, as always: Mykkael buried
his face in the warmth of his beloved's tangled black hair. Wrung mute in every
language he knew, he yielded to grief, and begged that blank darkness to drown
him ...
* * *
An unknown interval later, Mykkael wakened,
jerked back through the focus of
barqui'ino trance by the vibrating thrum of his sword hilt. He tossed off
choking straw. The darkness framed a punched circle of twilight, and the kennel
barrel rocked, slammed by the mastiff's snarling lunge as she hit the fixed end
of her chain.
Spurred by a flooding jolt of adrenaline,
Mykkael erupted on lethal reflex and launched out of the barrel behind her.
The cottage windows glowed orange,
unshuttered and spilling soft light through the shadow of dusk. Five horses
stood tied by the melon patch, dismissed in the stream of stripped-down
perception, rote-trained to seek only targets. Two guards in Devall's livery
lounged by the door, engrossed in idle talk with a leather-clad fellow, bearing
a huntsman's bone-handled skinning knives.
Naked, and shedding a flurry of straw, Mykkael
charged. If the knee slowed his pace, his bare feet scarcely rustled the
dew-drenched grasses.
His sword rammed the huntsman point blank
through the kidney. The low thrust angled upwards to pierce through the
diaphragm, and emerged just under the heart. The killed man slammed into the
right-hand guard, and knocked him half-senseless into the door jamb. The
sword's out-thrust tip pierced him, also. His cry was ignored. Mykkael used the
first victim's dead weight as fulcrum, jerked upwards, and widened the damage.
He followed through with a twist of his wrist, and a wrenching yank sideways.
The bound blade struck bone, ripped the nerves of the spine, and the paralysed
huntsman dropped, gagging. Mykkael stomped the air from the expiring corpse,
foothold for a leap that hurled him into close quarters. A blow to the standing
guard's wristbone slapped his drawn sword wide, and laid him open for a
hammering punch to the larynx. The blow crushed the cartilage. He reeled away,
choking blood.
Mykkael spun, cleared his blade from the
downed huntsman's body, and finished his whirling pivot. The spinning force of
his cut slashed the punctured guard at the waist. The body collapsed, spilling
entrails, while the desertman bore through on his unspent impetus and smashed
shoulder down through the doorway.
The mastiff's ongoing, hysterical racket
obscured the groans of the dying. Warned by the crashed door, allowed a blurred
second in which to react, the lowcountry guard posted inside the threshold died
first, of a chopping stroke to the neck.
Mykkael hurtled over the falling remains.
Sluiced in the rained jet from a severed artery, he felt the warding tattoo at
his nape come alive with a razor-edged tingle. Light flared through his aura.
Made aware he had blundered across the proximity of a sorcerer's active spell
lines, he let the burst run to ground through the ward's sphere of shielding.
The fact the effect momentarily blinded him was not going to make any
difference. The glimpse as he entered had already mapped out the lay of the
room. Barqui'ino reaction drove him
ahead on the flow of subconscious awareness.
While the whine of shed sorceries hazed his
nerves like live fire, he relinquished his mind, let go of identity, and gave
his schooled instinct free rein.
His hands encountered live flesh, and
killed, before thought could track the result.
Stopped, hard-breathing, Mykkael blinked
through the glaring blaze as the disrupted spell line shredded away. Then the
shivering force of barqui'ino
backlash broke over him. He held still, hurled into the wrenching shift as the
sluggish process of reason re-engaged, then laboured to sort the meaningful
aftermath written into his spattered surroundings.
The man who had carried the sorcerer's
power lay, neck broken, under his feet. Catspaw, not minion: the cold link had
severed with death. The wasp hum from his sword had faded to silence, leaving
the mastiff's outraged barks, and a woman's hysterical weeping.
Mykkael looked up from his scarlet hands.
Five horses, five kills; all threat seemed dispatched. He dismissed the odd
fact he was naked. Then he noticed the victim stretched prone on the settle.
The man's stubbled face seemed familiar. He lay stretched out and strapped at
wrist and ankle with the twine a trapper might use to bind otter snares. Mykkael
sucked in a shuddering breath. Another layer of deep training let go.
Recognition seeped back, followed by the clumsy recovery of speech. 'Benj? Are
you lucid?'
The gaunt poacher shut his eyes, which
spilled over with helpless tears. He answered, voice quaking, 'Hell's fury,
you'd best ask yourself that.' He swallowed, and turned his head with strained
anguish. 'Help Mirag. See to the boy.'
Mykkael followed his glance. He saw the
arrow-shot child sprawled on the floor, then the matron, knelt over him,
keening with grief.
Full cognizance slammed back. Sorrow and
regret flooded into the emptied expanse of his mind, leaving Mykkael winded and
speechless. Next moment, thought came, and his battle-trained senses recorded
the fact the boy's stillness was not unbreathing. He lay gravely wounded, not
dead. The frenetic, bright tint of foamed blood at his lips suggested that he
had been lung-shot.
'What happened?' Mykkael raised his clogged
sword. While he pressed his gimping step over the splashed floorboards, Benj
flinched, jerked short by the cruel restraints.
Mykkael read the fear inspired by his
movement. He stopped still; waited. While his friend recoiled in stark fear
from his presence, he recovered the requisite gentleness.
'Benj, what happened?' he repeated.
The distraught poacher continued to stare
as though he confronted a stranger. At length, he managed to frame words.
'Timal turned the king's pack as you asked, and they caught him.'
Mykkael surmised the rest out of heartsick
conjecture. 'Since he couldn't be questioned, they brought him back here? Then
tried to pry answers from you?' Shown a terse nod, the desert-bred forced a
taut grip from his blood-slippery fingers. He acted fast, to shorten distress:
two neat cuts slashed the ties holding the captive. 'Benj, I'm your friend. Why
didn't you wake me?'
'No chance,' gasped the poacher, still
trying to conceal the embarrassing fact he was shivering. 'And anyway, the
damage was done. Timal was already grievously hurt. Mirag saw the risk. If they
captured you here, the crown might see us hang as collaborators.' He shuddered,
the lingering shock of his panic still darkening his distended pupils. 'We
didn't guess we'd be tried by a sorcerer.'
'A catspaw, borrowed as puppet, no more.
Rest easy, he's now destroyed.' Mykkael braced the goodman's quivering
shoulder, and allowed the firm contact to restore reassurance. 'Let's think
about Timal. I'll need the remedies you keep for the dogs. Also any herbals you
have that I might use to make compresses.'
His firm tone let Mirag recover a semblance
of her shattered poise. 'Devall's huntsman already dug out the arrow.' She
raised reddened eyes, wiping her wet cheeks with the back of a palsied hand.
'The point had wedged between ribs, so he said. He assured us the puncture was
shallow.'
'The boy's still bleeding,' Mykkael stated,
his urgency carefully tempered. 'Keep him warm, Mirag. Above anything, don't
try to move him.'
The desert-bred helped to prop her husband
erect, and wisely withheld the unpleasant prognosis that too often attended a
lung wound. Instead, he called on his field experience and urged the stunned
household to regroup and take needful action. 'Benj? Build up the hearth. Then
shove the fire tong under the coals. We're going to need it for cautery. I have
to attend a brief errand outside. Fast as I can, I'll be back to assist you.'
The poacher rubbed the chafed skin at his
wrists, and gamely struggled to rally. 'Unshackle the mastiff as you go by,
before she breaks her damned neck.'
Mykkael nodded, already going. As he bent
to clear the hacked dead from the doorway, he noted the face of the sorcerer's
catspaw, a hapless victim claimed and used by an evil compulsion, who had almost succeeded in channelling a spell
line to break old Benj in submission. A split second only, the desert-bred
paused, regarding his kill in fierce irony. Naked and dirt-smeared, still
reeking of the poacher's rank potion of fox piss, and with the blood of five
men unwashed from his hands, he vented his barbaric thought.
Three stripes marred his back for drawing
his steel in the presence of Devall's crown advocate. 'But what laughable
penalty will I have earned for snapping the man's neck with bare hands?'
'A scolding,' carped Benj, thrust back to
his feet, and desperate to restore balance to a world turned hideous with
crawling shadows. 'Yon advocate, there, he's passed beyond suffering. But
you've tracked a right mess of dog dirt and blood all over Mirag's clean
floorboards.'
* * *
Mykkael's labour outside took a handful of
minutes. He sluiced off at the well, stripped the horses of trappings, and
fashioned makeshift hackamores of rope to tie them out of sight in a fir copse.
When a foray to the midden failed to unearth his clothes, he thrashed through
the brush, swearing and slapping at midge bites, and shortly turned up at the
cottage, his arms loaded down with cut cedar.
He re-entered the burst door, too spent to
duck as a bundle of hyacinth-scented cloth struck him foursquare in the face.
Tut that on, you rank savage!' shrilled Mirag
from the hob. One hand on her hip, she stood pouring water from the kettle into
her battered wash tub. 'The girl is upstairs, still, but when she comes down, I
won't have her exposed to your scars and your outlandish nakedness.'
Mykkael tipped his head past the greenery.
He surveyed the maroon cloth of the advocate's cloak puddled on freshly mopped
floorboards, and stated, 'I won't wear that.'
'You will,' Mirag argued. Her puffed eyes
saw red.
'She's convinced the child will take fright
at the sight of you,' Benj apologized, coarse-grained with tiredness. He sat on
the floor at the side of his son, who now whimpered in fretful pain. 'Bend
foreign pride and cover yourself, will you?'
Mykkael limped around the offensive
garment, crouched down an arm's length from Mirag, and tossed his cut greenery
into the fire. He spoke with his back turned, dark skin marked across by the
well-soiled strips of Jussoud's resin dressings. 'No. I will not. Fetch back my
surcoat and trousers. I don't care a damn if they're reeking of garbage.'
Mirag's glower suggested her ire on the
subject was not going to be placated for any man.
'That cloak has a hood,' Benj pleaded,
reasonable. 'The disguise could help your survival.'
Limned by the haze of plumed smoke as the
evergreen sparked into flame, Mykkael shot to his feet. His eyes glittered,
wide open and wild, and the set to his shoulders stayed adamant. 'I won't wear
that, I tell you, though I died this second! The cloth bears the taint of a
sorcerer's touch, a fine point that's lethal to compromise.' He moved, snapped
up the fire tong, and used the glowing hot tip to jam the offending garment
into the cedar-laced flames.
Then he stood on his rankled dignity and
added, 'You can hand me a second-rate blanket.'
Mirag glared back at him. 'A blanket's too
good, you uncivilized madman.' Shaken to the brink of hysteria, she shouted
down his astonished, hurt protest. 'Whatever you touch won't be left fit for
rags, with you reeking of fox piss and bear scat. Climb into this tub and scrub
yourself down. When you're clean, we can talk about clothing.'
Mykkael drove his limping step to the wash
tub, wet his finger, and flicked a sizzling droplet to test the heat in the
fire iron. 'I'll bathe for you later,' he suggested, calmed at one breath as he
grasped the denial that caused Mirag to fixate on trivia. No comfort held the
power to ease what her instincts already told her.
Her boy on the floorboards was dying.
'Benj,' Mykkael urged with the utmost soft
clarity, 'please lend me your help. If we don't stop the bleeding, there's no
chance at all. Let Timal not go without trying to save him.'
The poacher clung to his son's chalk-pale
hand. 'You know what you're doing? You've done this before?'
Mykkael shut his eyes, swallowed. 'In war.
On the battlefield, more times than I wish to recount.'
He chose not to broach the imperative
precaution, that when he was done, the cottage and all of its unsalvaged
contents must be burned to the ground. He had not survived three conflicts with
sorcerers without learning the bitter necessities. Lacking the permanent
presence of wards, or the protections afforded by talismans, he could not
shield Benj or his family from the enemy's arcane scryers. That left no choice
but to eradicate every last shred of evidence that the patrol sent by Devall
had come here. Fire laced with green cedar must cleanse the trace imprint of
the recent dead, and all that remained of the corpse of a catspaw, infused
flesh and bone by the deadly, left sign of a sorcerer's lines of compulsion.
* * *
Day wore away, and sundown had faded to
twilight, with Jussoud still unable to share Mykkael's warning message with the
learned physician from Fane Street. The strain of that urgency wore at his
patience. He opened the curtains, while the early stars burned above the high
peaks of the ranges. The gold flare of kerrie fires plumed against the indigo
sky as the creatures soared through their aerial hunt on outstretched, scimitar
wings. While darkness gathered, and lights from the palace spilled through the
boughs of the cherry trees, Jussoud listened to the draw of Taskin's breath. He
noted small signs of improvement. The rhythm had strengthened, with the depth
of each inhalation approaching the reflex of natural sleep.
Encouraged, the healer made rounds to
brighten the candle lamps. He weighed the risks, undecided whether he should
snatch the brief chance to slip out. Taskin's delicate state still demanded
attendance. The dosage of remedies and herbals required constant adjustment to
keep pace with each shift in his life signs.
Vensic's watch at the door could not
address setbacks, and Lindya's adamant vigil forestalled every chance to summon
the physician in privacy.
Time passed. The windows darkened. Jussoud
nursed his silent, agonized fears, until the opportune servant sent up from the
nursery asked Lindya to help settle her son.
'Go, lady,' the nomad was quick to assure
her. 'Right now, your father's condition is improving. Your child needs you far
more. You could help most by retiring to the nursery, and showing a composed
face to the household.'
Lindya stirred in the looming shadow by the
bedside. Deep-set weariness and heart-torn appeal conflicted her delicate
features. 'You won't leave the room?'
'Rely on that.' Jussoud arranged his lamps
on the marquetry table used for a makeshift pharmacy. He sorted through his
herb packets and tinctures, and began the demanding, meticulous process of
mixing an elixir by the eastern method of imprinting subtle substance as catalyst
into the essence of water. 'If you're worried, you could do me the favour of
calling for the physician. He mentioned earlier he had obscure knowledge that
might speed your father's recovery.'
Released from her quandary of pained
indecision, Taskin's daughter left with the servant. Jussoud waited, using the
fixed steps of his recipe to constrain his scalding impatience.
The physician arrived shortly, pink-cheeked
and alert, but lacking his usual ebullience. His greeting to Vensic was
perfunctory, and his cautious manner as he latched the door bespoke his masked
agitation.
'I don't like the complacency shown by this
court,' he opened point-blank. 'The crown council and the palace guard have no
concept to fit the gravity of their situation.' He pushed up his spectacles and
rubbed tired eyes, then added in embarrassed afterthought, 'Your lancers
downstairs are recovering nicely. I think by tomorrow two can be released into
the care of their families.'
'Actually, my primary concern was the lack
of sound wardings,' Jussoud reassured him. 'That's why we need to consult.'
Finished counting the requisite droplets of essence into a phial of purified
water, he lifted silver eyes from his work and shared a glance of suggestive
gravity.
The physician fielded that wordless appeal.
He closed the short distance from doorway to table, all the while maintaining
the thread of casual conversation. 'You know eastern remedies?' His interest
stayed genuine as he surveyed the array of fine essences, sealed in their blown-glass
jars. 'Which school? Indussian?'
'The same.' Jussoud's shut eyes expressed
his relief, as he corked the fresh tincture and began to agitate the contents,
shaking the solution end for end for a count of one hundred strokes. 'I also
have notebooks compiled by the seers of the Pinca.'
The physician pulled up a rush-seat chair.
'Now there's a rare body of scholarship. My own notes are sketchy. I'd
appreciate the chance to share knowledge.'
Jussoud managed the briefest of smiles.
'You'd be welcome. Do you read Pinca?'
'Not as fluently as I'd like.' The
physician heaved a soulful sigh, his thinning hair like floss in the dimness.
'I used to have Mykkael help translate.'
Granted his circumspect opening, the
eastern-bred nomad lowered his voice and explained the gist of the message the
discredited desertman had sent by means of the saddlecloth.
The physician listened through to the
finish, unblinking. 'Blinding glory!' he whispered. 'Why under the light of the
risen sun hasn't anyone acted?'
'Ignorance.' Jussoud uncapped the phial in
hand, selected a clean dropper, and proceeded to measure the next sequence of
dilution into a fresh measure of water. 'The rote habit that clouds human
nature,' he concluded in saddened disgust, 'sealed into fixed orders by Captain
Bennent's distrust.'
The physician crossed his arms as though
chilled. 'You do realize there was purpose behind every one of Mykkael's
instructions? The western viziers have written that Perincar's markings hold
mathematical properties. Their geometry will guard the bearer independently,
but also, they're said to cast a ring of protection that grows in exponential
proportion when assembled in multiples of three.'
Jussoud all but faltered the count of his
next agitation. Lips tight with worry, he withheld from comment until the last
hundred strokes of his remedy were complete. 'Mykkael left us eight, under
warded protection.' Then he set down his phial with dawning dismay. 'The
captain himself was the ninth, don't you see? Or has he not shown you the
pattern that Perincar tattooed at the nape of his neck?'
The physician stood up. 'Well, he's set on
the run as a fugitive, now, sealed under a legal death warrant. Truth be told,
his prospects look poor.' His quick wit observed that the nomad perceived every
daunting political obstacle: that the crown prince was too green to handle the
council, and the seneschal too hidebound to see past the blandishment dangled
before Sessalie's landlocked trade. 'It's not canny. That young peacock from
Devall still has his retainers out scouring the countryside. Everyone seems
convinced that Mykkael's hand harmed the princess. His Highness's anger's
inflamed to the point where I fear the crown's archers will shoot on first
sight.'
'Only Taskin might stop them.' Grim as cold
iron, Jussoud set his new remedy on a tray. He added a clean glass dropper, and
moved to attend the unconscious charge in his care. 'As things stand, we are
helpless targets. I think King Isendon will be lost, and each of us will be
dead, if we can't find some way to enact the precautions Mykkael sent us in
warning.'
'You wrote them down, Jussoud?'
Both nomad and healer stopped short between
thoughts. For the words, faint but clear, had issued from amid the pillows of
Taskin's sickbed.
THE NOMAD DROPPED TO HIS KNEES WITH A
STARTLED CRY, AND ALL BUT SCATTERED HIS NEAT TRAY OF MEDICINE. 'Taskin?'
Better poised without the heart's burden of
friendship, the Fane Street physician bore the candle lamp towards the invalid
on the bed. Under the golden spill of the light, the commander's grey eyes were
open.
'You still trust that desert-bred, after this?' Though weak, the whispered
demand was imperious. 'Tell me why.'
'Gently,' Jussoud chided him. Quick to
recover his sensible equilibrium, he set his remedies aside on a footstool. 'I
could ask what made you try the stupidity of attempting Mykkael's arrest
without backing.' He touched the pale forehead, found no fever, then added, 'If
you rest, and maintain a slow convalescence, your sword arm could heal without
damage.'
Yet if he expected the hopeful prognosis to
disarm the commander's suspicion, Taskin rejected all inclination to settle in
peaceful relief.
Jussoud cut off his strained effort to
speak. He brandished the dropper of remedy, then smiled as the familiar,
irascible spark enlivened the commander's wide eyes. 'This won't make you
sleep, I assure you.'
The physician adjusted the lamp, also
carefully gauging the response of the wounded man's pupils. He added, helpful,
'The essence has no sour taste, and will only help build your strength.'
Taskin gave way, too depleted to argue. His
glower of forbearance stayed fixed on the ceiling, while he suffered the nomad
to slip the remedy under his tongue. Once the dosing was finished, his husked
voice seemed fractionally stronger. 'Kaien's
do'aa. The garrison captain was proved forsworn. Devall's interfering
marshal brought evidence.'
'You never asked why? By the stars of my
ancestry, I thought so!' Jussoud settled back on his heels. He gathered Taskin's
left hand, and laid finger to wrist to measure the pulse. 'Now listen to me. No
excitement, understand? Your condition is fragile. We are blessed to have you
wakened and lucid, but you cannot withstand undue stress.'
Taskin's wax forehead pinched into a frown.
'You want my backing to salvage that desert-bred?' The pale eyes flicked
sideways, still furious. 'Then speak for him.'
Jussoud bowed his head. 'Mykkael forswore
Kaien's do'aa for the death of a
child.' In measured phrases, he explained the particulars, while the silence
grew thick enough to suffocate.
Taskin stared straight ahead. His chest
rose and fell. The raced pulse under Jussoud's tacit touch fluttered light as a
moth's wing. When speech came at last, the scraped words were reduced as the
rustle of breeze through a feather. 'Mykkael would have entered the second
master's do'aa under a false claim of
autonomy.'
'He had to.' The nomad swallowed and closed
his vibrant clasp over the commander's fingers. No glance could he spare for
the stilled presence of the physician from Fane Street. His eastern voice
remained firm as he resumed a discussion that must turn revealingly private.
'The master who finally finished Mykkael's training was the only man living who
knew the technique to curb the conditioning of barqui'ino reflex. His do'aa
alone taught the sequence to allow a roused warrior to stop short of a killing
blow.'
'"An
awkwardness no one admits," Mykkael told me.'
Taskin's confession emerged with demanding effort. 'That was his fair wording,
when he affirmed his past course of study under two masters.' The commander
attempted to turn his head, prevented by Jussoud's quick restraint before the
move pulled at his bandages. The ascetic face on the pillow grimaced, ripped by
sorrow too late to redress. 'I was wrong,' Taskin finished. 'The Captain of the
Garrison never once lied to me as his senior officer.'
'They have not made his capture,' Jussoud
assured him, an inadequate effort at solace. 'He will have gone on to save
Sessalie's princess with all the resource he has left.'
Taskin's expression showed wounding
remorse. For in fact, the direct order given to Mykkael in his audience with
King Isendon had been to do all in his
power to safeguard the life of the princess.
Taskin sucked a taxed breath, the spirit
that infused his faltering flesh fanned to incandescent resolve. 'Get me to the
king. I don't care how.'
The distressed physician dimmed back the
lamp, and broke silence to offer a warning. 'If we try to move you, please
understand, you're likely to slip into a coma.' The anxious glance he shared
with Jussoud underscored the life-threatening risk, that if the wound tore and
started fresh bleeding, additional dehydration and shock would foreclose any
chance of recovery.
Yet Taskin rejected the prudence of
cosseting. He would but argue, and waste precious strength. The sorcerer's plot
would not rest through the pause for a stricken man's health to be guarded.
Jussoud matched his friend's courage, his
demeanour grim as hammered gold in the flame light. 'If we do this, you
realize, your daughter Lindya is going to claw us to shreds.'
Taskin shut his eyes, adamant. 'Strap me to
a plank with a sheet overtop. Damn well claim I'm dead if you have to! Keep me
here, and the fact I am wearing a talisman will draw in a pre-emptive attack.
This house and its occupants would suffer the brunt!' A bald truth, followed
hard by another, as bitter. 'Nobody else can force Captain Bennent to reverse
his misguided decision.' Taskin opened his eyes again, pleading. 'Jussoud, you
must! For Sessalie's security, we have no
choicel You have to help me carry through Mykkael's instructions to
safeguard the life of the king.'
* * *
An hour's tense labour saw the poacher's
young son strapped in bandages, and wrapped under layers of warmed blankets. If
his colour looked grey, and his breathing stayed clogged, the emergency cautery
had accomplished its desperate office. No more flushed blood bubbled from the
boy's mouth. He would rally from shock; or he wouldn't.
While Benj scrounged up canvas and poles
for a litter, Mirag flitted about like a gadfly, gathering untidy piles of
provisions, and fretfully hovering beside Timal. Throughout, the male target of
her railing tongue maintained his unruffled composure: Mykkael perched on the
settle and attended the neglected wound in his thigh. A patter of curses hissed
through his teeth as, head bent, he cast aside the cut reed just used to flush out
the puncture. He tipped back his head, waited with fixed patience for the wave
of fresh pain to subside.
'You think we're daft, or just dumb as
squabs to swallow such outright foolishness?' Mirag upended a basket of leeks
to fish out the one turned with rot. 'Do as you say, and Timal will perish for
certain.'
The desert-bred she accosted stayed
tolerant. 'Timal should not be moved,' he admitted, point blank. 'But if he
stays here, if you choose not to abandon the cottage, every one of you will
lose much worse than your lives. This I promise.'
His conviction left no room for ambiguity.
'This site has been fouled by a sorcerer's long spell. When I go, the wardings
I carry move with me. Would you leave your family at risk, stripped of every
protection? Unless you allow me to banish the last trace imprints with fire,
you will be tracked down. Such a creature will have a bound scryer.'
'Mirag, please, we can't argue.' Benj
looked up from lacing a patched length of canvas to a litter pole, his eyes
overshadowed by lingering fear. He had lost more than his son's carefree health
to the unclean works of the enemy. The trauma of his narrow escape from the
horrific force of a spell line might not, now, ever leave him.
'The sorcerer will dispatch a minion, or
worse, when his catspaw fails to return.' Mykkael could not mourn what had
already passed. As a warrior, he turned the sum of his skills to salvage the
course of the future. 'Unless drastic steps of prevention are taken, an etheric
trail of disturbance will remain. A sorcerer will use that cold trail to bind
you, the same way he snared Devall's advocate.'
Clad in one of Benj's castoff nightshirts,
the desertman stretched out his hurt leg and tested the mash of warmed herbs
just prepared for a drawing compress. Each move methodical, he slathered the
paste over the swollen puncture. Then he rinsed his hands in a bucket, and
bound up the wound in clean cloth.
'If I survive to clear my reputation, and
if Sessalie remains free of conquest, I promise to see that you receive the
crown's fair restitution for damages. You have your dogs, and the pay I left,
meanwhile. That should be enough to sustain you.' Mykkael knotted the ends of
the bandage, looked up with his insolent smile, and finished, 'You buried the
coin, Mirag? It's safely concealed somewhere outside the cottage?'
She ignored him, offended, and folded her
arms, well braced for the irate glare from her husband. 'There's no more secure
place, Benj! I dug out a hidey hole under the mastiff's barrel.'
Yet the fact the poacher looked mollified
did nothing to appease her attacking rancour towards Mykkael. 'What about
Timal?'
'See him settled with the nearest
trustworthy neighbour. Then send to the physician on Fane Street. His
assistant, Cafferty, is competent with wounds. Ask him to visit the boy's
bedside.' Mykkael stood up, tested his scarred knee, then sat down again. He
borrowed upon Jussoud's example and used more binding to wind a support wrap.
As he worked, he continued his effort to wear down the good-wife's hostility.
'Tell the physician's man that Sergeant Vensic at the garrison will see his fee
paid from my personal funds.'
'Go to the garrison? Are you mad?' Benj paused in the act of tying off the
sewn canvas. 'My boy was cut down for a criminal act!'
Mykkael looked up, uncompromising. 'No,
Benj. This day, Timal fell as a hero, serving my loyal oath to the king. If
Isendon's reign withstands this assault, and Sessalie endures to find triumph,
make no mistake. Your family's strength and hard sacrifice will have played a
vital part.'
Mirag dropped the onions she had been
sorting. They rolled helter skelter over the tabletop as she reached out on
shocked impulse, and touched Mykkael on the forearm. 'Wait, please, one
moment.' Then she bolted upstairs, wiping the moisture that welled up in her
eyes.
While Mykkael stared after her, mystified,
Benj slapped his knee with relieved satisfaction.
'Oh, I knew she'd come round, the old
besom. Sure enough, the wife's had your clothes washed for you all along.
They'll be strung out to dry in the attic.'
Yet when Mirag returned with her burden,
the cloth had been tidied beyond cleaning. Plain shirt and breeches were ironed
and folded. The falcon-crest surcoat lay piled on top, painstakingly mended and
crisp. She heaped her offering onto the settle, then smoothed down the swatch
cut from Jussoud's silk sash, its intricate embroidery pressed flat.
'I've told Benj.' she forestalled before
Mykkael could thank her, 'if he's going to keep bringing me shirts marked with
bloodstains, I'd ease the brute work, and dye his light linen with walnut.'
The boots and sword harness she thrust into
the captain's hands were freshly oiled and gleaming, with the desert-bred now
the one forced to mask his fierce upsurge of gratitude.
'I've been expertly humbled.' he said as he
dressed, donned and buckled his harness, then sheathed his sword at rest over
his shoulder.
'You men never stay that way more than a
minute.' Mirag kept her back turned, although he was clad. Yet this time she
did not shrink from his presence as he assisted with packing the rations.
Preparations were finished with whirlwind
expediency, with foodstuffs, hunting bows and selected necessities cleansed
with sprinkled salt, then run through a hazing of cedar smoke. Mykkael ran
testing fingers over each separate item until he was satisfied that no taint of
the sorcerer's working remained. Then he strapped the provisions on to two of
the horses and helped load the wrapped boy in the litter. The girl was fetched
down from her bed in the attic. Crying with confusion, she was bundled outside
to join the forlorn family gathered with Mykkael in the yard.
'Go.' he said, urgent. 'Don't stop to look
back, for your lives' sake. I'll shoulder the needful work with the fire, then
ride escort and see that you reach your friends safely.'
* * *
The seneschal paced up and down the plush
carpet, a crow in dark robes against the gilt and white furnishings that
appointed the salon maintained for state guests. His emphatic fingers stabbed
at the air as he railed, while the high prince sat with his lace sleeves turned
back, elbows braced on a marble tabletop.
The heir apparent of Devall still wore his
briar-scratched boots, though servants had taken his soiled shirt at the door
and reclothed him in damascened silk. They had added an earring with a teardrop
ruby. The jewel dangled like snap-frozen flame, with no jaunty suggestion of
swinging. Such leashed stillness, beside the seneschal's ranting, showed a
preternatural patience.
Crown Prince Kailen, who also observed, was
not fooled. From the comfort of the room's cushioned windowseat, he recognized
the dangerous, self-contained fury of a hunting cat balked of its prey.
'What you say points towards a deep-seated
conspiracy,' the Prince of Devall interjected.
The seneschal stopped short. He stared at
the foreign prince, horrified. 'Commander
Taskin? Betray King Isendon or Sessalie? That's not possible!'
The high prince tapped his fingertips one
after another to a rippling sparkle of rings. 'That's the impression a clever
conspirator would surely hope to convey. Or the opposite. Taskin might have
been loyal, until something changed him. Don't forget, he was alone in the mist
with that slinking desertman. Nobody actually saw what occurred, though I've
heard enough ugly rumours. Were there not wooden stakes strung over the ground
from the practice of some unclean rite?'
The seneschal digested that statement,
flummoxed as though he had just burned his tongue on a sherbet. 'The Commander
of the Guard was half killed by a sword cut, not sorcery.' He tugged his robe
about his bowed shoulders, as though brushed by a sudden chill. 'Captain
Bennent himself saw the wound.'
Devall's heir apparent glanced towards
Prince Kailen, then sighed with quiet forbearance. 'I keep forgetting I need to
explain what should be painfully obvious. Your people here have too little
awareness of how a sorcerer works. Taskin possessed an upright, strong
character. To bind his will and make him a subservient catspaw could be easily
done if he was in a weakened state, or unconsciousness.
Your desert-bred shaman would have had his
trap well laid and waiting. Once he had Taskin alone and at his mercy, what
better way to mask a conversion than to give his victim what looked like a
life-threatening sword wound?'
'I do find this odd,' Prince Kailen
ventured. 'Two carriages bearing the commander's daughter and servants passed
through the Highgate an hour ago.' Since the afternoon's hue and cry after Mykkael,
he had bathed and changed, then spent a watchful interlude easing his parched
throat at a wine shop. 'To judge by the baggage I saw strapped to the roof, the
household seemed bound for retreat to the family duchy.'
'Why send them on such a hard journey at
night?' The seneschal made way with bad grace for the servant just arrived to
refresh the candles. 'I've seen no sign at all that violence might arise inside
the walls of the citadel.'
'But you won't see the crude gesture of
blood in the streets!' the High Prince of Devall said with high feeling. 'Since
your crown prince was denied legal power as regent, one strike at King Isendon
would give our enemy his foothold to break the succession. While your
chancellors scrabble to sort out the confusion, an invading sorcerer would
simply step into the breach.' Rings sparked gold fire to a snap of fine
fingers. 'Like that, he would topple the kingdom.'
'A bizarre flight of fancy,' the seneschal
scoffed. 'Particularly since Taskin has been at death's door ever since this
morning's attack. The court ladies who helped tend the wounded insist that he's
never stirred from his bed.'
'This afternoon, maybe,' Prince Kailen
broke in. 'But what, pray, do you make of that?'
His gesture encompassed the view through
the window, which overlooked the main thoroughfare, where the paved avenue
branched off to meet the arch of the palace entrance. There, a small, guarded
portal led into the royal grounds from the streetside. Beyond lay the
sequestered preserve of the late queen's hothouse and gardens. From there, if a
man knew the warren of buildings and byways, and could speak the right words to
the guard, a roundabout route could give access to King Isendon's private
chambers.
'You should take a look,' Devall's High
Prince challenged. 'What harm, if my fears are proved wrong?'
The seneschal unbent and stalked over the
carpet. Making no effort to hide condescension, he peered past the crown
prince's shoulder and saw the tightly knit threesome bearing the litter as they
passed under the gate lamp. The jet fall of Jussoud's tribal braid caught his
eye, as words were exchanged with the posted sentry. Then the sheet which
covered the litter was turned back. The pressured guardsman gave way at first
sight. When he slipped the bar, granting the party admittance, even the
seneschal's stuffy facade cracked into consternation.
'What's happening?' demanded the heir
apparent from his imperious seat at the table.
Prince Kailen turned his head, no longer
amused. 'A setback, your Highness. Two foreign healers, and a Lowergate man
masked in a palace guard surcoat appear to be taking Lord Taskin by the back
way to King Isendon's apartment.'
'MysTzkael's creatures, all of them.' The
high prince fixed his scalding regard on the seneschal. 'Do you need further
proof? Or will you and your chancellors continue to dither, while a wolf pack
of low-born, outland conspirators attempt an assault on your king?'
* * *
Mykkael dragged the dead bodies indoors,
then followed with their assortment of horsecloths and trappings. He made his
work thorough: affixed bundles of cedar to each door, each shuttered window,
and at the four corners of the condemned cottage. He had just kindled the torch
to fire the thatch when the first of the loose hounds straggled in. The dogs
knew him. They harkened to his voice, bounding in through the darkness to fawn
in a muddle at his feet. He paused long enough to fasten their chains, then
resumed his grim rounds with the torch.
War had well taught him the business of
reiving. The greedy pattern of fires he seeded rippled over the cottage, then
consumed roof and plank with a roar. By the time the conflagration slacked off,
naught would be left of the home of a friend, but a scorched patch of carbon,
with not one stump of timber left standing, and only the chimney stones left as
a shell.
Mykkael spared no second thought for
regret, that Benj and Mirag might never forgive him. The couple had left with
their daughter unharmed, and a wounded son still gamely breathing. Were they
lucky, they might live for the rest of their days, weeping tears for those
sorrows that decently ended with death. If they cursed his name, Mykkael had no
balm for the blame their torn hearts might lay on him. He watched the crackle
of cleansing fires, and prayed for Mehigrannia's mercy, that the poacher's
family should never experience the evil that could enslave a human spirit
beyond mortal life.
At the finish, assured by the quiescent
chill of his sword hilt that no such untoward power ranged at large, Mykkael
led the remaining three horses out of the covert thicket. He unshackled the
hounds, then called them to heel, and mounted bareback and rode on his way.
The lanes by that hour were nearly
deserted. He was able to cover ground swiftly. If lategoing wayfarers were wont
to stare, nightfall mantled his features. Under wan stars and the setting new
moon, a hound pack accompanied by a garrison surcoat made him seem just another
diligent searcher, empty-handed and homeward-bound. He overtook Benj's family
beyond the first crossroad, to the garrulous joy of the pack, and more tears
from Mirag as she noticed the smell of smoke that clung to his hair and
clothing.
'Come, now,' urged Mykkael. He dismounted,
passed the ends of the hackamores to the girl, who was leading the two laden
horses. Then, while the mastiff bitch nosed at his boots, he commandeered
Mirag's end of the litter, and insistently pressed for more speed. 'You've got
to move on, Benj. Believe me, you can't risk a moment's delay.'
When the girl tired of walking, Mykkael
boosted her on to a horse, and cajoled Mirag to take charge of the lead ropes.
He saw the bedraggled family of four safe to the house of the charcoalman's
wife before moonset.
Mirag and the children were hastened
inside, folded into warm blankets and sympathy. Benj lingered in the dank chill
of the yard, his black-and-tan hounds piled in heaps at his feet, and his
flaying tongue suddenly tied. He had always been clumsy at leave-taking.
Mykkael was obliged to speak for them both.
'Keep a lit fire with cedar greens, always! Do you hear, Benj? Except for your
errand to Fane Street, for the boy's sake, promise me you'll keep close.'
The grizzled poacher sucked in a shivering
breath, for the first time in his criminal life uneasy in shadows and darkness.
'You heed not convince me,' he said in cracked fear. 'It's Mirag who won't bear
things quietly.'
'Then handle her.' Mykkael grinned. 'She's
no worse, really, than your ornery mastiff. Feed her with kindness, she'll be
placated.' His dark face turned serious. 'I have one last favour to ask in the
name of Sessalie's princess. Benj, can you loan me the use of your lead hound?'
Benj looked at him, dumbstruck. 'You want
Dalshie? For what? To track that forsaken boy and his horses, that almost cost
Timal his life?' When the desert-bred failed to soften, he cursed. 'Perish your
ancestry, foreigner, not Dalshie! She's the breath and the life in my veins!'
'I need her,' Mykkael said, his voice
flint-struck iron. 'Crown requisition, or as a brave favour done by the hand of
a friend. Or is the life of her Grace not worth your best dog? If Princess Anja
is claimed by the sorcerer whose catspaw just glancingly touched you, I can't
begin to describe the horrors that might befall her by morning. This I can
promise, at bitter, first hand. Your fair land of Sessalie will be crushed by
conquest. The good people you know will suffer an evil beyond your most
terrible nightmares.'
'Go! Mykkael, go now! I can't bear to
watch.' Shoulders bowed, old Benj turned his back. His eyes stayed averted, bitter
and streaming. Nor did he give way to heartbreak and plead. He stood like a
rock as the captain called Dalshie, and the dog, ever true to her gallant, long
lineage, left her pack to answer his perilous summons.
'She's already exhausted,' Benj insisted,
unmoving, his arms folded over his chest. Savaged beyond comfort, he received
the softly spoken answer.
'I know, Benj. I'll not spend her
carelessly.'
Mykkael chose the fittest pair of dark
geldings, and the laden one bearing his choice of provisions. He knotted their
lead lines, then mounted and whistled for Dalshie. As she leaped at his leg, he
caught her by the scruff and hauled her up into his lap. Then he dug in his
heels with no shred of mercy, and drove headlong from the yard.
* * *
The princess's flight had turned straight
upcountry from Farmer Gurley's unkempt back meadow. Mykkael made his way
avoiding the road. Where his knowledge of the landmarks fell short, he was
guided by the poacher's description of the game trails that led to the alpine
meadows where cattle were grazed in the summer. Few patrols searched the deep
woods, after dark. Of those he encountered, none expected a fugitive to be
outbound from town at this hour. Guardsmen from the Highgate disdained to
question a rider wearing garrison colours, particularly one ploughing through
brush and briar apt to tear the fine cloth of their surcoats, The one who
called a query across a field accepted his shout concerning remounts for some
officer whose horse had gone lame. The hound was excused as an animal sick with
exhaustion.
The patrols from the keep had been
dispatched by
Jedrey, whose sheltered mind held poor
grasp of strategy in rough country. The easier ground had been assigned to his
favourites. Those given the harder sweeps in the hills rode in predictable
patterns, which let Mykkael slip through with an ease he should have found
shameful. He had night to lend cover, and mounts with dark coats. Forest shadow
and moonset helped mask him.
He pressed upwards at a relentless fast
clip. When his first mount flagged under him, he dismounted, slipped the
headstall and vaulted on to the spare one. Then he set off again, the hound
trotting on foot. The packhorse laboured, winded, behind him.
The rising ground showed the first spurs of
grey rock, mantled with copses of fir trees. Mykkael clung to the verges, where
the blanket of shed needles would keep the horses' shod hooves from striking
chance sparks. He felt as though eyes watched his back at each step; as they
might, if an enemy lurked in Dedorth's observatory and commandeered use of the
seeing glass.
As Mykkael gained altitude, the game trails
narrowed, until the faint tracks that snaked through the thickets would not
allow passage for horses. The captain picked his way up the gulches carved by spring
snowmelt. His mount clattered over the deposits of loose rock. The scratches
its iron shoes chalked on the stone left a beacon for a sharp tracker. Yet no
time could be spared for stealth. One catspaw destroyed would just prompt an
adept sorcerer to create another to stand in his place. The crown's archers
would know where their shot struck down Timal. Inside a matter of hours, or
less, more searchers were bound to ascend.
Mykkael had no weapon beyond flight and
speed in his race to find Princess Anja before them.
He reined his horse down another steep
bank, spurred into the froth of a freshet, and there, the riptide of witch
thought overwhelmed him ...
* * *
He
was Jussoud, bearing the poles of a litter down a path in the palace garden.
Awareness chilled him, that his grass sandals were making more noise than he
wished. Behind him, the Fane Street physician glanced side to side,
rabbit-scared, the nervous shine off his spectacles glancing against the black
shapes of the topiary. Vensic's tiger-soft tread moved at his left flank, each
step taken with stalking wariness.
'We
should hurry,' the young sergeant whispered. 'Something's not canny. The
crickets are too quiet.'
Which
fact was not new, to Jussoud's steppe-trained ear. He kept his tread steady.
Although every instinct urged him to run, he held out, unwilling to risk unwise
haste that might jostle Taskin's hurt shoulder.
The
next moment, brisk footsteps approached down the path. The way ahead came alive
with the jingle of spurs, and the chance shine of weapons by starlight. Four
palace guardsmen accompanied the robed form of a council chancellor.
'Set
Taskin down!' Jussoud cried, words scored by the metallic scrape as Vensic
cleared his sword from his scabbard.
Then
the talisman worn at his chest came alive, tingling with active warning ...
*
* *
'No!' Mykkael cried, 'Vensic, no! Don't
attack!'
For the garrison man had no shred of
protection. If he stayed with the companions minding the litter, he had a
chance to be saved. The copper discs worn by the others would cast a limited
field of protection. Drawn as passive talismans, their pattern would shield,
but could not counterward an assaulting spell engaged in an active attack.
'Vensic, hold!' Mykkael whispered,
anguished by his helplessness. He had seen too much horror: the boldest and best of his field troop most hideously destroyed, one
after the next, by the binding lines spun by Rathtet.
If this latest officer engaged his brave
sword, if in armed defence he made contact, he would perish, the consumed prey
of a sorcerer's long spell.
Yet shouted words could not bridge the
separation; a witch thought lent no saving power to warn.
Mykkael broke out of unruly, tranced
vision, reeling back into himself with a wrench that left him gasping and sick.
For a moment he could do nothing but cling to the sweat-dampened crest of his
mount. While grief and distress ran him through like live fire, he recontained
his shocked nerves, thrust back upright, and pressed the horse onwards.
Distraction could not matter; death and
sorrow could not claim even tears of acknowledgement. Jussoud, who was brother,
and Vensic, who was protege, and Taskin, who held his respect, and not least,
the meek physician who displayed such terrified courage - all must suffer their
fates without salvage. One man and a dog bore Isendon's charge to safeguard a
royal daughter. Now, nothing less than the peace of a kingdom rode on the
unwritten outcome.
Mykkael forged ahead, though he ached for
the price of necessity. Since the disastrous defeat of Prince Al-Syn-Efandi, he
had fought to bury his wounded heart in sealed solitude. Sessalie's peace had
leached through that resolve. His circle of newly forged friendships had made
inroads, and were now, yet again, all he had resembling a family.
'Benj, Benj,' he whispered, torn ragged,
while the gelding splashed and scrambled up the ravine. 'I always understood
how you felt about Dalshie.'
How much harder to bear, when the next
sacrifice claimed was likely to be a perceptive and talented young sergeant.
THE ODD SENSE OF URGENCY REACHED OUT OF
NOWHERE AND SEIZED JUSSOUD BY THE HEART. HE HAD BEEN BORN to a tribal tradition
that honoured the unseen world known to shamans. On trust and impulse, he moved
at speed, grabbed Vensic's surcoat and yanked backwards with all of his
strength.
The garrison man's attacking lunge was
jerked short. The brisk parry effected by his crown guard opponent whistled
short of connection.
Vensic crashed off balance into Jussoud's
braced shoulder, shouting his outraged surprise. There, the huge nomad pinned
him, just as the rising spell line fully unfurled. The three men guarding
Taskin's downed litter came under attack by a crackling explosion of fire. The
shielding geometry written into three talismans turned its brute force,
deflecting the thrust from the party surrounding the litter. No natural
conflagration, the licking whirlwind that engulfed them seemed to feed upon
nothing but air.
Enveloped by the shrieking noise and
scalding heat of a shredding assault, besieged by a relentless power that
surged to consume, Jussoud screamed into Vensic's ear, 'Cross that flame with a
blade, you're a dead man!' He kept his arms locked until the young man's
furious struggle subsided to understanding. Then the healer added, 'Take up the
litter and give me your sword.'
Trained touch countermanded the stiff surge
of resistance. 'Now!' Jussoud cried. 'No argument, Vensic! I carry protection.
You don't hand me your weapon, we die here.'
The spelled fire closed in. Its uncanny,
mindless surge to destroy ripped and seared with a savagery beyond parallel.
The thin ring sustained by Perincar's defences withstood the onslaught, just
barely. Its limited range hemmed them in like trapped rats. Such tight
shielding could not ground the roused force of the element, or break the cast
line of demonic power summoned in from the shadow realms of the unseen. Fire
howled and raged, balked but not quenched. Its heat would scorch cloth and peel
skin, if not scald the lungs with each drawn breath. By now the Fane Street
physician was shouting with ragged hysteria.
Vensic released the sword, just as
Jussoud's fierce yank wrenched the weapon's grip from his hand. 'Bear up the
litter,' the nomad gasped, frantic. 'Then stay at my heels. Rely on the
vizier's pattern we carry, no matter what mayhem should happen!'
Jussoud shouldered ahead. The blade in his
grasp was an ill-suited match, too small and too lightly balanced. The swords
he had used to train on the steppe had been curved, forged with more weight at
the tip to make slashing strokes more effective. Sanouk warriors always wielded
such weapons in pairs. One blade left him hamstrung and guardless.
Worse, the nomad dared not pause to mourn
his broken integrity. He must cast off the grace of his healer's oath, that
forbore to cause harm through violence. A failure to act would destroy three
more lives, with the innocent populace of a whole kingdom left to the plot of a
sorcerer.
Either the geometry worked into the
talisman could withstand the line of spell-cast destruction, or within seconds,
Taskin's protectors would succumb to a fate beyond horror to imagine. Standing
firm was no option. Delay would see them all roasted. Jussoud closed his eyes,
stepped forward, and trusted: first
the defences Mykkael had left, that had once held strong through all but the
worst lines of hot conjury spun by Rathtet's bound sorcerers. The nomad relied
on his tribal ancestry, that understood the deep realms of the spirit world.
Last, he fell back upon childhood training, that had taught him the warrior's
way of the sword.
The effort to walk was like ploughing into
a padded wall. Resistance arose at the interface, where the talisman's guarding
influence ran against the hurled balefires summoned by cold-struck spell lines.
Jussoud firmed his will and leaned into the pressure.
'Stay with me. Follow!' he gasped, then
blessed the response as the others rallied behind him. Sterling result of Mykkael's
tempered discipline, Vensic had managed to calm the physician. The pair of them
resumed the delicate task of bearing up Taskin's litter.
Jussoud pressed forward, and the fire line
shifted. The combined advance of three matched vizier's talismans pressed into
the gyre of spelled forces and yielded a grudging span of clear ground. Another
thrust forward, another hard step. Each footfall felt set in glue. Jussoud
steeled his courage, and leaned on the strength of his nomad heritage. He was
the son of a Sanouk royal house, born to an ancient and honourable ancestry.
Through closed eyes, using mind, he groped for the shape of the otherworld, the
unseen context of subtle energies that underlay the solid existence known to the
animate senses.
He expanded his awareness outside human
flesh. Across the first veil, he encountered the desperation and fear mirrored
by his committed companions, then their more subdued counterpart: the one man,
gravely wounded, lying helplessly unconscious. Jussoud traced out the ephemeral
threads, where his thoughts and theirs ran in sympathy. He used mental imagery
to refigure the weave, where jeopardy spun common lines of need and survival.
Then he embraced those strands shared by his companions, mentally wound them
into his own, and projected the flow of them forward. He angled their matrix to
strengthen the forces that actively stood off the fires; and Perincar's pattern
captured that willed influx, and flowered, and resurged to a blaze of cold blue.
The fires roared and fell back. Streaming
sparks, and flaring in unnatural colours, the aimed brunt of the long spell
yielded. The barrier gave way in grudging retreat as Jussoud pressed his
advance. He gained one step, two, over stinking, charred earth. Heat blistered
his soles. He stamped out the flare of caught embers as his grass-soled sandals
ignited.
The next moment, Jussoud sensed a sharp
shift in the hostile conjury. Deflected by the reverse spin of Perincar's
geometry, the line of demonic attack streamed into live contact with the
thrusting steel of two sword blades as the lead pair of palace guardsmen bore
in on the misguided chancellor's order.
Their blades flared up, instantaneously
consumed. The flash of ignition raised tearing screams, as the nexus of
otherworldly destruction flowed across the bridged steel, and claimed the
hapless men holding the weapons.
Their suffering described unimaginable
agony. The Fire, elemental, unbound living matter. It left not a wisp of
charred ash. No smoke billowed. No crackle of flame masked the victims' shrill
cries. As the flux of wild energy immolated their bodies, Jussoud beheld the
abomination in its wrenching entirety. He had known the spell lines of a
sorcerer drew on demonic intelligence. Never, before this, had he grasped the
foul truth: that such power was bartered in exchange for men's souls, devoured
in shredding torment.
To die of the body brought healing peace.
To be killed by the unclean forces of hell was to suffer a fate that
transcended time.
While the screams of the guardsmen shocked
through the scorched air, Jussoud sensed their wailing echoes resound past the
boundary of the unseen. Demons served sorcerers, so men said in their
ignorance. Made witness to the act of forced crossing at first hand, a healer's
perception beheld the reverse: that the hunger of such beings had no limit.
Their 'masters' in harsh fact existed
as slaves, perpetually constrained to feed them. If a sorcerer exhausted the
lands under his conquest; if ever his
supply of fresh victims fell short, he would, in his turn, be consumed. Each
innocent death let the sorcerer live, one half step removed from the powers
that sealed his irreversible pact with damnation.
The cruel irony that Mykkael must have
borne from the Efandi defeat crashed hard against humane preference, as tribal
knowledge let Jussoud comprehend the poisoned victory bought by his survival. A
successful defence against sorcery permitted no saving grace of empowerment.
Like the desert-bred captain before him, Jussoud could protect helpless lives,
yet do nothing to spare suffering as
the doomed guardsmen were inducted by the spun fury of a sorcerer's cold-struck
spell line.
No horror prepared the initiate observer.
Jussoud recoiled, retching, while unspeakable, fell forces chained the matrix
of two human spirits, and denied them the transition of death. Shrieking in
agony that had no voice, their shades were sucked down, shackled into undying
captivity to fuel the insatiable will of the demon.
'Jussoud!' screamed Vensic. 'Go forward.
You have to! Like it or not, we're all Sessalie has on the front lines guarding
the breach!'
Taskin alone held the power to stop this;
wrest command of the guard away from the council, and out of the sorcerer's
influence. Yet the cool course of logic justified by necessity could scarcely
assuage raw emotion. Jussoud pressed ahead, but not out of courage. He jammed
his heart closed, shut his eyes and stepped over the razed ground out of
shrinking cowardice. At the crux, he could not bear to face the abyss that
yawned under his sister, Orannia.
In that dreadful moment, her brother
understood the full scope of the terror that pursued her. For the first time,
he realized why Mykkael had been adamant to stay by her side to prevent her
from suicide. Half trapped, still alive, her madness suspended her over a death
that was not going to buy her
deliverance.
Worst of all, as Jussoud lived the choice
that consigned two human spirits to perpetual suffering, he knew that Mykkael his brother would forgive him.
Of all men, the captain well understood this moment's poisonous self-loathing.
How
many times had the desert-bred been forced to enact such hideous destruction?
How many strangers and loved ones alike had been delivered to perpetual bondage
by his sworn charge to save the Efandi princess?
The tainted thought followed with punishing
clarity: that his decision to distribute Perincar's talismans had invited fate
to replay his most terrible nightmare. Alone, Mykkael had weighed the
unbearable choice. How long had he wrestled the face of his nemesis? Where,
amid screams as wrenching as these, had he found the fibre to repeat the
untenable past, and attempt to guard Isendon's daughter from the perils of a
sorcerer's conquest?
How many others must be consumed, or go
mad? How many must shoulder the price meted out, suffering past the reach of a
lifetime, beyond hope of reprieve, like Orannia?
For two more palace guards blocked the
garden path in the company of the chancellor. One of them would be the puppet
claimed and used by the sorcerer's minion, to sustain the potentized spell
line.
'Jussoud!' Vensic shouted. 'Keep moving!
You must! Lose ground now, and the sorcerer kills wantonly. What fate will
befall the people of Sessalie if their king goes down in defeat?'
A thought fragment answered, arisen from
the unseen fabric of the otherworld. Its source was no ghostly reflection
prompted by ancestral wisdom. The vibrant echo received by Jussoud held the
searing, explosive remorse of Mykkael's living experience ... 'my brother, by the stars of your ancestry,
may you never hear such screams as these from the throat of an infant, or a
child
Jussoud shuddered. Horror forced him to
assay the next step.
The third stride saw the wall of fire
collapse with a whistling rush of stressed air. The forces driving the demonic
assault ripped away like a curtain of tissue.
Two more armed guards faced them, a half
step behind the stoop-shouldered old man who served as Sessalie's most
venerable chancellor.
'Be wary, Jussoud!' the physician cried.
Yet the son of an ancient nomad bloodline
would sense peril birthed from the unseen. Instinct raised the hair at
Jussoud's nape the instant he locked eyes with the spellbound creature before
him. The frail gentleman in his fussy silk doublet had once been a timid,
retiring philanthropist. He would not have stood firm through such fire and
storm, except as the used glove for a minion. The immediate presence of danger
roused Perincar's talisman to spontaneous heat. Jussoud felt every scored mark
in its pattern as though graven into his skin. He acted before thought, before
fear, before primal reflex prompted panic-stricken flight. He balanced his mind
inwards, and cried out for the guidance of ancestral instinct to steer his raw
will to survive.
The timid old noble who was a live catspaw cracked out his imperious demand.
'Guardsmen! You will set this party of traitors under arrest!'
'We go nowhere for the hell-spawned puppet
of a sorcerer,' Jussoud said, teeth clenched with desperate defiance. Then he
levelled the sword, and touched the rounded steel pommel to the talisman disc
at his breast. Contact inducted its searing vibration through the forged length
of the weapon. Jussoud sensed the timed moment. As the stressed metal sang
aloud in his hand, he moved in the way of the warrior, and ran the elderly
chancellor through his thin breast and defenceless heart.
Shock followed. The pierced body wrenched
backwards and toppled. No catspaw remained, and no danger. Only an old man,
dying. He sprawled on to the white gravel, convulsed by traumatic agony. Warm
blood and vomit gushed at Jussoud's feet. He recoiled, gagging, while the sword
locked fast in his grip jerked free with a sucking wrench. He staggered back,
overcome by the raw stink of slaughter, and crashed, numbed with shock, into
Vensic.
Nor did the untried garrison man fall short
as the demands of necessity fell on him.
'Take the litter!' The breveted sergeant's
shout struck a note of command to shore up faltering nerves. 'Do it now!
Jussoud!' He jammed a pole into the nomad's left hand. When the easterner's
shocked fingers failed to respond, Vensic let his grip slide. He used crisis
and forced stunned confusion to
resolve, engaging the healer's instinctive reflex to guard the gravely wounded
from jostling harm.
Then Vensic reached over the salvaged
litter and wrenched the blooded sword out of the nomad's stunned fingers. 'My
job, now, fellow!'
The garrison man twisted. His stopgap parry
just blocked the first guardsman's attacking lunge. The fouled steel turned the
murderous thrust, barely. The bind of stressed metal slid screaming, past
Jussoud's silk-clad shoulder.
'You handle Taskin!' Vensic gasped, rushed.
'I'll clear the pathway.' As the remaining pole of the litter changed grip, he
surged to the fore, sword raised to guard point to engage the assault of both
palace guardsmen at once. They came on, crying treason. Their shouts rang on
the night air, charged with chilling conviction. Belief fuelled their
aggression. They were convinced they had just witnessed clear proof: the
uncanny slaughter of two fellow guards, and the murder of an unarmed high
chancellor.
'Sure enough,' Vensic gasped through the
chiming clash, as his angled steel hammered into the first lunging blade. The
turned sword shrieked aside. He ducked under the second, and lashed out with a
kick. The blow caught the opposing swordsman's wristbone. As the weapon sailed
free of the victim's bashed hand, he finished, 'we have no choice but get out
of here.'
Taskin's guardsmen were superbly taught.
Yet Mykkael's matchless training had instilled the savagery required to survive
on a battlefield. Eight months of the captain's ruthless surprise drills had
found Vensic a gifted pupil. Even disadvantaged by green nerves and stacked
odds, even thrown the uncertainty of darkness, he closed in with deft speed.
Once inside a man's reach, a longsword became either a cudgel, or a disastrous
hindrance. Brute infighting let Vensic turn fists and battering knees against
opponents best schooled for elegant blade work. He struck to disable. Smashed
joints could stop a skilled swordsman faster than landing a stroke with an
edged weapon.
The two guardsmen were down, moaning, and
the fouled steel wiped clean on the dead chancellor's robe before anyone
noticed: the sword that had been a garrison-forged blank now bore the faint
tracery of Perincar's geometry on the pommel.
'Resonance,' the little physician
explained, as the litter supporting Taskin's slack form was rushed onwards
through the dark garden. 'Jussoud picked up the aroused vibration of the
talisman through sympathetic touch. Then he thrust the blade into the suborned
flesh of a sorcerer's acting catspaw. Passive protection encountered a
potentized line of spellcraft, and reconfigured that energy, forcing an
imprint.'
'Do you think the new mark might grant
shielding properties?' asked Vensic, all at once overtaken by shivering dread,
and the shock of his desperate action. His face looked haunted as he cut his
own question short. 'Never mind. After this, I'd be a stark madman to invite
the fool's chance to find out.'
* * *
Paused to water his mount at a freshet, Mykkael
rested his brow against the forearm braced against the pack-horse's lathered
shoulder. The black-and-tan hound he had borrowed at need sprawled panting next
to his feet. The poor beast was likely as hard-used as he was. He had covered
the last league to the ridge crest on foot to spare his exhausted gelding. The
stony ground had savaged his knee, and done the stabbed thigh with the compress
no favours. Plagued now by the running fire of pinched nerves, Mykkael cursed
the brute legacy left by his scars. If he pushed too much harder, the leg would
collapse. Here, he would have no saving help from Jussoud if his overstressed
resources failed him.
Thought of the nomad closed a sharp spark
of contact, raising a flicker of witch thought: of searing grief, and the captured impression of the aftermath of a
deadly fight: two men had burned, consumed by a sorcerer's spell line; and a
sweet-natured old chancellor taken as catspaw now lay dead. The corpse sprawled
alongside two staunch palace guards, brought down by Vensic's expedient
infighting. Jussoud shouldered the weight of Taskin's litter, his steadfast
nature cruelly torn: that necessity had granted no time for afield splint to
ease the injured men's agony ...
'Ah, my brother.' Mykkael gasped, his
astonished relief over Vensic's survival made bittersweet by the penalty of
Jussoud's remorse. 'I weep for your sorrows. If we survive to share sennia together, I'll tell you the sore
truth: two men down, but alive, is a blessing beyond measure. And the
spell-ridden chancellor was much worse than dead on the sorry moment you struck
him.' Perincar's mark, and the clean steel of the sword, had actually delivered
the old man to the mercy of a natural crossing.
By now high upcountry, Mykkael breathed
deep to resettle his unruly awareness. The cold air ran thin as a knife-blade
into his overtaxed lungs, chilled by the ice on the rims of the peaks. If the
sky showed no moon, the snowfields reflected a measure of ambient light. Stars
pierced the black zenith between the whispering needles of evergreen.
The scrub was too thick to permit a view
downwards. Yet when Mykkael glanced back, he felt a grue of unease chase his
spine, as though arcane pursuit searched the ground near his backtrail.
When the saddled horse lifted its dripping
muzzle, he urged the pack animal to the streamside, and scratched its soaked
neck while it drank. Then he cajoled the tired hound on to her feet and pressed
relentlessly onwards, up the boulder-snagged spine of the ridge. To judge by
Benj's description of landmarks, the most likely glen to conceal six horses lay
another two leagues further on. Mykkael must decipher the poacher's
instructions and discover that hidden cleft ahead of the questing sorcerer.
Four more hours of hard going, provided his knee held, and two winded horses
could withstand the rigorous ascent.
Mykkael wound his grip through the
gelding's damp mane, clamped his jaw, and forced his aching leg to bear weight.
As he limped through the dark, over flint rocks and gnarled roots, he sensed
the distanced, jumbled impression: of
stone stairs, walled in by the rippled glass panes of the late queen's
conservatory. Stars shone through, distorted as run silver, as three men,
breathing hard, groped upwards by touch. They climbed with urgent, desperate
care, bearing a wounded man on a litter. The air wore the humid must of mulched
earth and the ethereal fragrance of roses, woven through by the rank tang of
danger ...
A jarring, slipped step regrounded strayed
thoughts. Mykkael hissed a ragged curse through his teeth. No oath could do
aught to relieve the pain that lanced through the small of his back. Since the
shuddering tremors were not going to release, he chose prudence before pity,
and remounted the tired gelding. Higher he wound, through the stands of stunted
evergreen, while the lit windows of Sessalie's scattered farmsteads glimmered
through the mist silting the vale far below.
When the ridge back sheared into a near
vertical ravine, Mykkael shifted the load off the stumbling pack horse. He
slipped the hackamores and let both exhausted animals go free. Hereafter, the
clanging scrape of shod hooves and the falls of loose stone dislodged by their
passage would cause too much noise. He dared not risk hazing the fugitive
princess into a needless, blind panic.
* * *
Light flooded out of the council hall
windows, a setback Jussoud noted with stark apprehension. By the muffled
clamour of voices inside, and the coming and going of servants in Devall's
livery, Collain Herald was losing the thankless task of maintaining lawful
order. Like undertow during a shifting tide, the cascade of events had
disrupted the secure process of Sessalie's succession.
'That's the guard for the crown prince's
formal retinue, parked over there by the entrance,' the Fane Street physician
pointed out. His gloomy whisper cast echoes off the glass roof, as he mopped
his round face with his coat tail. 'Inevitable, I suppose, that young Kailen
should press his right to his father's authority.' Worried, since Jussoud still
bent over the stilled form of Commander Taskin, he added, 'His lordship is
slipping deeper into shock?'
'Yes. The foreseeable difficulty.' Jussoud
sighed. 'His blood pressure's low from severe loss of blood. The elevated pulse
rate won't come down, I'm afraid, until we have him settled and still.'
'Well, the bandage is still dry, he's not
started bleeding,' the physician assured him, his stubborn optimism seeking for
good amid an increasingly grim situation.
Paused to rest, with the litter shafts
braced on the overhead balcony above the shadowed beds of the queen's roses,
the healers attending the wounded commander faced the raw brunt of their
predicament. For the unexpected session held in the council hall made the
direct route to the king's chambers impossible to attempt.
Moments later, Vensic's light tread
returned, grating over the gritted planks under the roof where the royal
gardeners forced seedlings in flat boxes. 'No going by way of the back
corridor, either. There are now posted guards flanking each of the doorways. I
can't fight them all.' His strained distress reflected his dread, that he might
face a cold-blooded repeat of the tactics just used in the garden. 'Bad
business to try, since they're probably sentries following reasonable orders,
and not suborned by the enemy.'
'We won't risk more killing,' Jussoud
agreed, a decision that brought small relief.
For they now confronted the fallback
position that Taskin had outlined with bald-faced reluctance: to unseal the
ancient brick passage in the walls, then access the concealed vault underlying
the late queen's apartments. 'Go that
route,' the experienced commander had husked, 'you'll be vulnerable. If the king has fallen to the sorcerer's
faction, you could find yourselves trapped without recourse.'
'Soonest started, then,' murmured the Fane
Street physician. He finished buffing his clouded spectacles. Then he bent and
shouldered his end of the litter, even his dauntless nature subdued by the
perils lying ahead.
The balcony ended where the glass
conservatory met the buttressing wall of the wing that housed the grand
ballroom. In daytime, the row of high lancet windows let the light stream
downwards in striated patterns across polished hardwood floors. By night, the
windows were jet wells, poked with mud-speckled straw where the jackdaws had
nested. Vensic was forced to his knees, to grope for the wrought-iron grating.
'We don't dare use a candle,' Jussoud
replied to the physician's disturbed query.
The dusty panes of the upper conservatory
could be seen from the guardpost at Highgate. From here, even the briefest
struck light would shine far and wide like a beacon.
The grate Vensic encountered was crusted
with rust. He scraped his knuckles against rough brick, prying to free the
obstruction. Worse, a light bobbed at the far end of the conservatory, trailed
by a flurry of voices.
'If they're in here, we'll flush them,' a
searcher assured an unseen commanding officer.
Vensic worked at the jammed grate with
desperate focus. The marginal gain when it gave and pulled free was followed by
crushing defeat, as the aperture in the wall opened into cobwebs and bottomless
darkness. The musty spokes of a ladder descended, too steep to accommodate an
unconscious man on a litter.
'We can't do this.' Jussoud gasped,
tortured. 'We can't carry Taskin down in his state! The shoulder is going to
tear.'
'Surrendered alive, his fate will be worse
if he falls to a sorcerer's minion.' The physician shook his head, brisk. 'No
choice.' he whispered. 'We'll have to set him into a sling.' To the eastern
nomad, who had not served in war, he added his brusque reassurance. 'I've
solved this before. It's the way wounded men are brought down from high
battlements when no one can access the stairs.'
'I've practised the technique,' Vensic
added. Sword drawn, he worked fast, slicing through the soft ties binding
Taskin into the litter. 'Mykkael's drills were more thorough than anyone
imagined we'd ever need.'
The physician added his agile assistance.
In short order, Taskin's body was shifted, and the canvas drawn from the poles.
Quick cuts fashioned two crude leg holes. Another, higher up, was positioned to
support the upper body, slung by the unwounded arm. Then the canvas was folded
in half, the commander's slack frame supported within like a child in an
oversized nappy. The torn shoulder was left tightly strapped to his chest. The
canvas could now be raised by the corners, overlapped at each side. A pair of
strong men, from above, and another to guide Taskin's legs from below, could
now ease his unconscious weight down the ladder.
'Jussoud and I will handle the work from
above,' Vensic instructed the physician. A glance over the balcony showed more
lights, streaming steadily closer. 'You go first, and if you pray, beg the
powers of grace we won't stand on a
dry-rotted ladder.'
No time for second thoughts, and no breath
for regrets or recriminations, as the three harried men hoisted Taskin and
descended into the ink-dark shaft leading down to the hypocaust. From there,
they must make their way under the floor, and find the vent that accessed the
warren of passageways carved beneath the old wing of the palace.
Nor did they dare, even then, strike a
light. A chance gleam cast through a chink or crevice would give their position
away. Progress was reduced to a groping trial of cramped quarters and
unrelieved darkness, broken by the clomp of the searchers' boots, or the dusty
fall of strayed torchlight through the gaps in the sagging floorboards. The
hypocaust was a warren for rats, festooned with dense cobwebs, and shining with
foetid puddles leaked by the terracotta pipes. The space was too tight to sit
upright. A task force of guardsmen creaked over their heads, showering down
grit and stirred spiders. The fugitives made their way at a tortuous crawl,
with Taskin inched forward in tender, slow stages, either laid over two men who
slid on their backs, or else pulled along on the canvas sling, with one man or
another on hands and knees at his side to guard his strapped shoulder from
mishap.
They escaped the conservatory through a
hatch at the back of the caldarium, then ploughed through the pits where the
ashes were piled for fertilizer. Vensic and Jussoud bore up the litter, with
the pink-faced physician masked in his handkerchief, in desperate straits not
to sneeze. Persistence saw them across the conduit of the old sewer by way of a
plank that threatened to crack at each step. From there, they traversed the
drain from the laundry, creeping in single file down a narrow ledge of slicked
stone, while noisome waters lapped at their ankles.
Beyond, the dank shaft of a stairwell
ascended to the wardrobe of the late queen's apartment.
'How's Taskin?' whispered the physician
through the pause at the landing to recoup taxed breath and wrung nerves.
Jussoud sat with the commander's bare feet
in his lap, pressing reflex points with skilled fingers. 'He can't handle much
more of this.'
'Two storeys,' Vensic murmured. Soaked
leather squelched as he shifted his weight in the darkness, perhaps to make
sure of his weapon. 'We should go. Delay's just as likely to kill him.'
For the muffled sound of raised voices
carried down through the stairwell, dire warning the binding dispute in the
council had ascended to storm the king's chamber.
'Taskin's stable as he's going to get in
these straits.' Jussoud peeled off the marred silk of his overrobe, and
fashioned a sling to support the wounded commander's dangling legs. 'Let's get
him up where there's light, and a bed. I can't do any more for him here, but
watch him lose ground he couldn't afford in the first place.'
The game little physician shoved erect,
faintly wheezing, and muscled his share of the burden. The climb up the narrow,
turnpike stair passed with relative ease, while the rising argument in progress
above unfolded with alarming clarity.
'... in league with the sorcerer!' cried
the seneschal's excitable tenor. 'The two guardsmen maimed in the garden just
swore they saw that steppeland nomad raise balefire and burn two hapless souls
to oblivion!'
Bennent's gravel bass tendered a reply, a
rumble too low to decipher.
The seneschal's ranting broke in again,
cranked to the shrill edge of hysteria. '... commander told you to burn all this cedar? You know that such smoke could
call in fell spirits, even attract the most dangerous of conjury! If you don't
quench that fire and post additional guards to stand watch at the royal
bedside, I'll have to advise Prince Kailen that your better judgement may have
been compromised. You could be suborned by the selfsame sorcery that overthrew
Taskin this morning!'
'Hurry!' gasped Vensic, his steady nerve
shaken. 'If I have to bear steel within the king's presence, you realize
they'll drop us with crossbows.'
Above the last risers, a chink of light
leaked past the concealed panel in the wardrobe. Jussoud squeezed aside to give
Vensic space to search for the recessed latch.
Yet the panel gave way without touch or
fumbling. The hinges creaked wide, and a candle lamp glared in dazzling
brilliance upon them.
The three squinting fugitives made out the
gleam of two guardsmen's helms, then the form of an elegant old woman bearing a
cane. 'I wondered if you'd try to sneak up the back way,' stated the
indomitable Duchess of Phail.
Jussoud bowed his head. He gathered
himself, spoke, even through the despair of dashed hope. 'My lady, Commander
Taskin is sinking. Would you deny him the right to his final bequest? He has
risked his life for the chance to speak to the king, words he counted above his
survival.'
'To condemn that slinking desert-bred?'
snapped the duchess, past patience. 'A cause scarcely worthy of his lordship's
last breath!' Her clipped gesture signalled the guardsmen.
'Perhaps to clear a staunch man's defamed
character.' Jussoud matched the aged duchess's scorn, the grave dignity of his
ancestry backed by his courageous regret. 'Choose wisely, grandmother. For want
of the truth, the cost could extend to uncounted innocent lives.'
'We've lost three such already, so I
understand.' The duchess thumped her cane and pronounced with snappish
asperity, 'How fortunate for you Lady Lindya was born with a woman's good
sense! She sent word ahead. We've all been anxiously expecting your arrival for
the better part of two hours.'
The granddame tipped her white head to the
pair of standing guardsmen. 'Come along, help them through. Glory preserve us,
if I'd realized the ruffians planned to traipse through the sewers, I'd have
asked the servants to make up Taskin's sickbed using the second-best linen.'
In
Sessalie's palace, three men escorted their unconscious companion into the
royal apartments; and the eight living, who bore talismans fashioned by
Perincar's hand, and a ninth man, who carried another imprinted by resonant
transfer into a sword blade, crossed into regional proximity. A circle of power
interlaced with itself, and a warding arose, pealing a note whose clear
intonation sounded across the unseen world known to shamans ...
MYKKAEL SENSED THAT BEACON WHERE HE KNELT,
SOAKING HIS INFLAMED KNEE IN THE GUSH OF A STREAMLET tumbling off the high
glaciers. The chill that combed over his skin and ran through him had nothing to do with cold water. His unschooled,
blood instinct understood that a change had just knitted through the fabric of
the world's energy. On his feet before thought, he snatched up the trousers and
boots left heaped on the bank, and jammed them on over his wet skin.
The hound whined, uneasy, touched by her
animal awareness that somewhere, a primary balance had shifted. She circled,
anxious to pursue the cold trail picked up amid the grazed grass of the glen.
His soft word restrained her, until he had
hoisted the bow and provisions on to his back. If the shaman's mark on his
sword remained silent, he could not shake his vague sense of dread. Stalking
powers stirred through the unseen interface between the air and the earth. The
drawing pull of that subtle disturbance rippled through the patterns of natural
current, sure sign of the demonic powers entrained through the drawn lines of
an active sorcerer.
Mykkael hastened onwards. The prod of his
urgency increased at each stride. Even without knowledge to read into the flux,
his inborn sensitivity was teased by the sense that a point of balance had
shifted in Sessalie. Somewhere, the stream had altered against the sorcerer's
favour. Balked on one front, the thrust of the conflict must now narrow its
target. Again, the enemy's attention ranged outwards, the spearpoint of its
focus turned in single-minded pursuit of the princess.
Before the insatiable drive of the
predator, she would be the hare helplessly running.
By now, she was hungry, tired and worn.
Crushed hope left her vulnerably defenceless. The challenge she faced had
exhausted her resource, until she had nowhere to turn. Mykkael shared the lit
flame of her desperation. Witch thought delivered the cold sweat of her
nightmares, sown by the despair that had followed her exhausted collapse. Anja knew she was doomed. Flight into
the rugged wilds would break her, a bodily failing that could not keep pace
with the unflagging strength of her will. In whimpering sleep, she still bid
for escape, stubbornly ploughing ahead through dreamed landscapes of
storm-barren rock and scrub balsam. Yet even such adamant courage could no
longer stave off the certainty of defeat.
Mykkael pressed upwards, embraced by the
high mountain silence. Across weathered stone, and dense mats of fir needles,
or ankle-deep cushions of mosses, he followed the trail worked by Benj's best
hound, step by unbalanced, lame step. Survival in war had taught him endurance
to match the demands of necessity. Miles of scouting through enemy territory
had schooled him to make his way quietly.
In time, Dalshie quickened. The white
scythe of her tail threshed the brush as the scent she unravelled grew
stronger. Mykkael kept her close. The advantage of using a poacher's prized
hound, she would track without giving tongue. Her exceptional nose at last
brought reward: the pawing stamp of a horse broke the stillness ahead, from a
hollow screened in by evergreens.
A hand signal brought Dalshie back to heel.
Mykkael eased the supplies and the bow off his back, left them propped against
a shagged boulder. The hound, he tied with a pack strap. Then he made his
unencumbered way forward, one hand lightly clasped to the mark the Sanouk
shamans had sung into his sword hilt. Its ward stayed quiescent. The vizier's
tattoo at his nape did not rouse.
A stalking, wolfish shadow, Mykkael entered
the dense grove of pines. Their resinous fragrance washed over his senses,
closed in by the blanketing darkness. A horse snorted warning. Shod hooves
scraped on rock. Mykkael froze, waiting out the herd's alarmed challenge in
poised stillness.
Starlight shone down, and he saw them:
equine forms cast into ephemeral outline, erratically slashed by the glimmer of
white blaze, and star, and leg stocking. Emerged from their restive movement
like smoke, the lone grey shook out his flax mane, his coat a gleam of
tarnished pewter among them. The black with the chevron-marked forehead tossed
his head to a glitter of bossed silver buckles. He was haltered, or bridled,
his picket line tied to a tree that shivered with each nervous tug. Mykkael
peered through the gloom, past the jostling horses. He surveyed the ground with
quartering patience, and finally found Princess Anja.
She was crumpled in an exhausted heap
against the loom of a boulder. Wrapped in a dark cloak, she was all but
invisible, except for the rat-tailed stripe of blonde braid, spilled over her
huddled shoulder. A slackened hand was tucked over bent knees, fingers tangled
in the cuff of a sleeve too long for her delicate wrist.
Asleep, Mykkael realized, her wary spirit
overwhelmed by an exhaustion that served him the gift of surprise. He moved on
her quickly, before the uneasy horses could startle her fully awake.
She roused anyway. Shoved to her feet with
the surge of flushed game, her oval face turned in confusion.
Widened eyes sighted his falcon surcoat. At
once, her pale features went rigid. Every trace of wit and intelligence drowned
under a flood of blank terror.
Bristled by witch thought, wrung breathless
by the strangling, shared impact of a fear that overwhelmed the base instinct
to scream, Mykkael reacted on barqui'ino reflex
and launched as she whirled to run. He caught her wrist, hauled her short,
called her name without title. 'Anja!'
She slammed against his hold, twisted and
thrashed, a creature gone mad with panic. When his grasp remained firm, she
gouged his skin with her nails, then hammered his boots, lashing out with
desperate kicks.
'Anja, Anja, Anja?' Mykkael reeled her in before she unbalanced him. As he had, countless terrible times for Orannia,
he bundled her flailing body against his chest. Wincing for the hurt to last
night's strapped sword wounds, and the knuckles laid open that morning, he
clamped her bucking struggles under his interlaced forearms. 'Anja! Princess! Anja look at me!'
She had no choice. Her anguished green eyes
met his own, with scarcely a handspan between them.
He held on. Granting her wild fight neither
quarter nor space, he made her behold him fully: a dark man of desert descent
who smelled of pine gum and balsam. Whatever she expected, he was warm-blooded
and human, possessed of a calm deep enough to stand firm, even through mindless
hysteria.
She broke all at once, like a puppet
unstrung, and sagged sobbing against his shoulder. He held her, rocksteady, not
moving a hair. His embrace caged her wracked frame, while the emotion stormed
through, bursting the dam of choked-back desperation. When finally the tempest
had played itself through, he braced her gently back on to her feet.
'Your Grace of Sessalie, at your sire's
command, I am Mykkael, Captain of the Garrison.' He granted the honorific due
her royal station, hands crossed at the heart, as he had for the king who held
his sworn service.
'You're not one of them,' whispered the
princess, her tone scraped and hoarse, and her proud carriage utterly shaken. A
hand bare of rings arose, trembling. She swiped back the wisps of gold hair
caught in the elfin curve of her eyebrows. Her features had sharpened under
privation. She looked like a starveling waif, except for the poise that
straightened the shoulders under her ripped shirt and skewed cloak. 'Blinding
glory, Captain, I'm sorry. I tore at you just like a harridan.'
'No harridan born had the reason that you
did,' Mykkael said with simplicity. He never once glanced at his bleeding
wrists, still respectfully crossed at his breast.
That shook her to tears. This time, she
blotted the silenced outburst away with a soiled sleeve, and forced a deep
breath. Her steadied, next phrase showed incredulity. 'You know why I ran. My sire sent you?'
Mykkael answered the last question first.
'His Majesty charged me to stand guard for your life. I've guessed why you ran.
But the details still matter. We're both better off if you can explain using
your own words, your Grace.'
The princess hugged her clasped arms to
herself as though raked by a savage chill. She subjected Mykkael to a scouring
survey that lasted uncomfortably long. Then she shivered again, a violent spasm
that shook her from head to toe. 'The High Prince of Devall met me at the gate
...' She fought through reluctance, then swallowed. 'His Highness was not the
prince. Oh, he looked like the man in all ways that matter. Except, when he
came close and kissed me, I knew. He
is not my beloved. No longer human. Not any more.'
Those open, jade eyes regarded Mykkael,
awaiting the word of disbelief that never came. The desert-bred did not speak,
or prompt, or fill her strung silence with platitudes. He made no courtier's
effort to distance her jagged grief. He just watched her. Anchored by rooted
quiet, he offered her all that he owned: the inadequate solace of his
acceptance.
Anja stirred finally, her scorching gaze
lowered to the trampled moss underfoot. She resumed in the soul-wrenching tone
he remembered too well, from refugees who had beheld the impossible, and found
their lives upended by fears that were going to mark them for ever. 'I went to
confide in my brother, the first chance I could get him alone.' Again those
expressive green eyes overflowed. 'Kailen
was changed also.'
'You see as your sire does,' Mykkael stated
gently. 'Things that others don't know are there.'
Her speechless nod answered him. A
resilient spirit let her rally inside of a moment. 'Oh yes, I see things.' Anja
raised her chin, fired to blazing rage as she fought to shake off an unnatural
horror that no flight and no distance could wring back the hope to excise. 'The
brother I know is not there any more. Something else looks out of his eyes. That's
when I realized I had to run. An uncanny power is at large within Sessalie, and
it threatens to destroy more than our lives.'
Mykkael absorbed this, aware of sudden
discomfort as the skin on his scalp tightened into contraction. Each line of
Perincar's warding tattoo felt written over in fire. Though the sword at his
shoulder showed no response, his ruffled nerves would not settle.
'Shape-changers,' he murmured, the taste of the word hammered iron and blood.
'Mehigrannia's mercy, your Grace, you have given me very bad news.'
The young woman, who had once laughed and
worn silver bells, rubbed dispirited hands on the tunic she must have purloined
from a page. 'We have to get out. Into the lowcountry. I don't know how I can
do this alone. But I'll have to seek audience in a foreign court, and try to
bind an alliance.'
She had little to barter, as a younger
sibling. Her tiny kingdom could not pay a sumptuous dowry, or attach her with
marriageable estate. The shame burned her red. As a foreigner and a man, he
must realize she held an empty hand, beyond her own female attributes.
Lest he laugh, or disparage, Anja showed
him steel challenge. 'What other way do I have to buy my people a vizier's
protection from sorcery?'
Mykkael did not argue the flaws in her
premise. Starvation and day upon day of blind fright had left her too painfully
brittle. 'Princess, bide easy. You'll eat something first. Then, yes, we'll
have to keep moving.' Her dumbfounded stare raised the sharkish, clipped smile
that had won over another scared royal heiress before her. 'Did you believe I
would run you to ground in these hills, and not trouble to think of provisions?
Your Grace?'
'I didn't think half so wisely, if at all,'
Anja confessed, sadly chastened.
'I beg your pardon, Princess, but you did.'
Mykkael's humour vanished. 'A sorcerer does not allow for mistakes. The timely
escape you accomplished alone has so far spared Sessalie's freedom. A victory
you may not credit, perhaps. My knowledge says otherwise. The strength to take
flight without pause to share confidence has been all that kept you and your
sire alive.'
Anja stared at him, differently this time,
as though, all at once, his unaccented speech and crisp manners smashed through
her presumptions concerning an officer with a Lowergate commission. 'Sire once
mentioned that you were experienced.' Her straightforward regard became
piercing. 'Are you telling me you have fought sorcery before?'
'More than once, Princess.' Mykkael saw no
reason to embellish the statement. The truth he delivered omitted the bald
fact: that no conjury he had ever opposed had commanded the skills of a
shape-changer, far less an assault brought to bear by a pair of such murderous
minions. He masked his anxiety. Guardedly still, he watched Sessalie's princess
try to measure the man behind his exotic southern breeding. In forthright
self-honesty, she encountered the pitfall: that her sheltered background left
her unprepared to assess the least compass of his experience.
'Forgive me, Captain, but I've been
remiss.' Anja tucked her bright braid back under her cloak as though
embarrassed by her northern ignorance. 'I should be the one asking pardon in
turn. You won our summer tourney with the arts of a champion, yet we in
Sessalie have never troubled to appreciate your formidable assets.'
'Good tactics,' Mykkael excused her with
velvet-clad equanimity. 'Can't be the thorn in the side of an enemy if you leave
the choice weaponry set out on public display.' To keep her diverted, he
addressed the essential point first. 'I carry a warding attached to my person,
and a shaman's line in my sword hilt. Their properties will offer defence, and
mask us from scryers, but with limited range. Listen carefully. You must not
stray from my presence, Princess. The warding starts to thin at ten paces. Its
active power dissolves altogether another five paces beyond that.'
Since the pack with the provisions lay
outside the pine grove, he could no longer conceal his appalling limp. His
turn, now, to shrug off embarrassment for the flawed gift of his fighter's
protection. A king's daughter would be too proud to comment, he thought, or too
well bred to disparage a man she perceived as a low-caste foreigner.
Anja matched just three of his dragging
steps before proving him wrong. 'If the injury is an old one, I am saddened.'
Her glance at the captain's face stayed unflinching. 'If you're hurt, let me
know how I might help.'
Discomfited by her forthright compassion,
where Orannia would have thrown him off balance with scorching words, then
followed with a gamine's smile, Mykkael skirted a leaning rock rather than
highlight the shortfall posed by his battered leg. 'Rest will improve things,'
he admitted, then caught himself frowning. He made himself rise to match Anja's
rare grace. 'The loan of a horse would be timely. I'm perfectly well able to
ride.'
Whether or not she accepted the evasion
behind his request, they had reached the tree where he had tied Benj's hound,
and stashed the bow and provisions. Anja paused only to ruffle the dog's ears.
Then she turned and closed her fists on the bulging pack alongside his
one-handed grasp.
'To keep your grip free for your weapons,'
she said.
Since that showed the bare-bones good sense
she was going to need to survive, Mykkael stood back and approved. He took
charge of the arrows and bow. Then he untied the hound, mindful of the way Anja
muscled her burden through the dark, upon uneven ground. Tired, half starved,
she still carried herself well.
Unlike the pampered Efandi princess, King
Isendon's daughter would not require his assistance each time the footing
turned rough. Mykkael's sharp relief raised the burn of old bitterness, and
whipped his mouth to a hardened line. Anja's resourcefulness would do very
well, since his game knee could scarcely support even her diminutive frame.
Stinging where exertion pulled at his scabs, he trailed the sylph who mastered
the wretched terrain with no complaint, and who shoved the cumbersome pack
overtop of the boulders she was too slight to scale.
Such relentless, tough spirit demanded
respect, and affirmed Mykkael's short-term decision. Though foreboding prodded
his instincts to urgency, he understood he must chance the time to shore up
Princess Anja's equilibrium. Small use to attempt the harsh perils ahead, if
the shattering truth of her straits fell upon her when she was half starved and
dispirited.
The food he delivered was hurried and cold,
a link of Mirag's hard sausage, some cheese, and a crumbling crust of coarse
bread. Mykkael ate his share in impersonal silence, aware of the princess's
inquisitive regard through the moments when she thought him too busied to
notice. He allowed her to stare. Since the short reach of his wardings was
destined to undermine privacy anyway, he endured the revealing discomfort as he
rolled up his trouser cuff and retied the binding that braced his bad knee.
Darkness, at least, masked her sight of the scars, if not the extent of infirmity.
Manners triumphed. The princess let her
unanswered question abide. Mykkael chose not to mention his spiking unease as
he sensed the first signs of a foray made by the enemy.
The sorcerer worked, seeking through the
unseen, an uncanny awareness that combed across the dark landscape and measured
all things in its path.
To the trained eye of a shaman, the subtle
energies underlying the tangible world would have burned with unfurling lines.
Mykkael could not perceive their clear pattern. Yet even uninitiated, he felt
the whisper of change ripple across the unseen. A sensation like vertigo tugged
at his mind, as the questing trace of uncanny forces deflected the flow of
earth's natural alignment. The disturbance spun closer. High-pitched tension
sang through him. He well knew the instant his wardings engaged, and the short
spells written into the vizier's tattoo stirred into active defence.
Sweat flushed him. He had to force his jaw
to unclench. The desperate, long weeks he had been stalked by Rathtet had
imprinted too many hideous memories. The flare of his wardings did not flicker
quiescent, but increased. As though this new sorcerer expected a barrier, the probe of hostile forces tested and pried,
yearning, searching, demanding to
grasp the slightest opening for entry.
Mykkael resisted his impulse to shout. His
head felt clapped under the maw of a bell whose dissonant tone vibrated just
above hearing. Perincar's workings touched him that way, when he sat in their
raised field of resonance. As the vivid memories of the past's gristly horrors
resurged through his jangled mind, he held his ground. This was Sessalie, not the rocky vista of the Efandi plains. The
power that tested for entry was
cold-struck, a line sustained over distance; not a hot contact sourced out
of warped ground, suborned to serve in demonic alignment with the nether realms
of the unseen.
The raw edge of immediate fear was too
real, that these were shape-changers
he faced, full-fledged minions of a sorcerer of unknown name and origin. Not
Rathtet, who still wielded a living matrix of influence; riot the working of
the defeated Sushagos; nor Quidjen, consigned to languish in oblivion after
bloodshed and terrible loss had dispatched his bound sorcerer to final demise.
Mykkael fought down sweating dread with grim logic: that Eishwin and Perincar
had both held formidable experience with multiple styles of long spell. The
geometries jointly twined through his flesh would be fashioned to counter the
forms each vizier had mastered throughout the wise course of a lifetime. The
powers wielded by Sessalie's attacker
might derive from a demon their lore could encompass.
Or might not.
Mykkael shut his eyes. He made himself sift
for what nuance he could, sounding the depths of unpleasant sensation. He derived
the vague sense that a scryer had cast testing lines, then noted the pulse as
the warding geometries spun their threads into tangles that thwarted. Not
cleanly, not fast; but the bulwark sustained him.
Where the princess breaking coarse bread
with her fingers knew only an ordinary night, and cool winds sighing through
the scrub forest, Mykkael caught the sudden, subliminal sting as a breach tore
through the primary ring of protection. Instantaneous, sharp vibrations woke
and ran through his sword hilt. The warding notes sung by the Sanouk shamans
rang through air and cleared the intrusion, then stood fast, holding the
breach. Their persistent ache buzzed through his marrow, low as the whine of a
wasp trapped in glass. Mykkael loosed his pent breath. Saved though he was, he
could not seize respite. The subtle resonance raised by the nomad singers never
failed to exacerbate his blood instincts. The powers of the unseen pressed on
his mind until he felt the probe of
Anja's curiosity, intrusive as an itch playing over his flinching skin.
Jumpy as a cat, Mykkael nursed his
patience. He checked the hang of the bow; made sure that quiver and arrows were
securely clipped to his belt. Then he sorted through the supplies in the pack,
and fetched out the sacks of barley, corn and oats he had filched from Mirag's
pantry.
'You brought grain?' Anja said. 'Powers bless you, for that. The horses are
worse off than I am.'
He nodded, not letting her see his unease.
Since the combined strength of his wardings seemed to be holding firm, he
blotted the seeping scab on his knuckle, and fished out other items
requisitioned from Benj's condemned cottage: a pair of Timal's sturdy boots,
leather breeches, a clean shirt, and a heavy felt jerkin. On top of the pile,
he laid a sharp skinning knife, borrowed out of the smokehouse.
'Here, Princess,' he said, gruff. 'These
ought to make you more comfortable.' Not to mention the blessing, that changing
her raiment would also divert her incessant staring.
Then, a narrow brush with disaster: Mykkael
almost let himself laugh as the princess's gratitude changed to dismay for the
close proximity forced by the warding. Fume though she might, she could not
leave his presence, even to guard her maidenly virtue. Since his smothered
amusement was bound to enrage her, Mykkael snatched the saving excuse to
acquaint himself with her horses.
He befriended them shamelessly, using the
drive of their empty stomachs. Small rations, fed slowly; too much would cause
colic. He let them snuffle the grain from his hands, and lip at his hair. All
the while, the curse of his witch thought barraged him, and heated his cheeks
with the echo of Anja's flaming embarrassment. Though he kept his back most
scrupulously turned, he felt her
uneasy distress, knew the slide of
each garment and the kiss of chill air against every last private patch of
bared flesh.
His silenced humiliation seared worst, for
the intimate violation he could not prevent. To suppress the shared flush of
the young woman's outraged emotion, Mykkael immersed himself in the crowding
warmth of her magnificent animals. They were tethered into the traditional
pairs that made up a steed wicket team. No mare alive had foaled finer than
these. Mykkael surveyed quality breeding drawn from the four quarters of the
world, from the cloud-dappled black with his steppelands stature, to the racing
blood of the west, to the delicate, fine beauty raised in the deserts, that
deceived for the strength of its hardihood. He ran appreciative hands over the
iron gloss of six proud necks. Felt the cool elasticity of firm tendons as his
cursory check encountered a loosened shoe. He used the flat tang of his knife
hilt, and his boot sole, to tighten the clenches, then set down the clean leg,
admiring.
Whoever had conditioned these animals had
brought them to an exceptional peak.
His comment raised Princess Anja's reply,
as she tugged at lacings to adjust the boy's clothing. 'Gurley's lads followed
my training instructions, when I could not ride them myself.'
Mykkael straightened, surprised, one hand
fending off the impudent grey, who butted to relieve the itch of the tack her
preparedness had wisely left on him. 'These horses are yours?'
Anja approached, rubbed the nose of the
sturdy northern mare some daft romantic had named Fouzette. 'They were to have
been my surprise gift to the high prince, following our formal betrothal.' She
blinked fast, turned away, then shrugged like a stoic. 'I wanted him to share
the glorious thrill of watching an upset team win the wickets.'
The aggrieved note of passion behind her
flat voice said she might have been running them now; would have left these
proud beasts to claim their due victory, had they not been the only mounts she
could take without drawing notice. She laid her face against the satin hide of
the buckskin, Bryajne, who turned his blazed head, comically flummoxed to
realize she carried no stashed gift of carrots. They'll serve to carry me over
the border. I can ride post once I get to the lowcountry, where people won't
know my face.'
Desperation rode behind those stark words,
and witch thought derived the gist of the unspoken necessity: that a fast,
timely sale must raise enough gold to regale her Grace in state clothing. She
would stretch those scant funds, hire the minimal retinue a princess must have
to present herself at a foreign court.
Mykkael seized the bitter opening. 'You
won't need to sell them.' The hurt lashed him, as hope transformed her thin
face, and lifted her flagging spirit.
He braced himself to deliver a cruel string
of facts that foreclosed any tactful kindness. 'Princess, I'm sorry. But your
plan to circle back down to the lowlands will bring nothing but death and
destruction.'
Her wrenching shock stung him. 'Oh bright
powers! You aren't telling me the palace has already fallen! Or that Sire -'
'Not dead!' Mykkael gasped, defenceless and
fighting to breathe through the anguish of her grief at close quarters. The
reactive connection aroused by Sanouk song lines was now haplessly bound to his
person, lidded under the ranging fields of the active viziers' wardings. 'King
Isendon lives, Princess! Your capital is imperilled, but not yet brought under
conquest.'
Uncertainty ripped him, hers, as she whispered, 'How
do you know?'
Anja's need seized his vitals, demanding
response: the primal attachments to blood family and survival framed a drive
too overpowering to deny. Mykkael shuddered, hurled off centre. His inborn
talent unfurled into witch thought, searing a line of vibrant awareness across
the unseen, towards the source of her deepest affection ...
* * *
King
Isendon aroused in the royal chamber, dizzied by the resin pungence of cedar
smoke. As always his eyes would not focus, at first. There were people around
him. He could hear loud voices, clashing in argument.
'...
pure folly trusting that murdering desert-bred!' The reedy tone belonged to the
seneschal, immersed in habitual complaint. 'Such "instructions" could
get us all killed.'
Someone
the king did not know murmured answer, cut short by the Duchess of Phail, whose
shrewd instincts seemed to have faltered. Danger would follow if anyone
listened to her bitter condemnation.
King
Isendon filled his weak lungs, and forced speech. 'But Myshkael has found Anja.
He guards my daughter under my charge of protection.'
'Your
Majesty?' said a deep, gentle voice, close at hand. A warm grasp supported his
shoulder.
King
Isendon blinked. His hazy sight cleared to unveil the anxious face of a
steppeland nomad he recognized. 'You can't feel him, Jussoud? Tell my courtiers
the truth. Captain Mykkael is no murderer. His skill on the field against
sorcerers is legend. A fact quite well guarded, among eastern monarchs. Few
wish the particulars of that history made public. The man's been privy to far
too many state secrets. Often guarded the chambers of royalty.'
'He's
maundering,' an authoritative officer in palace armour broke in.
'Not
a bit! Damn your insolence, soldier!' King Isendon thrashed erect, assisted by
the timely arm of a pink-faced man wearing spectacles. Short of breath,
too short, to be asking strange names,
Sessalie's sovereign resumed cogent speech. 'Captain Myshkael's worth any ten
of you, officer! His sword alone spared Prince Al-Syn-Efandi's daughter from
falling to Rathtet. Who better, to guard my own Anja?'
Spent,
sorely trembling, King Isendon sank back. While the darkness pressed him,
narrowing down his fuzzed vision, he clung to his ebbing awareness. 'By royal
decree, Myshkael's instructions must stand.'
Then
blackness descended, let in by a roaring red maelstrom. Isendon's consciousness
sank and drowned. He let the dark swallow him, grateful, while the world beyond
his blanketed senses crackled with tendrils of fire ...
*
* *
King Isendon's distant awareness cut off,
snapped like a strand of chopped string by the shrieking descent of spelled
fires. The kin tie that had drawn Anja's consciousness to her sire frayed away,
dividing Mykkael's perception: as witch thought showed him the royal
apartments, set under siege by a spell line, he also felt the princess beside
him, bereft, and ripped into shock.
He reacted before thought, caught her
shoulder and spun her, then clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her keening
outcry. 'Your Grace, be still! Your sire's not harmed!'
Mykkael had no time to ponder the warding
he had sensed, springing cold blue over Isendon's chamber; no chance to
describe the dread perils of spellcraft, or warn against the dangers let in by
voiced panic. Witch thought still showed him the thrust of cold sorcery, guided
in by the perilous, ephemeral connection forged out of his volatile talent, and
Anja's overpowering desire. A raging attack
that could not touch Isendon now ran wild, reaching, stretching, seeking:
yet the destructive assault of the enemy found no weak point of access to claim
Sessalie's king. The reflective, joined force of nine gathered talismans, and a
chamber fumed with green cedar, turned the strike of the spell line aside. Too
focused, too strong, too murderously fashioned to dissipate, the stream of
attack spilled down the path of least resistance: the thinning, last trace of
the contact that had linked a father's anxiety to his daughter's distanced
distress.
Mykkael foresaw disaster. A split second
shy of full impact, he suspended thought and let go into barqui'ino reflex. One move hurled Anja astride the grey horse.
The next drew his sword and slashed through the picket line. He grabbed mane,
vaulted on to the sturdy Fouzette. Yelling like a crazed nomad herder, he drove
horses and princess to headlong stampede, while Benj's best hound showed her
innate good sense, and bolted flat out alongside them.
Fire struck at their heels. Flames crashed
roaring over the trees, igniting hemlock and fir like dry tinder.
'Go! Move!' Mykkael shouted, drummed heels
into the mare and whipped the horses from under the edge of the conflagration.
He yanked rope, slapped rumps with the flat of his wailing sword. While the
combined effects of three sets of wardings ringed his presence in shielding
force, he charged the shying animals through springing wildfire and a hellish
rain of splashed cinders. His protections unwound the raw balefire of sorcery.
Their proximity was sufficient to guard Anja's person, himself and all seven
terrified animals. But the place in
the cleft where the princess had stood through the vulnerable mischance of
contact now became a naked target, packed with acres of volatile timber.
The dense stand of evergreens roared up
like a torch, as balked spellcraft seeded a forest fire. If the lethal impact
of cold-struck power was sent to ground, or quenched out by the captain's
wardings, no beast could escape getting ravaged by burns, if the wall of
natural flame overtook them.
'Ride!' Mykkael hauled hard on the picket
rope, kept the horses together, and steered Anja's wild-eyed grey to close
quarters. With its nose jammed in matched stride at his knee, he shouted,
'Ride, don't look back. If you can't stay astride, or if your mount falters,
we're not going to escape this.'
The Princess of Sessalie proved herself
then as a woman of mettle and courage. She grabbed up loose reins, found the
dangling stirrups. Then she ran the game grey over rocky terrain with the nerve
of a woman possessed.
THE ASSAULT WROUGHT OF SPELL-BONDED FIRE
PROVED SHORT-LIVED. ITS MAELSTROM OF ENERGIES ACCOSTED the frail circle of
Perincar's configured ward ring, then departed, there and gone like a
wind-blown match. Its wake left the duchess's steel nerves in shreds. Her
ragged breathing and the seneschal's distraught whimpers tore through the
stunned silence cast over the king's private chamber. All the candles had blown
out. The ruby glow of fanned coals in the grate shed the only light in the
room. Of the ten shocked and shaken survivors, the only two not wrung white
with terror were the invalids who remained unconscious.
The physician was first to clear his dry
throat. 'That was not defeat, but withdrawal,' he ventured in tremulous
distress. The skewed glass of his spectacles flashed in the gloom as he
appealed to the armed authority of Captain Bennent. 'Pray don't drop your
guard. Our peril is not one whit lessened.'
'We aren't vanquished, either. The king is
unharmed.' Jussoud said from the royal bedside. Outside, a tumult of shouting
erupted. Doors crashed down the corridor. More disturbed voices arose from the
stairwell that accessed the grand hall of state. Despite the uproar, the nomad
healer stayed calm. 'While his Majesty lives, Mykkael warned we were likely to
be kept under constant siege.'
Too rattled for argument, the seneschal
helped guide Lady Phail to a chair.
Only Taskin's distraught first captain
stood stunned, at a loss for intelligent reaction. 'Merciful powers, that
saddlecloth ...'
Jussoud answered, crisp, 'You ordered it
burned. But the contents weren't lost.' He arose and took charge, addressing
the steadfast guards flanking the doorway. 'You men! Keep these chambers
secured. No one enters! Vensic? Please build up the fire. The warming pan can
be used to make cedar ash. Lord Shaillon, if you would please light the
candles? Your commander needs my attention.'
Lady Phail snugged her shawl over quaking
shoulders. Her contrition was practical, and her courage a force far beyond her
frail strength. 'What can I do?'
Jussoud crossed the floor and presumed, as
a healer, to gather her clammy hands. 'Duchess, you'll be needed to comfort the
king. Your sharp wits are our indispensable asset, but please, for your sake,
let me brew you a tonic. You've suffered a terrible shock.'
'No, thank you!' the granddame snapped in
offence. 'Bitter tea never fails to upset my digestion.'
She snatched back her hands, which the
raised pitch of her anger now flooded with lifesaving warmth; a mule's kick of
a blessing, Jussoud saw in dismay. He had no remedies to offer. Apparently he
had lost his hip satchel during the crawl through the hypocaust.
Though the seneschal still fumbled to
ignite the first candle, the Fane Street physician noted the nomad's
crestfallen despair. 'We're not entirely bereft, Jussoud. My jacket pockets
hold a few simples I keep at hand for emergencies.'
'You shall not lack for medicines.' The
duchess smoothed her skirts and arose. 'His Majesty's physician keeps a stocked
chest in the linen closet. Bennent! Make yourself useful. I'll need a man's
strength to help move it.'
'Tactics, first, Duchess.' The royal
guard's acting captain discarded bruised pride and faced Jussoud, rigidly
braced to salvage his mistaken judgement.
Yet the nomad now crouched beside Taskin's
prone form insistently endorsed Lady Phail's first request. 'Fetch the remedies
now, Captain. Before I speak further, you must understand. If Taskin slips from
us, the warding that just spared your king will collapse.'
Spurs clinked as Captain Bennent stood
aside to let the seneschal brighten the wall sconce. 'I don't understand. If
one of us fails, could Lord Shaillon not assume -'
As the seneschal turned, recovered enough
to respond to his name, the Fane Street physician cut off Bennent's words with
a headshake, then offered, 'Jussoud, attend Taskin. I can explain this.' He
caught the royal guard captain's wrist and towed him aside with brusque
firmness.
'What's this?' Striker in hand, Lord
Shaillon turned his suspicious regard towards one, then the other foreign
healer. As the tumult outside became more intrusive, he pursued his querulous
inquiry. 'More conspirators' secrets?'
'By command of your king!' That weak,
rust-grained whisper still carried the peal of a lifetime's authority. Under
Jussoud's skilled hands, Taskin had achieved a tenuous return to consciousness.
'Captain Mykkael's instructions will be carried out!' Eyes shut, his gaunt face
like wax on the pillows, the commander whispered, 'Dedorth's tower.' He coughed
weakly. 'Move. Safer refuge.' Then he added, 'Bear the king promptly.'
'Impossible,' said Jussoud, too
hard-pressed for dismay. 'My lord, your condition is fragile and should not be
stressed. Another move would be dangerous, and our party of nine must not separate.'
If Taskin did not yet realize the virtues
of Perincar's talismans relied upon close proximity, Jussoud could but hope the
commander could interpret his strained tone as imperative. He dared not speak
more openly, or broach the fact that the guarding properties of the pattern
required nine living bearers to
achieve its full strength. One death would cause the structure's collapse. Even
the momentary delay as a disc was transferred to a successor would grant a
fatal opening for the enemy sorcerer to exploit, a detail the Fane Street
physician now took pains to conceal from the seneschal's distrustful interest.
Taskin's face tightened. 'We cannot stay
here.' His imperious eyes were glazed over with pain and a febrile
exasperation. 'Did you notice, Jussoud? The palace is in flames.'
The breath the nomad drew to cry protest in
fact carried the tang of fresh smoke, an acrid influx no longer masked by the
resinous fumes of the cedar that Vensic was burning to ash in the warming pan.
Outside, shrill voices raised the alarm, fast joined by the pound of running
footsteps. The two guardsmen braced the king's door with stout furniture, while
Bennent and the Fane Street physician returned with the remedy trunk slung
between them. Lady Phail trailed in their wake, looking frayed.
More shouting arose from the corridor, as
the council broke session in panic. A chancellor screamed for a task force with
buckets, while another, backed up by Prince Kailen's honour guard, sowed the
disastrous belief that King Isendon was under attack. Devall's marshal could be
heard mustering more men from the grounds to mount an immediate rescue. The
palace sentries were bound to rally to the High Prince's claim that a sorcerous
assault, spearheaded by traitors, had taken Sessalie's aged king as a hostage.
'They can't get in,' Captain Bennent
assured them crisply. 'I've seen through the window. We're surrounded by fire.'
Beyond the king's chamber, where the perimeter of the geometry had shed the
volatile thrust of the sorcerer's attack, the beams and the tapestries had been
seared to flame. Heat and smoke would stand off the misguided intervention of
the men-at-arms for a short while.
'That's why Mykkael insisted we seek refuge
within a stone tower.' Jussoud clasped Taskin's wrist in tacit assurance that
he could be trusted to deliver the requisite facts. 'Once inside, we'd be
removed from ground contact, which weakens a sorcerer's spell line. Even if
everything under us burns, stone walls will hold firm. If we place ourselves
wisely, Perincar's pattern will spare the boards of the floor where we shelter.
The royal quarters offer no such protection. We're far too exposed to be safe,
here.'
'That's raving nonsense!' the seneschal
cracked. 'What have we to fear from
Prince Kailen's honour guard? Or
from the lowlanders under Devall's marshal-at-arms, for that matter?'
Imposingly robed to preside in state council, Lord Shaillon jabbed an
accusatory hand at the nomad, half clad in stained breeches and the smutched
linen of his under-robe. 'This sorcerer
is the High Prince's enemy, after all. Our interests are one and the same!'
'Be quiet!' rasped Taskin.
But the seneschal nattered on. 'I cannot
agree that Myshkael is no traitor.
The king, spare his wits, was behind on current events when he spoke for the
desert-bred's character.'
'Be
quiet!' barked Bennent. He left the remedy chest
in the care of the frowning physician, and knelt next to Taskin's bedside.
'Orders, Commander. I'll carry them through.'
The wounded retainer drew a laboured
breath. 'Foremost. Trust Mykkael. Follow Jussoud's directions.'
'He has asked a retreat to Dedorth's
tower,' the nomad supplied in saving intervention.
'All of us go. Now.' Taskin's pale forehead
glittered with sweat as he reached the end of his strength. 'Don't trust
Devall. Keep Kailen away. Bind Shaillon's mouth, if you have to.'
'Not necessary!' snapped the Duchess of
Phail. As the seneschal surged forward to vent his stunned outrage, she banged
her cane in his path at an angle that threatened to rap shins. 'I shall see
that Lord Shaillon keeps himself in hand.'
The Fane Street physician froze in the act
of buffing his spectacles. 'This talk of moving is utter madness! If the effort
doesn't kill your man with the wound, the sorcerer who's marked this kingdom
for conquest has planted his minion among you. That creature could seize every
one of those confused men-at-arms, twist their minds, and use them to attack
us. If we stir outside bearing an unconscious king, we risk being ripped up
like crow bait!'
Captain Bennent stood erect, his competence
restored by the gift of subordinate command. 'Stay here, we'll go down like
trapped rats in a barrel. The stairs are in flames. So are the floor beams that
shore up the corridor. That leaves us a stand-down that we can't escape. We're
going to be vulnerable the moment the watch sergeant recalls his recruit drill
with the scaling ladders.'
'That leaves us the sewers,' said Vensic,
his manic face underlit by the glow of the cedar he was methodically reducing
to ashes. 'That stairwell is stone. If we can mount a side foray to the
laundry, a few wash tubs might serve us as boats.'
'Better,' gritted Taskin, his eyelids
clamped shut. 'The king's private wine cellar. Below us. Get casks. Use bed
slats or tear up the floor planks.'
'Make a raft?' Jussoud's snarled frown
unravelled at last. 'He's right. We can float our two invalids.' An easy, soft
ride for the one gravely wounded, with six able-bodied left free to wield
weapons, or assist the aged duchess and the seneschal. 'We can slip out through
the cut where the spill meets the moat.'
Bennent's face cleared. 'That might save
us.' Two ancient sallygates pierced the wall, there. He could pull rank,
appropriate the sentry, and send him with orders to the acting watch officer
posted at the Highgate. 'We'll commandeer an armed task squad to help us reach
Dedorth's tower, and stock it with food and supplies.'
Jussoud sucked a deep breath, glanced
towards Vensic, then plunged straight away into planning. 'Defences, first.
We're going to need ashes, lots of them. Water. Salt. Torches can be made from
the bed linens. Just make sure they're well laced with cedar.'
'On it,' said Vensic, grim as stamped
bronze as he tipped another load of glowing embers into the king's porcelain
chamber pot. Skirts rustled, beside him. He glanced up to discover the Duchess
of Phail standing over him, arms laden with bundles of cedar, and her slender
back straight as a post.
'Show me what's needed, young fellow,' she
said.
Vensic's smudged features brightened with
provocative delight. 'Can you bear it? Someone's got to tear up the linens for
rags, and soak them in the melted wax of your mightily expensive white candles.
Do you think your seneschal could unbend and help? Birch kindling is nice, but
will burn much too fast. I'm afraid it's no use. We might have to unroll a
shelf load of book scrolls for torch grips.'
Lady Phail choked, then rebounded with a
snort of laughter. 'Captain Myshkael
should be proud. If the crown of Sessalie survives this crisis intact, remind
me to commend his barbaric ingenuity. He's served us with a first-rate field
officer.'
'Ah, Duchess,' Vensic murmured, 'you have
sorely misapprised him. If my captain had to choose to spoil a book to save a
king, the necessity would as likely make him weep.'
That struck tone of grief, couched in
country-bred accents, caught the elegant duchess off guard. She regarded the
farmboy turned swordsman who sat with head bent to his work, surprised to
impulsive, mad hope. 'You truly believe that your desert-bred is hardy enough
to prevail?'
Vensic's hands paused. His grave gaze
encompassed the activity as Sessalie's frail king was bundled up and
transferred to a litter. 'Mykkael must, don't you think? Without Princess Anja,
alive and free, what resource will you have left in hand to steer the kingdom
through Isendon's succession?'
A sparkle of gems scored the dark as the
duchess laced her prim fingers over the bundles of cedar. 'You don't set much
store by Prince Kailen, do you?'
'I was born on a pig farm.' Vensic set his
jaw, well braced to resist. 'Ask me anything you want about a hog farrow.'
Yet the old lady's imperious patience could
have stung the silence out of a corpse.
Vensic hissed a vexed sigh through his
teeth. 'Duchess, I don't know his Highness's character as you do.' The garrison
sergeant accepted her disconsolate offering of greens, his good-natured face
sorely troubled. 'But Mykkael was blunt, the one time he mentioned the crown
prince. Since the royal sister fled, he said the tactical question still
rankled. Why did Prince Kailen stay?'
*
* *
The wind swept with cruel force over the
barren heights above the timberline. Stopped in a stony cleft to ease the
winded horses, Mykkael took grim stock of his salvaged assets. The bow slung
alongside his sword was still with him, likewise the quiver attached to his
belt. The tightly packed arrows had not jostled out. He still had the grain bag
strung over his arm, and Benj's game dog, who lay chewing the bruised pad of a
forepaw. The horses had kept all their shoes, which turn of luck bespoke divine
blessing, considering how recklessly he had run them.
Sessalie's princess had come through,
unharmed. She presently crouched, capturing a trickle run down off the ice
packs, and sipping from her cupped hands. The melt water would set an ache to
the bone. Despite this, her Grace raised no murmur of complaint. Said nothing
at all, though she surely believed the loss of the pack with the food posed a
disastrous setback.
Mykkael weighed the greater threat, while
the wind hissed down, and the black sky glittered with starlight. Though at
present both of his wardings had calmed, the sorcerer had tested their measure.
The demon that bound the fell creature would know where to aim his next search.
This moment of snatched respite could never last. Pursuit would resume, a
relentless joined contest that would kill a fugitive far faster than any
depletion caused by starvation. Mykkael still carried flint and steel with the
kit in his scrip. If a safe refuge could be secured in these heights, he could
forage and trap to gain sustenance.
The horses' needs were less easily
satisfied. No meadows grew amid the high peaks. The mixed grain he had left was
a pittance, once the ration was divided six ways. To let these magnificent
animals starve was too dismal a sacrifice to contemplate. Nor could Mykkael
slaughter them for their meat. The brave heart they had shown in their dash up
the slope had displayed their breathtaking generosity. These animals freely
gave of themselves with a trust that overruled natural instinct. Because their
human riders had asked, they had galloped, unstinting, at breakneck speed, over
rocks where a misplaced step could have shattered their slender legs.
Anja rinsed her flushed face. Still without
speaking, she sat on a rock, and blotted her dripping fingers. Tucked in her
dark cloak, her pale hair wisped like floss in the wind, she measured Mykkael's
tensioned stance.
When the quiet extended, and he volunteered
nothing, she broke her reserve and asked outright, 'How long do you think we
have?'
Mykkael weighed her resilience, and told
her the truth. 'I can't say for certain, not knowing which sorcerer covets
Sessalie, or what style of conjury he spins to align his attacks. Expect this
much. He will strike fast, now his plot is unmasked. You have become a detail
he must eliminate, your Grace. No sorcerer I've seen ever leaves a blood claim
that could rally an outside invasion. Your enemy must make certain no foothold
remains to upset his chosen conquest.'
That condensed explanation withheld the
bare worst: that Kailen was already bound as a full-fledged minion.
If
Sessalie fell, and his sister remained living, her blood ties of kinship would
see her hunted down by the minions of other demons who stood as her first
enemy's rivals. Outside Sessalie, she became the contested weak link, a tool
through which the invading sorcerer could be counter-attacked and made
vulnerable.
Unaware of the hideous gravity of her
peril, Anja clawed fallen hair from her eyes, jerked her chin in annoyance,
then tugged the frayed tie from her braid. 'We'll have to escape. Do you have a
plan?' Head tipped aslant, she shook out her long hair, finger-combed the strayed
wisps, then began to rebind its luxurious length. That she handled the task
without help from a maid showed the quality of her self-reliance.
Encouraged to encounter such cool
practicality, Mykkael scrambled down from his vantage. 'Your first assessment
was sound thinking, Princess. Sessalie requires the protection of an
accomplished vizier, or a shaman. We'll have to seek elsewhere to petition for
help.' He knelt by the cleft, his game leg extended, and assumed her place at
the small stream. 'The unpleasant difficulties have to be faced. The valley's
no option. Even if we slipped past the armed company that's bound to ride in
pursuit, we cannot try the road, or win through the bottleneck pass to reach
the eastern lowlands. If we try, we'll run into armed cordons, at strength. I
can't fight such numbers. No foray by stealth can see us across the cataracts
at Stone Bridge.'
'But that's nonsense!' Anja whipped off the
end of her plait, and securely knotted the tassel. 'Sessalie's guardsmen should
answer to me.'
'Should,' Mykkael said, 'does not mean they
will.' He plunged his slashed knuckles under the chill water, and sucked a fast
breath at the sting. While the cold slowly numbed his outraged flesh, he
outlined the pernicious difficulties. 'This sorcerer's intrigues have swayed
your high council. The lure of the sea trade is driving the politics. Suppose,
at Stone Bridge, you met Devall's marshal? Or troops that are Sessalie's, but
under the command of your brother, invested as lawful regent?'
'Save us!' gasped Anja. Her terror
resurged. 'If Sire's incoherent, the council's sealed writ could overrule even
Taskin.'
Mykkael was blunt. 'That's already
happened.' How to tell her? The crown's
first commander fell to my sword, in defence of my charge to protect you?
He strangled that thought, along with the resurgent ache of his grief. What
use, to lament his false arraignment and defamed character, if Princess Anja
did not survive? He could die beside her. His failure would make him Taskin's
murderer in more than an empty name. The straits that entangled him framed the
harsh quandary: how could any lamed, disowned swordsman protect a northern-born
princess if she was shown cause to doubt his integrity?
His rough curse in dialect did nothing to
ease the ragged edge from his nerves. Nor did Anja's awareness of Sessalie's
geography offer the kindness of ambiguity. Since crossing Stone Bridge was not
going to be possible, only two passable routes remained to secure their flight
over Sessalie's border: to scale the Great Divide by way of Scatton's Pass,
which demanded a skilled climber's strength, perfect weather, and weeks spent
at high altitude to enable the body to withstand the thin air. Or by trying the
long and arduous loop through the southern ranges, which began with the
harrowing perils of traversing a moving ice fall, risking the seracs and
unstable fissures of the glacier at Howduin Gulch, and ended months later at
Fingarra, a land whose location was still too far north to possess the
requisite knowledge to repel an invasion by sorcery.
Anja sounded diminished as the harsh
choices sank in. 'Do you think we could try to hide in the hills, then slip
through when the fervour dies down?'
'Against shape-changers?' Mykkael splashed
his face, then perched on a boulder and kneaded the knots in his calf. 'Time's
a critical problem. Your sire can't die. He'll just be replaced by an heir
who's suborned as a minion. That would leave you, your Grace, as the sole voice
denouncing your brother's coronation. How long do you think a conquering
sorcerer will suffer you to live in informed independence?'
The princess saw clearly; had already fled
before the self-evident reason. If she tried to expose the truth to the court,
she would face a creature who was not Crown Prince Kailen. Her false brother's
ally would be the shape-changed thing
who wore the semblance of Devall's heir apparent. Her royal suitor would stay
tenderly insistent upon a state wedding. The will of the merchants would back
him. For the greater weal of Sessalie, the marriage would prevail. The princess
would find herself helplessly captive, or else hideously enslaved, with her own
chancellors ruling against her.
'Howduin Gulch,' Anja stated, her resolute
dismay all but lost in the gusting wind. 'By the glory of the trinity, I never
imagined the hour I might actually freeze to death.'
'Your Grace, I won't let such a harsh fate
befall you.' But the dread all but threatened to stop Mykkael's heart, that the
oath of protection sworn to her sire might demand its own savage reckoning.
Before the end, he might be forced to kill her cherished horses for their skins
to keep her sheltered and living.
* * *
At that moment, Dedorth's glass lay trained
on the ranges, focused on the progress of the scrub fire that crowned the flank
of the hidden ravine. 'There,' murmured the High Prince of Devall amid the
pitch dark of the cupola. Replete with satisfaction, he qualified using the
voiceless communion exchanged between entities whose spirits shared obligation
to the same demon. 'That's the place
where Gorgenvain's long curse was thwarted from taking our prey.' Aloud, he
added, 'The search parties you plan to send out tomorrow should begin their
sweep on that slope.'
Jewelled clothes stirred in the gloom as
Devall's heir apparent straightened up to pass the glass to Sessalie's crown
prince.
Kailen stepped over the sprawled corpse at
his feet, scuffed a smear of spilled blood from his shoe, then bent in turn and
peered through the instrument that Dedorth had been murdered for. 'Katmin Cut.
That's rough country, up there. A desperate stretch of rock, scarred with
slides.' Daily, the creature who wore the crown prince's flesh became more
accustomed to human form. Soon he would not require the pretence of strong
drink to mask his imperfect balance. He also grew more adept with the silent
speech. 'Anja will have nowhere to go.
The only route over the Great Divide kills even the hardiest travellers. She's
unused to privation. An experienced search party ought to be able to overtake
her and strike down her protector without undue trouble.'
The high prince hissed, no human sound. 'Fool!' He kicked the killed body in a
fit of balked rage. 'This garrison
captain you so lightly dismiss - Gorgenvain has fully tasted his scent. The
report came back ugly. He's desert-bred stock from a powerful lineage, and he
carries a terrible history.'
'As a vagabond mercenary?' Kailen abandoned
the glass. 'He's one man, alone, with a
half-crippled leg. A guard with a steady crossbow can drop him.'
'Is
this so?' The high prince blinked eyes that flared
sulphur yellow in the dark. 'I won't
applaud till you drag in his carcass. This man, as you say, caused the
Sushagos' demise. He helped destroy Quidjen. His command was the mercenary
company hired by Prince Al-Syn and Perincar, who nearly defeated Rathtet.
Gorgenvain said that this desert-bred all but delivered the victory into their
grasp. The prince and his vizier would have prevailed had the royal family
swallowed their vanity and heeded his plan for defence.'
Kailen shrugged. 'Why belabour close calls? Defeat sealed the conquest. The Efandi
capitol fell to demonic forces.'
'Yes.
But the capture nearly expended Rathtet's supply of bound sorcerers. Most of
his minions were destroyed as well. The original lineage that anchored the
creche escaped final consumption, just barely. Do you think Rathtet himself
would dare rest if he realized this "vagabond" captain of yours still
survived?' The high prince rubbed his hands in
agitation. 'Others would hunt in revenge,
if they knew. Mykkael's close forebears made implacable enemies. The family
your fighting cock captain descends from bred the shamans that Tocoquadi wasted
three bonded sorcerers to eradicate. Until tonight, that bloodline was thought
to be struck from the face of the world.'
'Then
we claim last glory.' Kailen's feral smile gleamed
through the dark. He savoured the damp air, thick with fresh blood smell, and
the sickly sweet odour of marzipan from the spilled plate of cakes the cook had
sent up to tempt the scholar's finicky appetite. 'Gorgenvain will score the honour of closure, and Tocoquadi will owe
him a debt. Mykkael's spirit will languish in perpetual torment. Or better,
Gorgenvain could make use of the seed of his ancestry. Such get could found a
creche of new sorcerers. Why not bind the bothersome creature as minion? An
exquisite masterpiece of human anguish, to hold Anja captive and make her bear
demonic children.'
'The princess, I reserve for myself!'
hissed the high prince in livid offence.
'I have anchored Gorgenvain's spell line through Devall. It's now up to you to
extend his reach and his feeding ground, and secure his desire to claim
Sessalie.'
'We
should go down at once. Or else take to the rooftop and devour your kill at our
leisure.' The demonic spirit who played Crown Prince
Kailen paced to the casement. He leaned into the mist, impatient to be gone,
until his keen senses picked up movement and voices crossing the courtyard
below. 'Someone comes.'
*
* *
The Fane Street physician knelt on the damp
chill of the cobbles, an unlit torch braced between his knees. He answered
Bennent's question without looking up from his effort with flint and striker.
'Well, the texts that exist are remarkably contradictory, not to mention scant
unto rarity.' His second spark caught. He cupped his soft hands to the wavering
flame, still expounding on his unpleasant subject. 'Kingdoms with sanctuaries
have laws or decrees that consign proscribed texts to the fire. Tribal cultures
with shamans have functional knowledge, but their initiates won't set that lore
into writing.'
'Too dangerous,' Jussoud supplied from his
place beside Taskin's litter. 'It was a man with an uninitiated mind who struck
the first bargain with demons. A meddling fool, he bound over his mortal destiny
to tap power from the unseen. The result has flung open the gateway to horrors.
All sorcerers, and the lines that extend their foul works, descend from such
dreadful mistakes.'
'How can I fight what I can't understand?'
Captain Bennent cracked in frustration. Though bolstered by an escort of ten
men-at-arms drawn from the roster at Highgate, he disliked the need for such
secretive haste. The act of moving his king on a litter, wrapped in an
anonymous blanket, made him feel foolishly vulnerable.
The guard captain sat on the remedy chest,
and raked his nervous glance upwards. Late night fog had rolled up from the
valley and swallowed all trace of the stars. The looming bulwark of Dedorth's
tower was lost as well, the only tangible sign of its presence the moisture
that dripped from the copper-clad roof. 'Every instinct I have says we're
suicidal to risk sealing ourselves up in a place that has no escape route.'
'But you can't hope to battle a sorcerer,
headlong,' Jussoud retorted. 'Sheer lunacy, even to try. Your unlucky
casualties are not going to die. Each soldier fallen becomes a spirit enslaved,
living coin to maintain the sorcerer's unholy pact with the demon who delivers
his power from the unseen. The demon, in turn, keeps his bound minion alive, an
unnatural immortality fashioned to fuel its insatiable appetite.'
'Trust Mykkael's experience. He gave you
sound guidance.' The Fane Street physician straightened up with the cedar-laced
torch brightly blazing. 'You must have a defensible refuge to hold out until
help can be sent in deliverance.'
'What help?' The seneschal sniffed,
displeased to be kept from his bed, and only reluctantly present to support the
exhausted Duchess of Phail. 'Another sorcerer will just happen by and shoulder
King Isendon's rescue?'
'Powers, no! Why do you think sorcerers'
wars are so devastating?' The Fane Street physician handed the torch off to a
guardsman, mopped his round face, then crouched to strike sparks to another.
'The demons that drive them are inveterate rivals. Two such bound minions upon
the same ground will tear at each other, ripping the innocent earth to
destruction.'
'Worse than using more fire to fight fire,'
Jussoud allowed, sounding tired. Many sorcerer's lines had begun with a man who
thought to dabble with danger for a cause; sound rulers cozened to buy bargains
from demons for defence, only to discover themselves as evilly ensnared as the
enemy they had striven to defeat. 'The less time we spend in the open, the
better.'
Bennent reviewed the disparate party his
skills had been charged to defend: a litter-borne king, a gravely wounded
commander, two elderly, opinionated courtiers, and two mismatched healers, with
only Vensic and the select pair of men-at-arms from the king's chamber able to
bear weapons in active engagement. The ten guards just recruited carried no
protective talismans. That made them no better than unshielded targets. Set
under attack by the powers of hell, how could he mount a defence?
He must have spoken his frustration aloud,
for the Fane Street physician served answer. 'The west has learned viziers, men
who study lore for ways to balk sorcery. The tribes of the steppes and the
southern desert train shamans, initiate talents who perceive the world of the
unseen. They are the allies of the beset.' The last torch ignited. The
remaining guardsman accepted its burden, while the flushed little scholar
shoved up his slipped spectacles, and stood. 'You'll send a petition to ask for
their favour. Or else join your cause with a kingdom or country willing to sign
an agreement of shared defence. Mykkael's experience must see Sessalie's
princess through, and then guide her to act as your realm's ambassador.'
The seneschal turned his chalky face,
horrified. 'Rely upon Myshkael!' A
disreputable desert-bred, lamed and on foot, armed with a sword and a handful
of blow darts. 'Powers of mercy, we're lost.'
Vensic shook his head. 'Mykkael's a fit
adversary. I wouldn't care to be wearing the shoes of the man who attempted to
kill him.' He steadied the poles of Taskin's litter, prepared for Bennent's
brisk order to march.
Inside the glow of five cedar torches, and
five more alert guards who advanced with drawn swords, the company pledged to
save Sessalie's freedom reached the postern of Dedorth's tower and started
ascent of the worn spiral stair.
CAPTAIN BENNENT LEFT TWO RELIABLE GUARDSMEN
POSTED OUTSIDE THE TOWER DOOR. THEY STOOD UNDER orders to secure the entry,
while the king's entourage filed inside, their progress delayed to a crawling
pace as the litters were manoeuvred up the spiral stairwell. Outside, the mists
slowly thickened. Droplets splashed down from the eaves overhead, slicking the
courtyard cobbles. Sheltered from the cut of the wind, the smothering stillness
seemed to diminish the distant shouts of the fire crews, labouring yet to douse
the inferno that swept through the royal apartments.
Something scraped across metal, high
overhead.
'You hear that?' The guardsman who spoke
stepped out to investigate. 'Think it's a rat?'
'Up the tower?' his fellow said, dubious.
'On the roof, man? How could a
blighted rat get up there?'
The faint scratching persisted, the sort of
disturbance a rodent might make, gnawing the marrow from an old bone.
The other guard shoved back his helm. 'No
varmint I've seen could climb a sheer wall.' He peered aloft, yet saw nothing
through the choking mantle of mist. A fallen droplet splashed his upturned
face, ice-cold, followed by a second that was sticky and warm. 'Mercy!' The
soldier shuddered, then gasped, 'That's someone's fresh blood! Run! Shout up
the stairwell and warn Captain Bennent. Tell him we've got dire trouble.'
* * *
The guardsman's cry arose from the base of
the tower. Though the words were blurred to unintelligible echoes, the note of
alarm carried clearly. Two litters borne in single file ascent effectively
blocked the tight stairway. Completely cut off by the curve of the walls,
Captain Bennent could do little but send the last man in line to investigate.
He had to wait while his order was relayed downwards. Just past halfway up the
narrow tower, he trailed his advance guard of four Highgate men, bearing swords
and cedar-laced torches. Behind him, wheezing in sour complaint, came the
seneschal of the realm, assisting Lady Phail's frail balance. The litters
bearing Taskin and the king worked slowly upwards below them.
Bennent swore under his breath. As a
tactical trap, this place was a living nightmare. His men were like dominoes
poised in a chute, awaiting the first dropped marble.
'Stand fast,' he called to the bearers
below. 'Pass word to halt down the line.'
The unwieldy column stalled in its tracks,
the magnified scrape of hobnailed boots fit to set teeth and nerves on edge.
More noise trailed upward, voices lost in the welter of echoes, as his worried
scout addressed the rearguard. Bennent gripped his sword in frustration. He
could not decipher the mishmash of words. Worse, the sentry must have left the
lower door panel ajar. The updraught flared the guardsmen's held torches to
rippling sheets of fanned flame.
The tangling confusion almost masked the
patter of footsteps, descending the stair from above.
'Ware, forward!' called his leading
guardsman.
'Report!' shouted Bennent. 'What's coming,
above us?'
The front-line torchbearer responded with
reassurance.
'Stand down. There's no threat. We're being
joined by Prince Kailen.'
The crown prince addressed them a moment
later. 'You guards! Douse those torches, at once! May the powers of the trinity
preserve you from harm, didn't Lord Shaillon inform you? Cedar smoke acts as a
beacon for evil. Would you draw in a sorcerer's spell lines?'
'There, so I told you!' the seneschal
snapped. He abandoned Lady Phail to the support of her cane, then badgered his
way past a sword-bearing guard to reach Captain Bennent's mailed elbow. 'We've
dragged King Isendon through unspeakable hardship, all to no useful purpose!'
'Quiet!' cracked Bennent. To his vanguard,
he added, 'Close ranks, douse nothing! I'll make my way up.'
The crown prince's startled reply floated
down the narrow stairwell. 'Is that Bennent? Captain, are you seriously
ordering the palace guard to stand against royal authority?'
'Highness, I act under direct command of
your sire. Every cedar torch in this company stays burning.' The palace guard's
ranking officer pressed upwards, spurs jingling, to back up his men at the
forefront.
Poised above, Prince Kailen leaned on the
rail of the landing that fronted the doorway to Dedorth's quarters. His left
arm was raised, half shielding his eyes. Under the sudden, bright spill from
the torches, any man's vision would become dazzled, if he had been using the
glass in the darkened observatory upstairs.
'Who turned the king's mind?' Crisp,
sounding irritated, the crown prince held his ground. 'The risk you are taking
with Sire's life is unimaginably dangerous.' The flow of the draught wafted
smoke up the stairwell. Kailen coughed, still protesting. 'Douse those torches,
I say, on pain of treason.' As the fumes coiled higher, his Highness
straightened and clambered several steps upwards. 'Why aren't you listening?
His Majesty could take harm, even die for your bull-headed negligence!'
Bennent watched, chilled to caution. 'Stay
close!' he ordered his leading guardsmen. Then he passed word downstairs for
the trailing members of the company to close up their position without
straggling. He believed himself braced for whatever might come as he faced forward
again, and addressed the disgruntled crown prince. 'Highness, pay heed to your
sire's informed wisdom. Accept my protection and come down.'
'Madman! Fool!' Kailen's voice grated as
though he had just inhaled pepper. 'You'll see us all slaughtered!' More smoke
winnowed upwards. For a second, the prince's rich clothes seemed to billow, as
though the form of the flesh underneath rippled into convulsion. He folded,
gasping, fingers shoved through his hair.
'Mercy, what's wrong with him?' asked the
torchbearer, confused. 'Has his Highness taken ill?'
'I don't know,' Bennent answered. Beyond
doubt, the influx of torchlight and fumes seemed to be causing the unnatural
affliction. 'Move up,' he instructed his uncertain guardsmen. 'Slowly.
Carefully. Weapons ready! Hold those lit torches ahead of you.'
'Stay back!' The prince gagged through shut
teeth, all but crushed to his knees as the smoke roiled over him. His face
jerked and spasmed. His eyes seemed to shine, a yellow reflection that might
have been tears, or something else that presaged an uncanny danger. 'On your
life, Bennent, I beg you! Don't touch me!'
'What's happening!' the seneschal shrilled
up the stair. 'Captain! Do something! His Highness appears to be choking.'
The guard captain stayed firm and ignored
the plea.
'This is obstruction!' The seneschal clawed
upwards, tried to shove past the guard, but found himself jerked short from
behind. He glanced backwards, annoyed, and discovered Lady Phail standing on
the furred hem of his council robe. The move was not oversight. Her insistent
expression suggested his protest would fall on politely deaf ears.
'Trinity save us!' cried a guard, from
above.
Faced forward again, the seneschal recoiled
in revolted horror.
Through
the billowing smoke, the smooth skin of Prince Kailen's face darkened as though
touched by a blight. The growth spread, glittering like black glass, then
sprouted into a stubble of pointed jet scales.
'Bright powers of daylight,' the seneschal
shrieked. 'Your Highness, run! You're under attack by a sorcerer's catspaw! Captain Bennent is casting a spell on you!'
'Shut that raving idiot's mouth!' Jussoud
called out from below.
'Lord Shaillon, be still!' snapped the
Duchess of Phail. When the seneschal kept shouting, she raised her silver-tipped
cane and jabbed the courtier's back. With his trailing robe still pinned by her
jewelled shoe, the old man could not step forward to recoup his balance. He
toppled on to his hands and knees, momentarily knocked speechless with outrage.
Before he could whimper, the nomad resumed
his frantic instructions. 'Bennent! Right now! Your guardsmen must use the salt
water and ashes!'
A bucket was passed hand to hand up the stair,
followed fast by the pillowcase holding the charred remnants of the cedar that
Vensic had burned in the warming pan.
'Hurry!' cried Bennent, unable to suppress
a revolted shudder.
Before their shocked eyes, the crown prince
was losing the semblance of his humanity. Each billow of torch smoke altered
his shape. His handsome male features melted away, blond hair transformed to
spiked scales, while lips and mouth distended and grew the muzzle and fangs of
a predator. His bone structure become cruelly pointed and lean. Neat velvets
and lawn shirt strained taut, and then shredded as the upper body enlarged with
a grotesque bulge of muscle. The manicured hands curled beneath the remains of
the dapper, voile cuffs were no longer a man's, but a hooked set of ripping,
spiked talons.
The two guards bearing torches shrank,
sweating and sick, while the swordsmen behind backstepped, dumbstruck.
'Hold your ground!' Bennent shouted, shaken
to fear, as the thing in the
stairwell crouched on its haunches, and clawed boots and breeches to shreds. No
man, now, but wholly monster, it shrieked and launched to savage the guards at
the forefront.
The demonic apparition charged down upon
them, just as the passed bucket reached Bennent's hand. He doused the sloshing
contents over the guards' heads, then snatched up the pillowcase, shoved in his
arm, and lobbed a handful of ashes. The dry, gritted powder sifted out of the
air, and clung to the salt-dampened skins of his two exposed point men.
The unmasked minion behind Sessalie's crown
prince emitted a squalling screech. It wrenched its leap short, hissing and
snarling with fury. The salt water and ash mix appeared to repel it. Wherever
it encountered a dusting of ash, its gleaming jet scales became scalded.
Spared by the grace of Mykkael's
instructions, the panicked lead guardsmen surged to attack with bared swords
and live fire. The monstrosity scrabbled ahead of their rush, swiping its
cinder-scored flesh. Smoke hazed it. Harried by the torches, it twisted in
sinuous fury, lashed its tail, then streaked with a skitter of claws up the
stairwell beyond the landing.
'After it, go!' Jussoud yelled from below.
'Wound it from behind, as you can. If you force it at bay, beware! It's likely
to sprout wings. Bennent, if that happens, they'll need your bowman. Shoot to
kill with the copper-tipped bolts.'
'He's too far downstairs,' the captain
despaired. His line of march had prepared for assault from behind, with those men protected by talismans positioned as rearguard
in the expectation that pursuit would arise from the palace. No one's ugly
forethought had ever imagined Dedorth's tower might already be primed with an
ambush. 'Call down!' he appealed to Jussoud. 'Have the archer's weapons passed
upwards.'
Not all was lost. His lead guardsmen from
Highgate had steadied their shocked nerves. They now advanced in
well-disciplined step, armed with cedar-laced torches and swords. If ashes and
salt served as natural banes, their banishing properties would not grant the men
an impenetrably secure defence. Mere simples could not deflect a spell line
with the shielding efficacy of a talisman. Yet the surprise incited by Mykkael's
stopgap measures had wrested back room for hope. Given the courage to enact a
prompt foray, four armed men might prevail and accomplish a dangerous kill.
'Stay close, keep together,' Bennent
cautioned the duchess. He held the line, though his anguished frown bespoke his
desire to bolster the rush of his guardsmen. 'Keep all torches lit. We'll
regroup on the landing and take respite in Dedorth's chamber. Taskin and his
Majesty can be settled in bed. We'll defend our position until we have word the
top floor of the observatory is clear.'
'Lord Shaillon, pull yourself together!'
Though shaken herself, Lady Phail helped the seneschal recover the wits to rise
to his feet.
'Mercy!' The older man raised palsied
fingers, brushed grit from his cloak, then distractedly rubbed his scraped
palm, as though the raw sting might be dismissed as an errant fragment of nightmare.
'You're not going to wake up,' Lady Phail
said, acerbic. 'Best face the unpleasant fact quickly.'
The seneschal stared upwards, searching the
gloom of the upper stairwell. 'Powers of daylight! What was that monstrosity?'
'No power of daylight!' A quaver shot
through the duchess's vexed tone. 'Nor was the foul spell cast by one of our
own.' She planted her cane, squared thin shoulders and blinked, eyes damp in
the haze of the torch smoke. 'I think we now know why our princess has fled.
Small wonder she took no one into her confidence, with such evil at large
within Sessalie.' Overcome, finally, the old woman blotted her lids with the
back of her wrist.
As much in need of solace as she, the
seneschal tucked her fingers over his dishevelled arm. 'I'm so sorry,' he
murmured. 'You raised that boy. We all did, since the queen's death.'
'Such promise, all gone,' Lady Phail
murmured. Assailed all at once by deep loss and regret, her inveterate bravery
crumbled. 'Mercy deliver our poor Kailen!' Remiss at the last, her seamed
cheeks streaming tears, the duchess faced down the stair. She tilted her head
in crisp homage to Vensic, who bore up the poles of the commander's litter.
Their eyes locked through a moment of
poignant honesty, and the shared torment of unspeakable tragedy.
Then, as though poised with her usual
aplomb, the old woman awarded the son of a pig farmer a noble-born gentleman's
courtesy. 'Young sir, your captain shall have my sincere apology for rank
insult and thoughtless misjudgement.'
The garrison man flushed ruddy pink, then
tipped her a heartfelt, grave bow. 'Then, my lady, for the sake of Mykkael's
maligned honour, my task is made plain. I'll have to be sure you survive the
debacle to address my captain in person.'
* * *
The cold blaze of stars did not change, or
the wind, or the barren stone, locked in the tranquillity of earth element's
silence. Yet something in Sessalie shifted, unseen. The change ruffled chills
down Mykkael's spine and nipped gooseflesh over his skin.
The princess detected his hitched pause
where she stood, watering her sweat-damp black horse at the cleft of the
streamlet. 'What is it? Captain Mykkael?'
He stirred, ignored the sharp pang from his
knee, then shoved to his feet all at once. 'Mount up, Princess.'
Unwilling to say more, he held out to see
if she might protest or argue. Met by his braced quiet, she stared at him,
nodded, then promptly made her selection. Some of his tension eased into
approval, as she bridled and saddled the diminutive chestnut. Anja had gauged
her six animals with a clear eye. The little mare seemed the most fit and
rested.
Nor did she cavil at giving him royal
orders, in turn. 'You ride the black, Stormfront. He's strong, never falters,
and was probably foaled with the world's only set of iron nerves. He'll handle
the nasty surprises in his stride. Once when the boys startled a snake in his
path, he stomped the poor creature to paper.'
'Let us hope we won't need such staunch
strength of character,' Mykkael said, his heightened uneasiness masked under
soft-spoken courtesy. The loan of the gelding was a rare honor, he knew. Also a
practicality plain as a steel nail tossed into a chest of gold jewellery. Not
being Taskin, he could do little else except bow to her Grace's bidding. He
caught up the prized animal's ornate headstall, prepared to treat with him as
his noble breeding deserved.
Mykkael removed the belt from his surcoat
and replaced it with a hacked-off rope length, then buckled the leather to the
black gelding's chin ring to use for a rein. He had ridden with nomads often
enough not to mind the lack of a bit or a saddle. Since sword and bow made a
vaulting mount awkward, and the ache from his punctured thigh hampered his
accustomed agility, he used the advantage of a high rock to settle himself
astride.
Anja surveyed each move with critical eyes,
then nodded to his tacit request that she handle the ropes leading the other
two pairs of horses. As they clattered up the swept ridge under starlight, she
pursued his reticent silence. 'Since you're thinking you might need your sword
hand free, I ought to know what we're facing.'
Mykkael turned his head, a dark silhouette
chisel-cut against the clear sky. 'If I knew that, Princess, I would hope to
use foresight, and plan better tactics than running.'
'I see.' Her gaze remained on him, fixed by
a steel-clad purpose quite charmingly masked under impish determination. 'Since
you have a tongue that could beat a carved statue for reticence, you don't
leave me much opening for nicety. You are wounded, surely, in the leg?' His
irritable glance downwards met her bright, pealing laugh. 'Yes. Don't look
nettled. Your bandage has seeped. I know a fresh sword cut, don't bother to
lie. The one on your hand is left in plain view, and you move like a man with a
backache.'
Mykkael uttered an abrasive phrase in
dialect, then added with stung dignity, 'I don't lie, Princess. I have in fact
told you already. When I left the citadel, the enemy was using political
pressure to divide your father's supporters. Some were incited to stop me. They
failed. The scratches I suffer, meanwhile, are mine. The scar on my knee is an
old one.'
Her probing regard did not shift, but
sharpened to a keener perception. 'I saw your performance at last summer's
tourney.' Not playful now, but deadly serious, she pressed, 'I don't know the
man who could make you afraid.' When that leading statement also failed to draw
him, she tried a frontal assault. 'What set you off, Captain? A moment ago, you
looked fit to leap out of your skin.'
He still had no answer. The wardings he
carried remained quiescent. Still hounded by the odd, nascent chill, Mykkael
glanced over his shoulder. The view at his back made him rein up short. No good
news, but now at least he had the means to defer this tenacious intent to
expose him. 'Your Grace? Have a look.'
The valley below lay battened in mist,
except for a distant, fuzzed ring that blazed like a brand of carnelian. Mykkael
knew what he saw: the palace of Sessalie was set under demonic attack.
If Anja could not discern with his depth of
knowledge, she could scarcely miss the uncanny symmetry of the conflagration.
She did not break down, or plead reassurance, but sat amid the warm jostle of
her horses, her distress wrung to anguished silence. A moment passed; two; she
forced shaken speech. 'That looks like the opened gateway to hell.'
'A wound on the earth, near enough,' Mykkael
said, and this time, his acid bitterness rang through.
Anja pressed her mount up beside him. 'A
sorcerer's balefire touched the palace aflame?'
The captain shook off the haunted recall of
old ghosts, and the shadows of past apprehension, to give what reassurance he
could. 'Thank the powers of your trinity, the blaze forms a ring. That means
the long spell that raised the assault was shed by an active defence. Your sire
is still safe.'
She peered at him closely. 'You suffer from
witch thoughts?'
'Suffer?' He laughed. No northerner, ever,
had phrased his affliction that way. His teeth flashed in a genuine smile. 'The
tribal mother who disowned me at birth would more likely have counted the
instinct a gift.' He tipped his head forward, still richly amused. 'After you,
Princess. We need to keep moving.'
More shudders savaged him as Anja spurred
past. In fact, he wanted her safe in a cave, with his warded sword guarding the
entrance. Harrowing experience had well taught him not to disown the prompt of
such spurious premonition. Nor would he erode his awareness by dwelling on
logical doubts. He held his mind quiet as a pool of stilled water, and opened
his senses to the bracing tang of the wind.
The next moment, a prickling grue raked his
skin, and his anchored perception dissolved ...
* * *
He
was a crown guardsman, sword drawn, his other fist bearing a torch laced with
cedar. He raced up a narrow turnpike stair in pursuit of a black scaled
monstrosity. Hot breath rasped his throat. His mouth dried with fear. He
rounded the last turn and reached the top floor of a tower observatory.
Amid
crawling shadows thrown off by the flames, there were details, all wrong, and
laced with a shrill sense of danger. The board floor held a spatter of fresh
bloodstains. Yet the heedless swordsman pressed on with his rush, without
taking time to investigate.
Beyond
the bronze bands of the seeing glass, the fell creature he chased clawed on to
the sill of the open casement. Through whirling smoke, and the flutter of flame
light, its scaled form continued its horrific metamorphosis. A pair of leathery
wings extended from its hunched back. Its vaned tail now wore a spiked knot of
spines, which it slashed, raking to stab its oncoming adversary.
'Mercy!'
gasped a second man, breathlessly arrived at the stairhead. He also was clad in
a palace guard surcoat, and bearing both torch and bared sword. 'Take the thing
down before it escapes!'
The
pair spread out and advanced. Their raised blades gleamed by fire light. Intent
on the demonic threat of the shape-changer, they all but tripped over the shed
heap of clothing, abandoned to one side of the seeing glass. The left-hand man
who had mired his foot was first to recognize the jewelled doublet that
belonged to the High Prince of Devall. His Highness's shirt was there also,
along with knit hose and dark breeches; even his boots with their stamped-gold
toecaps. The ruby signet of Devall's heir apparent glinted, abandoned, on top.
The
guardsman gasped, scared. 'Trinity spare us! Why would his Highness take off
his clothes and leave his state seal in this place?' He poked the garments with
an inquisitive foot, and laid bare a queer mark on the floorboards ...
*
* *
'No!' Mykkael hurled out of witch thought,
his wrung senses spun through a hard spiral that left him sweat-drenched and
clinging to the black gelding's neck. 'That's a sorcerer's short curse.' The
cipher's infused lines formed a minion's chain. If its configured patterns were
not ones he recognized, he still sensed their ominous undertone. A sorcerer's
mark scribed in white river clay and blood was too ugly to be mistaken. 'Get
out of there, now!' he gasped in distress. 'The binding connection is active!'
Yet no warning he spoke from the mountains
could spare the two victims in Dedorth's observatory. Only Anja, mounted and
riding close by, grasped at his forearm and shook him.
'What's wrong? Captain, what's happening?'
Fully restored to the windy heights, Mykkael
bowed his head, tortured speechless. If the wardings about him maintained cool
quiescence, his heart found no ease in their calm. He had stood in the path of
too much disaster not to recognize the queer, sickly feeling that presaged the
unfurling of demonic power. The lurch in the world's weave as the unnatural
flux crossed dimensions ripped his mind into scalding recoil.
He heard Anja's cry, cranked shrill with
distress, 'Merciful powers, you knew that
would happenV
He nodded, not needing to look as another
sheet of balefire bloomed in the valley that cradled the citadel. This time the
assault would not be shed by the grace of a standing ring of protection. Where
the princess beheld that distant scourge as a flowering star of red light, he
experienced the evil impact more fully through the gift of his wild talent...
* * *
The
explosive eruption of spell-driven flame engulfed the top floor of the tower.
Its rage consumed stone, the rare marvel of the seeing glass, and also the
flesh of two living men whose tormented screams rang sharpened with the agony
of the damned. The influx of the raw element surged forth from the sorcerer's
mark. As
though a hole had been torn through the world, it unleashed the fell fury of
chaos. Anything in its path not instantly immolated reached flashpoint and ran
molten, smelted metal and stone singeing the air into roiling heat. Amid a rain
of liquid copper and slagged granite, the shape-changer perched on the flaming
sill unfurled leathered wings and launched aloft, trailing a burning wake of
shed cinders ...
*
* *
Breathing fast and hard, Mykkael shut
stinging eyes, opened them, then took firm hold on his makeshift rein. He
jammed down sick nausea, undamped his scored hand, and soothed the black
gelding's pawing unease. 'Shelter, now!' he snapped through scraped nerves. 'We
have to find a cave, or a ledge. Somewhere under cover to stand in defence.'
'Say what you've seen,' the princess
demanded. 'Let me know what sort of evil we face.'
'May you live, and never suffer the
burden!' Mykkael faced forward, anguished, and urged the black gelding to a
scrambling canter upslope.
* * *
The sorcerer's mark shook the tower
observatory while Captain Bennent sought to cram the king's defenders into the
shabby confines of Dedorth's private quarters. The tiny chamber was already
bursting with the elderly scholar's belongings, its jumble of trestles heaped
with unfurled star charts, and teetering stacks of books. The doors of the
ambries gaped, stuffed with scrolls, beside candelabra on claw-footed stands,
glued in place by old driblets of wax. The stuffed chair cleared off for Lady
Phail disgorged a bent pair of spectacles, a squirrel's cache of mugs, three
chewed quill pens, and several dried-up inkwells. On the armillary by the
cobwebbed casement hung a mismatched pair of damp socks.
'Clean, at least,' pronounced the Fane
Street physician, in enterprising search of a place to deposit the trunk of
medicinal remedies. Jussoud laboured at speed to make space for Taskin and the
king, since the tray left amid the unmade bed held the remains of the
astronomer's supper.
With the floor space choked full, the men
bearing the litters had been forced to hold back on the landing, the crates of
food and sacks of assembled supplies dumped in disorder around them.
First warning of trouble, a vast, rushing
wind screamed up the stairwell and hurled the king's blankets helter-skelter.
'Inside!' screamed Bennent, the flagged
cloth of his surcoat clutched in one hand, and his unsheathed sword raised in
the other. 'Move! Now!'
The unbearable screams of men burning,
upstairs, entangled with his shouted orders. Within Dedorth's chamber, the
candles snuffed out. Queer light blazed outside, raging orange, as the roaring
fires of hell rampaged down, licking the darkness beyond the shut casement.
'Don't touch the walls!' yelled the Fane
Street physician.
His saving cry came too late. Caught
working the window latch to let in fresh air, one of the Highgate men-at-arms
dropped dead on the floorboards.
'Get back!' the physician urged, frantic.
'Move away from all grounded stonework! A sorcerer's lines draw their current
through air and earth. There must be a live craft mark above us!'
'Pull together!' Jussoud called through
erupting chaos, as maps and books flapped in the fierce updraught, and
guardsmen blundered blindly into furnishings. 'Everyone! Move into a bunch!'
The panic-stricken rush to comply all but
collided with Bennent's frantic efforts to harry the litters and bearers in
from the stairwell. Vensic bundled the duchess out of her chair. Moved on
trained instinct, he dragged the half-paralysed seneschal by the crushed pleats
of his collar and pelted between tables, scattering books. He reached Jussoud
and the physician by the doorway, which move brought the nine talismans
fashioned by Perincar's lore into effective proximity.
The shield locked and sang. Blue light
pealed out with a lightning-sharp crack, widening into a sphere. The arcane
defence touched the spelled conduit drawn through the tower's stonework and
unleashed a burst of actinic static. Forces from the unseen collided with the
vizier's geometry, and entangled with a booming, concussive report. The massive
tower shook. Loose stonework rained down, hammering against the beamed ceiling.
Molten stone and melted copper rained after, searing holes through the planking
above.
The railing on the landing cracked and
gave, with one man yanked back, saved from falling by Bennent's snatched grip
on his mail shirt.
'Hold firm!' yelled Jussoud, while the
world seemed to rock, and flaming cinders splashed against the glass casement.
One of the roundels burst in a flying spray of smashed fragments.
Another deafening blast shook the tower.
Then suddenly, all fell silent.
Eleven survivors stood in shaken, pale
shock, with two more on braced litters, still breathing.
'Both the king and Commander Taskin are
unharmed,' the Fane Street physician announced in a tremulous voice.
As Bennent stirred and surged towards the
stair, Jussoud yanked him short. 'Stay here, Captain!' Distressed as no man had
ever seen him, the nomad gathered the duchess's palsied hand and propped up the
sagging seneschal. To snap Bennent out of brash shock, he said, bluntly, 'Your
sentries downstairs are already dead, and the four men upstairs, consumed also.
The whole top of the tower is probably gone. All that kept us alive was the
closed proximity of Perincar's geometry. Lacking that grace, the structure that
holds us would have gone up like a candle dropped into a forge flame.'
The Fane Street physician backed the
nomad's disastrous assessment. 'Break the resonance of the copper talismans we
carry, and believe it! Your king, and every last one of us, are going to die
very horribly.'
'I hear you.' Bennent sheathed the sword he
had drawn on blind reflex, then regarded the party left under his care to
defend. 'Guardsmen!' he commanded, 'Clear Dedorth's quarters. We'll have to lie
in for a siege, and hold out on the hope Captain Mykkael can win through with
the princess.'
'Failed,'
sent the minion, no longer wearing the semblance of the High Prince of Devall.
Now a clawed monstrosity, the shape-changer crouched on the slagged rim of
stone at the top of Dedorth's roofless tower, while its winged companion soared
in balked fury over the site of the conflict. 'Our presence has been unmasked
beyond salvage, with all hope of subtle conquest brought to impasse by a
vizier's ninefold warding.' The news, and all it entailed, was heard by the
bound sorcerer of Gorgenvain, lying wakeful in the king's bed in Devall. Curt
orders returned on the breath of the moment, graven with the demon's imperative
desire: 'Take down your antagonist, Mykkael, and after him, obliterate the last
daughter of Isendon's lineage .. .'
MYKKAEL SENSED THE BACKLASH AS THE FLUX OF
THE UNSEEN RECOILED THROUGH ANOTHER RIPPLE OF change. A glance at the
mist-covered valley below affirmed the sharp prompt of his instinct. The
upsurge of a ring of protection had reduced the distant flare of red balefire
to a raggedly flickering circle. The close defeat of the sorcerous assault left
a dulled, sullen glow where unnatural forces had caused solid stone to run
molten.
The immediate assurance given to Anja, that
her royal sire survived, lent Mykkael no false peace of mind. On the contrary,
he was forced yet again to revise his already desperate escape plan. King
Isendon's victory would not buy him more time. The princess's plight was not
going to gain respite. Any careful, staged passage across Howduin Gulch now
became a sure route to disaster. Scatton's Pass, also, would take far too long,
even had they carried the requisite ropes and equipment.
Trapped by a vicious quandary, Mykkael
faced the impossible, last option: the fifty-league passage of sheer rock
ravine, infested with kerrie nests, and savaged by the boiling froth of the
flume that had pummelled the bones of every rash fool who ever attempted the
crossing. Mykkael measured the hazards of riding Hell's Chasm, and chose
certain doom without flinching.
Better to die thrashed to ribbons on a rock
spit, any horrible fate to stave off the risk of falling prey to a demon-bound
sorcerer. Let his human failure buy Anja a natural death, and not the howling
terrors he had glimpsed in the pit of Orannia's madness.
'You look grim as the judge forced to hang
his own kin,' the princess observed at due length.
'I don't like the country,' Mykkael said, a
sore truth. They were riding the knife-edged spine of the rim. The position
left them ruthlessly exposed, with the horses forced to pick each precarious
step with excruciating caution. Although the captain could have left matters
there, Anja's resourceful character demanded better respect. 'Nor can I leave
you in dangerous ignorance. Your false suitor has unmasked his true form, as
well as the crown prince he suborned in liaison. They walk this world as hell's
minions, but reclothed in the altered mortality of their stolen flesh.'
Anja covered her mouth with her wrist, her
seat in the saddle stark straight as she absorbed the horrible, warped destiny
that had befallen her brother, and also her dearest beloved: the young man she
should have married in state ceremony, wreathed in the flowers of harvest. Her
voice emerged muffled. 'You expect they'll attack?'
'One of them must, Princess. Inevitable tactics.
The other will stay to hold your sire hostage until Sessalie falls under
conquest.' Mykkael paused, measuring his words with much the same care as the
horse underneath him took footing a brave course over the jumble of cracked
rock.
Yet the princess's nimble mind leaped ahead
of him. 'You seek a cave or a cleft, so you said. Then you're needing a guard
on your flank?'
'Both sides, and behind,' Mykkael affirmed.
'With your Grace exposed at my back, I can't hope to fight off the assault of a
winged predator.'
She received that dreadful disclosure with
no more than a choked-off gasp. Darkness hampered his detailed review of her
face. Mykkael could not tell if she was silently crying. Her slight hand on the
rein never faltered. Hating the additional cruelty, he added, 'I'm sorry. We
won't have much time to prepare.'
Anja tugged her cloak around her slim'
frame. 'There are caves not far distant, old lairs used by kerries.' To her
credit, she faced apprehension without begging for useless reassurance. 'The caverns
are found in the gulch that leads to Hell's Chasm, and to make matters harder,
it's spring. We could run headlong into the fire and claws of a mated pair
nesting a clutch.'
Mykkael tossed her an insouciant smile, as
much to shake off the pervasive gloom of his doubts. 'Princess, if I can't
defend you against a few kerries, my war-hardened skills aren't going to matter
against the shape-changed get of a demon. Do you swim?'
'Oh, yes.' Her smile held the spontaneous
fire of her indefatigable spirit. 'But only in private, and in the douce
company of four attired maidservants.'
Mykkael laughed. 'My stark-naked sword
blade will have to suffice to vouchsafe the lapse in propriety.'
'Better surety than the women, since the
indolent creatures invariably used to fall asleep. Shai and I could have
invited the stableboys. Once, to flout the rules, we nearly did.'
A steel shoe rang out in dissonance as the
black gelding slipped. Mykkael gave on the rein, his reaction pure reflex.
'What held you to prudence, your Grace?'
Anja regarded him, her green eyes turned
shrewd. An animate mischief suffused her flushed face by the starlit gleam off
the ice fields. 'Taskin must have overheard the whispers in the tilt yard. I
don't think it was coincidence he dropped his comment in my presence, that he
hated to be forced to the task of whipping mere boys caught making lewd eyes at
a princess.'
They had been brash adolescents, children
who could have been scarred for life through the foolish play of two girls who
lured them on by the heat of raw instincts. 'Shai and I had no intention of any
serious misbehaviour,' the Princess of Sessalie admitted. 'Our prank was meant
to give Lady Phail a livid fit, and I saw the horrid truth, that we would have
used the stableboys as game pieces.' Even now, remorse showed in the wry set to
her shoulders. 'That was the first time I was made to recognize that servants
were people with feelings.'
'An
apology, Princess, for the constraints of my station? Or is this some
backhanded diplomat's warning to salve the inevitable bruises to my dignity?'
Mykkael bridled at the insult, his carriage hackled stiff. 'What kind of an
upbringing do you think I had, to require that high-handed slap on the wrist?'
She grinned broadly, the witch. 'How
delightful to find the breathing man underneath the impervious swordsman. I
would rather hear you talk without the provocation. What sort of snob do you
think I am, Captain, to accept a
protection that might come to cost your
life as nothing else but my royal due?'
The strike caught him blindsided. Left
speechless, and strangely touched in the heart, Mykkael shook his head.
'Mehigrannia have mercy,' he murmured the moment he managed recovery. 'What
under the nine names of hell have I done to deserve your vicious wit? Perhaps I
set too high a value on privacy?'
'If you do, it wasn't preference,' Princess
Anja replied. 'Sessalie has treated you like a pariah, and such solitude has
marked you with sorrow.'
That bold statement closed him like a
netted clam. He clamped his heels and urged the black gelding ahead, his face
set against the blast of the wind, until the cold burned his ears to red agony.
They crossed over the ridge crest. He led, wrapped in silence. Only as the
horses descended the back slope into a sheltered stand of pine, did the
stinging surprise of the princess's onslaught relent. By then, the jab to his
pride had cooled down enough. Mykkael could ponder her words without setting
his teeth. Good-natured and something beyond rueful, he realized just how
cleverly the royal minx had played him away from concern for her threatened
welfare. He recalled he had been sounding her fears, and rejected her shameless
deterrent.
As the horses wound through the
storm-stunted firs, he offered truce, but not capitulation. 'Princess, if you
want to dig up my history for diversion, that's demeaning.'
She grinned back with a candour fit to
wrench a man to the soul. 'Only if you see me as Isendon's daughter. I'm a
human being, first, a blood princess second, and a gently raised woman last of
all. Please call me Anja. I would have my life unencumbered by formalities that
don't have any meaning out of court.'
'Princess,' Mykkael said in gentle
remonstrance, 'when have I given you less than your due as a human being first
of all?'
He had done far more. The shaming force of
his honesty threatened her with sympathy, and worse: his evident quality cried
out to her need for close friendship. The isolation she saw in his outsider's
face was in fact the reflection of her own secret loneliness. Too resilient for
self-pity, Anja laughed at the trap she had spun for herself. 'A rotten
influence, to be born royal. There are too many times when perception gets
turned by the surfeit of admiring flattery.'
'That's hedging, Princess. If you're
afraid, then be afraid,' Mykkael
snapped with clipped force. 'If you're going to quit pretending, do it now and
spare me the anguish.' Hardened by the awareness he could not grant her shelter
by tempering his disclosures, he aimed his dart well, and struck. 'Don't make
me second-guess the state of your mind. The distraction is a hindrance that
could make or break the long odds of securing your survival.'
She stared at him, shuddered, then curled
up on the neck of her mare and started uncontrollably shaking. 'No one has ever
lived through Hell's Chasm!'
This time, the ambush worked: her ragged
terror burst through her tight barriers. As the onslaught of weeping stormed
her reserves, he realized her bravery exceeded his first assessment: somehow, at some point, she had guessed
that Howduin Gulch was not going to pose a safe option. Her intelligence
was sharp enough to cut, which posed him a snagging difficulty. Given the
arduous terrain lying ahead, too bright an imagination could break the active
mind with overpowering dread.
The scope of his charge dwarfed all of his
skills, left him humbled to rage for his helplessness. As a human being, first,
the young woman on the chestnut mare was a treasure more than worth every
sacrifice.
Mykkael let her savage anxiety wear down
through the fiercely let salt of her tears. After a while, he laid a hand on
her back, offering warmth and shared comfort. 'It's a very short step to arrive
at a solution,' he said when Anja ran dry and stirred. She rallied quickly, her
mind clear once again. The restored tilt to her chin bespoke a new
determination to recover her plundered freedom.
When her wan smile resurged, the captain
obliged and removed his tacit touch. 'We'll just have to become the first fools
who live to blaze the trail.'
Pale gold wisps of hair snagged out of her
braid streamed in the gusts off the heights. For one moment, in fast silence,
Anja surveyed his immovable calm. 'You're not afraid, Mykkael?'
He owed her the truth. 'Not of the hazards
that lie in Hell's Chasm.' For the sorcerer who pursued them with two
shape-changed minions, she would see soon enough: the fear in him outstripped
all words.
With that wrenchingly difficult turning
behind, and the rock ridge that arose to the Howduin Gulch glacier dropping
away at their back, the terrain for a while became easier. The horses made
speed through a wracked stand of fir, and the gusts wore the fragrance of
resin. The wheeling stars turned halfway between midnight and dawn.
Anja requested the chance to pause for the
horses to rest and feed. Mykkael gently refused her. 'For your safety,
Princess, we should not dismount.' Here, the harsh footing lay softened under
thin soil and drifts of dead needles. They might have no better opportunity to
make speed. The demonic creature the sorcerer had set on their trail would
overtake their position. To be caught unprepared would bring them to certain
disaster.
Therefore they wended their way downwards,
into the bowl of the valley beneath the wild, raked rock of the heights. The
massive glacier glimmered above them, a towering rickle of groaning ice that
spilled into a jewel-toned lake. The sere ground grew a scatter of mosses and
fern, stabbed through by spindled fir trees. Beyond the lake, the roaring flood
of spring snowmelt carved the channel that plunged like a crack in the world,
and framed the massive ravine of Hell's Chasm.
Although the easier path ran along the
packed gravel shore, the riders made their way on the slope, under the thin
cover of evergreens. Though the ermine that inhabited the forested vale were
too small to draw hunting kerries, horses or strayed cattle posed a
warm-blooded attraction. The great predators occasionally visited to roll in
the ice. The glacier above showed their carved wallows, where they scoured off
the parasites that burrowed into their ruff coats and nipped between their
lapped armour of scales.
The horses made steady time in staged
intervals at trot and walk, with Benj's hound limping alongside. As they
traversed the rim of the lake, Mykkael was forced, once again, to admire their
superb condition. Hard as he pressed them, they moved without flagging. Even in
the thin air of the heights, they recovered their spent wind quickly. He noted
their individual strengths and watched Anja counter their weaknesses. He marked
them, each one, to glean deeper insight into her character, and also to know
the hearts of the animals, whose tough sinew and courage must play their pari
to sustain a kingdom beset by dire peril.
Whoever had paired them had chosen well,
the playful, inquisitive buckskin matched with delicate Covette, whose fiery
nature restrained his rough teasing with tail lashes and flattened ears. Anja
allowed her mount free rein to chastise her boisterous teammate. Whenever the
posturing progressed to bared teeth, or a kick, a spoken reprimand curtailed
the antics.
On the paired lead rope, trailing, Vashni's
studdish bullying was balanced by Fouzette, a northern-bred mare with a sturdy
frame and stoic patience that bordered on laziness. She wasted no move, planted
each solid step with no-nonsense efficiency. What she lacked in grace, she made
up for in broad-chested power and deep heartgirth, and a fitness like forged
iron nails.
Stormfront had won Mykkael's admiration
from the first snatched glimpse of a witch thought. When the gelding was not
being pestered by his partnered mare's nipping head butts, he had the habit of
peering behind, as though to size up his rider. Taken by his soft, round eye,
and his odd, little satisfied snort as he faced front each time, Mykkael
stroked his neck with appreciative fingers.
Anja noticed. 'You like that horse well, I
see that much.'
The captain turned his head, his quick
smile there and gone in the darkness. 'Who could resist?' Through the light
talk, he kept his trained faculties tuned into ruthless focus. No rustle of
wind through the boughs missed his notice, no snapped twig, and no scattered
fragment of gravel. 'He's superb.'
The princess's reply held a hint of pure
wickedness. 'Not to most men, he's not. In fact, he's got a widespread
reputation for dumping puffed-up braggarts.'
Mykkael raised his eyebrows. 'Is that so?'
Anja nodded. 'You don't hang on his reins.
Try that, you'll find out. Stormfront doesn't like brazen authority.'
'Do you ever for a minute stop testing a
man?' Mykkael tipped up his face, his glance sweeping the open sky, and marking
the turn of the stars. The tension behind his relentless vigilance could not
help but set her on edge.
For of course, she had noticed the slope
became steeper and rockier with each passing stride. Her response belied the
gnaw of her doubts. 'Are you asking the woman or the Princess of Sessalie?'
'Both, of course.' A chill raked his skin.
His move masked from view, Mykkael tested the strung tension on the bow slung
over his shoulder.
'Then the answer is, seldom. Do men always
measure themselves against power? Behind me stands the weal of a kingdom. Although
I don't bear the burden of crown rule, I am seen as a figure attached to
authority.' Anja stared forward, where the black fringe of the wood melded into
the shadowed walls that narrowed into the impassable cleft. The lakeshore now
wore slight ripples of current, with the throaty, distant boom of rushed water
reflected off vertical cliffs. Her whispered appeal seemed a prayer to the
brute elements. 'I have to survive this.'
'For the chance to gallop horses through
the meadows to pick wildflowers, and wear bracelets that sing with small bells,
and not least, for the passion you bring to your verses of poetry.' When she
glanced at him, startled, the captain added, 'That's what I saw in your
portrait, your Grace.'
In daylight, perhaps, her rush of embarrassment
might have raised her fair skin to a flush. 'Has anyone said that you see far
too much?'
'Not in my life as a mercenary.' The
crawling chill that brushed over his senses ripped up a ruffle of gooseflesh.
Mykkael urged the black gelding to a brisk trot, not liking the fact that the
horses' steel shoes struck stray sparks off the flint-bearing rock. That
moment, any small detail that might draw attention cranked his instincts to
shrilling unease.
Anja spurred her pert chestnut. Well
drilled to the lead rein, the other pairs followed without lagging. Perhaps
drawing comfort from conversation, the princess picked up on the subtlety. Then
you weren't a born recruit?'
'No.' Mykkael cast a tense glance over his
shoulder; saw nothing but fir trees and pale stone. 'Your questions are better
off held until later.' Pitched to the verge of barqui'ino reflex, he gave way to the cry of his primal hunch and
unslung the bow from his shoulder. 'Watch for kerries.'
'Not the winged fetch of the demon?' The
princess shortened the lead rein, drawing her horses in close.
Mykkael snapped off a negative headshake.
'Not yet, we can hope. My wardings aren't roused.' He measured her distance,
and gained the insight that she undoubtedly understood archery. Her due care
not to jostle the black gelding's balance meant she had ridden with huntsmen,
or else had some skill at the butts.
He ventured the question. 'How well can you
shoot?' Stormfront answered his heels, leaped over a gully, then shouldered
through a stand of young aspen, ever closer to the gap where the coiling black
current funnelled into the glacial lake's outflow.
'Provided the bow isn't over my strength?'
Anja followed him, rattling over the loose pebbles piled up by the pressure of
last winter's ice. 'I usually hit what I aim at, but then, bagging hare for
some villager's table, one's hand doesn't usually shake.'
'Stick with the skinning knife, then. A
small blade can be used to disable a talon. Cut the tendon at the back, just
under the claw sheath. That's the best way to release any monster's clamped
grip. Strike for the eye if you're bitten.'
The princess met his matter-of-fact
instruction with an unnerved exclamation.
'You've fought kerries before this?'
'No.' But he had twice killed a roc in the
caldera of the Vhael Wastes, and once driven off a king dragon bent on stalking
the drovers who worked his supply train through Tirrage.
He had no chance to explain his experience.
The next moment, a black shadow occluded the stars, to a whistle of sliced air
off spread wings. If the kerrie had come to preen in the glacier, the rich,
sweaty scent of Anja's six horses posed a morsel too tempting to pass up. The
creature banked sharply, its tasselled tail streaming, and sleek feline
hindquarters tucked under golden-shagged flanks. No question, the creature was
hunting, its taloned fore-claws raked to extension.
'This way!' Mykkael shouted, driving
Stormfront ahead through the thick stands of saplings lining the lakefront.
While riders and horses crashed through the
greenwood, the kerrie swooped down in pursuit. Glimpsed through the treetops,
the monster came on, its neck thickly maned and its lean belly armoured with
scales. No ready target presented itself to the defending archer. The plate-sized
orb of the beast's slitted eye was cased in a hardened, clear membrane,
shielding its vision from the blasting, cold air, and the sparks trailing back
from its horn-rimmed nostrils. The wind blew sour with the trace scent of
sulphur from the fire sacs under its jowls. If it chose to spew, the volatile
fluids it belched would vent flame from its razor-sharp beak.
Kerries by nature preferred to feed, raw.
Yet if the creature that rushed down on wing-leather sails and bronze pinions
could not stoop and strike through the branches, it would scorch its prey on
the run, then land at leisure and gnaw on the charred meat of the carcasses.
Cursing for the bitter necessity, Mykkael
grasped the black's mane, left-handed. The bow hung from his wrist, a slapping
distraction that hampered the gelding's shoulder. He had to work fast, or risk
breaking the weapon, as he leaned from Stormfront's back. Pressed to a flat
gallop, he ripped the lead rein securing the last pair of horses from Anja's
clenched fist.
'No! Powers have mercy!' She snatched at
him, furious.
'Princess! We have to! Just ride!'
She reined her mare sideways, enraged fit
to kill. 'Captain, please, no!'
Her cry of betrayal scored his heart like
cold iron, but did not deter his intent. Too late for recovery, the sacrificed
horses swerved away from their bunched fellows. Mykkael shouted. He drove the
loosed animals leftwards and down, towards the open expanse of the lakeshore.
The volatile grey Vashni pounded away,
dragging the less than willing Fouzette on the impetus of his hazed panic. Both
horses galloped. They had worked in the bridle, matched together, for months.
Fully extended, their powerful strides drove them over the rough ground, their
cheek-by-jowl heads snorting trailed plumes of steamed breath.
Offered an unencumbered target, the
marauding kerrie clapped down its wings and veered in bloodthirsty pursuit.
Mykkael dropped his makeshift rein. He snatched
up the bow, yanked an arrow out of the jouncing quiver. To Anja, he shouted,
'Play them! Like wickets! Use their minds!'
Her face changed. She responded, and pealed
out the voice cue for the halt. Then, wrung white with desperate hope, she
repeated the command, louder. She hung every shred of her will on the call,
that the horses' schooling might override their terror-stricken instinct to
bolt.
Blessed Fouzette dropped on to her
haunches, a sliding stop made at punishing speed. The sudden jerk caught Vashni
short on his lead rein. He spun sideways, wrenched out of stride, while the
kerrie whisked over his grey crest and missed its aimed strike. The killing,
bared talons slammed into bare ground. Feathers slapped up loose stones,
rattling through a bone-chilling bellow of rage.
'Jee!' shouted Anja. 'Jee! Now!' Tears
streamed down her face, pride and grief mingled as she watched her magnificent
horses dare the murderous predator that spun in recoiling fury to rend them.
They answered, wheeled right, Vashni's mad
scramble fought into breathtaking recovery. Ears back for the shame of missing
his first prompt, he threw his heart into the game he had trained for, one that
tested the limits of agility and obedience, with the prize of this match stark
survival. As Fouzette reached her rhythm, the grey gelding blended his powerful
stride into unison. He hurtled down the lakeshore, paired stride for stride
with his sturdy, dependable teammate - as he had through countless afternoons
in Gurley's back meadow, yoked to the mare by the arch of a wicket hoop,
attached to their tandem harness. Fiery grey gelding and northern-bred bay,
they poured out their hearts to lead the grand chase, as though they charged in
safety over the greensward, opposed by a third horse and rider contending to
snatch the target prize looped in the wicket sling.
Mykkael had his strung arrow sighted. Yet
no opening for a clear shot presented as the kerrie sprang aloft and arrowed
into thunderous, flapping pursuit. Air slapped off its vast, pumping wings and
pounded gusts through the verge of the aspens. Such roiling wind would drive
any arrow awry, even had the monster's scaled underpays granted a target for an
archer taking aim through dense trees, from the back of a galloping horse.
'Wheel them again!' he told Anja,
breathless. 'That kerrie can't turn with anything near your horses' agility.'
Anja's cry rang out clear and steady over
the clatter of hooves. 'Haw! Haw, now!'
Bay mare and grey gelding dropped on to
their hocks like paired dancers, the more agile Vashni digging into his
counterstride on the outside, anchored by Fouzette's solid pivot. Again, the
kerrie overshot. As its thrashing wings rose to brake, Mykkael snatched his
moment and released.
His arrow arched out, clipped a twig, and glanced
left.
Yet he had not waited to score his first
effort. His next arrow was already nocked and drawn. The bow sang again before
the first shaft dropped, clattering, amid the bare stone by the lakebed. The
second shot did not go awry, but still missed the vulnerable moment of the
kerrie's fullest extension. It caught the creature's right wing through the
down-sweep, and lodged deep in the tissue between joints. If not a kill, the
missile would hamper. The sting as the point tore through working flesh caused
the enraged monster to spew molten fire.
'Go! Go! Go!' pealed Anja, exhorting her
horses to gallop.
'Bring them back!' Mykkael ordered. 'Turn
them under the trees if you can.'
This time, she gave him her trust without
question. 'Jee! Vashni, Fouzette, here to me! To me!'
They responded, manes flying, and nostrils
distended to show the red flare of the linings. The kerrie descended hard on
their streaming tails, its lamed wing scarcely posing a hindrance.
'Too far out. They're going to be hit,'
said Mykkael. 'Use your commands, try to dodge and win clear.'
'Whoa! Fouzette, Vashni, Whoa!' Anja halted the team, swerved
them once, then twice, forcing the kerrie to fly wrenching manoeuvres to keep
pace with their drilled coordination. The arrow-shot wing suffered under the
strain. A spreading flood of scarlet now stained the bronze feathers on the
underside of the tendons. As the horses spun again, Anja called. Their flat run
veered upslope, as the captain required, then stayed on straight course for the
treeline.
Now, the kerrie's driving strokes in
pursuit showed a ragged, uneven rhythm.
'Oh, well done, Princess!' Mykkael reined
up short. He nocked another arrow. While Stormfront stood in quivering
obedience underneath him, he pulled the bow to full draw for the shot that
would save, or the miss that was going to leave them burned meat in the beak of
a merciless predator.
There, Mykkael held. Though his scourged
back stung like vengeance, he tracked his aim through the dark lattice of
branches. He held, as the teamed horses came pounding in; held as the kerrie
swooped upwards to clear the wind-ravelled edge of the wood.
He released, point-blank. His arrow
launched out, hissing, and thudded into the soft ventral muscle at the root of
the monster's tail. Mykkael caught up his dropped rein, stabbed in his heels to
roust the black gelding to flight. 'Turn!' He slapped the princess's mare,
merciless in his need to get her away. 'Run!'
Anja slammed her mount into a tight
pirouette, her cry for the horses milling in wild-eyed confusion beside her.
'Jee! Jee!' Exhorting, she urged the two still on lead ropes to move into pace
with her mount. Running, now, her desert-bred chestnut pounding hard after
Stormfront's lead, she threaded her reckless, galloping course through the
thinning stand of aspen. Shouting, she summoned the loose bay mare and grey
gelding pelting under the trees. 'Fouzette! Vashni! Haw! Haw now! To me!'
The frantic team swerved, caught their lead
rein short on a sapling, just as the kerrie, squalling in mortal pain, crashed
into the treetops over their heads.
'Go! Go! Go!' shrilled Anja. 'To me!
Fouzette, Vashni, to me!'
As one horse, the pair reared. They ripped
clear of obstruction, staggered on scrambling legs, then regained their shared
balance and bolted.
'To me! To me! To me!' Anja's encouragement
sawed through the crackle as the downed kerrie hurled fire, and exploded the
saplings in conflagration.
Her horses responded, pounding in lathered
terror through flaming boughs, and a white fall of cinders. Tails singed, hides
scored and stinging, they galloped headlong after their guided companions.
Mykkael weighed the risk, turned them out
of the wood. He swung right by the water, then whipped the small herd in a
clattering dash down the packed gravel fronting the lakeshore. When Anja cried
out, begging respite, he touched the rein, then angled Stormfront's long stride
just behind her mare's streaming tail.
'Fly, Princess!' he exhorted her. 'Keep
your horses together. Make for the head of the chasm. We can't stop, now. The
kerrie is down, but a demon's minion flies the ridge just behind it. If we're
not under shelter before it arrives, it will slaughter your brave teams on the
run.'
Mykkael must have seen Fouzette's limp
before they forded the freshet. until then, the mare's high-spirited excitement
had masked the onset of pain. The blood streaming from the gash on her left
pastern had been hidden by her dark stocking. When she emerged on the far bank,
hobbling three-legged, Anja noticed the ripped flap of skin, opened almost to
the bone.
Her cry of dismay met Mykkael's deadpan
calm. 'She and Vashni saved your life, Princess. I promise we'll do all we can
for her.'
'What she needs is a lengthy soak in this
stream. Cold water will keep down the swelling.' All but frantic to attend to
the damage, Anja surged to dismount.
Her move was caught short by the captain's
firm clasp on her forearm. 'No, Princess! Stay mounted. This place is unsafe.
Your mare's wound won't swell as long as she's moving, and we can't make speed
over this rough terrain, anyway.'
The princess resisted him, anguished. 'For
mercy, Captain.' Her plea echoed off the rock cliffs, and rebounded through the
tumble of rushing water. 'She's in terrible pain!'
Yet Mykkael remained adamant. 'The faster
we reach shelter, the sooner we can take steps to ease her.' He glanced over
his shoulder, and scanned the black shore of the lake left behind, past the cut
leading into the chasm. He saw no sign of Benj's best hound; had not, since the
kerrie descended. The fires kindled by the monster's death throes stippled the
basin in copper, beneath a star-scattered sky that stayed empty. The looming
ice of the Howduin glaciers, and the snagged profiles of corniced peaks showed
no trace of moving pursuit. If the shaman's mark on his sword hilt stayed mute,
the sign gave him no reassurance. Mykkael's instincts remained nettled, as
though the sorcerer's minion made a game of the hunt, lurking just outside range
of his wards.
The streamlet where they had paused to
regroup raced between the moss-capped boulders of a dell. Here, the vertical
rise of the rim wall offered no cover, and no haven to stand off attack.
Mykkael stood by his initial decision. 'A
pause in this place could cost us our lives. Princess, that injury has laid
tendon sheaths bare. Fouzette's leg will stiffen, the longer we linger. I have
seen enough suffering on campaigns to know she has no better choice but to bear
up and go onwards.'
He spoke sound sense. She knew this. The
streamlet's surrounds left no margin for flight. Another attempt by a hunting
kerrie would end in bloodletting disaster. Mykkael clung to the rags of his
patience. Orannia's straits had taught him too well that the heart could not
always be reconciled with the brutal demands of necessity.
Soon enough, Princess Anja relented. The
anger as she shook off his grasp reflected sore grief, and the wear of
remorseless exhaustion. They pressed ahead to the stagger of Fouzette's lamed
stride, and passed into the ever deepening gloom as the high rock of the gulch
swallowed the sky on both sides. To the left, the black swirl of the current
acquired white snags, torn by the jut of obstructing stones, and the crabbed
limbs of wedged deadfalls.
The gusts that ripped down through the
notch wore a fine spray of moisture, loud with the swelling thunder of unseen
falls and leaping rapids. Guano streaked the overhead cliffs, where kerries had
perched to dry out soaked wings, or seek nesting cracks in the ledges.
Again, Mykkael measured the turn of the
stars. Perhaps two hours remained before dawn. Daylight would bring a small
measure of reprieve, since kerries preferred feeding at night. The minions of
demons also disliked strong light. Although they could fare abroad after
sunrise, their senses were sharpest in twilight and darkness. The air and earth
ties that channelled a sorcerer's long spell weakened as well, under the fire-sign
influence of the sun. The assault he expected was most likely to strike before
daybreak.
Mykkael scoured the gulch for a likely cave
or deep crevice. If he could find a defensible site, he might widen his
options, even waylay hell's minion, and trap it.
Anja broke the strung silence between them.
At first, he thought she spoke out to redress the upset caused by Fouzette's
laboured breathing. When the rush of the water forced her to speak louder, he
realized just what direct question
she asked of him.
'How bad is the injury to your back,
Captain?'
Taskin's three stripes; blinding glory, how
was he to explain that self-evident mark of chastisement? Or the scars
underneath, brutal remnant of a more punishing ordeal, that his last campaign
officer had taken amiss, not believing his account of the truth? Mykkael faced
straight ahead, made aware of the sting that should have warned him Jussoud's
dressings had torn through from the rigours of pulling the bow.
'Fouzette can still walk. My archery's dead
accurate. What I call a scratch does not signify until my fighting strength is
impaired.' She opened her mouth; he cut her off. 'Not your business, your Grace, unless I can't defend you.
Which is obviously far from the case.'
His phrasing carried a shade too much vehemence.
Too late, Mykkael saw the clamped set to her jaw. His misjudgement had happened
because he was tired, and hurting, she
saw that much, too clearly. The lapse on his part only made him more
slit-eyed and furious.
'How you hate it when somebody takes notice
of you,' Anja observed at due length.
Revenge for the mare, Mykkael could but
hope, or the acid-drawn prod of sheer boredom. He happened to be the sole
target at hand to field her inquisitive interest.
Since her keen innuendo could force a response, he snatched at the shallow retreat. 'In my
trade, the man who was noticed became the most likely enemy target. I don't
like being shot at, with arrows or words.'
'I was not attacking,' said Anja,
nonplussed. 'If my value is more in the world than a princess, then yours goes
beyond being a soldier.'
'Does it?' Mykkael grinned. 'I've never
been hired, except for my sword.'
She refused his insouciance. 'Yes, but who
are you, beneath the trappings of your profession?'
He stonewalled her. 'A mercenary.'
'Who do you become, when you lay down your
weapons?' She ducked a sprung branch, undaunted, still caring. 'Has no one but
family ever loved you?'
He grinned the more broadly. This time well
warned, and foreknowing his mistake, he dismissed her kindly meant overture.
'You'll have to see whether I talk in my sleep.'
The sorry truth lay too close to the bone:
that his quarters in the keep contained only a cot, a trestle and stool, and
one simple box of belongings. His Lowergate officers all knew that he slept
with his hand on his sword grip. Not being Anja, they had never made comment on
behaviour more suited to a hunted fugitive, or a man pursued by the pain of an
active tragedy. He had no wish to dredge up the ghastly details. The Princess
of Sessalie was not Jussoud, with a brother's blood kinship that tied family
honour to the facts of Orannia's misfortune.
'Coward.' said Anja, the accusation served
after a ruthlessly measuring pause.
Had she not been a princess under threat of
cold sorcery, Mykkael would have laughed for the irony: of all the insults she
might have tried, that one alone could not touch him. While silence was his
preferred response, he could not afford the blind self-indulgence of risking
her slightest contempt; not when the matter of her survival relied on her trust
in his resources.
He inclined his head, deferential, and not
smiling. 'Your Grace.'
'Blinding powers of daylight, Captain!' In
darkness, her flush could be felt, and her fury.
Yet whatever else Anja intended to say, Mykkael
pressed Stormfront ahead. Throughout the next hour, he presented her with the
unflinching dignity of his back.
In that fashion, they rode down the throat
of Hell's Chasm. The low ground of the ravine wended deeper into the narrowing
channel carved out by scouring whitewater. The footing turned slippery, then
treacherous. At each crook and turning, the bared shelves of the ledges grew
shagged with moss. Although the crest of the spring melt had passed, the thrash
of the cataract was deafening. The inexhaustible race of white foam misted the
air with flung spray. That unending barrage of splashed moisture combined with
the funnelled rush of the wind. Mounts and riders alike suffered the
bone-hurting cold. Tails tucked, shoulders hunched, they plodded in silenced
misery. The horses picked their way in single file, often sliding over the
loose wrack hurled down in the spate of the thaws. The rock cleft reared up and
towered on both sides, heaped at the base with smashed stone and split trees
that had crumbled off the high rim wall.
Since the cavalcade moved more slowly than
a human on foot, Mykkael slipped off Stormfront and signalled the princess to
dismount. The piled boulders made punishing work for his knee. He had to lead
each stride with his good leg, at the risk of turning an ankle. The encumbrance
of the terrain gave him cold sweats, alongside the incongruous fact that the sorcerer's minion
withheld from attack.
He chafed for the unease.
Such restraint made no sense, with the
woman under his charge and six straggling horses forced to a tactical
standstill. Mykkael fretted over the unfavourable odds, too well versed not to
worry. No enemy ceded ground to no purpose. At each turn, he expected the trap
that would set the final seal on their doom.
The crawling pace wracked his taut nerves,
until, almost, Mykkael would have welcomed the whine of roused wards in the
sword strapped over his back.
No such raised warning disturbed him. His
limp degenerated to a lurching hobble, until he had to cling to Stormfront's
mane to stay upright. Another league would bring his collapse, if he failed to
find secure respite. The roar of the watercourse grew steadily louder, dire
warning of worse ground ahead.
'We need to stop soon,' Anja called at
last. Not for her own sake: the bay mare, Fouzette, was visibly flagging,
dropped back from the rear of the column.
Mykkael nodded, distressed by the thought
that they might have to snatch rest in the open. He was too spent to stand a
reliable watch. That quandary posed a disastrous peril. To fall asleep without
shelter, day or night, was to invite certain death. He wrestled the despair of
outright defeat, when a crook in the chasm opened ahead. There, he found the
site he had hoped for: the dark mouth of a cavern cut into the cliff wall, too
low to be of interest to kerries, and with footing the horses could manage
without stumbling.
He led them in, too exhausted to muster the
grace of diplomacy as he enacted precautions to make sure of the ground.
Keeping the princess and all of her horses inside the close range of his
wardings, he explored by the light of a flaming, dry branch. The place was
scarcely hospitable, strewn with brackish puddles and cobwebs. The only dry
crannies were fragrantly sprayed, or else fouled by fish-eating muskrats.
Anja met Mykkael's anxious glance with a
smile worn thin by fatigue. 'I can sweep out the animal droppings, and chase a
few nesting spiders, but Fouzette's cut leg must come first.'
'I'll help tend your mare the moment I'm
sure no sorcerer's minion has visited this place before us.' Mykkael passed
over the lead holding Stormfront and Kasminna, shocked to discover the chill in
her fumbling hand. The princess had endured uncomplaining for hours. Doubtless
she had been frozen since the last stop at the spring. 'Stay behind me, your
Grace.'
No help for the fact she must wait a bit
longer before her discomfort could be redressed. Remiss for his failure, since
the hazard of cold might fatally dull her reactions, Mykkael shed his surcoat
and bundled the cloth over her shoulders forthwith. Then he moved ahead with
drawn sword, the crude brand raised overhead. Back turned, all business, he
began a meticulous inspection of the cavern's rock walls.
Every petty distraction was cast aside.
Using all five senses, and sounding the well of deep instinct, the captain
sustained his acute concentration until he was satisfied the place held no
watchers, and no trace of a sorcerer's mark.
The princess's dumbstruck silence passed
unnoticed until after Mykkael stood down. The cause raised dismay. For of
course, the torchlight betrayed him. If a scatter of bloodstains had seeped
through his surcoat, his shirt and jerkin must display graphic evidence
concerning the state of his back. 'Let's have a small fire,' he suggested, flat
crisp.
Anja stared at him, wide-eyed.
'Your mare's leg?' Mykkael reminded her,
hoping the intensity of her regard was evoked by the brand, which also provided
her first clear-cut view of his desert-bred features.
'Fouzette. Yes.' Anja turned away, brisk.
She helped him unfasten lead ropes, then watched in stout silence as he tied
makeshift hobbles beneath the horses' front fetlocks.
'Sit,' he insisted. 'I'll care for
Fouzette.'
For blessing, the princess was tired enough
to obey him without foolish protest.
The cavern had driftwood, wedged in the
cracks. Mykkael worked with the speed of a man who had foraged on the run,
inside enemy territory. He gathered kindling and laid a discreet, smokeless
blaze just inside the narrow entry. Although the mare's injury was no pleasant
sight, he had tended worse. He used his sharp dagger, cut away the flap of torn
skin, then mixed a dilute dose of his dart poison in warm water. The infusion
numbed the exposed gash as he cleansed the dirt and stuck gravel. The contusion
had most likely been caused by Vashni's trampling shoe. Bruising had made the
mare lame, not direct damage to the ligaments and tendons exposed beneath the
stripped flesh.
Anja helped bind the wound with a compress
soaked in ice water drawn from the cataract. Relief coloured her voice as she
secured the bandage, torn off the hem of the captain's surcoat. 'Brave
Fouzette. She never once faltered. I expect she'll pull through with no worse
than a scar, if we can hold down the infection.'
Mykkael said nothing. The suppressed quaver
in the princess's tone showed that she knew well enough: a horse with a ripped
leg would more likely be kerrie bait, in the course of their flight through
Hell's Chasm. What else a mare with the blood-scent of a wound might become, he
prayed Sessalie's princess might never find out. The wise course was to make an
end of the problem, and let the carcass be washed far downstream.
Yet he could not embrace that grim
proposition. More than Anja's sentiment stayed his hand from the sword. Mykkael
had never practised the thoughtless habit of using dumb beasts for convenience.
Perhaps as a remnant of his tribal ancestry, he could not bring himself to
destroy Fouzette's courage, which had saved both their lives in the breach.
'Rest,' he told Anja. 'I'll rub down the
horses and fix something to eat.'
She rejected the suggestion, would have
none of his solicitude, though in practical fact, the condition of the animals
was of vital importance to his charge of defending her safety. She insisted he
accompany her outside to stand guard, while she gathered the razor-edged marsh
grass that grew at the verge of the gulch. Anja proceeded to wind and braid two
stout wisps as competently as any stablehand. She handed him one, wordless, and
together, they set to, burnishing the crusted sweat from fine coats. The day's
exertion had come at high cost. Proud heads drooped with weariness. The staring
bones of ribs and hips bespoke the sorrowful lack of high-quality grazing. Mykkael
shared out the mixed grain with the animals, soaking his portion and Anja's
into a gruel that he warmed in a cloth sack, slung from a string dangled over
the fire.
The princess dozed where she sat, long
before the grain had cooked enough to consume. He woke her when the first
serving was ready, then watched like a hawk to see that she ate, and did not
succumb to misplaced pity and sneak the hot mash to her horses.
For himself, he withheld a share from his
ration, in case Benj's hound might come straggling in. Dalshie had not caught
up since the chase with the kerrie, a sore point he dared not pursue. Best, if
the dog had limped homewards. Far more likely, the chance she had fallen prey
to the shape-changer, killed as a casual meal. Worse, if she should be claimed
in possession, with her exceptional talent for tracking suborned as the tool of
the enemy.
As long as he could, the captain sat
wakeful, watching until the stars paled above the black maw of the chasm. Sleep
claimed him, inevitably, where he hunched beside the dying embers at the cave's
entry. Knowing his limits, he had taken precautions. The strung bow and quiver
of arrows lay beside him, and his unsheathed blade rested under his listening
hand. Since exhaustion would only impair his sound judgement and rob the keen
edge from his reflexes, he had no choice but rely on the shaman's ward in his
blade to stand guard. Its vibration could be trusted to rouse him if the
sorcerer's minion ranged close, or launched a surprise attack.
* * *
Mykkael woke to the mid-morning sun in his
eyes. He pushed himself erect, rubbed the crust from his lids, then winced to
the scream of stiff muscles. Movement roused the multiple complaint of his
wounds. He hissed through shut teeth, raked a searching glance over the dank
recess of the cavern. The disastrous discovery met his first sweep: only five
horses remained in the rock cleft.
The rambunctious buckskin, Bryajne, had
chewed the knots on his hobbles and strayed. Mykkael's warded sword would speak
warning for inbound demons; not for a horse stepping over him on an inquisitive
ramble outside.
Mykkael's soft-spoken swearing aroused
Princess Anja from sleep.
'What's wrong?' She stirred from her curled
refuge under his surcoat. Shoved erect, she flicked back wisps of tumbled hair
and blinked to clear puffy eyesight.
Mykkael did not answer, but reached for the
bow. He snatched an arrow from the quiver, set the nock to the string. With the
notched shaft locked in place with his forefinger, he squinted past the bright
fall of sunlight and into the shadowed ravine.
'Bryajne!' Anja's exclamation showed fond
exasperation as she tossed off rumpled cloth and arose. 'The clown! I should
have realized he would play the escape artist.'
She shouted the gelding's name, the cry
split into echoes between the high cliffs of the chasm.
The good-natured gelding answered her call.
Mykkael sighted the movement as the horse raised his head from a tough stand of
sedge a stone's throw down the throat of the chasm. He whinnied, ears pricked.
Content to abandon the unsavoury forage, he ambled upstream, no doubt expecting
the carrot he often received as a handout.
Mykkael let the horse come. His watchful
perception also encompassed the princess, who now approached his placed stance
from behind, to welcome in her errant favourite. Endearing despite his
bumptious head, the buckskin's sly antics could melt the hardest of hearts.
Against hope, Mykkael leashed back his dread. He permitted Anja's eager
advance, until necessity demanded precaution.
Before she could step past his guard at the
entry, he clamped her wrist in restraint. 'Stay behind me, Princess. You must.
That gelding has wandered outside the wardings, with no one awake to stand
guard.'
'I don't see a thing wrong with him,' Anja
insisted. 'The look in his eye is quite sane.'
'Your horse may be himself,' Mykkael
agreed. 'That does not mean he is untouched, or harmless.'
She was not convinced; lacked experience to
listen. Annoyed as her tug met his solid resistance, Anja whirled on him,
furious. He never learned how her balked temper might revile him. The gelding
had closed within fifteen yards, when the shaman's mark buzzed in his sword
hilt.
Mykkael shouted. He dropped his protective
grasp on her arm, raised the strung bow and hauled the nocked arrow to full
draw. His release followed, seamless. He took the horse down with a shot
through the neck, ripping through the great vein, then the artery just under
the hollow where the jaw lapped over the throatlatch.
Death caused by bleeding was not pretty or
quick. The buckskin horse staggered, screaming in shocked pain. His treble cry
sounded eerily human. He reared, lashing out and shaking his neck. His mane
snapped and flew to his panicked snorts, yet he could not dislodge the deeply
set arrow. His thrashing forced the shaft's point to tear through the thick
muscle, and finally, fatally, to entangle amid the interlocked bones of the
spine. Pressure disrupted the nerves sheathed inside. Bryajne lurched sideways,
his shining coat quivering. Within a few heartbeats, his splendid strength came
undone, reduced to a jerking spasm that pitched him headlong to his knees.
Anja's tormented outcry shattered across
the dying horse's wheezing shrieks. Heedless of danger, she bolted, determined
to reach the stricken animal's side.
Mykkael extended his good leg and tripped
her. She fell, weeping curses. Her palms ripped on cruel stone. He shoved her
flat, his handling ruthless as she fought to rise. When she did not subside, he
pinned her struggling shoulders on the explosion of barqui'ino reflex.
'Stay!' he gasped, breathless.
Her green eyes raked over him, stormed to
reasonless fury. She was not going to listen, not going meekly to stay put as
he asked, though his drawn sword came alive with the whine that signalled
desperate danger. Mykkael let Anja go, then raced ahead to reach the downed
gelding before her. He leaped over the shuddering horse, avoided the kicking
thrash of shod hooves. Poised by the wither, he thrust the blade in a stabbing
stroke through the crest just behind the buckskin's ears. The point pierced
through the back of the skull, ending the animal's suffering. What seizures
remained were the reflex of an expiring carcass.
'Anja, stay clear!' Mykkael knelt, his knee
jammed into the soaked, streaming neck. He flipped back the black mane, and
there, saw his dread fully realized.
Scribed on the hide, where the long hair
had masked sight, the sorcerer's minion had patterned his craftmark. The short
curse it carried was as virulent as anything the captain had witnessed in all
his dread years of experience.
Worse, the headstrong princess had reached
her slain horse. White with agony, she folded at Bryajne's head. His
blood-splattered muzzle gusted his last breath in the grip of her desperately
clenched arms.
'Bryajne! Bryajne!' Her grief unstrung
thought. All riven loss, the pain for her lost brother and her beloved suitor
became wrenched into razor-edged focus by the horse's violent passage.
Mykkael had no choice, and no time to win distance. The sword in his hand
shrilled to a harmonic peak: the craft-mark laid to entrap them had wakened.
Power welled up. An unstoppable force of demonic energy opened into the world
as the spell-framed gateway surged active. The blinding, first spark hurled Mykkael
beyond horror. He would have to shoulder the unspeakable risk, could do nothing else, now, except seek
to ground the balefires as they erupted.
He raised his stained blade, drove it down through the clay spiral inscribed
on the dead horse's neck. He rammed the steel through meat and bone until it
slammed with a grate against the stone slab underneath. Keeping one hand
clenched to the hilt, he reached, grabbed Anja's collar, yanked her up like a
doll and jerked her against his braced flank. He pinned her there with all of
his strength, unable to care if he bruised her.
Whatever she shouted, her words became
lost. The maelstrom arose, bloomed and brightened into a fountainhead of loosed
flame. The eruption reached resonance and became fully manifest, exploded like
an untamed, hot star, a shrieking, clawing,
rage of wrong forces that assaulted the unfurled net of his wardings. The
conflagration spun wild, then snatched short, balked in midstream from its
warped course of expansion. Mykkael fought to stay upright. Ripped by the very
whirlwinds of hell, he kept his hand locked on the sword. His left arm crushed
Anja, breathless, against him, while the song inlaid by the Sanouk shamans
collided headlong with the sorcerer's curse of destruction.
The tattooed geometry seared into his scalp
like etched acid, as the patterns laid down by two learned viziers aroused and
strove to match, then recarve the forces of chaos unleashed. Mykkael held on.
He clung to raw will, and to wailing, stressed metal, rocked half senseless as
the uprushing powers were routed, then rechannelled back through him. He became the sealed vessel of fire itself. Every
nerve, every born instinct of desert-bred heritage became torn into raging
turmoil. He felt pummelled to rags, as the cascade of turned energies poured
back down through the blade that transfixed the live craftmark. Solid ground
shook. Stones crashed from the rim walls as the traumatized earth received the
unnatural current and reclaimed its raw force in absorption.
Flame wrapped flesh and bone, a vicious
scourge that surged to escape the wire-strung ties of the wardings. Active
lines tangled with counter-spun patterns of guard, and plunged into vital
contention. The wise safeguards invoked by two disparate viziers and a circle
of initiate mystics sang out their peal of demand: to reseal the portal a
sorcerer had wedged open to tap the fell forces of the unseen.
Mykkael clung to Anja, held her fast, though
she struggled. Despite her shrill cries and her battering fists, he kept his
hold on the vibrating sword grip. Both of their lives were cast into the
breach. He must not give way, no matter how strongly his instincts shrilled
ruin. No matter how desperately helpless he felt, he must bridge the gap between sanity and horror. He must let
himself hang in trusting suspension above the abyss, while demonic powers
threatened to drag him down into the limitless void. The cold-cast awareness
abraded his will, that if the wards failed him, he would be lost, with Anja
taken along with him.
Through the clash of the elements, Mykkael
felt the sorcerer's purposeful groping. The ruthless, warped creature clawed,
seeking purchase, pressing the limit of his extended reach to capture a hold
upon Isendon's daughter.
That striving promised him limitless pain,
then an unending fury for the claim to her spirit, denied. Mykkael tasted a
hunger that savaged his mind, knew the voracious craving of an intelligence
that desired to waste his warm flesh, then chain the steadfast flame of his
being in torment for all of eternity. He howled in denial, refused the ending
of hope, pinned all the while by the crushing awareness that he was no more
than a moth set against the loosed blast of a gale.
Somewhere, everywhere, voices screamed
along with him: all the sorry, damned souls claimed in thrall by the sorcerer's
self-serving bargain. Bound to the insatiable demands of a demon, the warped
creature must continuously wrest living spirits away from their natural
mortality. Beyond lost, the sorcerer
knowingly enacted such evil to sate an awareness that played him, then his
minions, on puppet strings. Such power bought immortality in exchange for the
coin of immeasurable human suffering.
Mykkael fought despair. He had known
horrors, but none such as this: Devall had succumbed to worse than Rathtet. The sorcerer who bade for expansion through
Sessalie was ruled by a demon who craved the demise of all rivals. It planned
to defeat and consume its own brethren.
Mykkael sensed the vast forces that hounded
him, shaken to unimaginable terror. Orannia's madness had reflected the hideous
truth: that humanity's captive pain sourced a demon's inexhaustible strength.
Its hoard of trapped spirits and its rooted foothold on land determined the
scope of its dominance. This contender outmatched the rest for ambition; sought
a spell line that would circle the earth, then expand until every soul born to
woman became fodder to feed its ambition. Worse, the lines' origin did not begin here. Before this fair
world, this demon's shape-changing pawns had taken another; and after this
conquest, would reach between stars, seeking the next target to set under
attack.
Against the dread sorcerer who enabled this
demon's first foothold in Devall, one man's naked will seemed a cry of abject
futility.
Mykkael wept, for grief. He trembled, while
the storm raging through his marked sword blade bespoke the bared might of
Gorgenvain, whose name was the essence of fear itself, and whose reach cast a
terrible shadow across even the darkest realms of the unseen.
Then the short curse in the craft-mark
exhausted its limit. The maelstrom of uncanny fires snuffed out, leaving a
fair, sunlit morning marred across by the sickening taint of scorched meat. The
clay pattern inscribed on the animal's skin had finally failed, having consumed
its own substance. Bryajne's pierced neck had crisped to dry carbon where the
weapon had rechannelled the destructive charge downwards into the earth.
Shaking, Mykkael withdrew his silenced
steel. The blade slipped clear of papered ash without resistance. His palm was
not burned. Throughout, the shaman-marked steel had stayed cool. Bared weapon
in hand, he hauled Anja erect. She clung to him, limp, all the fight battered
out of her by the impact of numbing terror. He caught her chin, turned her
face, stared into her opened green eyes.
The pupils were black and distended. Tears
were caught in her lashes. Yet the blank features he surveyed with desperate
intensity showed him no worse than the stunned depth of her shock. He
encountered none of the mindless torment that had caused Orannia's madness.
Where Perincar's geometry had fallen short
under point-blank assault in Efandi, the resonant strength of the Sanouk song
line had guarded the breach, even through the rampaging onslaught of grounding
out a roused short curse.
A defender who found himself sorely beset
could stake fragile hope on such footing.
Mykkael shut his eyes. All but unstrung by
his shaken relief, he shouldered the princess's leaning weight. Though he felt
her shrink in recoil from him, he blessed that first sign of recovery. If she
hated him for ever for the arrow that had dispatched her luckless gelding, the
penalty held no meaning beside the triumph of breathing survival. The Princess
of Sessalie was alive; intact.
Her brave horse was dead.
For that sorrow, he had no words, and no
balm of false reassurance. He could not apologize for the ugly event her
sheltered young mind had just witnessed. A dangerous power had marked Isendon's
heirs for destruction. The fell threat it carried dwarfed human perception. Mykkael
swallowed, tasting the grit of bitter char. The trembling, raw aftermath struck
all at once. Alone in Hell's Chasm, his frail resource seemed insufficient to
stand foursquare in the breach.
'Princess,' he urged, his voice a scraped
whisper. 'Come on. Let's get you away before passing kerries swoop down to feed
on the carcass.'
The
shock of the disturbance rippling over the unseen was sensed by the grand
vizier's hired circle of shamans. They engaged a deep scrying, and uncovered
the pattern of a scourge whose signature did not match the nine demons whose
sorcerers walked abroad on the earth. Alarmed to encounter an unknown danger,
they pursued the source, but lost the dread line as it grounded. To the
emperor's capitol, they sent urgent word: a new peril stalked the cleft of
Hell's Chasm, that might threaten their far northern border . . .
Against the princess's vehement wish, mykkael
proceeded to skin the dead horse. he worked fast, watching the sky for
scavenging kerries. His methodical speed suggested he had done such grisly
tasks of necessity many times in his past.
Or so Anja thought, where she sat,
shuddering with nausea, deep inside the shaded cleft. She could not bear to
witness the finish, as the flies swarmed and sucked at the raw, exposed meat of
Bryajne's carcass.
Mykkael counted paces to ascertain the
range of his wardings, then knelt at a rock spring to wash his befouled hands.
Then, using field knowledge, he fashioned a bracing tea from the herbs he
stocked in his scrip. He brewed the restorative in a cone of hard leather cut
from his boot cuff, and heated the water by dropping in a hot pebble raked from
his tiny fire.
At his urging, Anja sipped the concoction. If
she was put off by the bitter taste, infused with the taint of boiled leather,
the tincture soothed her stomach and eased the wrenching sobs she had
stubbornly stifled to silence. She huddled, forlorn, in the shadow, while Mykkael
scraped the fresh hide, and the inevitable hungry kerrie descended to devour
the buckskin's remains.
Senses blunted by the warmth of full
sunlight, the creature did not scent the living animals jammed inside the cave,
but circled, cat-nervous and bugling. It landed at length, all shimmering
bronze muscle slung on the feathered vanes of its wings. It snuffled, blew fire
in riffling snorts, then sank its black talons into the dead horse's shoulder,
and clamped the hindquarters in the murderous grip of rear claws. It took to
the air, its prize clutched to its belly, to a gale wind of thunderous
flapping.
It left behind the rank stink of sulphur,
soon dispersed by the morning breeze. Where Bryajne had fallen, the stone
showed a seared ring of slag, and dried blood snagged with circling flies.
By then, Anja's revolted tears had burned
dry. She was not ready to move, yet. Mykkael did not press her, but stood silent
guard at the cleft, knife blade working over the green hide. He cleaned the
fat, then the hair, then rolled his handiwork into a bundle, lashed tight with
a peeled strip of sinew. After that, he sat with his marked fingers rested upon
the burnished steel of his weapon. He did not reproach his royal charge, or
attempt to console her sore grief. His tacit trust, that her feelings were
genuine, and not under his right to question, allowed her bruised dignity the
footing she needed to begin the first step towards recovery.
He had saved her life, at unimaginable
risk. That her horse should be mourned, and her privacy respected, bespoke an
unprepossessing resilience of character; or not. The warrior who had
slaughtered her hapless buckskin had launched his shaft with steel nerves, and
no heart. Anja measured his posture. From the place where she sat, she could
number the lines that exhaustion had scored into his rapacious features. Mykkael
was not untouched, she decided. He looked like a man who ached to the bone,
glass cast in the purview of solitude.
Curiosity as always outstripped her good
manners. In the end, she could not resist prodding. 'Did you ever visit the
Scoraign Wastes, or ride caravan through the desert?'
The captain turned his head, a dark shadow sliced
into outline by the sunlit chasm outside. Against the harsh glare, she could
not tell whether his expression showed offence, or contemptuous irritation. His
soft-spoken reply stayed unruffled. 'No, Princess. Never. For me, that land was
unsafe to travel.'
Her surprise moved him to qualify. 'The
tribes adhere to an inflexible law. As an infant, exposed, I was outcast as a
misfit. Given my self-evident breeding, but lacking the sanction of clan
tattoos, I stand condemned in that country. A tribal warrior raised in
tradition would be duty-bound to run his spear through my back.'
'Yet you speak the language.' Anja puffed a
wisp of stuck hair from her lips. 'At least, I heard your fluent cursing.'
He grinned. 'Yes, but with a terrible
accent. I learned the rough phrases a trader would use to drive bargains and
share an oasis.'
The next question stabbed. 'Why do you
answer? Did you hope to win my civil forgiveness?'
Mykkael sighed. The sword flashed, cold
blue in sky-caught reflection, as he moved in attempt to lessen the discomfort
of his damaged knee. 'I hope, first of all, to keep you alive to resent me or
not, at your pleasure. And I answer your Grace because at heart, I have nothing
to hide.' His careful regard searched her face through the gloom. 'Well enough
to attack, well enough to ride on. Can you manage?' He stood up. Self-assured
to the point of enacting his assumption, he sheathed his sword, then limped
towards the horses with intent to unfasten their hobbles. 'I'd prefer not to
linger where a sorcerer's mark has disrupted the natural currents that flow
through the earth.'
'You talk like a shaman,' Anja said,
rising.
He gave her his honest, velvet-grained
laughter. 'Would you know, Princess? Have you ever met one?'
'Have I?' Her smile wobbled, which spoiled
the humour, but not her steel-clad persistence. 'You could tell me.'
Bent to release the knots restricting
Covette's dainty forelegs, Mykkael shook his head. 'Then be disappointed. I was
fostered and brought up by a northern-born merchant. His wife lived with the
inconvenience of my witch thoughts. She didn't like to encourage them. The
wardings I carry were earned on campaign. Eishwin, who fashioned the first one,
insisted he tapped into my desert heritage to bring the laid pattern to
resonance. He talked like a vizier.' The flash of a smile was offered her way.
'I didn't fathom a single word of his inexhaustible theories.'
Anja knelt, checked Fouzette's bandage,
which had grown disturbingly hot to the touch. She said a word, likely learned
from a stablehand, that would have vexed the duchess who raised her. As the
captain moved on to unfasten the hobbles on Vashni, she pressed her next
question to divert her concern for her injured mare. 'Why didn't you stay with
your family, trading?'
'A chance slip of fate.' His tone held no
rancour, as if that bygone detail had long since grown distant and meaningless.
'Because I couldn't safely work the south passage, I was sent out with a close
associate of the house to learn how to manage the exotic routes to the east. I
was also expected to establish my own trading contacts. The customs of barter
and exchange were complex enough to be interesting. On contacts, I fell
shamefully short.'
Anja braced against Kasminna's head butts,
guardedly ready to fend off the inevitable mischievous nip. 'You weren't suited
for life as a merchant?'
His shrug as he straightened strove to
dismiss the scab-crusted state of his back. 'At fourteen years of age, fast
horses and huge, muscled nomads with swords posed the more riveting
fascination.'
'But you would have matured,' the princess
insisted. 'What made you abandon your upbringing?'
Mykkael must have sensed the quiet
desperation behind her chatterbox inquiries. His dark eyes met her open probe
without flinching. 'In the course of my absence, the near family was stricken
by an outbreak of virulent fever. Did I say they weren't young? The house
fortune was inherited by a nephew, who had six grown children to carry the
trade. By the time I returned, the presiding magistrate insisted there had been
no written record. My claim was dismissed.'
'The nephew refused to employ you?'
Mykkael grinned outright. 'Actually, no. He
made me a handsome offer. I declined.'
Her sandpaper edge progressed into bravery:
her curiosity was not going to let up. 'In fact, you were likely to be assigned
to the next caravan bound through the Scoraign?'
He laughed. 'Clever thought, but no. The
truth is quite honestly boring.' He had been offered the position of desk clerk
for his gift at translating languages. 'Which horse will carry your saddle,
your Grace?'
'Covette.' Anja swallowed the pang, that
the sensible choice should have been her
buckskin gelding. 'The poor girl's not fresh, but with Bryajne gone, she'll
be desolate and badly distracted.'
Mykkael nodded, approving. Had she named
Vashni, he would have been forced to countermand her free preference. The grey
was too tightly teamed to Fouzette. If pending danger should drive them to
flight, the mare's lamed stride was too likely to cause her loyal companion to
falter.
By logical default, he should ride
Kasminna. Yet Mykkael made no move to claim the sorrel mare's headstall.
Instead, he checked the knots, one by one, as the hobbles were retied into lead
lines. The princess was left to saddle Covette by herself. Such unassuming
humility, fast followed by that deliberate lapse from an accustomed royal
prerogative, showed his steadfast respect for her human right to autonomy. The
impact almost destroyed her reserve. When Anja handed off the mare's lead,
throat tight with emotion, he accepted with a formal court bow that
acknowledged the gift without speech.
'Leave Stormfront free,' she husked, turned
away to preserve her strained dignity. 'He'll have to be trusted to follow his
training.'
That risk made sound sense, since the black
gelding was too powerfully strong to restrain in the heat of a crisis. If the
horse lost his head to raw instinct and bolted, or if his footing gave way on a
misstep, he would only drag his sorrel partner off balance, undermining the rider's
defence. Taskin's sharp insight had taught Anja well, a point Captain Mykkael
did not fail to appreciate as he fastened the unused lead into a crude
surcingle, and lashed his rolled hide on to Fouzette's broad back.
Last of all, he reclaimed his tattered
surcoat. Near enough to assist, in case
Anja requested what he judged an unneeded assistance to mount, he donned the
stained garment and readjusted his scabbard and sword harness.
'Please take the lead, Princess,' he said,
his neat vault astride an achievement that masked the crippling halt in his
knee. First-hand, she saw why Stormfront had agreed with him. His grasp on the
rein was nonexistent as thistledown, and his cues to Kasminna, made in
steppelands style with guiding leg and a balanced seat.
'You didn't learn your horsemanship from a
merchant,' Anja said as the wily mare tested his measure, gave a startled
snort, and stood fast.
'No.' Not smiling, Mykkael pressed Kasminna
back on her haunches, then opened her stride from the shoulder to face daylight
and finally move out. 'Sessalie trains mounted men to be lancers, which suits
your defence, well enough. They can shock through a line in a siege, or mow
down and break an interlocked shield wall that might challenge the span at
Stone Bridge. But the wars where I hired demanded close infighting. A swordsman
who relied on the reins became ei'jien.'
Since the do'aa term could not help but perplex her, Mykkael tipped his
head. The gesture of deference was immediately betrayed, as sunlight exposed
his faint smile of scorching amusement. That idiom roughly translates as
"luckless, sitting target".'
Anja raised her eyebrows, resilience
restored by his combative humour. 'We aren't
ei'jien right now?'
That awoke his spontaneous laugh. 'No,
Princess. I would have us be seit
shan'jien, "the target with teeth that bites back".'
By late morning, they encountered the
ripped carcass where something uncanny had dined on a slaughtered kerrie.
Whether the fire-breathing predator had been naturally slain in the course of a
territorial rivalry, or whether the sorcerer's shape-changer had dealt the huge
creature its deathblow, the discovery sat ill with Mykkael. The grue chasing
over his spray-dampened skin bespoke unclean implications. Not liking
necessity, he asked the provocative question.
The princess informed him that the
opportunistic kerrie would always feed upon carrion. The predators did not balk
at consuming the flesh of their own kind. Available meat would not be left to
rot unless something unusual or threatening aroused their overriding suspicion.
'You're troubled by this?' Anja had to
shout over the deafening thrash of the flume, hurled up into fantails of
whitewater against a crook in the narrowing channel.
'I've seen happier news,' Mykkael admitted,
his reluctance to explain exacerbated by Kasminna's restive distress. Her wise
equine instinct agreed with his hackled nerves, that all wholesome life should
keep a safe distance from that mangle of gnawed bones and spilled viscera. The
captain dismounted anyway.and handed the mare's reins off to Anja.
'Stay close,' he instructed, his dark face
unreadable under the shadow of the ravine.
Still in full sunlight, and glad of the
warmth streaming over her spray-damp shoulders, Anja caught his wrist in
restraint.
The sinews she grasped leaped to
instantaneous tension, then froze stone-still, unresisting. Mykkael tipped up
his head. 'Your Grace?'
'You intend to investigate?' Her wide,
worried eyes searched his features. 'Is that safe?'
His level regard seemed a cold reassurance.
'I am going to cut and salvage the wing leather. Horrid necessity. We're going
to need something to braid into stout rope. A green hide will stretch. Wing
leather won't. I can't imagine we'll find a material more strong and reliable.'
Anja did not release him. 'I asked, is it
safe?'
'Life is not safe, Princess.' Mykkael
gently unwound her choke hold on his wrist. 'This is Hell's Chasm, where use of
a rope might mean your survival, or maybe that of your horses.'
Her green eyes held his, as fiercely relentless.
'And do you also plan to investigate?'
Mykkael sighed. He glanced away, while the
pounding waters leaped and crashed, and gusts snapped the wet hem of his
surcoat. 'What more could I find?'
His unexpected note of desolation chilled
Anja down to the bone. She shifted a heel, sidled Covette, until once again, he
must face her. 'What have you seen, Captain?'
To answer at all ran against his clear
preference. Still, he gave the bared truth. 'My knowledge of lore is scant, at
best, Princess. But this much I had from a dying vizier concerning the habits
of shape-changers. The creatures do not slaughter wantonly. The captive essence
they extract from devouring their kills is what allows the fell beings to shift
form.' Watching her expression with a falcon's stripped focus, he added, most
softly, 'I'm sorry.'
A moment of blanked shock, then the
hammering impact: Anja reeled, grabbing mane for support. 'Oh, dear powers of
daylight! Then Kailen, and also my high prince -'
His hand braced her rocked balance. Since
he had no words for inconsolable horror, he gave a small tug to remind her of
the lead lines that threatened to slip through her grasp. 'Bear up, your Grace.
Let me do my work.' When the recovery he asked for escaped her response, he
slapped the ends of Kasminna's reins to her thigh with a reproving, light
sting. 'Anja! I won't take your blood on
my hands as my destiny, or the failure, that I allowed you to die the same
way.'
She took charge of the mare.
'Watch for kerries,' he said.
Anja swallowed. 'All right.' Harsh reason
resurged over deranging grief. 'Will that sword hilt give warning if a
marauding creature is shape-changed?'
Again, Mykkael chose the thorn prick of
honesty. 'I don't know.' The one time he had stood in the high prince's close
presence, the established court protocol for royal audience had seen him
stripped of his weapon. 'Princess,' he added, 'the sword doesn't matter. You
can give warning by sight.'
A role she must play, if his back was to stay halfway guarded; she rose to match
his high courage. Her spine straightened. Slight fingers closed, firm, on the
rein ends.
'I apologize,' Anja said with strained
dignity. 'Captain, you are no coward.'
He bowed. 'Your Grace.' Then he moved
promptly off, the cat-fluid beauty of his warrior's stride undone by his
marring limp.
Mykkael came alive to her, in that moment.
Not as a hero, not as the paid captain of Sessalie's garrison, but as a man
beset by a difficult quandary the less stout-hearted must name impossible. He
stood guard for her fate, and his own, without arrogance. Even with scars and
shortfalls in plain view, he was whole. The hands that wielded the skinning
knife accomplished their revolting task, fast and sure. Anja saw his humility
all too clearly. Dwarfed by the massive walls of the chasm, befouled by the
corpse of a predator slain by an uncanny abomination, Mykkael should have
seemed foolish and small. Instead, the will in him towered.
He lived as himself. Moment to moment, he
surmounted his impaired strength through trained skill, and the unshakable
self-trust of a man who had been put to the extreme test, and who had won
triumph through the unflagging use of his wits.
Two kerries flew overhead. Uneasy within
sight of the massacre, they circled, but did not alight. Anja minded the
restive horses. She cajoled them steady until Mykkael returned, the unwieldy
bundle of cut membrane draped over his shoulder, and tied with a length of
scraped tendon.
'Princess, I ask you to let Fouzette bear
the burden,' he said the moment he reached her. 'The load isn't nearly as heavy
as it looks.'
When she did not argue, he looked at her
straitly. 'Your Grace?'
Anja stirred out of suspended stillness. Why, before this, had she never noticed the
deep sorrow ingrained in his face? Hoping her hesitation would be taken for
grief, she gave her consent.
A fractional tension eased from his
shoulders, that he need not contend with sentimental recalcitrance. His choice
was not cruel, but strategic good sense. Fouzette had the stoic temperament to
manage the unusual load without fuss. If flight became necessary, she was
already slowed by her injured leg. By attempting to cosset one impaired horse,
the risk of loss might shadow two. Mykkael
would spare Anja the agony of losing her teams, in every way that he could.
The hand that had pulled the bow for Bryajne had not been heartless, but driven
to act out of inflexible expediency.
Anja used her voice to quiet Fouzette,
while Mykkael strapped his horrific gleanings on to her back. He could not
spare the time to be overly fastidious. Yet he did rinse his hands and clean
off his knife before he remounted Kasminna.
His smile of encouragement remained sincere
as he gestured downstream. 'Onwards. I promise your Grace, if we find the right
pool, I'll try to spear trout for our dinner.'
They rode on, the horses picking their
uncertain path between canted boulders, and through the drifts of back-fallen
spray shot to gold by the shafts of noon sunbeams. The warm air seemed filled
with the flitter of dragonflies, and the cheep of the black-and-white swallows
nesting high in the cliffs. Then the sun passed the zenith. The chasm plunged
into the chilly, premature twilight that extended through late afternoon. Only
the crown of the rim rocks stayed sunlit, with the cloudless sky of high
altitude an indigo ribbon between.
Anja rode, all her questions stunned
silent, which raised more than one concerned inquiry from Mykkael. She noticed
what had escaped her before: that the captain relied on her tone of voice more
than words to measure her state of mind. He listened much the same way to the
horses, and to the sword hilt strapped on his back. If the striking care behind
such attentiveness might have begun as a trader's boy, brought up amid foreign
cultures, the formidable skills he had displayed on the tourney field framed
too stark an extreme. To see him move with a weapon in hand exposed what he
was: a killer honed to an edge that eclipsed the humanity of his birthright.
The dichotomy sparked Anja's fascination, a
puzzle that engaged her eclectic interest as never before.
Her observation underwent a rapt change in
focus, while the daylight waned towards a sunset that must find them snugged
down under cover. If the cavern walls had grown too narrow for the wingspan of
diving kerries, the sorcerer's shape-changer would not be tied to any one form.
Each crevice with its pocket of shadow might harbour an enemy ambush.
Mykkael's wary vigilance tightened to match
the increased chance of threat. Kasminna reflected his mood in her high-set
neck and lifted tail. As the last sunlight licked the top of the cliff wall,
dipping the rock faces scarlet, the desert-bred rode with his sword unsheathed,
the flat of the blade lightly rested across his opposite wrist.
His senses detected no untoward warning,
which did nothing to settle the uneasy clamour of his more subtle instincts.
The rush of the water grew louder, then
swelled to a shattering roar that foreclosed all attempt at conversation. Mykkael
kept his mount close behind Covette, often signalling for the princess to pause
as he scouted past leaning boulders. Then the cavern crooked, and the race of
the flume hurled itself off the edge of the world.
'Tie the horses.' Mykkael dismounted to
reconnoitre on foot. Unasked, the princess went with him. The animals would be
safe enough in the narrows, as they could not be, exposed on the rim. Beyond
the cataract, the open sky teemed with wheeling kerries. Below the falls, the chasm
widened into a vast stone basin, sliced at the skyline with snow-clad peaks.
Tier upon tier, the stepped ledges were riddled with the caverns that sheltered
the Hell's Chasm rookery.
'The Widow's Gauntlet,' Anja said,
referring to the name given the site by an unknown, past prospector who had
wisely turned back from the folly of a doomed enterprise. 'Unless the season
has been lean, and the kerries are starving, we're not likely to see a mobbing
attack where we're standing.'
Mykkael turned his head, his bared sword in
hand. 'There's a reason?'
Anja nodded. 'Fortune seekers who've
attempted to mine in the caverns sometimes try poisoning animals as bait in an
effort to clear out the rookeries. Kerries are intelligent enough not to be
tempted by domesticated stock if bad experience has shown them it's tainted.
Provided they haven't forgotten the last incident, they'll watch, and hang
back. With luck, they could leave us alone until they realize we don't match
the exact pattern they hold in memory.'
'A strategic point,' Mykkael allowed. One
they might have to press for advantage through the difficult, open terrain in
the valley lying ahead. Intent, he resumed his close-up review of the
landscape.
The head of the falls was relentlessly
exposed, a lip carved into water-worn bedrock, raked clean by the surge of the
thaws. The cliff wall near at hand posed an impasse, since the bend in the
gorge skewed the jet of the falls into a pummelling vortex. The cataract
slammed across the right wall of the channel. Age upon age of its scouring
force had rinsed the rock satin-smooth. The only accessible route for the
horses must be launched from the opposite bank, where the tumbled faults in the
cliff face offered a precarious, zigzag descent.
'This is as far as we go before nightfall.'
The crossing they must backtrack upstream to try could not be launched until
morning. Beset by the thundering might of the cataract, Mykkael had to shout to
be heard. 'There will likely be some form of hollow or cave under the ledge
where the current spills over. Once I find the best way to get in, you must
move your teams quickly. No looking back if they falter!'
Anja nodded. She swiped back the soaked
hair plastered against her face by the barrage of wind-driven spray, then
retreated to untie the horses. Until Mykkael signalled, she could but strive to
meet his dauntless effort with courage.
The edge of the falls lay five paces
distant, well inside the reach of his wardings. Anja was caught unprepared, all
the same. A desolate feeling of emptiness half crushed her as the captain
passed over the rocks out of sight. Alone as she had never been in her life,
the princess was shocked to find herself shuddering through an onslaught of
violent chills. Terror and cold could not fully explain this explosive storm of
reaction. Such desperate, raw need lay outside her experience. The loss of her
love for the High Prince of Devall had never touched her like this.
'Merciful powers of daylight!' she swore
through her chattering teeth. 'This
cannot be happening.' Her wretched denial brought no release. The worth she
had come to attach to one man in the course of a single day outstripped every
concept of decency.
The Princess of Sessalie railed at herself,
stunned into dumbstruck fury. How could she have lapsed from the mores of state
wisdom and due vigilance? Unconscionable, to realize she might fall prey to
such an unguarded self-betrayal. Sessalie's future rode on her power to
bargain. Every subject under her sire's crown relied on her honour to secure
the protection of an alliance. Far wiser, to handle what must be done without
wrenching the strings of her heart.
Anja tucked her crossed arms, aware she
must find the strength from somewhere
to blindside the captain's relentless perception. During her moment of
preoccupied thought, Kasminna's boisterous head butt all but pitched her on to
her knees.
Saved from a fall by Stormfront's black
shoulder, she realized, distressed, that Mykkael was shouting. He had found a
safe access into the cavern under the jet of the falls. Anja reddened, shamed
to the quick for missing his urgent summons.
Fast as she recovered her paralysed wits,
Mykkael's reaction outpaced her. He launched from the rocks. Not sparing his
scarred leg, he reached her side with the seamless speed of unbound barqui'ino reaction. The lead ropes
were snapped from her fingers. Then his hard, muscled shoulder slammed into her
waist. Anja folded, draped over his back like a grain sack, with the back of
her knees pinned under his iron forearm.
'Hai! Stormfront, Kasminna, to me!' He used
his voice and the flat of his blade to prod the horses to moving flight. 'Hai!
Hai! Covette, Vashni, Fouzette! Haw now! To me!'
Across the rocks, towards the thundering
waters, he drove them in bunched, herd-bound urgency. No chance did he give
them to balk or shy back. He hammered them, clattering, to a notch in the
brink, then called upon Stormfront's inexhaustible nerve to lead the sliding
plunge down the steep ledge. Swordsman and princess and five wild-eyed horses
rammed through the roiling curtain of spray. They broke through, into
fish-pungent air, whipped to windy turbulence by the rampaging spate of cold
water. The noise deafened. Enclosed by the silvery shimmer of the falls, the
shallow cavern was a mosaic of sheened puddles and gloom. Skin wet and
shivering, Anja heaved in a taxed breath. Her indignant request to be set on
her feet had no chance to be heard.
The shaman's mark upon Mykkael's bared
sword came alive with a tingling buzz. Anja sensed the wasp hum of the warding
as a stinging ache through her bones. In split-second response, the captain's
hold shifted. She found herself hurled with jarring force over Stormfront's
soaked back.
'Hold him!' Mykkael's shout pealed through
the tumbling waters. 'Steady the others as best you can, or let them all go if
they scramble! At all cost, bail off if the black gelding bolts.'
Anja scrambled, wormed, unhooked her hung
ankle off Stormfront's scrabbling hindquarters. She seized his mane, achieved
her erect balance astride, all the while calling out to steady the horses'
jostling panic. 'Whoa! Whoa now!' Her cry sounded thin as a bird's through the
roar of the cataract. Frantic, she persisted. 'Hold hard! Fouzette, Vashni,
whoa now!'
The blessed bay mare answered her training.
Eyes rolling white, her mane snagged with droplets, she flung up her blazed
head and braced her planted legs, foursquare. Though Vashni battered into her
shoulder, her broad-chested bulk blocked the narrow egress. The other horses
jammed into milling turmoil, unable to shove past and take flight. Anja
entrusted their fates to Fouzette's obedience. She slapped Stormfront's neck to
get his attention, made him listen to
her commands. She urged the trembling gelding with words, drubbed his flank
with her heel, compelled him to wheel and face forward. She would see what
lethal danger had roused the marked sword. Terrified as the horse underneath
her, she refused the horror of being stalked from behind.
'Captain?' Hackled to gooseflesh, Anja
sighted a flicker of movement past the soaked cloth of his surcoat. Patterned
hide gleamed, pebbled with scales. The coiled viper that lurked in the gloom of
a cranny launched a preemptive strike at Mykkael.
The eyes Anja glimpsed were no serpent's,
but lit from within by the ephemeral spark of a power drawn from the unseen. Like Devall's heir apparent, like her
brother, what moved inside the skin of the creature was not any natural snake.
Nor had its vile awareness been born under the clean light of day.
'Beware, Captain!' she screamed, already
knowing that words were too clumsy and slow.
The shape-changer must have laired in the
cavern all day, waiting in cold-blooded ambush.
THE SHINING ARC CARVED BY MYKKAEL'S SWORD
MOVED TOO FAST FOR THE EYE. HlS BLOW SHEARED OFF THE snake's head, but could
not deflect its attacking momentum. The severed appendage maintained its
trajectory, venomed fangs still extended. The strike should have taken Mykkael
in the face. Except that his interposed body was gone, dropped into a crouching
spin that blurred with the speed of trained reflex.
The launched threat sailed on, unimpeded, towards Anja's unguarded
breast. The emptied span of air in between left no space to scream or react.
A sheet of flared silver, the captain's
sword re-entered the scope of her vision. Too swiftly to follow, his cut
scribed an arc, and thrust upwards with fearsome precision. The point jabbed
the serpent head's lower jaw and speared through. The impaled skull jerked
short of impact, a horrific trophy the size of a man's fist, snatched out of
mid-flight.
Mykkael backstepped to absorb the unspent
force of impetus. The cleaved air sang over moving steel as he reversed his
extended stroke not a handspan from Anja's blanched face. He surged upright,
flicked the noisome prize off the tip of his weapon. The serpent head landed, still
snapping. His lightning-fast reflex stamped down a heel and crushed skull and
jaws under his boot. The captain did not release the remains, even then.
Ongoing threat faced him. The decapitated snake flailed in fatal spasm, and
snapped a wrap around his bad knee.
Once, twice, his sword moved. Dulled steel
scattered steaming blood. The severed coils parted. Mykkael turned the back of
his wrist, slapped the upper coil as it let go. His strike batted its writhing,
furious length under Stormfront's clattering hooves. The gelding snorted. Neck bowed,
ears flattened, he trampled until the remains became chopped to red pulp.
Yet the dismembered fragments at Mykkael's
feet did not shudder limp and fall lifeless. Instead, like the wakened shadow
of nightmare, they flowed into uncanny change.
The scaled skin greyed, melted, sublimated
into a wisping mist. The unclean emanation streamed along the ground, seeking,
until it re-encountered its severed parts. Where the foggy clouds gathered, the
substance of the felled serpent began to shift from scaled coils into something
grotesquely man-shaped. The transformation gained speed as the tendrils of fog
enveloped each part and reforged a cohesive connection.
Anja jammed back a whimper, then grabbed
for the skinning knife, her effort already too late. The gore mashed underneath
Stormfront's enraged hooves coalesced into quickened flesh. A monstrosity
reformed as a human hand, grasping fingers attached to a forearm. The dreadful
thing was alive and moving. It dragged itself in an insectile scuttle over the
cavern floor. As though it sensed Stormfront's animal warmth, it snatched the
black's fetlock, and hung on.
The princess screamed, 'Stormfront! Hold
hard!' Her full-throated cry re-echoed off the rock walls, but the horse was
too maddened to heed.
Anja clung, desperate, while the gelding
beneath her stamped, spun and sidled across the cavern's treacherous confines.
A fly caught in a wringer, she risked being crushed as the panic-struck horse
fought to free his entrapped front pastern. When the shape-changer's clasp
could not be dislodged, Stormfront went berserk.
His lunge to bolt should have shot him over
the rim, straight through the white rush of the falls. Instead, a blurred form
thrust in between. The horse crashed a glancing course off Mykkael, who hooked
his left fist over the headstall and hauled the black's head hard around. The
gelding skittered. Yanked short of his mindless plunge towards disaster, he
spun. His streamered tail slashed through the jet of the falls and re-emerged,
spattering droplets. The whiplash of unspent inertia slammed his heaving rump
against the back wall of the cavern. Stormfront jounced into rebound. Anja
fought his lurching strength as he bucked and scrabbled, hooves sliding on
puddled stone.
The minion continued to mass into form.
While the horse rampaged in lathered distress, it steadily drew and gathered
its spilled essence, flowing into horrific change. The snake head dislodged
from beneath Mykkael's boot plumped and rounded into a human skull. Naked bone
grew a covering of skin, then a glossy shock of blond hair. Eye sockets and jaw
fleshed over and mirrored the semblance of Kailen's fair features. The lids
opened. Blue eyes rolled, intelligent, and located Anja, and the animate lips
turned and smiled.
The princess screamed again, all but
deranged by panic. She could not see Mykkael. Stormfront's mane slapped and
blinded her. Whipped like a rag to the black's plunging neck, she just missed
slamming into the cavern's low ceiling as the horse struck out its forelegs and
reared. Even still, the evil hand clung. The gelding thrashed and staggered to
throw off its clamping weight. Anja glanced downwards, her breath stopped with
fright. For the detached fingers and forearm had now been augmented, joined into a headless, bare torso.
She fought to stay astride, and unhurt,
while an evil beyond all imagining continued unfolding before her.
The shape-changer's essence streamed
underfoot, drawing itself into an obscene replication of her brother's naked
form. The head on the floor shoved off with its tongue, rolled itself sideways,
until it found and was seized by the wandering hand. The gristly appendage
crab-walked along, trailing a draggle of wristbones and sinew. It rattled
across stone and through puddles, hauling the head by a gripped twist of hair.
Self-aware, determined, it groped to close with the half-assembled monstrosity
wrestling Stormfront's front leg.
Anja strove to master the black gelding,
now transformed by his fear to a heaving juggernaut. She held her seat, flung
and tossed; wrestled against the hampering disadvantage, that she rode with
nothing beyond a headstall and single lead rein. She could not hold the horse,
but only turn him in desperate, tight circles. The effort could not avert
disaster. Stormfront's skating plunges inexorably drove him up to the verge of
the brink, with its curtain of thundering water. Curbed by no more than a
silver-bossed noseband, the gelding's crazed strength overmatched her.
Wet rope burned through her hands. 'Mykkael!'
Anja shouted.
His sword was moving, already beset. Even
through Stormfront's clatter, and the incessant din of the falls, she picked
out the whine of the shaman's mark, its wasp-angry hum cut again and again as
the whickering blade drove at speed through malformed flesh and air. Blood
flew. A dollop splashed into Stormfront's soaked neck, scalding his hide like
flung acid.
Through battering bedlam, half deafened by
the gelding's shrill scream, Anja sighted the captain, still on his feet. The steel in his hand was a flying blur. Somehow,
Mykkael had heard her. His warrior's perception encompassed her dire peril.
'Stay on Stormfront!' he shouted, still
encumbered. An unseen sequence of strokes chopped and slashed. The shape-changer's
bare legs and groin kicked and snagged, scissored in a wrestler's grip at his
waist. When blows failed to break its incessant attack, Mykkael stabbed with
precision, cut through a nerve, or a tendon. The appendages flopped loose, then
fell away, streaming fog. His sword never faltered. A moving fan of smeared
light, the blade cut their ephemeral connection again, and again, and again,
snapping the stream as it sought to reform, and shredding the shape-changer's
spellbound wraith into tatters of cobweb.
And still, the severed fragments came on,
striving to assemble and reanimate. The hand with the head scrambled onwards.
Though it might not have the full use of its eyes, it sensed warmth and spatial
connection. Scuttling on nimble fingertips, quickened by a minion's
intelligence, it darted this way and that, in vile effort to trip the
princess's standing protector.
Mykkael leaped, one-legged, turned his
weapon, and came down. His strike impaled Kailen's cheek on his blade. Where
the steel touched, the shape-changer melted. Its jaw peeled away, sublimated back
to mist. The dome of the cranium still remained, leering with unimpaired
menace. Kailen's eyes rolled, imploring the severed hand. Fingers answered,
then laboured to tug it towards shelter.
Mykkael reacted on the cascading fury of
unleashed barqui'ino reflex. Steel
sang, whistled downwards and crunched through the bone. The point pierced the
skull and grounded with a shocked clang into bedrock.
Ward light blossomed in answer. The fog
roiled back from the flare, whipping the stream of the shape-changer's essence
into a blasting recoil.
Stormfront surged, staggering. Again Mykkael
snagged the gelding's wet headstall. He jerked the crazed animal's neck in a
bow, then ruthlessly rammed the foam-flecked muzzle into the black's sweated
shoulder. Hooves skidded. The beleaguered horse lost his footing. His haunches
went down and slammed on to rock, while his front limbs splayed out. Through
the stinging tangle of mane, Anja saw the three-quarters complete body of the
shape-changer lock its hold over the horse's bent foreleg. If the animal moved,
if he followed the drive of his instinct and rose, the minion's obscene grip
could twist and shatter the joint of his knee.
'No!' The princess pealed out a desolate
command. 'Stormfront! Hold hard! Whoa now! Stormfront!'
One timely stroke of Mykkael's blade might
free him.
Yet the desert-bred could not fight his way
clear to respond. His saving effort was thwarted as the drumming, downed legs
of the shape-changer lashed a crippling blow at his ankles. He evaded. Come
whatever cost, he held the pinned cranium grounded to earth, all the while
fumbling for something inside the
scrip at his belt.
Anja clung to Stormfront's quivering back.
'Hold boy, hold hard.' She soothed the horse, desperate, while the eyes of her
brother winked and postured in mocking parody. Still attached by a tendon, the
tongue waggled in suggestive seduction.
She choked, revolted, her heart raced with
terror as Kailen's hands, Kailen's face sought her ruin with diabolically
enspelled ferocity.
As she watched, the resummoned hand gave up
on its futile tugging. It let go of blond hair, scuttled backwards, and sprang.
Crablike, nimble fingers hooked on to Mykkael's surcoat and climbed.
The captain shouted. He had no free hand to
dislodge the fell thing that scrabbled over his clothing. The shape-changer's
appendage snagged on to his harness, then shinnied upwards to throttle him. Mykkael
held to his purpose, unswerving, until his searching fingers found the item he
sought in his scrip. His raised fist emerged, clutching a small drawstring
packet. He tore through the tied cloth with his teeth, then cast the freed
contents into the nearest puddle.
White powder flew.
A scatter of granules raked Anja's damp
face. Salt, she realized, the bitter taste sucked in with her burning, sharp
breath.
As the mineral showered into the catchment
of water, Mykkael turned his sword. He ignored the strangling grip at his
throat, flung the cranium off his weapon point into the salt-treated puddle.
The remnant landed with a sickening smack, nose downwards and snorting bubbles.
Its substance sagged into jelly. The aware blue eyes burned with demonic
hatred, then dissolved like run glass in a smelter's pot.
Mykkael drew his belt knife. He stabbed
into the choking hand, drove the steel between the wristbones, and pried. The
fingertips burrowed under his collar already plumed into smoke, half undone by
chance contact with the vizier's tattoo at his nape. He caught the appendage as
it shuddered loose, hurled it into a tumbling arc after the dismantled head.
Not pausing to look to see how it landed, Mykkael spun with bared sword. He
slashed at the calf of the disjointed leg, then leaped onwards to hack at the
partial torso entangling Stormfront's right foreleg.
The thing sensed his approach. Perhaps
warned by the warding note of the sword blade, it released the black gelding,
and writhed into humping retreat. Too swift to prevent, it hurled itself,
headless, over the verge, into the tumbling falls. The diced legs left behind
sublimated into mist and streamed away in pursuit. Abandoned behind, the
dissolute head and left hand boiled into a noisome sludge, entrapped in the
salt-treated puddle.
'Whoa! Stormfront! Whoa, now!' Anja
shouted.
The gelding surged, uncontrollable. In
demented terror he regained his feet, hindquarters bunched to explode into
blind flight. He met Mykkael's fist, a hammering blow at the jointure of chest
and neck. His staggering recoil bounced him off the stone wall of the cavern.
Mykkael dived in, dodged past milling forehooves and snapped the lead rein from
Anja's locked fingers. He flicked the end in a whipcrack report in front of the
crazed gelding's nose.
Stormfront shied and whirled left. Mykkael
sprang back, nearly trampled. He braced his weight to the rein, hauled the
horse's neck in a titanic pull. The impetus jerked Stormfront off balance.
Clattering hooves skidded. His huge frame lost purchase. He half reared, neck
bent, and keeled into a slow roll, with Anja caught like a burr against his
back-falling neck and high withers.
A hand grabbed her, collar and hair; yanked her clear, as the horse came
down like a mountain, rolling and thrashing in primal panic. Mykkael dropped
Anja, hard, but safe, on chill stone. Sword drawn, he thrust past her. His face
showed intense concentration. He closed, prepared to cut the horse down. No
matter the cost, he must forestall
the lethal danger posed by Stormfront's battering hooves.
The downed gelding rolled over, bellowing
in helpless distress. His violent struggles were driven by the most basic of
all equine instincts. Every survival urge he possessed insisted he must thrust
to his feet and take flight.
Tear-blind, Anja could not wrench her gaze
from the warrior who moved on her terrorized horse. She watched the sword,
stunned outside thought, paralysed past reach of emotion. The stroke that would kill seemed inevitable. The
gelding's ungovernable fit must be stopped before his inadvertent thrashing
dealt them a crippling injury. Yet the blade did not fall. Its silvered length
flicked upwards and back as Mykkael timed his opening, folded his lean frame,
and hurled himself headlong against Stormfront's downed tantrum. His tucked
body slammed into the horse, and pinned the black neck hard to the ground.
Anja shrilled a desperate command.
'Stormfront, hold hard!'
But the crisis was over. Danger was
checked, with Stormfront saved. No horse could arise without lifting its neck.
Mykkael bore down, fast-breathing and still. He held, while the horse's
wrenching efforts to rise lost impetus, and finally ceased. The man raised his
head. He said something breathless into the gelding's quivering ear. Then he
stroked the steamed hide with his fingers. Over the roaring spate of the falls,
the horse's taxed lungs forced moaning air through its larynx. The deep,
laboured groans measured off passing seconds, while the black coat sweated and
trembled.
Awareness of peripheral details resurged,
as the hot rush of panic subsided. The four other horses cramped against the
entry were milling and snorting in trapped fear. Shivering with nerves,
miraculous Fouzette had held her braced stance at the bottleneck.
The discovery broke Anja to flooding tears.
At last Mykkael moved. Cautiously slow, he
allowed the black gelding to raise his scraped head. The horse's eye ridge was
skinned. He had bruised his lower lip. Bloodied foam trailed from his muzzle,
and his eyes rolled white with hazed nerves. Yet on his release, he untangled
his hooves, gathered his limbs and clattered back upright. Restored,
shuddering, to his four legs, he shook like a dog and settled himself with a
snort. Banged and shaken, he seemed otherwise unharmed.
The captain who had effected an impossible
salvage hauled himself tenderly upright. His sword had gone quiet. The stained
weapon stayed poised in his unrelaxed hand. He turned his head, first of all
seeking Anja. She saw he was shaking worse than her horse. The wide-open eyes
that raked over her still held a predator's focus.
'Captain,' she whispered.
He did not respond. The unnatural ferocity
wound through his being did not subside. Wholly remade as the reflexive killer,
he mapped his surroundings as though all that
moved posed a potentially lethal target. That absorbed concentration made him a
stranger, even as his shocked senses must
show him that Sessalie's princess had come through unharmed.
Anja gathered her courage. 'Mykkael, I'm
not hurt.'
His feral gaze tracked her without
recognition. Yet after a drawn moment, he relented enough to rest his blade
point down on the stone at his feet. The care he required to move without
violence seemed all the more chilling, set against the blinding-sharp
competence of the defence unleashed seconds before.
'Mykkael?' Anja ventured. 'Are you
injured?'
'Don't come,' he husked. The skin at his
collar was bleeding, scored over the darkening bruises left by the
shape-changer's strangling assault. His tremors increased. Their brute force
raged through him, shuddering in waves that set him swaying on unsteady feet. 'Barqui'ino backlash,' he gritted
through locked teeth. 'A normal reaction to excessive adrenaline. It passes.'
A gimping step backwards allowed him to
brace his seized posture against the stone wall. There, head bent, he waited,
while the seizures came on and rocked him with ravaging force. Anja watched,
helpless, as each ragged breath hissed through the strained cords of his
throat.
To sit and do nothing seemed an intolerable
cruelty. Anja placed her hand, shifted her weight to arise.
Mykkael's chin snapped up. His savage eyes
pinned her. 'Don't come! I ask this.'
She swallowed. Hurting, she watched him
battle himself. His bare-faced effort to recross the abyss that had distanced
his ties to reason exposed an unbreakable patience. Mykkael had gone perilously
far, to gain mastery over the knife-edged focus that gripped him. The unnatural
shift left him a creature at war with the impact of magnified attributes. Anja
wept to behold his wretched struggle, as he laboured to subdue the animal
instincts that aligned his extreme state of clarity. The raced blood of that
exquisitely tuned primal mindset did not release without penalty. Anja measured
each shocking, strained second, as Mykkael reclaimed his intellect one
disparate strand at a time.
'The horses,' she said, lamely. 'Someone
should attend them.'
This time, her speech softened him, just a
fraction. A fleeting frown crossed his blank expression, there and gone as
stressed thought resurged to wring sense from her simple phrases. Comprehension
became a minor victory, the first marker passed on a rough journey he surely
had suffered few others to witness by choice. Mykkael ripped out a stiff nod.
'Go. Please move slowly.'
Anja effected a tender, first step. She
paused at his flinch. He arrested the recoiling plunge back into barqui'ino trance, just barely. He shut
his eyes, his grounding hand splayed against the cavern wall. The fist on his
sword grip would not yet release. The pitched strain on his nerves stayed too
volatile.
'Go,' he insisted. 'I am not out of hand.'
She went, though he tracked every step like
a predator. Or perhaps in cold fact, she perceived him all wrong. A loyal protector might look the same way,
if his defensive instincts were still challenged. Although the cavern
appeared clear of hazard, Anja realized Mykkael's wardings might not be fully
quiescent. Her task acquired the driven imperative, to recapture her unsettled
horses.
She reached Stormfront first, caught up his
dropped lead, crooning the familiar phrases to instil reassurance.
The black snorted and blew. He lowered his
neck. Anja rubbed his lathered forehead, then edged past his shoulder and
recovered Covette's looped reins. 'Kasminna, to me!'
The sorrel stamped, sniffing the cavern
floor with uncertainty. On second command, she ventured one step. Then she
froze, lacking Bryajne's solid presence as her accustomed anchor.
'Kasminna, to me.' Anja edged a cautious
stride sideways, stooped, then retrieved the mare's trailing lead. With the
jumpy creature brought firmly in hand, then coaxed in beside Stormfront and
Covette, she dared to address her last team. 'Vashni, to me. Fouzette, hold
hard.'
The flighty grey must be secured before the
mare could be recalled from the entry. A stamped pewter shadow outlined by the
falls, the gelding sidled. His eye still rolled white. Anja stared elsewhere,
pretending boredom. She stuffed her hand in her breeches pocket, feigning a
search for a carrot. Curiosity and habitual indulgence won put. The grey came
around. He stretched his neck, snuffling at her wet clothes, and her easy reach
to scratch under his jaw became a closed grip on his headstall.
Fouzette responded at first command. Once
the princess had captured all five of her animals, she smoothed them down and
checked them for injury. The creatures had suffered no worse than a few
scrapes. Stormfront thankfully seemed little the worse for his sliding fall on
the rocks. Already he shook out his wet mane, and started to lip at the
puddles. Scant rations had worn him down to depletion. All the horses were
spent from their nervous excitement. Their subsided calm reflected no less than
the lassitude of starvation.
'You'll have hay and oats, all the grass
you can eat,' Anja promised. 'We just have to get through Hell's Chasm.'
Kasminna dared a light nip at her sleeve.
Anja slapped her off, gently, then risked a sidelong glance at Mykkael.
He stood, eyes shut, still propped against
the cavern's rear wall. The tremors that plagued him now seemed more fine-grained.
He had released his clamped grip from his weapon. The sword leaned upright
beside him, uncleaned. At some point, unnoticed, he had torn a strip of rag
from his surcoat.
'You're not hurt?' Anja inquired.
Mykkael looked up, more himself, but not smiling.
His answer emerged, almost fluent. 'I was not bitten, if that's your concern.'
He regarded the fouled puddle, which still steamed and smoked not far from his
planted feet. 'A close call I prefer not to repeat.'
Anja forced a conversational tone. 'The
shape-changer's dead?'
'No, sadly not.' The captain grimaced, as
though the wisped fumes incited foul thoughts. 'We don't have the whole body.
Even if we did, a fully fledged minion doesn't banish or die half so easily.
We'll need a vizier or a trained tribal shaman to sever the creature's
connections to the sorcerer who raised its formed will from the darkened realms
of the unseen.'
Anja choked down a sick bolt of fear. 'That
thing could come back?' She would not,
could not, reconcile herself to an enemy wearing the semblance of her
murdered brother.
Mykkael stirred, took up his fouled sword.
As though soothed by rote habit, he plied his rag to the soiled blade.
'Princess, you are safe. The shape-changer's head is dissolved in salt water.
So is a part of its arm. That binds its powers. It cannot shift form. The
fragments that spilled over the falls might reassemble themselves, if they
aren't too widely scattered. But headless, the construct that forms will be
blinded and deaf. It can grope, but not mount an effective attack. My due
course of vigilance should hold it at bay. Left as an animate, crippled corpse,
it can't cause us serious harm.'
Still drenched from the dousing, tumultuous
entry, Anja spoke through her chattering teeth. 'Well, even one-handed, it
could pound us with rocks.'
'Sightless? It can try.' Mykkael
straightened, sheathed his cleaned sword, then shrugged off the ache of some
lingering discomfort. 'If these caverns have any ore veins bearing copper, I
can doctor an arrow and stun it.' He pushed off the wall, took a shocking,
gimped stride, then snatched a pause to resettle his balance. He assayed a next
step, reached steadfast Fouzette, and set his hands to untie the noisome
bundles strapped to her back. 'Forgive me, Princess. An unpleasant task remains
to be done. I warn, you may not wish to watch.'
Anja swallowed. 'The shape-changer's head?'
Mykkael nodded. Under the filtered light
through the falls, his expression stayed grim as iron. 'I'm sorry.' He chose
the raw hide, used his dagger to slice off a yard length. 'Safety must come
before nicety, in this case. The contents of that puddle will have to go with
us and stay under constant guard.'
She coughed into her hand. 'What can I do?'
Startled, he regarded her, the crude square
of horse-hide poised in his unsteady hands. 'By the nine names of hell,
Princess! Are you sure?' The dawning hint of a smile resurged, sparked by his
wry amazement. 'Very well. I've known seasoned fighters who were more
faint-hearted. If you hold the hide taut, I will scrape.'
Anja lasted through the duration, just
barely. While Mykkael lashed his unspeakable gleanings into a tight, secure
packet, she crept off to seek respite amid the warm press of the horses. Dry
heaves overwhelmed her within three steps. She doubled, reeled dizzy, as her
empty stomach wrung itself inside out. A soft footfall approached. Mykkael's
embrace gathered her in from behind, hooked under her arm, and resteadied her.
His left hand, icy cold from a rinse in the falls, cradled her pounding,
flushed forehead.
'We'll have a fire,' he said. 'Get you warm
and dry. But first, some fresh air. The wardings are too short, I can't leave
you alone. Can you manage a foray to fetch driftwood?'
She ripped off a nod, between spasms.
'Your Grace,' said Mykkael, something more
than impressed, 'let no one say you're a coward.'
His strong grasp raised her until she
stood, propped against his right shoulder. Too breathless to question, that he
should burden his sword arm assisting her wretched infirmity, she let him steer
her wobbling steps to the cleft at the edge of the falls. He sat her down on a
rock by the opening. Through the pause as he secured the horses with hobbles,
the chill spray on her face braced her jangled nerves. Anja breathed in deep
gulps of clean air, while her cramping nausea subsided.
Shortly, she was able to walk, even help
gather the kindling caught in the boulders where the captain's limp gave him
difficulty. They finished the task as the last daylight faded. Under the sky's
lucent afterglow, streaked with the fire blooms of kerries, Mykkael made no
protest as Anja shouldered her share of the load and worked her way back to
shelter.
* * *
Much later, warmed under Mykkael's
dried-out surcoat, Anja gnawed flaked trout from a stick, almost restored to
contentment. The captain lounged across the raked coals, braiding tough strips
of wing leather into a rope. He wove eight plies into a round plait, by his
casual dexterity accustomed to finishing such an endeavour before.
'You implied you became a mercenary by
choice,' Anja opened, her musing framed in a different tone from her barrage of
questions that morning.
Mykkael looked up, the velvet-brown depths
of his eyes rendered fathomless in the firelight. 'Oh, I chose, all right.' He
leaned to one side, caught up a cut strip, spliced it seamlessly into his
weaving. 'The decision was made with great storm and commotion. Everyone
argued. My uncle forbade me. I left to study
barqui'ino.'
Anja poked her cleaned stick into the embers,
watching him by the flare as the wood caught. Chin cupped in her hands, she
said, 'Why?'
He had marked the softening in her well
enough. His quiet pause became weighted. Still, he answered. 'I realize, to
prove I existed. Because my mother exposed me, I had no way to know where I
came from. My northern upbringing was not who I was. I wrestled with the hollow
question inside, until I became chafed to desperation. I wanted barqui'ino because the training was
held to be the most demanding of all attainments.'
'Most trainees fail?'
His hands resumed, combed through the
crossed-over strands, then deftly picked up their rhythm. 'All but a few.'
The spurt of the fire died back to a
flicker, striking ruby glints off the falls. Mykkael's stubbled face seemed
carved from dark sandstone, with the horses behind him a muddle of shadows,
standing hipshot with lowered necks.
Anja pressed gently. 'And after your
mastery?'
But this time, Mykkael shook his head. 'No,
Princess. Enough.' He had blooded his young steel upon sorcerers' wars, no fit
topic for conversation. 'You would do well to sleep while you can.'
Anja sighed. She could try. Despite the
close-woven wool of the surcoat, the cold was likely to keep her awake. How
foolish, if she confided her fear, that the looming dread of her nightmares
paralysed her with unease.
Mykkael glanced up, startled. Witch thought
had surely divined her distress. Anja, in turn, sensed the impact of that
intrusively intimate recoil. As though he had reached out and touched her bared
mind, she rebounded to flashpoint perception. 'You want my eyes shut while you
rebind your wounds!'
He blinked. 'Blinding powers of daylight!'
Irritation hardened his rattled response. 'Your Grace. Should I not?'
Anja coloured. The blush made her eyes a
most vivid green. 'You can't properly claim you can contend with an opened gash
on your back. Captain, what are you guarding?'
'My dignity.' Mykkael's direct stare should
have served as a firm deterrent. He had been a mercenary, hired by kings. No
man lasted long in close royal service by playing the spineless sycophant.
'Do you cling to a principle we can
afford?' Fire met live fire, across the fanned coals. Anja clamped dauntless
fists over the falcon surcoat. 'If I try to sleep, Captain, how are you going
to stay wakeful, or warm?'
He cursed in his ancestors' guttural
tongue. 'Do as you please, Princess. For my part, discussion is ended.' Head
stubbornly bent, he resumed his braiding. His face stayed stiffly set. He had
to realize she would hold out until she had achieved her dissection.
For an interval, the silence stretched,
brittle as glass. The coals hissed and flared, and the white water fell,
slicing the night without let-up.
Then, without warning, the mark on the
sword hilt roused and sang. Its sudden cry razed the air like tapped crystal.
Mykkael surged to his feet amid an explosion of dropped braid and wing leather.
Sword in hand, he glared outwards. His skin became pebbled with gooseflesh. Yet
the note that chimed through the echoing dark was high, clear and sweet, with a
ringing, melodic overtone.
The captain glanced wildly about, but saw
nothing. No shadow moved, no sign arose to indicate lurking danger. The
vibration struck off his shaman-sung steel did not build or sustain. With an
eerie, light whisper, it simply diminished and faded away.
The night held nothing other than the rush
of the cataract, jetting over smoothed stone. No smell lingered. Just the
mineral tang of wet rock, and wood smoke, infused with the odour of seared
trout.
Anja shivered. She tucked the tattered
surcoat over her slender shoulders. 'What caused that?'
Mykkael shook his head, but failed to
relax. 'I don't know, your Grace.' He ran questing fingers over the weapon's
marked hilt, then shrugged off a grue that arose through his feet, and played
itself through his locked frame. 'At no time have I heard the warding react to
anything that way before.'
He limped from the fireside. His prowling
footsteps stayed silent as he quartered the cavern twice over. His survey
encountered no trace of a threat. The packet confining the shape-changer's
leavings remained secure in his keeping. Except for pricked ears and turned
heads, the horses evinced no distress.
Too riled to stand down, Mykkael stalked
through a final round of inspection. He retired at last to the edge of the
precipice. There, without ceremony, he laid down his sword and proceeded to
unlace and strip off his trousers. Clad in shirt and smallclothes, he sat down
on chill stone and began to unwind the stained poultice strapped to his thigh.
Night masked his dark form; but not the
puckered shine of old scars, marked one after the other like a row of branded
spear points. The imprints progressed with unsettling deliberation, up the
sculpted muscle of his upper leg, and vanished under the shirttail that covered
the more tender skin of his flank.
Anja sucked a breath of startled
embarrassment.
'Princess?' He glanced over his shoulder,
teeth bared in a combative smile. 'Puncture,' he stated in brazen challenge.
'Since you have neither manners or shame, let's end the excitement forthwith.
The wound is quite clean. It was made by a sword. Cold water should do nicely
to take down the swelling, a treatment I trust will make you nod off out of
natural boredom.'
Anja discovered she lacked the effrontery
to take up the thrown gauntlet, after all. Wrapped in the hard-used cloth of
his surcoat, she huddled in silence, drifting from an uneasy catnap into the
depths of oblivious sleep.
Both
scryings failed. Though a second disturbance from the unseen had distressed the
flow of the earth's flux, the circle of shamans gleaned little more than the
emperor's vizier, although they sang a mighty power into their striving. A
protector walked Hell's Chasm, they said, his person cloaked by a layered work
of warding whose weaving had deafened their seers. Perplexity deepened. For
when the tribal enclave retired, the elder among them dreamed a flawless line
into the warrior's heart. He saw the man as a great, cloudy star, his light
wracked and riddled by mishap and wounds, and the dross of his unshed tears ...
ANJA WAKENED TWICE IN THE NIGHT. THE FIRST
TIME HER SLEEP RIPPED TO WHIMPERING SCREAMS, SHE ROUSED, drawn back from the
darkness by a man's hand, cupping her tear-stained cheek. The same gentle touch
stroked the damp hair from her temples. She realized she lay with her head
pillowed against Mykkael's leg. He murmured a phrase that soothed her eyes
closed. She submerged once again, lulled by the rhythm of his competent
fingers, weaving a wing-leather rope.
Her rest broke the second time closer to
dawn. She stirred, vaguely unsettled to find she no longer huddled on chill
stone. The noise of the falls thrashed the air without let-up, and the captain
was no longer braiding.
'Your Grace?' said Mykkael, crisply wakeful
above her. 'You were shivering.'
He sat, his back propped to the cavern
wall, her curled body cradled against his waist. The drawn sword in his hand
rested across her lap, the war-battered steel of its crossguard glinting
against the crumpled device on the garrison surcoat.
That moment, a near spurt of kerrie fire
seared into the stream of the falls. Light flared through the cavern, sharp as
the burst of a lightning flash.
Anja's reflexive surge to escape was
arrested by Mykkael's tensed forearm.
'Lie still, Princess. You are quite safe.
The creatures might taste our scent, but they can't fly or spit flame across
falling water.'
Eyes shut, basked in his close warmth, Anja
found she could not shed the image of the raised scars she had glimpsed, rowed
across the bared skin of his thigh. 'Those marks were not sword cuts,' she
accused, too drowsy to curb the brash confrontation she had murmured aloud.
'Sleep, Princess,' Mykkael said,
unoffended. He smoothed the ripped cloth of the surcoat over her shoulders,
easing her back into kindlier dreams with an effortless, blanketing calm.
She did not feel him slip from her
presence. Aroused at daybreak to the smoke of a fire laid with the last billets
of driftwood, Anja smelled fillets roasting over the coals. This time, Mykkael
had speared a river pike. The hapless fish flushed over the rip of the falls
had no chance against barqui'ino
reflex.
The hunter himself seemed nowhere in
evidence.
Anja pushed off the sheltering surcoat and
sat up, to a spurt of stifled alarm.
'Princess?' The captain's voice issued from
amid the horses, where he knelt to attend Fouzette's injury. 'Rise and eat. If
we're to allow for a pause to seek fodder, we'll need to move out very soon.'
Hope raised Anja's spirits. 'Do you think
we'll find grazing?' She peered through the gloom, caught her breath over the
progress accomplished through his expert use of cold compresses, then measured
the neat work he made of the leg wrap to draw the mare's swelling.
'The chasm is wider below the cascade.' Mykkael
stood up and wiped his damp hands, his manner brisk with impatience. 'Any
streamlet with good sunlight is bound to feed a pocket of tender spring grass.'
Anja shook out the tumbled folds of the
surcoat, and laid the garment across the cantle of her propped saddle. 'What
about hunting kerries?'
The captain evaded a forthright answer. 'On
that score, I have an idea. We'll test the result, but after we've forded the
cataract.'
All but deafened by the thrash of the
falls, Anja spotted the rope, finished off into gleaming coils of black braid.
The use it might serve through the passage ahead wrecked the healthy pangs of
her appetite. Beset by chills, the princess realized she had slept on the
shrinking hope they could embrace the safe choice and turn back. The thundering
force of the falls seemed an obstacle worthy of forestalling further progress.
She had coddled the faint-hearted expectation that even Mykkael must shy back
from running the Widow's Gauntlet.
'Eat.' The dauntless desert-bred knelt by
his fire, spitted half of his cooked catch on a stick, and shoved the offering
into her laggard hand. 'A sorcerer's shape-changer still dogs our heels. Your
sire stands besieged, as we linger.'
Anja nibbled, scarcely tasting the morsel
she made herself chew and swallow. 'You know he's alive?'
Mykkael looked sharply back at her. During
the night, he had used his small dagger and shaved his dark face clean of
stubble. 'At dawn, yes, he was. I had a witch thought, and saw Jussoud tending
him. The Duchess of Phail was holding the king's hand.'
'Taskin stood guard for him?'
The captain turned smoothly away, intent on
his portion of breakfast. 'An armed circle of defenders have taken refuge
inside Dedorth's tower. The Commander of the Royal Guard was there at his
Majesty's bedside.'
Though Anja received the distinct
impression that Mykkael's seamless move had posed a minor avoidance, the
anxiety at hand overshadowed her impulse to press him.
The perils of Hell's Chasm were lethal
enough, without adding pursuit by a sorcerer. Ahead, every record agreed
without variance, the ravine became brutally impassable. No misguided
adventurers had ever won through. The ones who escaped outright slaughter by
kerries had been battered to rags on the rocks, each one a name on a list of
fatalities passed down for generations.
Yet the desert-bred captain who stayed
wilfully set to make himself the exception finished his meal of roast fish. He
gathered up his coils of rope, then calmly inquired which mount her Grace
wanted bridled and saddled.
'Kasminna.' More shaken and sore than she
cared to admit, Anja rose to match the necessity. She measured her animals'
weaknesses and assets, and made the decision that might seal their lives, or
their deaths. 'Stormfront will keep up if I ride his teammate, and your
strength, on Vashni, should drive him on if Fouzette's bad leg slows her down.'
Too soon, the horses were readied. Anja
accepted Kasminna's reins, aching for her animals' sad straits. The peppery
sorrel was too starved and dispirited to do more than flatten her ears as her
rider released the stirrups and mounted. The mare moved out after grey Vashni's
lead, and clattered into the dousing plunge through the cleft. She emerged,
soaked and snorting, into the twilight shade of the gorge, where a fresh
morning sky painted the rocks with cerulean highlights.
Mykkael checked his bearings, then reined
the grey back upstream. The race of the flume was still high with spring melt.
He could not expect a tame crossing. The site he selected for least risk of
hazard wrung the princess to stark trepidation.
The current narrowed to a raging, white
span choked on the near side by a deep shelf of rock. The far bank rose out of
a sluiced riffle of shallows, sucking over a potholed ledge. The cavern wall
reared high above, cleaved by frost into cragged flaws and niches, and choked
by a few tortured evergreens.
Mykkael completed his final assessment,
then faced Anja's mute pallor without flinching. 'I can't pace out the distance
to make sure of the wardings.' he said over the rampaging waters. 'Therefore,
you'll carry my sword.'
Will ruled him as iron. He would part with
the weapon without hesitation. While the horses snorted in bunched-up unease,
he unslung the bow and hooked the tip on the quiver hanging against Vashni's
shoulder. Then he stripped off his harness, passed the straps and sheathed
blade into Anja's reluctant grasp. Still mounted, he assisted her shaking, cold
fingers to tighten the buckles. The task was accomplished with startling speed.
Belatedly, Anja discovered the reason. An additional row of holes had been
punched, long ago, to accommodate somebody close to her size. 'You've done this
before,' she accused, snatched breathless with apprehension.
He nodded. 'Just twice.' He yanked hard,
made certain the straps were secure, then used the light cord unlaced from his
cuff to lash the blade into the scabbard. 'Three times should be lucky.' The
grim fact stayed unvoiced, that if the princess should be swept off and
drowned, the shaman's mark founded his desolate hope that the shape-changer
could not wreak a sorcerer's work upon her hapless dead body.
As the captain dismounted, handing off
Vashni's reins, Anja regarded his upturned face with wide-eyed entreaty.
'Don't think,' said Mykkael. He unbuckled
his belt, tossed his scrip and shed surcoat aside on the bank. 'I'll accomplish
what must be done quickly.'
Clad in shirt and breeches, he approached
the base of the cliff and pried out a loose stone with his dagger. On top, he
stacked the grim packet holding the minion's captive remains. 'I can't risk a
dunking,' he explained as he lashed the paired weight of stone and leather on
to one end of his braided rope. He affixed several tight coils under the knot,
and made them fast. 'The salt could wash through and release the bound
contents.' If that particular misfortune happened, the terror that emerged would
be too dire to contemplate.
Mykkael caught up Fouzette. He threaded the
loose end of the rope over her back and between her wide-set forelegs to
fashion a crude chest strap and surcingle.
Standing once more, his disquieting bundle
laid to one side, he arranged the rope's coils in broad, open loops, where they
would peel off without tangling. He spoke as he worked. 'Anja! Listen
carefully. I will cross first. You'll count off seconds. If I go under for more
than one minute, you'll back Fouzette and raise the rope taut. When I reach the
far bank, I will throw back the rock. You will untie it and fasten the line to
the ring under Kasminna's headstall. Leave two yards of extra line free at the
end. That should be enough to knot around your chest at the armpits.' He stood,
gripped her knee, and searched her face with determined brown eyes.
'Understand?'
She nodded, her throat too choked to reply.
He showed her the correct knot, made her
repeat tying it twice. Once he was certain she would not fumble or slip, he gave
her shoulder a light slap of encouragement. 'You'll do, Princess, more than
very well. Now stand back. Lead the other horses well clear. Also make sure
that Stormfront's secured. Let's sidestep the known pitfall, and forestall his
impulse to tear loose and follow the mare.'
As Anja realized, dismayed, he had made no
contingencies, Mykkael silenced her with a headshake. 'We do this just once.
The lives of your horses rest in your hands, and I have not known you to fail
them.'
He stepped back, a dwarfed figure in sadly
soiled clothes who would stand or fall on lamed strength, naked will and
ingenuity. Before Anja had mustered the resolve to go forward, Mykkael had
taken his rock grapple in hand. He started it swinging. The whistling, tight
circles compelled the princess to scramble clear and herd the horses against
the cleft wall. When the hide tether sliced the air, then sang out with a
whining hum, the captain raised his fist, and turned the spin horizontal. With
the rock sling now whistling over his head, he payed out more line. His release
was a masterwork of neat timing, no doubt perfected in siegecraft. The rock
sailed over the chasm in a shot arc, trailing its runner of line.
It descended and caught in the first
gnarled fir. Leashed momentum whipped the end in a caught spiral over the
spindly tree. The snag sealed his commitment. No wishful tug could pull the
line free. Mykkael would embark with no second chance. Either the rope was
wound fast, or it would slip and break loose, or else tear up the evergreen,
root and limb, the first time it came to be tested.
'Anja!' Mykkael shouted. 'Come steady your
mare. If the line fails, you must not despair! If I should fall in, and if I
stay under for more than a minute, you will work with the horse and draw up the
slack. Don't stand at Fouzette's head. Hold her back from behind, or you'll
risk being swept off your feet if she slides. Align her straight on. Try not to
let her spin sideways.'
The captain backed the bay mare to harden
the line. He tugged only once, to test its strung tension, then handed off
Fouzette's lead to the princess.
'Don't think,' he insisted. 'Just breathe
and stay focused.'
Mykkael left her no chance to build
apprehension, but charged three running steps and launched off the ledge. He
caught the line and swung himself hand over hand above the raging white race
that tore down the throat of the chasm.
The captain had drawn himself halfway
across, when the anchoring tree snapped its taproot. The line loosened and
sagged. His feet struck the tossing rush of the flume, and the sudden, sharp
jerk yanked Fouzette into a disastrous surge forward.
'Hold hard!' Anja screamed. 'Fouzette, hold
hard!'
The mare answered, snorting. Her trembling
hindquarters lowered to withstand the murderous drag at her forehand.
But Mykkael had already gone under. The
beleaguered fir tree trembled and bent, the lesser roots still clutched to the
crag overtaxed by the drag of the current. The captain remained precariously
tethered, though the foaming water had swallowed his form.
The princess looked on, wrung voiceless, as
the braided black rope knifed downwards into the tumble. The pressure twisted
and wrung at the stunted fir binding the end to the opposite shore. Bark and
greenery peeled. A branch cracked and parted. Loose pebbles spilled down as the
strained roots ripped up the thin soil.
Anja watched, her heart all but stopped,
while the improvised rope still holding Mykkael sliced ever further from the
near bank. A mote in a maelstrom, he was being dragged downstream by the raging
spate.
She remembered to start counting. Unnerved
and frightened, she ran through the sequence too fast. More pebbles cracked
loose. A stricken glance at the tree showed its trunk wrung in half. Second by
second, the stubbed base was tearing out of the crevice. The rope sliced the
wild water, carving up spray. The current's brutal, swirling force swung Mykkael
towards the far bank. If he could maintain his grip against its pummelling
fury, if his strength held, and if the hide itself did not slide through his
wet hands, he might have a chance to haul himself clear of danger. Provided the
tree did not give way first.
The near bank posed no option. Even braced
by Fouzette, the captain would be battered to rags against the undershot rim of
the ledge.
Anja's count had cleared forty. Dread
squeezed her chest. If she called on Fouzette, she saw right away, the
precarious fir tree must fail. The roots, now peeled backwards, could not
withstand even an ounce of additional strain. Sight fixed to the thrumming
strand of the rope, Anja begged for reprieve from the elements. She held Mykkael's
memory, rejecting tears, and compelled herself to keep his admonishment to breathe.
Tears blurred her vision, regardless. She
caught
Fouzette's lead, prepared to drag in the
line, when the whitewater at the far side kicked and splashed, thrown into
savage recoil. A fan of spray shot from the moil of current. Then a dark hand
emerged, sculpted with strain, still latched to the failing rope.
Mykkael reappeared, hurtled over and over
in the tumble. He broke the surface, his head and face dashed under by the
cataract of churned water. He ducked like a seal. Elbows tucked, he used legs
and feet as a rudder, fought his clinging form in a slewing arc towards the
shallows. Another haul on the line broke him clear of the murderous drag of the
race. There he clung, trying to recover his stressed wind, spluttering and
coughing up water.
'Mykkael!' Anja screamed out a warning.
'Look up! You must! The tree's giving way!'
He had already seen. If the line let go
now, he would be lost. The slick, shelving rock that supported his hip hissed
and boiled with sheeting, fast current. His attempt to fold on to one knee and
gain purchase battered him once more downstream. The snagged fir tore again,
raining pebbles. Another sharp tug would uproot it. The ledge where the captain
languished was too slippery. If he tried to rise, he would be swept away. Each
moment he relied on the line, the icy spate numbed the speed from his reflexes.
Left no other choice, he dragged himself tenderly in, hand over inching hand.
Each foot regained from the drag of brute elements, he seized from the poised
jaws of fate.
Mykkael reached the far shore, scraped and
bleeding, and all but stunned senseless. The knee of his breeches was shredded
to rags. One of his boots had been torn away in the pummelling rush of the
current. The wracked fir that had anchored him now hung straight down, with his
improvised rock grapple dangling. The tied packet of peril that must be kept dry swung over the
fast-rushing water.
Anja watched, breathless, as Mykkael
discerned that unfolding disaster. He kicked off his filled boot and surged to
his feet in one seamlessly desperate motion. Steel flashed in his hand, though
she had not seen the sheath that concealed the short dagger he kept for
infighting. He jammed the blade into a crack in the stone, risked his weight to
its steel, and drew himself up by the handle. His outflung fist snagged the
swinging rope. He ducked the recoiling spin of the stone, let its momentum thud
into the cliff wall. It shattered on impact. Face and shoulders, he was raked
by the back-falling fragments. He clung through the battering. As the broken
stone fell away, leaving the cord bindings uselessly slackened, Mykkael
snatched like a cobra. When he lowered himself down, he had the salt packet
with the shape-changer's remains once more in hand, tightly guarded.
He did not pause in triumph. The moment he
had the burden stowed in the security of a dry crevice, he tugged down the
splintered remains of the tree, and freed his length of snagged rope. He
climbed again and whipped a tight half-hitch over a well-rooted tree bole. Once
the trailing end of the line was reeled in, he tied on a new stone as a
throwing weight. Then he coiled the slack, and hurled the line across the raced
waters to Anja.
Mykkael did not call out in encouragement,
or rush her to undue haste. The drawn tension on his face spoke more plainly than
words: each second that kept him apart from his sword increased the potential
for danger.
Anja caught up the icy, wet rope, and
hauled the rock from its backsliding roll towards the water. She fought the
pull of the slippery hide, skinned her knuckles working the stubborn knots
free. Despite the terror clamped in her gut, she fastened the line to
Kasminna's headstall. Then she knotted the trailing end to her waist exactly as
Mykkael had taught her.
'All right!' Her tremulous shout arose thin
as a gull's cry over the thrash of the flume.
The captain nodded his instant
acknowledgement and raised his cupped hands to shout. 'Lay the slack line on
the upstream side! Then climb astride. Grab mane with both hands, gallop
straight on and jump! Go! No thinking! Do as I say, now, Princess!'
Kasminna snorted, pawing, already aware her
young handler was uneasy. Anja clambered astride, her blind state of fear
underscored by stark common sense. The wise horse she rode would balk, if she
faltered.
Anja swallowed. Trembling, she stroked the
mare's neck, then balanced her weight for a running charge off the ledge.
'Kasminna! Ready!' She pitched the familiar command as though she prepared to
launch a hot contest of steed wickets in the meadow.
The mare tensed beneath her, prancing with
eagerness. Despite the strange setting, the start of a match was a well-known,
beloved routine. The horse pricked her ears forward. Her muscles coiled with
quivering anticipation.
'Kasminna, go!' shouted Anja.
The sorrel exploded forward. Her powerful
stride unfolded and drove her headlong off the rim, then over the boiling
torrent. The last thing Anja heard, through the whistle of air, and the foaming
crash of the waters, was Stormfront's distressed whinny, that his herd mate
departed without his accustomed support.
Then the mare struck. The shock of the icy,
turbulent water slapped the breath out of Anja's chest. She gasped, stunned all
but witless as she pitched into frigid immersion. The swift current hooked her
clothes with battering force. Her body was torn off Kasminna's back. The locked
clasp of her fists in wet mane buoyed her, barely. She sucked in a breath,
before a hammering wall of white water drove headlong into her face. She
swallowed a mouthful, nearly choked as the spate pummelled her lips and closed
eyelids. She held on, overpowered and blinded, and robbed of all sense of
direction.
The frightened horse fared no better.
Kasminna pitched and thrashed through the froth. Head upflung, nose tipped
skywards, she bucked the pull of the rope on her noseband. Still, her stabbing
hooves found no purchase. Swept downstream like a straw in a millrace, she
rolled under, snorting in terror.
Through the cold and the dark, Anja thought
she heard Mykkael's frantic shouting. She battled the greedy suck of the
current. Her puny strength did not avail her. The remorseless force of the
flume wrung her under. She could not twist her face to the surface. The
drubbing eddies hurled her into chill darkness, pounding her down without
let-up. She clung. Kasminna's struggles meant life. Anja felt her fingers
inexorably sliding as her cramped lungs lost air, and the horse slammed,
fighting, against her.
Then the shadowy deeps thinned around her.
Sudden light burst and burned, and her head broke the surface, dashed with
white fingers of foam. Her braid had wrapped around her wracked throat. She
fought its wet choke hold, then felt her knees slam into a ledge of smoothed
rock. One hand still gripped Kasminna's streamed mane. Anja clung like a
limpet, while the mare dug in her iron-shod forefeet and scrambled. Her upflung
head showered spray against the reeling sky overhead.
'Back up! Fouzette! Back, now!' Mykkael's
shout sounded all but on top of her.
Anja coughed weakly. Cold water exploded
from her filled nose and mouth. Somewhere near, a rope creaked taut. The
stressed plies threw off moisture like plumed smoke.
Anja felt the jostling surge of the horse.
She lost her last grip, slammed down and sideways into swirling water and rock.
The fierce current clawed her, hauling at the deadweight of her filled shoes
and soaked clothing. She hacked out a yell, felt the rope dig her chest. Then a
ruthless pull from the tethering end snapped her ahead like a rag doll. A last,
stinging wave slapped over her cheek. Then Mykkael's fist grabbed her collar,
hauled her free of the rip, and flung her gasping upon the splashed ledge.
First thing, she pitched over and heaved up
her guts. The horrid, cold gush of breakfast and river water gouted over her
bleeding, grazed hands. Tears burned her eyes. Her lungs ached like bruised
meat. Mykkael caught her up, tossed her over his raised knee, and pounded her
back as she gagged. Her clogged airway emptied. Her limbs felt like a mangled
stranger's. Shaking with shock, she shivered and retched, and fought in a raw
gulp of air.
'The sword,' she gasped. 'Kasminna.'
'Both safe.' Mykkael cradled her against
his wet shoulder, steel and all. His cold fingers were trembling as he cleared
the heavy, drenched braid from her throat. 'You've done Sessalie proud as a
princess.'
Anja freed a hand, pushed. 'The others.'
'We'll bring them.' Mykkael propped her
upright, allowing the freedom her spirited pride would demand. 'Once you can
stand, you'll help me.'
His tone was a level ribbon of steel,
shocking her into recovery. Anja sat up, hampered by the unyielding burden of
the weapon strapped on to her back. 'You aren't going back across!'
Mykkael released his supportive grip,
warned off by her knifing anger. 'Someone must.' The chiselled set to his
desert-bred features showed no softening change of expression. 'For one thing,
the bow and arrows must stay dry. Nor can we leave the supplies in my scrip.'
Anja glared at him, horrified. 'Captain,
no! If you try, you'll be battered to death where the water undercuts the far
ledge!'
He grinned. 'I would if I planned to go
swimming again.'
The tip of the sword scabbard clanked
against stone as Anja shoved all the way upright. She arrived on her feet.
White-faced and shivering, slightly rocked by the weight of the longsword
strapped into the harness, she raised her chin, prepared to spit venom. Despite
plastered hair and bedraggled appearance, she was every inch the crowned
princess. Answers were expected, and prompt ones, to judge by the frown that
snarled the cut silk of her eyebrows. 'Take back your weapon. Then show me.'
'I expect to.' Mykkael caught her wrists,
restrained her rushed impulse to start unfastening buckles. 'Let's untie that
safety rope first.' He reached with marked hands, began unlashing knots, his
seal-wet head bent and still dripping. 'The sword stays with you, Princess,
until I can make my way back.'
'Promise!' Anja repressed a violent shiver.
She needed to rail at him, but words posed too daunting an effort. Sickness and
strain had unstrung her. Wretchedly chilled, she could not stop shaking. 'You
aren't going to swim.'
Mykkael bowed with crossed forearms over
his chest, the formal royal salute he preferred. 'Your Grace, take my vow. The
river is not going to have me.' He went on in swift terms to explain what he
wanted, then proceeded to scramble up the near outcrop. There, he made
adjustments to allow his fastened line to slide under friction, and affixed the
retrieved end around the sturdiest of the remaining trees.
The captain's plan involved using the
traction provided by two horses to create the crude principle of a block and
tackle.
'You'll brace the line, so,' he said.
'Fouzette stands as anchor. I'll cross over the chasm, hand over hand, this
time without a disaster.' He would not be immersed, except for his legs, and
then, only for the final stretch where the slope of the line dropped too low to
permit him full clearance. 'If I carry the middle of the rope across with me,
and tie on the horses' headstalls, you'll have two trees taking the brunt of
the strain, and the other end pulled by Kasminna.'
Anja swiped plastered hair from her cheek.
'How can you recover the centre of the line, once we've drawn the first animal
across?'
'Not a difficulty.' Mykkael turned to Kasminna,
and began to fashion a makeshift harness and chest strap. 'I'll string lead
lines together. Knotted on to the rope, they will serve as a feed string to
drag the loop back.' With two horses pulling, the one crossing the current
should be able to make the passage with a reasonable assurance of safety. The
strategy seemed sound, as long as no animal panicked, and provided Kasminna and
Fouzette, standing anchor, did not slip on wet rock or go down.
'The last horse,' Anja whispered. No fool,
she had foreseen the pitfall. The final animal must swim unassisted. Fouzette,
like Kasminna, must assay the crossing with no anchor on the far bank.
'You'll have four horses on this side,' Mykkael
pointed out, his dark eyes unafraid as he watched her measure the catch. 'And
myself. Fouzette's solid. If she can stand her firm ground at the end, I can
cross back, hand over hand, just before her. Supposing the worst happens, and
she fails at the last, you'll still have four horses to pull from this side.
They should be sufficient to bring both of us through.'
Anja swallowed. 'If Fouzette gives way,
Captain, you'll cut her rope.'
'She won't give way,' said Mykkael.
Droplets scattered from his sodden shirt cuffs as he tested the last knot on
Kasminna's improvised surcingle. 'Just imagine your bay lady standing with
Vashni, stuffing her belly on marsh grass. How would you like to snack on roast
trout while we dry ourselves off in the sun?'
THE SENESCHAL OF SESSALIE PERCHED LIKE A
NETTLED BIRD ON ONE OF DEDORTH'S TATTERED FOOTSTOOLS. HANDS FOLDED in prim
disapproval, he spoke across the rapacious chess game Taskin played against the
physician from Fane Street. 'I should go out. The council ought to be warned of
the High Prince of Devall's doubtful motives.'
The outstanding contract for marriage seemed
a dangerous thread to leave dangling. Yet Taskin languished next to the game
board, uncommunicative, his eyes shut.
Undaunted by his freezing silence, or the
click of the game piece as the physician advanced Dedorth's mouse-chewed white
rook, Lord Shaillon cleared his throat and pressed on. 'His Highness's suit
must be formally rejected. Your desert-bred captain was left wounded, you said.
Should he fail to win through, Devall's heir apparent must not retain the
implied standing to influence Sessalie's future.'
Taskin cracked open ice-blue eyes. He was
currently propped up against pillows on the floor, while Jussoud, at the
bedside, applied his knowledge as masseur to the king's intractable malady.
Ignoring the seneschal, the commander glanced over the chessboard. Though even slight
movement pained his strapped arm, he extended a finger and slid the black
bishop two diagonal squares to the left. 'Check.'
As the seneschal drew breath, Taskin
shifted his knifepoint regard. 'I heard you the first time, Lord Shaillon.' His
drained whisper lacked none of its caustic force. 'Go out, and you'll be a
walking sacrifice. In the king's absence, and mine, you wield too much power.
Can Sessalie afford to set you at risk of being claimed as a sorcerer's
catspaw? I say not. My guardsmen will not let you pass.'
The seneschal jutted his chin,
unintimidated. 'Without me, the council will argue the affairs of this realm to
a standstill!'
'Let them.' Taskin tipped his head in
ironic deference towards the bed.
'An intelligent tactic,' interjected King
Isendon, roused and lucid under Jussoud's skilled ministrations. 'The rule of
this kingdom is set under siege. Should I die in this tower, the state
legalities are better left tangled. If we fall here, and Devall moves to upset
my succession, my sealed record could still thwart him.' Crown heir Kailen
destroyed meant Princess Anja must be left her clear right to inherit. 'I must
believe my daughter can win free and sue for a southern alliance.'
The argument lapsed, leaving grief-stricken
quiet, the fust of old books and Dedorth's frowsty housekeeping thickened by
the aromatic smoke of burned cedar. The tight quarters had become a sore trial
to the defenders besieged inside. Since Perincar's geometry and Mykkael's list
of defensive banishings had stood off the initial assault, the sorcerer's watch
spells ringed their refuge without surcease, probing for sign of a breach.
Taskin's guardsmen shared vigil at the windows and door, which left the nine
individuals carrying the vizier's talismans crammed into constant, close
company. A chalked ring on the floor marked the limited range where the
ninefold shield held to resonance. For any one of the bearers to stray past
that distance would spell their defeat, sealing King Isendon's doom and
inflicting a fate that would reach beyond death.
Allowed no expedient weakness to exploit,
the focus of the sorcerer's attack appeared to have shifted elsewhere.
The perilous stand-off fallen since dawn
chafed upon everyone's nerves. Lady Phail sensibly used the interval to catch
up on sleep. The seneschal throttled his griped urge to pace, while the
surviving sentries conscripted from Highgate stood fretful guard, and their
wounded commander salved restless nerves by waging increasingly vicious
campaigns on the chessboard.
'A soldier who took this long to
counterstrike would become chopped meat on a battlefield,' Taskin barked at
drawn length.
Never hurried for any man, the Fane Street
physician paused to polish his spectacles. 'Healers by nature don't sacrifice
without forethought. Knight takes rook.'
Eyes shut, Taskin smiled in evil triumph.
'Mate in two moves. You won't save your king. Reset the board. We'll play
again.'
'A bit bloodthirsty, aren't we?' The
physician fielded his latest defeat with good grace. Though he seemed content
to accept a fresh challenge, even his dauntless optimism wore thin from the
pressure of constant unease.
Under the thinning drift of the mist,
nothing seemed untoward outside. The
bell rang from Highgate to signal the change of the watch. The sweet clarity of
the sunrise paean drifted down from the Sanctuary on the pinnacle. If the
sorcerer's minion now stalked the chancellors in Sessalie's chambers of state,
no word and no news reached the tower. After two overt assaults by cold
sorcery, even the keenest mind could not guess how the council might have been
soothed to placation.
The absence of the king, the crown prince
and the duchess, as well as four ranking officers of the realm, must have been
blamed on the fire that had struck the palace apartment. Yet no death knells
had rung. The general populace had not been informed of a royal demise. Some
semblance of legal decorum prevailed, since a change in succession demanded the
proof of a body.
Shadowed by fearfully dire speculation, the
select party immured with the king could do nothing but wait out their
helplessness. They subsisted on mean rations and slept by turns in tight
quarters, while the morning wore past like slow torture. The Duchess of Phail
napped in her chair, her white head nested on a frayed bolster, while the
off-watch men-at-arms slept, bearing weapons, and the handful of guard from the
duty roster held the main door, and sparingly burned cedar in the grate.
'Powers of daylight look after my
daughter,' the king prayed in a scraped whisper.
'Mykkael won't fail you, Majesty,' Vensic
reassured him. Bent by the light of a tallow dip, he struck his knife upright
and tipped the winkle of copper shavings just pared from a drawer pull into
Dedorth's soot-streaked crucible. The melted metal would be used to treat arrow
points, by Mykkael's instruction the best way to stun a sorcerer's fledged
minion.
'One man, alone!' Bennent spoke from the
shuttered window, where he kept uneventful lookout. 'What chance does that
desert-bred have? I tell you, we ought to strike back while we can, and run
Devall out of the kingdom.'
'Mykkael's experience has spared your life
and the king's, three times over,' Taskin stated. 'If the warning he left with
me held any substance, the high prince is already corrupt. Move on him now, and
you could be challenging the primary tool sent to spearhead this sorcerer's
invasion.'
'Well don't you think folk should be warned
of the danger?' the seneschal pressed.
'They should not,' interjected the Fane
Street physician, his plump hands staging pawns on the chessboard. 'Ignorance
is the blessing that spares them, just now.' The horrible deaths of the
apothecary and the seeress had established that fact beyond question. 'For
myself, I shrink to contemplate the reason why this tower is no longer set
under active attack.'
Lord Shaillon huffed in contempt through
his nose. 'Personally, I prefer to enjoy the relief.'
'Shaillon, your lack of knowledge is
dangerous.' King Isendon stirred on Dedorth's narrow bed, too tired for
involved speech. 'Tell them, Jussoud.'
The nomad settled the moth-holed blanket
back over the monarch's thin shoulders. 'As long as the royal family is held as
the primary target, the sorcerer is still stalking. He wants Sessalie conquered
without blood, in secret. If he's flushed out of cover in front of the
populace, his presence would raise mass terror and fear. Then his work will
have impact, and his invasion will draw notice. Tribal shamans often sense
death and wars from a distance. The most gifted can read calamity in the
movements of storms, even track down the source through skilled dreamers.'
Taskin took black, again without asking,
and tapped impatient fingers until his more timid opponent played the first
move. 'Tactics still suggest this enemy wants us trapped quietly. He'll have a
design he wishes to hide. Some motive he prefers to keep secret. Be grateful we
have our one man, alone.' Quite likely that captain's close guard on the
princess was all that stood between Sessalie's people, and a disaster of
unknown proportion.
A sandpaper whisper arose from the bed.
'Such a chance-met fly in the ointment, that we had a desert-bred captain on
hire.' King Isendon sighed, eyes closed, his thinned hair wisped like silk on
the pillow. 'I fear for Mykkael. As my daughter's protector, even the prowess
of his reputation might not be enough.'
'He is shielded better than even he knows,'
Jussoud offered in gentle remonstrance. 'I left him my gift of the Sanouk royal
dragons.'
'Your silk sash?' interjected the Duchess
of Phail, awakened and sharp with surprise. 'Why give up the token of your
lineage and ancestry?'
The nomad inclined his head. 'I would say
Mykkael needs the credential more than I do.' Whatever befell him, escorting a
princess, while bearing the badge of old Sanouk royalty, he would not be
misapprised as a ruffian.
'Well, you men can rely on your foreign
killer and his sword.' Lady Phail settled back, arms crossed over the bed sheet
she wore in place of a shawl. 'I'll stake my best diamond on our court ladies.
They won't fall for Devall's smooth lies indefinitely. I doubt very much if
they'll stay content to hand over Sessalie's independence.'
'Whatever the women might choose to try,'
Taskin said, as he wiped the first white casualty off the game board, 'better
hope no one in my guard's the next target chosen for coercion. This sorcerer's
no soldier. Else he'd see fast as daylight that we're shielded from spellcraft,
but vulnerable as babes to the first assault party backing a ram.'
* * *
The thunderous pounding rattled the door of
Sergeant Cade's dwelling, a second-floor tenement overlooking an alley two
streets down from the Falls Gate. The protest of the two posted guards clashed
with a screech of female dissent. The fracas raged no more than a second. The
browbeaten guardsmen were barrelled aside, and the panel burst open, slapping
dust off the top of the dish cupboard.
A huge woman cloaked in ermine and flounced
taffeta rammed out of the streaming mist. Her incensed invasion crossed over
the threshold, while Cade's twin toddlers stared with huge eyes, and his infant
daughter sat, sucking her fingers.
'Powers of daylight! Since when does a
house arrest keep a man out of the kitchen?' Lady Bertarra advanced, jewels
wrathfully swinging, while the floorboards creaked under her bulk. 'Sergeant!'
she bellowed. 'Come out! As the late queen's niece, I will know what's
happening within my family's kingdom!'
Cade's pert wife leaped up from her stool,
all but dropping the lid of the butter churn. 'My lady?' That any court matron
should call in this district framed an incomprehensible precedent.
'Your husband!' snapped Bertarra. 'Send for
him. Now.'
Scared by the uproar, the child at the
table started to wail.
Bertarra turned her head, startled. 'Oh,
please! Hush, my button.' Still speaking endearments, the queen's niece pawed
under her cloak. 'I haven't come to bring harm to your father.' Her ringed
fingers emerged, clutching a half-dozen lemon drops twisted in waxed paper. She
handed a sweet to the tearful girl, then offered the rest to her brothers. As
one, the twins pounced, whooping with unbridled pleasure.
'You'll share those, you scoundrels!'
admonished the wife. 'Tell the great lady thank you.' Plainly clothed and
embarrassed, she gave up her rough seat. While her daughter's crying subsided
to wonder, she extended a chapped hand to take Bertarra's furred wrap. 'Please
be welcome, my lady, and forgive the rude manners. The children are beset with
excitement. They've had low-country sugar just once, from their cousin's uncle
whose second daughter married a sailhand from Dreish.'
Still puffing from her ascent to the
garret, Bertarra shed her weighty mantle and sat, just as Cade poked his bald
head through the back-chamber doorway.
Before his flustered wife could begin
introductions, Bertarra plunged into ranting. 'The king, the crown prince, and
the seneschal are all missing since the fire in the royal apartment! Commander
Taskin's gone from his bed. Two days ago, he lay dying, and now, no one's home
at his townhouse. We've got women with husbands in the palace guard whose men
folk have failed to come home, and the High Prince of Devall has the council
tied up behind closed doors in debate. As the oldest member of Isendon's family
still at large, I demand to know what is
happening!'
Cade entered, his laconic features flushed
pink. Clad in shirtsleeves and breeches, he had been caught shaving, to judge
by the stubble still prickling his neck. Eyebrows lifted, he measured the
tonnage of jewels and silk crammed into his tiny kitchen, then managed to field
the astounding invasion with a semblance of professional aplomb. 'My lady? Have
you spoken to the new acting captain at the keep?'
Bertarra sniffed. 'That prig!' Earrings
rattling, she drew herself up. 'Jedrey told me to be quiet and go home. As
though there wasn't a crisis, and I had nothing better to do than nibble tea
cakes and write invitations.'
Cade reached the trestle. He clasped his
wife's shoulder in reassurance, then added with measuring thought, 'I'm under
house arrest, were you aware?'
'For protesting that idiot's promotion, I
know.' Bertarra fluttered a dismissive hand. 'Stennis, at the garrison, told me
as much. He said your disgrace was political nonsense, that your jailers were Myshkael's, and that you could talk here
more freely.'
Cade hooked a stool from the corner and sat
down, his good-natured face tightly guarded. 'Stennis holds the day roster at
the keep? He's still acting on Mykkael's left orders?'
Bertarra glared at him, miffed. 'Not
openly. Though how anyone could overlook the reek of burned cedar is a mystery
even a dunce isn't likely to miss. Sergeant! I came here for information, not
to run on over lists and messages.'
'Then where's Jedrey?' demanded Cade, not
wont to pause for mannered diplomacy with Sessalie's peace under compromise by
a sorcerer. 'Is he still busy mustering men for an assault upon Dedorth's
tower?'
'If that means flaunting his new rank above
Highgate, and whispering over some plan set in motion by Devall's insolent
marshal, then yes. Stennis was stalling, though he wished you to know, by
mid-morning, he'll run out of excuses.' Bertarra narrowed her eyes at the
half-clothed sergeant in seething exasperation. 'I came here,' she declared, 'to find out if there's a conspiracy
afoot against Sessalie's royal family. Is it true there are sorcerer's minions
mewed up in the observatory? Who burned off the roof? The ladies are worried.
If the crown is in peril, they're anxious to help. But don't you dare act like the last braying ass,
insisting the kingdom is peaceful!'
Cade met her tirade with his careful, slow
smile. 'My lady, if I tell you that Mykkael was right all along, will your
Highgate society listen?'
Bertarra snorted. 'Blinding glory, why not?
The man may be uncouth, but everyone must now acknowledge he's competent.
Taskin spoke for him, and so did the king. Desert-bred or not, since he took
the garrison, the maidservants all say they can walk the Lowergate streets at
night, safely.'
The wife made her decision, abandoned her
butter, and graciously offered to brew tea. As though her hospitality sealed a
decision, Cade drew his candy-smeared daughter on to his knee and started
talking in earnest.
* * *
The last stage of the crossing over the
flume did not occur without cost, though all five of the princess's horses
arrived, safe and dripping, on the far bank of Hell's Chasm. They stood in a
tight, dispirited bunch, coats steaming in the morning's chill shade, while
early sunlight rimmed the crowns of the trees atop the towering rim wall. Still
breathless from the effort required to draw Fouzette across the current, Mykkael
reclaimed his sword and adjusted the fit of his harness. Since Anja could not
fail to notice the blood streaking through his soaked shirt, he had no way to
mask his discomfort. Taskin's three stripes stung his back like live fire, and
the gash that crossed his left shoulder and chest had torn open from his
exertion.
Aware of the princess's fixed, worried
eyes, the captain tried to allay her concern. 'If you're nervous the bleeding
might draw down a kerrie, I have an evasion in mind.'
Anja sucked in a shaken breath. 'You can
hide from the kerries all you like. But not me.' Surely he saw he would have to
concede, give over his tightly defended privacy before risking a needless
infection.
Finished fastening his harness, Mykkael
retrieved his dry surcoat and scrip. 'Princess,' he stated, his tone beyond
argument, 'I am not such a fool as to neglect a wound. But this is no place to
dawdle with salves and fresh dressings.'
'What are you hiding?' asked Anja,
point-blank.
Head bent, Mykkael rummaged among his
supplies and pulled out a sealed wooden phial. A wicked smile turned his lips.
'A poacher's prized remedy for masking his scent when he sets the baits in his
traps.'
While Anja tapped her foot, unwilling to
sanction the slick change of subject, the captain uncapped the stopper. He
sprinkled a sampling of the contents over the spread cloth of his surcoat, then
bundled the garment over her head and enfolded her shivering shoulders. 'You'll
forgive me, I trust, on the day of your wedding, when Sessalie's defence is
firmly secured through a southern alliance.'
The indescribable stink struck the senses
with the force of a physical blow. Anja recoiled, gagging. Slit-eyed and
furious, she could not snatch the breath to upbraid his reviling prank.
Mykkael sidestepped her snake-fast attempt
to land a slap on his cheek. 'Kerries,' he reminded. 'We can't smell like fresh
meat. I assure you, the reek will wash off.'
Beset, every step, by her blistering glare,
he proceeded to anoint himself and each of the horses. Then he retrieved his
bow and stowed his coiled rope. Once Anja was mounted, he set a brisk pace back
downstream towards the Widow's Gauntlet.
* * *
'Powers take the meddling high council!'
Bennent cursed from his post beside the shuttered south window. 'Do you hear
that?'
Outside, the echoes of an officer's orders
rang off the stone causeway that wound up to the observatory's cobbled
courtyard, then turned in switched-back curves to mount the pinnacle behind the
Sanctuary. 'Tell me that's not the Lowergate garrison's former night sergeant.'
Taskin raised his gaunt head from his
pillow. 'Jedrey?'
'No less.' Bennent locked anguished eyes
with his wounded commander. 'Listen. He's detailing a company to cordon the
tower. Save us! These aren't Highgate lancers. We're facing attack by Mykkael's
pack of common-born soldiers.'
'They can't. They wouldn't,' Vensic cried
in shocked protest. Smudged with charcoal from his labour over the crucible,
his good-natured face had gone white. 'Common or not, those men are well
trained. Mykkael taught us as a company to think, and not just take orders like
blind sheep.' He glanced, apologetic, towards the Duchess of Phail, then
finished his thought in rough language. 'I can't believe the whole garrison
would lie down like scared virgins for Jedrey's high-handed bluster!'
'Within this precinct,' said Taskin, 'they
fall under my rank, no less subject to Sessalie's crown authority.'
On the bed, the king lay quietly sleeping,
his gaunt hands stilled on the blankets. Before anyone could move to disturb
that healing peace, Jussoud unfolded from his cross-legged seat on the floor.
'No. Don't wake him. If his Majesty shows
his face at that window, he'll very likely be killed.' Point taken, the nomad's
formidable glare shifted focus. 'Nor will you arise,' he added to Taskin, lest
the commander should think to attempt the unwise intervention himself. 'No,
don't argue, old friend. This goes beyond protecting your hurt shoulder. As an
archer's mistake, or a minion's picked victim, you or King Isendon would be
just as dead. Like it or not, the heart of the kingdom's rule is immured here.
If Sessalie is going to stand firm for the princess, she can't withstand the
loss of anyone in this company.'
The wisdom of prudence could not be argued.
Even through his white-knuckled rage, the commander grasped the stakes plainly.
To Bennent and Vensic, and the determined handful of his conscripted sentries,
he rasped, 'Stand down, soldiers. Until we actually see an attack, we can't do
a thing but abide with our weapons held ready. If they ram us downstairs, the
door will soon splinter. We're better off meeting their headlong assault right
here at the upstairs landing.'
That way, words or blows must occur face to
face, with cedar and shielding talismans at hand to unmask any man bound by
spells, or coerced by the work of a sorcerer. A useless distress, to dwell on
the uncertainty, that if Taskin's authority and the voice of crown sovereignty
both failed, the attackers would simply retire below and fire the beams
underneath Dedorth's quarters.
The choice to wait became no easier to
bear, despite the clear-cut course of logic. The ongoing sequence of orders
filtered through the latched shutters, closing Jedrey's men into position.
Their numbers were inevitably bolstered by the High Prince of Devall's elite
honour guard. Isendon's defenders endured the slow torment of anticipation,
while the massive log ram was rolled in by wagon. They heard each called
instruction, and the grunts of the labourers who hefted its weight into
position before the lower entry. Though the activity could have been hampered
with arrows, Taskin forbade direct action.
'These are our own men, entrapped by
political pressure and Devall's insidious plotting.' Even faced with assault
incited by foreigners, the few arrows at hand in the tower were insufficient to
effect a changed outcome. Freed from the diversion of cut-throat chess, Taskin
surveyed his guardsmen. He met each man's worried eyes, approving their
unflinching fibre. 'Soldiers, don't for one second forget the true enemy,' he
reminded them. 'We must conserve our copper-tipped shafts to strike down the
sorcerer's minions.'
Beyond the gapped shutter, the relentless
sun shone on the team preparing to shoulder the ram in the courtyard. Their
supporting troops formed ranks to back the first foray. Jedrey's self-satisfied
praise rang through the clear air, while the gleam of the men-at-arms' helms
and the blinding flare of gold accoutrements marked the high prince's strategically
placed crossbowmen.
'Stay back from that window,' Bennent
cautioned as a guardsman sought to peer outward. 'That lowcountry marshal
wouldn't choose slackers to safeguard the heir to his kingdom.'
Yet even as Devall's crack archers spanned
their weapons, and the front-rank officer exhorted his team to take up the ram,
a disturbance flurried up from the causeway. Female voices arose, upbraiding a
drover for what seemed an undue delay. An officer's shouted order to halt came
unravelled to astonished outrage. 'You pestilent harpy, turn back I say! Now!
This street is closed until further notice. Pack up your foolish offerings and
go home!'
Helmets turned, flashing, on the front
lines as the readied men jostled to stare.
'Upon whose authority may I not pass?' the
woman yelled back, beside herself with impatience. 'These wagons will move
straight through to the Sanctuary. There are poor children, babes and mothers
in need, you rock-headed oaf. Your arrows and swords won't lose their sharp
edge while we deliver bread for the hungry!'
Taskin lifted his head, his glance grown
piercing. 'Bertarra?'
The Duchess of Phail coughed behind her
ringed hand. 'None else, powers bless her.'
'Quite. Worth a spy's insights, and ten
berserk soldiers.' The wounded commander's wry features showed sympathy for the
officers under fire as the harangue outside erupted into a cat fight.
'I don't care how many towers you plan to
put to the torch!' Bertarra howled. 'I have eyes, you tin nincompoop!
Looks to me like somebody did the task for
you, or hasn't the roof already been gutted? Who do you have mewed up in there,
anyway? No, Jedrey! The chancellors have mouthed that lame drivel all morning.
I don't believe everything's under control! We've already had two unfortunate
fires. Now you claim you're going to set
more of them?'
Jedrey answered, too low to be heard.
Whatever he said failed to placate the queen's niece.
Bertarra's voice reached the next piercing
octave. 'Well, I say not! This is Sessalie, idiot. We're not plagued by
sorcerers! Our poor king is dying, not dodging intrigues! And no foreign despot
within his right mind mounts a war over barley and cattle!'
Jedrey's tone, rising, was cut short again,
as Bertarra ran over him roughshod. 'Well, you're full of cow pies up to your
ears! I don't give way on the orders of rabble, or bow to Devall's uppity
marshal. He can stuff his gold braid! Yes, up his tight arse where it will hurt
the most, for all that I care for his posturing! These wagons will pass.
Afterwards, you can shoot all the crossbolts you like, and ram yourselves
straight to oblivion!'
Poised like a discomposed cat in her chair,
the Duchess of Phail raised her eyebrows. 'Does Bertarra have the other court
ladies in tow?'
A thin spear of light pierced the gloom as
Captain Bennent cracked the shutter. Shielded by the stone wall next to the
sill, he stole a cautious glance downwards. 'Apparently so.' After a moment of
tacit reconnaissance, he resumed, touched to awe. 'Blinding glory! No wonder
she's got Jedrey flummoxed. Every matron from Highgate has come, bearing
baskets. The wealthy society from the Middlegate is present as well, all decked
out in their jewels and silk, and wearing white veils to accept the priest's
blessing. They've also rolled in five loaded wagons, escorted by a tame pack of
house guards.'
Just finished treating the last
copper-tipped arrow, Vensic burst into laughter. 'That's going to make chaos of
Jedrey's fixed lines.'
'Already has,' said the palace sentry
placed at the adjacent window. 'What a damnfool embarrassment! The ladies are
barging straight through with their baskets.'
The next moment, a volley of curses arose,
as fully armed men were scolded to shame, and jostled out of position. Without
discharging their loaded weapons, Devall's crack archers could scarcely turn
back the silk-clad invasion. Nor could a man from the Lowergate garrison
gainsay the late queen's niece. Still bellowing imprecations, Bertarra accosted
the outmatched front ranks, ploughed through to the causeway, then waved for
her liveried contingent of house guards to follow through with the wagons.
'Vensic!' cracked Taskin. 'See those arrows
distributed! Move, soldier! Hurry. If I'm not mistaken, those women are
serious! They're launching a courageous, frontal assault, and those wagons
weren't filled by the bakery.' Awarded a wise smile from the Duchess of Phail,
the commander rousted his sleeping reserves, and positioned them at the windows
with bows.
'Keep a hawk's eye and tight aim upon
Devall's guard!' Taskin added, his whisper imperative. 'Also watch Jedrey. Some
of those men will be more than catspaws. The ones suborned as minions won't
stand interference. Before they let their sorcerer's plan become thwarted,
they'll draw killing steel on the women.'
IF THE NOSE DID NOT NUMB TO THE SMELL OF
THE POACHER'S CONCOCTION, THE KERRIES ALSO FOUND THE ODOUR repellent. The few
that sailed down to size up the horses flapped and circled, and hissed plumes
of smoke, but did not attack. Even with daylight blunting their senses, the
breeze of their passage whipped overhead with dauntless frequency. Their hazing
inspection reduced Anja to anxious silence. The creatures had hungry, reptilian
eyes, and the sliced air fluted over their scales like a knife's edge parting a
gale wind.
Tucked under the shade of a leaning
boulder, while the horses grazed at the verge of a marsh, Anja cleared her raw
throat, then wiped welling eyes with the back of a grimy wrist. The hair she
had neatly rebound that morning flew in torn wisps at her temples, with her
braid dried into a shrunken snarl from the morning's harrowing immersion.
Dirty, scraped, and miserable with her own indescribable stench, the princess
paused and looked back. The weight of the moment forced her to acknowledge the
inspired scope of her victory.
The rickle of ledges at the head of the
valley loomed upwards, sliced by the rebounding jet of the falls. Seen from
below, the descent seemed to hold more beauty than hazard, spread like a
tapestry embellished with gold thread under the fall of noon sunlight.
Diminished with distance, the stark memory faded, of the harrowing, steep
cliff, and the uncertain footing where the rock face had cracked from seasons
of ice melt and frost. That all the horses had emerged unscathed seemed the
work of a given miracle.
The accomplishment did not leave Mykkael
complacent. He stood vigilant guard beside his strung bow, his hands busy doctoring
arrows. Having scrounged for the copper-laced rock he required, he was shaving
crumbles of verdigris ore into pine pitch, then moulding a layer of the
particulate gum on to the shafts behind each flanged point. Although he seemed
engrossed, a predatory tension infused his calm bearing, as thoughtlessly
natural as breathing. A man who walked free through hostile territory, he
recorded the play of the air through his skin, and attended the rasp of each
insect and frog.
Mykkael did not look tired or hurt, only
dangerous as the held spear that could be cast at an instant's notice. Anja
strove to encompass that elusive awareness. Tested by her own uncertainty, she
tried to measure the volatile nature of a spirit who could not be contained or
predicted. She studied the living man, and encountered a presence, a potential
whose imprint on the world could not be known through its state of pent
stillness. The warrior himself could not be understood. His power could not be
analysed. He could only be recognized by his impact, as movement and action
begat consequence.
Anja ached to embrace that self-aware
vitality. She desired the touch that would describe Mykkael's being with the
same passion that drove her to try to capture the essence of a falcon within a
written line of poetry.
The princess observed the transition as the
bearing intensity of her regard hooked that superlatively tuned self-awareness.
Mykkael raised his head. An inquiring gaze flickered over her. 'Your Grace?'
Words fell too far short of the question
her burdened thoughts sought to express. As the shadow of another passing
kerrie raked over the sunlit marsh, Anja blurted, 'Another man standing here
with a bow would think of nothing but slaughtering monsters.'
Mykkael smiled. 'Because he could? Because
they exist? Because they pose the possibility of inflicting a terrible death?'
He slid his finished arrow back into the quiver, then reached for another
shaft. 'An act made in fear is not the same thing as an action taken for necessity.'
He regarded the kerrie, now past their position, as it banked with a crack of
spread wings and whipped its streaming, kite tail to sweep over their vantage
again. 'That creature is curious. It is also a predator, testing itself against
the unknown. In that respect, the beast and I understand each other quite
well.'
'I don't,' Anja said with wretched
simplicity.
Mykkael thumbed up another dab of pitch,
then set to with the knife and the ore. 'That is why you are a princess, and I
am a man with a sword.' The arrow point flashed as he turned the shaft between
his deft hands. Though he could have retreated into his busyness, he chose not
to insult her intelligence.
'The thread of intent is a moving tapestry
between me and that deadly creature. If the kerrie chooses to strike, then it
dies, or I will. That is the certainty. Today, I am your defender, and it is
the hunter. It must make the first move. That is the order I choose to enact,
an important truth to remember. The attacker makes his choice subject to mine. If I know this, then I
hold the clear-cut advantage, because I am always prepared. Response is more
powerful in the barqui'ino mind,
because it places the limitless potential of passive possibility foremost.'
He glanced at her sidelong. Her perplexity
raised his quiet smile. 'Your sire rules. He has charged me to act, even kill,
as your protector. My strength, my choice, my will, arise in answer to his
Majesty's demand. Here is the paradox. I am the weapon a king has taken to
hand, yet I am not his to possess. My power to act in his name is not his. I know this. He may not. Or
he might forget, at his peril. Therefore, the gift of my oath to serve enacts
the potential for dangerous consequence. If I misuse his Majesty's trust, the
earned debt is entirely mine. If he misdirects me, there could be a dreadful
cost. The balance becomes mine to guard, do you see? I choose when to strike or
when to stand upon mercy.'
Anja shivered as the shadowing kerrie
crossed between her and the sun. 'You stand upon mercy, more often than not.'
Mykkael's smile vanished. 'I am barqui'ino-trained. When I act, death
follows. Mine, or your attacker's, that is the destructive certainty.' He slid
the doctored arrow back into the quiver, then reached in fluid grace for another.
'Death has no repeal. It is a brute ending that leaves us the legacy of an
inscrutable silence. Therefore, I understand the voice of mercy very well.'
The ruler in fact was not truly the master,
and the ethic of choice stood or fell by the hand that commanded the sword.
Anja regarded the desert-bred captain before her, whose strength and restraint
had just redefined her with a mirror's unflinching honesty. She understood,
watching him, that she would not bear a crown the same way, ever again.
She shivered, eyes shut. When she
recovered, she encountered Mykkael's gaze, perhaps measuring. She was not brave
in that moment, only daring. Like the kerries, curiosity ventured the question.
'What do you see?'
A genuine amusement softened his face. Yet
whatever he might have said became lost as his skin ruffled up into gooseflesh.
'Witch thought!' she cried. 'You're having
a vision?'
Mykkael managed to nod.
Eyes locked to his, Anja observed the shift
as his awareness plunged into a depth beyond conscious reason. His mind went elsewhere, even as the trained pitch of
his bodily reflex rose to the trembling forefront. Instinct warned against
trying to touch him. Poised in a space only his mind could see, suspended above
the abyss, he closed ready fingers over his sword hilt ...
* * *
Sergeant
Jedrey strode forward, shouting, unable to stop the silk-clad volunteers who
had challenged his cordon. The women broke through and invaded the courtyard of
Dedorth's observatory before Devall's exasperated marshal could gather his wits
to intervene. Ahead of both men and their flummoxed officers, the enormous
matron who had stymied the crossbowmen beckoned to her female colleagues.
'Ladies,
act now!'
Each
woman bearing a charity basket bent and whipped off the cover. Beside them,
veiled collaborators whisked out flint and steel, striking live sparks to the
contents. Flame blossomed. The fuel just ignited was not baked bread,
but fronds of green cedar. The smoke
billowed into a spreading haze that engulfed the array of armed men. Some of
them coughed.-Irate expressions transformed into startlement, as though some of
the garrison soldiers were slapped into a startled awakening. Others backed
away from the fumes as though wary. Foremost among these were the Prince of
Devall's smartly appointed honour guards.
Yet
their retreat became blocked from behind. The canvas covers masking five wagons
unfurled to reveal a hidden contingent of soldiers rolled in from the Lowergate
garrison. Others, salted into the ranks with the women, tore away their
concealing white veils.
Smoke
drifted, relentless, and immersed Devall's men. The contact touched off a
hideous change, as crossbows fell from hands transformed into ravening claws,
and faces dissolved into the fanged aspect of minions. Shouting erupted among
Sessalie's guard. Before their startled, horrified eyes, winged monstrosities
emerged out of human concealment, and shrugged off their false covering of
armour and clothes. Man and monster closed into rending conflict, while the
women flung baskets of blazing evergreen against the demonic attack. Claws
raked. Teeth closed. Bloody mayhem ensued. The raw screams of the dying
shattered the morning, as from Dedorth's tower, the first flight of Vensic's
copper-tipped arrows hissed down in a vengeful swarm . . .
* * *
Mykkael's vision broke, unstrung by the
disruptive awareness of Anja's rising alarm.
'What's happened?' The princess's frantic
gaze searched his face. 'Captain, what did you see?'
The gyrating spin of turned senses required
a moment to reorient. Mykkael shivered, unable to subdue his raw prickle of
gooseflesh. Worse, the low thrum of his warded sword poured ranging chills down
his spine. He sensed the close pressure as Perincar's geometry tightened down
like a seal on the unseen air. Set under the protection's resharpened
awareness, Anja's distress snapped like sparks through his unsettled nerves.
His onslaught of witch thought still bled
chaotic images across his unshielded mind. His immediate surroundings seemed
overlaid by a haze of run blood, punched through by the scream of copper-tipped
arrows striking targets of corrupted flesh. Juxtaposed on these gleanings, he
beheld Anja's struggle to handle a destiny outside her familiar experience.
'What did you see?' Still the princess, she
showed her brave heart, and her selflessness. 'Has Sessalie fallen in my
absence?'
'No conquest, not yet.' Mykkael qualified
with delicate care. 'I glimpsed fighting, some bloodshed. A courageous attack
by your sire's subjects has forced the sorcerer's minions to unmask.'
'Powers defend us!' Anja's ringing cry
silenced the noontide drone of the insects. 'Are you telling me there are more
shape-changers?'
'Minions, surely. Shape-changers? I think
so, though how many, I cannot guess.' Mykkael sensed mounting peril in the
roused force of his wards. Yet he dared not voice the extent of the truth, that all of the High Prince of Devall's armed
guard had become hideously corrupted.
'Your people have been resourcefully
staunch,' he assured her. 'They have countered the threat of subjugation for a
time. The sorcerer has not yet seized his sure foothold to lay down grounding
power in Sessalie. He must still work his lines of attack over distance. But if
his immediate effort is foiled, his invasion is far from disarmed. A setback
against an assault by cold sorcery is not a long-term defeat.'
'This foothold,' Anja ventured. 'If the
enemy achieves his triumph, what then?'
Mykkael shut his eyes. Honesty this time
came sharpened by grief: the penalty exacted by a high prince's vain pride, and
the glory and grace of the Efandi culture cast into desolate ruin. 'If Sessalie
falls under the heel of this evil? A portal will be opened into the world,' he
admitted, 'a hot connection to power that will serve to expand the demon's
reach.' Cedar smoke, simples fashioned of copper and salt - the small charms
and banishments would all cease to work. A whole kingdom would become stripped
defenceless. The rock and soil that sustained earthly life would be claimed and
for ever suborned by the powers of the unseen.
Anja clasped her scraped hands. 'My people
are worthy of this adversary. I have to believe their strength can prevail, no
matter the odds set against them.'
Mykkael inclined his head, bereft of
encouragement as the pain of the moment shattered and reshaped this young,
untried spirit with the cruel force of a hammer. Anja refused despair. She
stood upon character, though her inexperienced hands were left empty. Shorn of
all power, all comforts, all safety, she embraced understanding of what her
role meant, as a royal. There and then, for no hope of personal gain, she
shouldered the gift of a people's raw courage. 'Promise me, Mykkael! No matter
what weakness should overtake me, never let me fall short.'
The captain could do nothing else except
bow to her greatness. 'Your Grace, you shall bear my service.' He accepted her
plea to stand guard in tribute, honouring the commitment that acknowledged the
fact she was no more than human, and fallible.
'No choice, now, Princess. We have to press
through.' Mykkael foresaw with pernicious clarity. First-hand, he had battled
the miserable aftermath when the heart of a demon's creche became hazed. He had
walked through the deadly entrapments, as desperation and wrecked plans turned
the fell being's bound sorcerer to atrocities born out of rage. Inevitably, the
brunt must fall upon Anja. Her freedom now posed the most urgent impediment to
securing her kingdom in long-term conquest.
The wards Mykkael carried did not subside,
but flared and pressed at his senses, set in flux by the rise of unnatural
currents. The ground underfoot no longer felt safe, and the salt packet
confining the shape-changer's trapped essence seemed to burn like a coal of
liability. Spurred on by unease, Mykkael sheathed his knife. He bundled his
unfinished arrows into a thong tie, and packed them back into his quiver.
'Whistle for your horses, your Grace. We can do little but run fast and far,
before fresh pursuit overtakes us.'
Remounted at speed, the princess and Mykkael
left the boulder-strewn hollow that cradled the marsh. The horses abandoned the
grass with reluctance, yet Anja drove them on firmly. Kasminna accepted the
hurried trot asked of her with a head-shaking fuss. Fouzette trailed her,
resigned, while Mykkael rousted the small band from the rear. He handled Vashni
with an expert touch, using herdsman's yips to turn Stormfront's efforts to
wheel and break free, with Covette as his agile accomplice.
Down Hell's Chasm they pressed, while the
overhead sun branded scalding light over the towering cliffs. Amid that vast
setting, stalked by circling kerries, the puny endeavour of two human riders
seemed an act of abject futility. Progress was tortuous, with the scrambling
clatter of the horses' strides swallowed by reaching silence. Their cast
shadows flowed like spilled ink beneath them, leaving no mark to commemorate
the princess who challenged the impossible on behalf of her threatened kingdom.
Mykkael forced the pace. Confronted by his
charge's straight back, and a hardship that strained her sweet-natured
intelligence, he could do no less, though exigency pained him. He could not
evade the sorrowful cost, as harsh striving wore down and destroyed her young
woman's innocence and beauty. Entrusted to temper her steel-clad resolve, he could not back down. At each stride,
through each test of hostile terrain, he endured the price of his warrior's
stewardship: of Anja's bright hair whipped into sad snarls, and the outrage to
her unspoiled flesh, abraded to blistered exhaustion.
The princess had invoked the cruel burden
of his service, with her survival pledged beyond compromise. Sessalie's
populace rode on the balance, as well as the lives of who knew how many more innocents who inhabited the lands surrounding
this kingdom's borders. The charge Mykkael
guarded was one unformed girl, when a sorcerer run rampant into new territory
held the shattering potential to destroy lives by the countless thousands.
No less than the excellence of all that he
was demanded that this one woman
should enact the full forfeit for the cause of the hapless many. Mykkael ached
for necessity. As the forged sword must perform its harsh purpose, oh, he knew:
he must force this proud princess to expend all her resource without thought of
mercy or quarter.
Again,
as he had done for Prince Al-Syn's daughter, he rose to the bitter, long odds.
Although the ordeal yet to come should break Anja, heart or mind, he still must
carry forward. His, the task to secure the unbroken integrity of her royal
inheritance. The consequences were irrevocable, should he fail. If Anja and the captive remains of the minion
fashioned from Prince Kailen's spirit were not brought under the arcane
protection of a learned vizier, or a shaman, Sessalie's ground would lie open
to conquest beyond mortal hope of redemption.
Mykkael denied the raw cry of his grief.
Down the stone throat of Hell's Chasm, he pressured the horses to trot, where
even a walk was imprudent. He walked, edging in zigzags over the unsafe,
stepped ledges, where reason insisted no living horse should be risked. Anja
cringed for their hazard. Sometimes, choked silent, she wept for the sacrifice
asked of the animals, again and again, with no pause for praise or
acknowledgement. Mykkael dared not slacken. He sat Vashni, cranked to a
vigilance that pitched the grey into snorting, volatile tension. The demanding
passage forbade conversation. Anja stayed game. Her unflagging spirit matched
every demand as the way wended through arched rock, and seamed cliff, and
ravine. Peril attended their precarious course over steep slopes and smashed boulders.
Other times, they ploughed through sucking mud, where the melt-fed springs
sluiced off the rock face and plumed in white sheets towards the flume.
Later, their path hugged the base of the
cliffs, streaked with guano and heaped with the fly-buzzing bones dropped from
the active kerrie roosts. While crossing one such unsavoury midden, hard under
the site of a hatchery, Mykkael saw a kerrie fly in with a stunned buck gripped
in its talons. The massive claws had drawn no blood, but cradled the unmarked
prey in full flight with a chilling delicacy.
'Hunt training, for the young,' Anja
explained, a quaver struck through her voice. 'As the hatchlings grow hardened
beaks and sharp claws, the parents fetch them live game. Our foresters say the
practice awakens the instinct to chase and kill.' While the horses picked their
way over the noisome rubble of stripped carcasses, the princess shuddered.
'That deer will suffer, torn and shredded as the inexperienced nestlings
indulge their first frenzy of bloodlust. This is the season we're apt to lose
calves from the alpine pastures.'
The captain rode, war-wary, through the
next narrows. Horrid as the habits of kerries might be, the creatures were
straightforward predators. Their killing was clean beside the vile practice
enacted by demon-bound sorcery. Mykkael turned an uneasy glance to the sky,
noted the lowering sun, and once again pushed the pace.
Farther on, they had to coax the balked
horses over a natural stone bridge spanning the cleft of a gorge. The structure
sheared the winds into dissonance. Gusts wailed like damned souls through the
vast chains of caverns, wrought by the might of forgotten cataclysm. The scree
of smashed granite on the far side turned their course back down slope towards
the flume. Here, granite boulders were jumbled like knucklebones, doused by
flung spray as the current slammed through the serpentine channel alongside.
Always Mykkael's urgency pressed extreme
limits. If the horses were fit and responsive through hardship, their agility
became sorely tested. Walk or trot, they were constantly harried. Willing, they
scrambled over the rough obstacles, disregarding their wiser instincts to fare
over crumbling ledges, or creeping through fields of unstable boulders only
safe for a sure-footed mule. The animals answered their training. Dauntless,
they trusted their riders to guide them around the quicksands of the sink
pools, while swooping kerries shadowed their progress, blowing fires that hazed
them to trembling.
If Mykkael endured the snatched anguish of
witch thoughts, showing wounded and dead back in Sessalie, Anja rode with her
heart-stopping fear. She was horsewoman enough to perceive every hazard. One
sliding misstep would end in disaster. She could give her brave animals nothing
else beyond hoarse words of encouragement. She stroked Kasminna's sweat-soaked
neck, raked over by chills as her thoughts grappled the horror of the less
tangible menace that stalked her.
Time and again, Mykkael watched her falter.
He measured each battle through desperate uncertainty, each bout to curb shaken
nerves. She trusted he would not expend horseflesh needlessly. Despite her
faith that his handling was imperative, the incessant demand could not turn her
nature to callousness. The harsh use of her wicket teams distressed her far
more than her own exhausted discomfort.
Whether the princess's profound quiet was
caused by fatigued stupor, or whether she grasped his reluctance to outline the
dangers that had forced their flight down Hell's Chasm, Mykkael could not guess.
No reward existed in this terrible place for the virtue of Anja's resiliency.
He brought up the rear, ever vigilant, while her fragile determination relied
on his guidance, and surmounted the gruelling course, hour upon wearing hour.
Through the next pause to water at a
spring, the princess caught him appraising her silenced anxiety. She sat her
mare with hunched shoulders, unable to suppress her visceral flinch as a kerrie
razed overhead. Buffeted by the breeze of its passage, the horses snorted and
sidled, until she could no longer ignore her crowding suspicion. 'The trap
scent's wearing off as the animals sweat.'
Mykkael nodded. He had noted the peril long
since. 'We must extend the supply as long as we can.'
Anja assessed his hardened resolve. 'Blinding
glory! What are you saying? We're not stopping at dusk?'
Understanding flooded Mykkael, sharpened by
cruel awareness, that she had pitched herself to endure for only that long. She counted each breath and pushed forward,
sustained by that promise of respite. A false hope he must inevitably tear
down, as the sun sank past the horizon. There, courage failed him. He gave her
the kinder silence of ambiguity, his distress diverted into a needless check on
his bow and blade weapons. Yet even that resolute pretence of calm fuelled the
princess's rising unease. In the end, her imploring green eyes forced his
honesty. 'Your Grace,' he admitted, 'there can be no question. A pause at this
point would kill us.'
'What do you know?' Anja whispered. 'What
have you seen?'
Lady
Shai, lying dead of a Devall man's sword thrust.
The glass edge of that sorrow, he absorbed, beyond speech. 'Your Grace. We will
face what occurs one obstacle at a time. To do otherwise would exhaust you with
worry.'
Anja wavered, overdrawn by stark weariness
as she grasped the fact that nightfall was not going to bring surcease. 'Not
knowing is better?'
'But Princess, you do know.' Leashed by a
patience he realized must infuriate her, Mykkael reached out and caught
Fouzette's lead as the mare raised her dripping muzzle. He edged the stolid bay
to one side to clear the bank for the black gelding. 'The next step is always
before us, your Grace. Watch how you place your feet. Listen to what your horse
tells you. Also, don't forget to give thanks for the sun. We could be making
this passage under a drenching downpour. Without the blessing of today's clear
sky, trap scent would be useless, and I could not rely on the bow.'
Fouzette stood, head drooping, her torn leg
wrap oozing fresh blood. Neither was Anja unscathed. She had weeping sores on
her knees. Mykkael saw the telltale stains on her breeches as she freed the
stirrups to stretch her cramped calves. The strained set to her back would be
due to pained hips from too many hours astride. His experienced eye read every
sorrowful ache, as her mare shifted footing beneath her.
Although Anja made no complaint for
herself, Mykkael braced himself, ready. The terror and the relentless
uncertainty must erupt into
flashpoint rebellion. Confronted, each step, by Fouzette's tortured pain, Anja
wrestled emotions her pressed resource could not sustain. Snapped at last by
the cruelty, that the demonic assault that had unstrung her life must also
savage her horses, she struck out in jagged despair.
'You think you'll win through this by the
use of your weapons?'
'I don't know what I can, or cannot do,'
Mykkael admitted, forthright. He regarded her closely. No anger showed in his
face or his bearing. 'Nor will you, Princess, except through hindsight. If I
counted the times I should have met death, I would have no joy left for
living.'
Anja swallowed, ashamed. 'I'm sorry,
Captain.'
He nodded. 'Leave it there, shall we?
There's no foolishness in being afraid, or tired, or upset by distress or
frustration. You can hurt with anger for your horses' suffering. Just don't lie
to yourself. The emotion you choke when you think yourself helpless always
turns in the hand. The original feeling that would prompt you to look for new
resource becomes bottled, and sours to rage that doesn't assist your survival.'
Anja wiped her damp cheek on her sleeve
cuff. 'Barqui'ino philosophy?'
Mykkael returned a rueful shake of his
head. 'Experience.' Most lately, a month spent flat on his back, raving with
fever from a septic wound in his knee. His wry smile followed. 'The hard school
that tends to repeat itself each time the lesson is forgotten. Your Grace,
shall we ride from this place, and frustrate a few hungry kerries?'
Anja nodded. Beaten wordless, she gathered
up her dropped reins.
The trial resumed, while the afternoon
shadows lengthened. The cliff walls converged, once again narrowed down to a
slit. Trot, walk, then trot on again, that rhythm interrupted by uncertain
terrain, or by the snatched pauses to let the overblown horses recover their
wind and heart rate. Worn himself, Mykkael held the pace without mercy. His
sword hilt continued to whisper in warning. His viziers' tattoo plagued him
also, raising prickles over his scalp. He rode, jarred by fragments of witch
thought: of flying things with sharp
claws and red eyes; of women who shed grieving tears for their dead. He
glimpsed Benj, snoring drunk with his feet propped on a basket, and saw Mirag's
tight-lipped anxiety for the life of a son still in jeopardy. He felt the raw
fire of Taskin's balked rage, to be strapped in bandaging and unable to stand
in armed defence of his king.
The whoosh of a passing kerrie ripped Mykkael
back to focused awareness. He surveyed the surrounding country, a stepped vista
of rock now turning shadowed and grim as the afternoon fled. Here, the cliff
walls choked the channel down to a thundering millrace of foam. Buffeting gusts
whistled through the pinched gap, and all but crippled his hearing.
The melodious note of the baying hound was
almost missed in the tumult.
'Halt,' Mykkael said. 'Now!' His grip on
Vashni's nose rope tightened. He had the unslung bow already in hand by the
time Anja reined in beside him.
'What's wrong?' asked the princess. 'Is
there trouble?'
Mykkael withheld direct answer. A crawling
grue chased over his skin, provoked by his war-sharpened senses. 'Hold,
Princess, very still. Stay at my back. For your life's sake, I beg you, don't
move.'
He felt her unblinking stare, then her
sharp intake of breath. She had noticed the hound. The baying cry was clearer,
now, and bearing down by the moment.
Mykkael raised the bow, notching one of the
ore-treated arrows from the quiver clipped at his flank. 'Not ours,' he
whispered. No mortal dog could have crossed the flume's current, or escaped the
predation of the chasm's swarming kerries. Smooth, silent, deadly, Mykkael
slipped off Vashni's back. He secured his footing on the slick rock, fingers
pinched to his strung arrow. 'Stand fast, your Grace.'
He steeled his resolve, stilled his poised
mind, then let go into barqui'ino
awareness.
Sunlight still flooded the open country
behind, butter-yellow against the twilit gash carved through the cliffs by the
watercourse. Mykkael watched that opening. Soon enough, he sighted the hound,
an abomination clad in Dalshie's black-and-tan body. The creature bounded down
their backtrail with a heartbreaking show of exuberance. Where the man would
have grieved for Benj's lost hound, inflexible training prevailed. The warrior
raised and sighted his bow. Taut-nerved and silent, he waited.
The hound drove through the last of the
open ground and entered the gloom of the narrows. Her blunt claws clicked on
stone. Rock to rock, she sniffed and unravelled their scent. Her yawling cries
as she gave tongue rebounded into the gorge. Through her oncoming noise, Mykkael
noted Anja's rushed breathing. He felt the low vibrations in his sword shift
upwards, humming into a whine as the wards shrilled an urgent warning. He drew.
And still waited.
Whatever abomination wore the dog's flesh,
it locked instantly on to his movement. Yapping with canine excitement, it
raced in, tongue lolling, and white-tipped tail flagging welcome.
Mykkael held. The drawn bow etched a
stilled line in the air. The arrow's tip seemed a nail fixed in time, pinning
the moment in hesitation.
And the hound came. Barrelling through the
gulch, leaping pooled spray and wet boulders, she bore down on the bunched
horses. Closer, one saw the foam dashed from her muzzle. Closer still, one
noted her eyes were vacant and utterly mad.
Vashni whuffed a hackled snort. Anja
clamped back a whimper of terror, while the unnatural hound bounded nearer, a
slavering parody of Benj's beloved Dalshie.
And
still Mykkael held. He might have been stone, devoid of
lifeblood and reaction.
Anja cried out, her fear overwhelming. As
the ensorcelled creature raced towards her, she had no means to know whether
her defender had been just as dangerously beguiled. Stilled as though ensnared
by a spell, Mykkael held his drawn bow, but did not release.
'Blinding glory, Captainl'
He
still did not loose.
The hound scrabbled nearer. Her hurtling
rush was now almost on top of them. She coiled her hindquarters and sprang on
to the ledge not five strides from Mykkael's set stance.
The warding invoked by the viziers' tattoo
exploded. A blue ring of light sliced through the senses like the cut of a
tempered blade. The eruption signalled Mykkael's chosen moment. His aimed arrow
flew, then vanished across the raised line of active power.
The shaft struck its mark. Beyond that
dazzling shower of light, something shrieked. The quavering cry raised the hair
at the nape, and wrung the shocked mind into nightmare.
Then the bright curtain of wardings ripped
out, doused like a gale-blown candle. The shot hound writhed on the rocks in
her death throes, piteously whimpering, the shaft struck clean through her
heart.
'Don't
move,' Mykkael whispered. 'Your Grace, I implore you, stand strong.'
Shaking, her clammy hands clenched to the
rein to restrain Kasminna's pawing unease, Anja ached with pity. Though she
shut her eyes, no effort could silence the sound of the hound's dreadful
torment.
'Captain! Show mercy, I beg you.' Her
compassionate instinct cried out to dismount. She had taken game in the hunt
too many times to condone the needless suffering of any wounded creature.
That's no dog!' Mykkael lashed in reprimand. His sword had not quieted. His
adamance enforced the hideous fact,
that the death which should follow his fatally placed shaft was taking
abnormally long.
Warned
of a danger beyond their far border, the shamans employed by the emperor's
Grand Vizier immersed themselves into scrying. Their circle held trance with
unbroken vigilance, from breaking dawn until dusk. Vision showed them a hound,
no red-blooded creature, but a sorcerer's construct, unveiled as a monster as
it was stunned on the point of a copper-tipped arrow. Warrior, they named the
man with the bow. He whose presence they could not discern through the warding
that masked him. The adversary stalking his flight through Hell's Chasm stood
unveiled for one moment, as the spun continuity of cold-struck forces succumbed
to the conductive matrix of copper. The vizier must receive the ill news at
once: the pattern invoked was a shape-changer's line, outside the known reach
of their wisdom ...
MYKKAEL DID NOT TAKE HIS EYES OFF THE
WRITHING HOUND, STRUGGLING WITH DESPERATE, MORTAL PAIN that did not bring the
surcease of death. To Anja, without turning, he said, 'Dismount, Princess, now.
Change horses. Quickly!'
He tracked each sound to ensure she obeyed
him: the chafe of her clothing as she slid from her saddle, then the tap as her
soles touched on to firm ground. Her shuffling step bespoke her sore muscles, a
setback that must disadvantage the speed of her reflexes.
'Can you do nothing to ease that hound's
suffering?' she pleaded, as her tired hands fumbled with girth buckles.
Mykkael jerked his head, no. 'Much too
dangerous.' He would have to cut out the hound's heart, if he could, to ensure
the long curse that burned through its corrupt flesh would stay stunned and
captive to copper. Yet the near threat of danger did not relent. The shaman's
mark in his sword hilt stayed active. Its keening note razed through his bones,
a clear warning the hound just dispatched was no more than the precursor
blazing the trail. Something far worse would be following.
'Ready a fresh horse for me to ride,' Mykkael
said, thankful his voice kept the semblance of calm. 'Choose carefully,
Princess. Also, tie the bundles Fouzette's bearing on to Kasminna.'
The hound's piteous agony did not subside.
Her whimpering cries drove Anja to shivering fury. 'Why can't you serve her the
mercy stroke, Captain? I have to know!'
'Princess!' Mykkael snapped, his urgency
knife-edged. 'Change mounts. Do it now!'
He dared
not look aside to insist that she hear him. Bow in hand, arrows ready, he
watched like a hawk down their back trail. The redoubled pressure of his
viziers' tattoo tightened the skin at his nape. He put aside grief, every
harrowing memory. His run through Efandi
left too many hard lessons. Time did not permit speech. The forces that now
used the hound for a beacon had no word in their language for mercy.
Quivering on the held edge of release,
immersed in barqui'ino awareness, Mykkael
stood guard. He chafed through each moment, as Anja transferred the surcingle
and bundles, then saddled and mounted Covette. Her selection was wise. The
little chestnut had the surest feet. Endurance was bred into the mare's desert
lineage, making her the least likely to fail under stress and privation.
'I've tied your reins on to Stormfront's
headstall,' the princess stated, subdued. 'He's ready to go when you are.'
'Now.' Mykkael spun with clipped haste. He
accepted her cherished black gelding who was, yet again, the best choice.
Stormfront had the strength to carry two riders, matched by the fire and heart
of a fighter. The affray at the falls had well tested his mettle. He could be
forced to stand his ground through the bloodshed and fury of battle.
Bow still in hand, Mykkael settled astride.
He heard Anja's hissed intake of breath, and said, very softly, 'I know.'
He had seen them already: a swarm of black
specks peppered the sky beyond the gap. Winged creatures of any kind must spell
trouble. Large eagles avoided the Widow's Gauntlet, and kerries by their
contentious nature did not flock. 'We have to run, Princess. This site is too
open and can't be defended.'
Anja wheeled Covette, all her arguments
silenced. She dug in her heels, pitched the chestnut to a canter over slippery
rock, while Mykkael dispatched hurried instructions. 'Fouzette can't withstand
this. She'll fall behind. There can be mercy for her, but if so, you have to
speak now.'
Anja turned her head. Her eyes showed stark
horror. 'An arrow?'
Mykkael nodded. No kindness could lighten
unbending necessity. 'One treated with copper into the heart.' He still carried
dart poison. 'I can make the shot painless. She will drop fast, and no sorcery
I know of will raise her.'
The tears spilled, whipped down Anja's
cheeks by the breeze of the chestnut mare's passage. 'I can't hold her head?'
'No.' Mykkael saw no margin for compromise.
'Stop here, we die with her.' He must act, regardless. Yet the trust he
preferred at all costs to preserve now relied on her willing consent. 'Don't look, Anja!' as she twisted in her
saddle for a desperate glance back.
Fouzette was already trailing, and the
wards' ringing pressure informed well enough: the sorcerer's airborne sortie
would be gaining.
Mykkael balanced Stormfront to effect
intervention, but in the end, required no breach of integrity. Those slim,
girlish shoulders quivered just once. The reply, when it came, was bravely
regal, and delivered with clarity through the tumult as the horses thundered
headlong down the narrows. 'Very well, Captain. If Fouzette must die, I would
have you spare her from suffering.'
'Don't watch, Anja.' The captain's
remonstrance this time came gentle, as he undertook the ugly task at grim
speed, and treated the requisite arrow.
Mykkael dropped Stormfront back, chose his
shot and his moment. The bow sang just once. The arrow arched out at
point-blank range. The sturdy bay whose steadfast nature had thrice spared
them, and whose bravery had stood down a kerrie's assault, missed her stride.
She pitched out of balance as her forelegs buckled, but not on to cruel stone.
Mykkael had not missed his timing. Fouzette crumpled into the foaming race of
the flume, a more kindly embrace in fatality. Her sweated, dark coat melded
into the spray. A rolled eye sought the bank in heartbreaking reproach. Then
the current swallowed her under.
Vashni now ran bereft of his teammate. Mykkael
slapped his grey rump. He used force as he must, and drove the flightier
gelding ahead, while the animal's repeated, desolate neighs cast echoes between
the rock cliffs.
His distress caused Anja to break
discipline and glance back. Yet by then, there was no sign of trauma to see.
The chasm was empty, her stout mare no more than a memory.
* * *
The narrows closed down to a chill, windy
slit, overhung by the dirtied, aqua ice squeezed aside by the Howduin glaciers.
Enormous blocks had sheared away, sometimes wedged between the walls of the
cleft, where melt and weather carved hanging arches fringed with icicles, and
dulled light scattered through glazings of pane ice. In these narrows, the
flume rumbled and splashed, fouled with stones and mud as fragments upslope
gave way and tumbled more substantial debris into avalanche.
Along with the hazards of slick stone and
boulders, the horses now contended with frozen ground. They picked through
splintered deadfalls, and the granular patches of snow that lingered in the
deep recesses where sun did not penetrate. With night falling, the frigid air
bit to the bone. Lathered coats were going to bring lethal chill, if impasse
forced them to stop. Lacking fodder, the animals could not stay warm.
Already, Anja was starting to shiver. The
wardings still hazed Mykkael to dire tension, incessantly warning the
sorcerer's pursuit pressed ever nearer to closure. Whether the hound's
copper-poisoned demise might delay them, or if such unnatural creatures must
take pause to battle the territorial instincts of kerries, Mykkael had no way
to guess. He distrusted blind luck. Their winded mounts could not hold the
pace. Pushed to the crux, the captain knew he must make a stand, or forfeit his
defence altogether.
'There!' He pointed towards a jumble of ice
that had formed a crude buttress against the stone wall. 'Ride Covette on. Yes!
Take her inside. Bunch the rest of the horses around you, and for the love of
your sire, stay mounted!'
Harrying Vashni's reluctant trot, Mykkael
drove the herd from behind. He pushed at their heels until they were crammed
shoulder to shoulder inside the precarious shelter. The hollow was scarcely secure,
formed as it was of unstable rime, undercut by the sluice of spring rains. Yet
no better option existed, with his wardings pitched to the overriding, shrill
urgency of a pursuit coming hard at their heels. Barqui'ino awareness heightened his senses to almost hurtful
acuity. Tight though it was, the nook in the ice would forestall a strike on
his flanks, and prevent an assault from behind.
Mykkael slid off Stormfront's back. He left
the reins looped on the gelding's neck as he chivvied him in with his teammate.
'Stay astride,' he told Anja. 'Keep the horses as calm as you can. If they
bolt, I can't hope to save them.'
He spared a fast glance, but could not read
how she fared. Her face was a pale blur, lost in the gloaming.
When she spoke, her voice was too tired to
show fear. 'Kerries can't fly here. The walls are too close for their
wingspread.'
'I know.' Mykkael limped two short steps
and snapped a dry bough from a nearby deadfall. He broke the wood into arm
lengths, then jabbed each splinter upright in the ice. 'We're not hunting
kerries, your Grace, a fine point upon which I have some experience.' Using
torn strips from his surcoat, he wound the ends of each billet in rag, which he
struck alight with the flint and tinder from his scrip. Under the flickering,
wind-rippled flames, he readied his arrows in rows. The copper-marked ones he
set to the left, with the untreated shafts opposed, on the right. Last, he
tested the tension of the strung bow.
His final instructions were terse.
'Princess, hold fast. Not everything that you see will be real. Some things
that move might seem like illusion. They're not. You may hear voices. Trust
nothing they say. The wards in my presence are your only protection. Hide your
eyes. Block your ears. Do whatever you must. Let me attend to your safety. Your
sole task will be to stand without breaking.'
'Be
seit shan'jien, Mykkael,' bade Anja. 'The target with teeth that bites
back.' Cold, weary, terrified, Sessalie's princess gave him fierce words, where
her Efandi counterpart in the same straits had muffled her sobs behind the torn
silk of her headcloth.
Mykkael selected an arrow. Grim as struck
bronze in the spill of the flames, he kicked away the loose gravel and set his
feet. Then he notched the first shaft to the bowstring, aware he must be no
less than deit'jien tah, 'the target
that kills without quarter'.
Then the wave of the sorcerer's winged
minions descended, and barqui'ino
awareness left space for no thought at all.
They threaded the narrows in a whistle of
sliced air, sinuous and agile and deadly. One saw the eyes, first, red as
punched ruby, or orange as live coals, or yellow as fire in opal. They glinted
out of the falling dark, lit to sparks as the torchlight caught them. The
bodies were reptilian and scaled, and possessed by a murderous need to sate
upon blood and slaughter. Where the size of a kerrie made its gliding strength
ponderous, these creatures darted like swallows. They hurtled down the chasm in
steeply banked flight at a speed that left a man breathless.
Mykkael aimed and shot. His arrow flew
straight to the mark. The horror in front kited out of the air with a shriek.
Wings flapping, it tumbled. The harrowing cry choked off as it splashed
headlong into the flume. The bow sang again. Another shaft hissed skywards. A
second abomination folded and slammed into the rock wall, to a rattling shower
of gravel. More came behind. Mykkael shot them down, another, then another,
nock, draw and release, a flow of continuous motion. His next kills ploughed
the ledge a scant stone's throw away. Like the hound, each casualty writhed and
thrashed, squalling in bone-chilling agony. Copper could stun them. That stroke of fortune raised Mykkael's hope, and
also awakened sore grief. His accurate marksmanship would serve no mercy. As
apparitions bound by the grip of spelled forces, these wrought minions could
never receive the grace of a natural death.
Another bowshot, and another monstrosity
plummeted out of flight. The distance had closed enough now to discern the
unpleasant details. No two of the creatures seemed formed the same way. Some
had fangs and claws, others insectile tails with needle-sharp stings. Some
hissed or bellowed. Others swooped down in a silence Mykkael found all the more
unnerving. The only consistency to their attack was their single-minded
ferocity.
Arrow struck, another corruption
cartwheeled downwards. This one's cry raised the hair, piteous as the wail of a
hurt child. Mykkael stood unshaken. He had heard far worse. As he drew the next
shaft in unbroken succession, aimed and let fly, he sensed the range, knowing:
the incoming pack approached the far edge of the viziers' protections raised by
his tattoo. Next second, the lead creature slammed into contact. Its horned
head unravelled into a lick of queer flame, and a burst of maniacal laughter.
The sound raised the skin into visceral revolt, and the breeze reeked of
sulphur and burning. Mykkael watched, prepared, should the grace of his
wardings fail to deflect. He listened to the strained note from his sword hilt.
Yet the spurting flares of uncanny energies flowed into themselves and yanked
back. In recoil, he watched, horrified,
as the monster's fanged maw rematerialized into animate flesh.
No sorcerer's work he had encountered
before could enact such a seamless recovery.
Mykkael noted the creature's snarling
retreat, first warning he might face a stalemate. If the sorcerer's fell
sending could not cross the barrier and maintain its form, neither did the
viziers' geometry possess the commanding power to effect any lasting
banishment. When his arrows ran short, he could be trapped in a stand-off. No
way to tell, now, if the shaman's mark sung into his sword hilt held the lines
to break through cold-struck bindings and compensate. He risked far worse danger, once he had to make
closure, not any welcome development. For not all of the creatures that now
wove and snapped in testing rage at the wardings would be the long-spelled
design of an embodied apparition.
Several planted among them could be bone
and blood shape-changers, beyond his known scope of experience.
Mykkael loosed his next shaft at near
point-blank range. The sorcerous construct crashed through the warding and
erupted into a fire burst. Cackling voices reviled his ancestry in three
tongues he knew, and spat guttural curses clearly not human in origin. The next
shaft he launched brought down something solid that struck earth at his feet,
still raging with wounded fight. The bow was now useless. Mykkael ripped sword
from scabbard, aware of the bright sting as the warded metal sang in his hand.
He parried a clawed fist, sheared off the limb that swiped a rip at his ankle.
Contact raised smoke and spattering, hot
blood that seared his cloth breeches like acid. Cut, parry, stab, parry, stab
again. The brute horror grew back sheared limbs, and altered form twice before
it finally gave way and collapsed. Its spasms fanned up a wind storm as its
leathery wings walloped at the crevice, showering Mykkael's shoulders with dirt
and ice. He ducked the debris, swung his sword upwards and severed the head,
then kicked aside the snapping, downed jaws. Blade in hand, breathless but
poised, he measured the next pair of eyes that advanced behind the hulked
corpse just dispatched.
'Baeyat'ji'in,
monster!' he shouted. 'I am ready.'
The inbound thing howled. Its ranging cry
roused primal terror in. the mind of any human-born creature. Mykkael fought
the sickening clench of his gut. Streaming sweat, he heard Anja's gasped
whimper. The sword in his hand seemed to shudder and wail, until he feared the
stress of the warding might cause tempered metal to crack.
Spell-wrought fear such as this called for
voice in redress. Mykkael laughed aloud, then hurled a taunt at the creature's
bared teeth. 'I do not run from a wind made of lies! Begone, coward. Gnash your
teeth for eternity. Do you think I care which?'
A furtive movement, just sensed, arose from
the darkness behind him. Mykkael
dared not shift his attention to glance back. 'Anja,' he whispered. 'For your
life's sake, do as I asked and stay mounted!'
She had thrown away sense. Mykkael sighted
her hand, in peripheral vision. She stood at his flank, reaching to grasp one
of his readied arrows. Shaking, determined, moved by courage unparalleled, she
must have retrieved the dropped bow.
He adjusted to compensate. No command he
could give was going to deter her. When confronted with terror, some women
cowered. Other ones charged like a lioness. 'The pull of the bow will be strong
for your arm. You'll have to draw and loose quickly. Set your aim low,
Princess. You know how the close-range arrow will arch.' He flexed his bad
knee, still immersed in swift instructions. 'I'm going to charge, drop and
roll. That creature will pounce. You must shoot for its chest as it leaps.'
Wood rattled on laminate; she had nocked
the shaft.
'Brave lady,' said Mykkael. 'Don't mourn if
you miss. The creature's glance will follow your arrow, even a shot gone badly
astray. My strike will use the diversion.'
'Get ready,' Anja whispered through
clenched teeth.
Mykkael raised his sword in a fractional
salute. 'On your mark, Princess.'
He heard, very clearly, the creak of the
bowstring as she flexed her shoulders, testing the tension required to draw.
The bow would be difficult. Benj
prided himself on his bullish strength. Yet brute muscle was as nothing beside
the grit of this young woman's resolve.
Barqui'ino-drilled reflex sensed her intaken breath as a texture, written
in air across skin. Before words, Mykkael knew the moment she braced up her
nerve and cried, 'Now, Captain!'
Already, he launched from the cleft. The
winged monster sprang. The heavy recurve
whapped in release, as he struck the ground, shoulder down and rolling
under the arrow that hummed through the space overhead.
Anja did not miss.
The monster's bellow of rage scattered
echoes the length of Hell's Chasm, simultaneous with the scream of the viziers'
wardings, shocked to furious light at close quarters. Mykkael came to his feet
underneath ten feet of coiling, venomous murder. He stabbed upwards. His thrust
carried on by the force of momentum. His blade sheared through belly scales and
bit deep enough to eviscerate. Mykkael rammed the cut home. Hot blood and offal
splashed over his head. His sword shrieked complaint like bolt lightning. He
could not see, could not hear, as shaman's ward and sorcerer's spell line
entangled. The shape-changer's willed effort to reform its rent tissue came
unstrung into billowing smoke. The fumes masked Mykkael's eyesight and stung
his parched membranes as he coughed poisoned air from his throat. He might have
been crushed, had the monster's hind leg not spasmed and smashed him aside.
Landed, rolling, the bruise to his hip notwithstanding, he scrambled for
balance and regained his feet.
War training and reflex carried on, before
thought. While the shape-changer lay in copper-stunned range of his wards, he
used his sword to cut tendons and hamstring. Once its dangerous thrashing had
been subdued, he moved in, chopped the neck, and severed the head. He lopped
the clawed feet, and also the spiked tail. Made aware of Anja's shocked regard
as she pressed a limp hand to her mouth and averted her face, he scarcely took
pause.
Such a thorough dismemberment was not done
for spite. Awash in gore, Mykkael felt his skin crawl with the forces of the
unseen. The sorcerer had active spell lines, still coiling through the carcass.
The binding effect of the copper might not last. Alert to his danger, the
captain understood he would have to take every part of the creature that might
allow it to move, or else run the risk that it could resurrect in changed form
and resume its appalling attack. As he dragged his horrific gleanings into a
pile, he could not quell the suspicion, that
more than one entity had formed this monstrosity. If so, he might not know
until far too late, whether his barbaric remedy had succeeded in disarming the
corpse.
He hacked through the chest wall, revolted
to find the uncanny thing had three hearts. Had language answered his paralysed
tongue, he would have begged Mehigrannia's mercy. Since barqui'ino focus overruled every civilized faculty, he resumed
grisly work with the sword.
The hearts were gouged out. Mykkael moved
on and recovered the cut head of the smaller monstrosity slain earlier. He did
not allow himself respite until he had treated that second corpse to the same
ruthless reckoning. Only then did he lower his arm and set his fouled blade
back to rest. Hard-breathing, rushed all but berserk by the drive of excessive
adrenaline, he touched the wet point to the ground and fought to recoup his
scattered reason.
The shape-changer's remains posed a thorny
problem. Lacking the salt he had used on the snake, he had little choice but to
improvise a temporary banishment through live fire, laced with cedar ash from
the packet kept in his scrip. He arranged the cremation forthwith. Wood from
the deadfall must serve for the pyre, set alight with one of the torches, while
Anja stood guard with her shaking grip glued to the bow.
'You were splendid,' Mykkael ventured,
though his voice emerged gruff from the fumes as his select bits of carrion
smouldered. Inside the ice cleft, the horses were milling. The princess must
have taken steps to secure them. Although they snorted and stamped in distress,
they stayed in the confines of shelter.
More sorcerous phantasms flitted through
the unwarded surroundings, threading the notch high above. Their shrieks of
frustration rang off the rocks. The rushed breeze of their passage fluttered
the fire almost into extinction. Though they seemed unable to cause any harm,
Mykkael was loath to rely on appearances. Too many times, he had seen sorcerous
works transform to the shift in a pattern. Yet no horrors set down. Their
wingtips dissolved into bursts of ephemeral smoke each time they grazed against
the boundary of his wardings. Awash in their unnatural, flaring light, Anja
looked like a street waif, the boy's shirt and jerkin too large for her
shoulders, and the bow a man's weapon clutched in a doll's delicate hand.
'You're hurt,' she accused him.
Mykkael glanced down, saw his trousers were
shredded. The flesh underneath seemed more bruised than bloodied. 'Not
severely.' Yet he saw well enough, he would probably stiffen like vengeance the
moment he stopped moving. His spattered sword still unsheathed in his hand, he
thoughtfully braced his pulped flesh on the ice bank, that being the best
available remedy to hold down the swelling. 'I've fought with worse.'
'That's how you measure the joy in your
life?' Anja forced speech through her chattering teeth. 'Whether or not you can
fight?'
Some women charged danger like the wild
lioness; small wonder they should not tame, afterwards. Mykkael would have
preferred to give this one space, had he dared. Instead, he watched the small
horde of long-spelled monstrosities weave and challenge the ward overhead.
'Shall I apologize for staying alive? No, Princess. Don't speak. Your anger is
the natural response to a wrenching predicament. It's a savage force, better
off freed.'
She blinked, sucked in an unsteady breath, tried to force her frayed nerves back
in hand. 'Tell me there aren't going to be more of these things.'
'I can't make such a promise.' Mykkael
fiercely wished the guard he maintained could have spared him the resource to
measure her.
Anja's next effort sounded thin and
forlorn. 'How can you do this, again and again?'
Mykkael managed to force a grin through the
tangling grip of his tension. While the ribbon of sky over the clifftops lost
the last glint of the afterglow, and the sword in his hand whined and murmured,
he shrugged. 'Trust me, Princess, the alternative's a great deal less
civilized.'
Her Grace all but flew at him. 'You are not
a barbarian!'
'What I am,' Mykkael said, spattered head
to foot in clotted filth, 'is not fit company for your sire's elegant salon.'
Anja drew herself up. Her green eyes stayed
furious. 'You are better educated and better travelled than most of Sessalie's
courtiers. You just don't wear masks well.'
Mykkael laughed, his good nature dispelling
the last tremors of barqui'ino
reaction. 'Then don't put a mask on me, your Grace.' He lifted the sword,
deliberately wiped off the stained blood and faeces on his already befouled
surcoat. Then he gave his slimed hands a vigorous scrub in the granular melt
from a snow bank. 'Admire the pelt of the tiger, your Grace. Forget at your
peril, he has teeth.'
'We're alive,' Anja stated. 'Safe.' The bow
twitched in her hand. 'My applause, for the teeth.' Her erect balance suddenly
wavered.
Mykkael took a limping step forward. He
caught her up with a bracing grip the moment before her knees buckled. 'No,' he
said sadly. 'We're not safe at all. But the heat from my fire will soon soften
that ice bank. If I'm not going to bury us, we've no choice but to move on.'
Anja snorted. The sound was apparently a
half-smothered guffaw. 'Now, see here!' She wobbled, gave up, and sagged back
against him. 'Now I'm no longer fit company for Sire's salon, either. Oh, grant
me the chance! I'd invite you for dancing. Together, we'd give the Duchess of
Phail an apocalyptic case of the fright.'
Hysteria, battle nerves: Mykkael knew the
signs. Carefully wary, he tempered his strength, slapped her cheek hard enough
to shock her from desperate euphoria, back into her outraged senses. 'Princess!
Bear up.'
She crumpled. Relieved to handle the
expected reaction, Mykkael did not sting her pride further with comfort. As the
storm broke and her tears welled over, he drew Anja back towards the ice cleft.
There, he let her bury her misery in the curve of Covette's damp neck. He used
the time, while she let loose and sobbed, and gathered up the remaining few
arrows. Then he stripped the hobbles off Vashni and Stormfront, and unsnarled
the incoherent mess of knots she had used to secure the mares' lead ropes.
When the moment came to ride on, and the
princess turned from him, ashamed, Mykkael gave her embarrassment short shrift.
'I've seen many a hero walk off a
battlefield, only to fall down and sob like a child. Look at me, Princess!' He
waited, unmoving, until she must freeze, or give way and do as he bade her.
'Tell me to my face, what unnatural arrogance makes you believe royal birth
should make you the exception?'
Anja snapped up her chin. 'This won't
happen again.'
Mykkael stood back. He allowed her to mount
on her own, all stiff back and sharp prickles. 'Don't make such a statement,'
he admonished her as he resettled his sword and vaulted bareback astride
Stormfront. 'I can't, myself. You'll damned
certain slap me when I fall short and show you I'm no more than human.'
She arched her eyebrows. 'Slap you? I
should! How long must I swallow the pretence that you're made of iron for the
sake of your rock-headed pride? Or am I not to notice, you're bleeding again?
Blazing glory, Mykkael!' The tears threatened, not born of hysteria this time.
'If you don't strip that shirt and clean out your hurts, I'm to watch like a
fool while you take yourself down with wound fever?'
She was right. Mykkael found her intrusion
a scalding irritation. When stymied by a self-righteous woman, he always
preferred to submit and have the unpleasantness over forthwith. Though he knew
his deferral would seem like an evasion, and probably cost dearly, later, the
wardings he carried had not gone mute. Sorcery yet stirred through the air, and
the ground, and danger was still present, and closing.
'We have to ride. Now, Princess!' Before
she could protest, he cut her off. 'At the first reasonable moment, we'll seek
proper shelter and stop.'
The concession he offered was not enough,
Mykkael saw by one glance at her face. He would have to do more than
capitulate. Hard set with distaste, he turned Stormfront's head and pressed
onwards.
'Your Grace, my word, as sworn in your
service, the moment I have your royal person secure, I'll let you attend the
tiresome dressings yourself.'
THE QUEER LIGHTS THAT FLARED OVER HELL'S
CHASM THAT NIGHTFALL WOULD HAVE BEEN VIVIDLY CLEAR, IF Dedorth's glass had not
been destroyed by a conflagration of sorcery. Beyond the Great Divide in the
ranges, where the Grand Vizier's allied shamans did not require the use of a
contrivance to view the natural world, or examine events at a distance, the
ripple as power flowed from the unseen awakened the gifts of the seers. They
sensed disruptions and ominous signs. The wise among them measured the portents
and foresaw dire peril: an invasion to challenge Tuinvardia's northern border,
over mountains considered impassable.
Afraid their warnings would meet disbelief,
they dispatched an emissary to warn the Grand Vizier.
The audience was brought to the emperor's
court by a woman clairvoyant, trained as a channel to receive distant messages
with strict and reliable accuracy.
Under the airy glass-paned cupola of the
Grand Vizier's painted chamber, she appeared child-sized, mantled in the gauze
robes and circlet of her time-honoured profession. The flood of the alcove's
candles exposed her distraught pallor. Yet she held her straight stance on the
marble star beneath the Grand Vizier's dais, the hollow sphere of wrought
copper used to amplify vision cupped in her delicate hands. 'My Lord Wisdom, I
offer thee tidings from the circle of shamans sent to hallow the ground along
the north border.'
The wizened vizier raised his bald head and
regarded the emissary with gimlet eyes. 'Not good news, I see.' His sigh
brought an apprentice scurrying with a pillow to ease his swollen feet. A snap
of his fingers summoned two of the three master scribes he kept in constant
attendance. Robes rustling, these left the labour of preparing updated amulets.
They gathered beneath the dais to hear, ascetic faces lined with concern under
sombre black caps with fringed lappets.
'Deliver the sending,' bade the Grand
Vizier.
'Lord Wisdom, hear well,' the seer's
channel opened. 'These words are Anzbek's, eldest from Jantii tribe's fox clan
circle. His speech now follows:
"Wise one, we have sighted unfavourable portents that warn of a coming
invasion. Winged minions wrought by a sorcerer whose demon's name is unknown
fly down the gorge of Hell's Chasm."'
The elder of the two master scribes raised
his eyebrows. 'From the north! Has
Anzbek gone mad?' Even the most powerful sorcerers avoided cold weather and
altitude, that exposed all their delicate works to the stifling qualities of
snowfall, and the unstringing chaos inherent in dwellings heated by wood fires.
'How can a new power arise to existence?'
snapped the beak-nosed scribe at the trestle. The Nine demons might crossbreed
a new innovation, but their Names and the sorcerers they held in sealed bondage
had been exhaustively listed for centuries.
The seer's channel lifted her chin. 'Even
so, Guardians.' She resumed, undaunted. 'Anzbek reads such a peril arising. His
dreaming forecasts a danger beyond precedent. He further says this: his shamans
have no phrase and no singing to banish the lines he encounters. Since he also
expected the Lord Wisdom and masters might presume his sharp wits were failing,
Anzbek chose to share counsel concerning the visions his circle has garnered.
Be wary, he urges. The fragmented knowledge I bring thee in his name has been
gathered at terrible cost to his scryers.'
'Anzbek's lore cannot sing a completion!'
The Grand Vizier shoved straight in a disturbed glitter of beaded robes. Beside
him, his master scribes exchanged startled glances. 'The night brings us ill
news, indeed.' Ringed fingers flashed fire as the old conjurer beckoned the
channel on to the dais. 'Thou carriest a sending? Pray show us.'
Gauze rustled. Shadows wavered as the
candle flames swayed in the grip of an uneasy draught. The channel ascended the
stair. At the Grand Vizier's bidding, she accepted the cushion just brought to
cosset his feet. Then she knelt with the copper sphere offered between her
cupped hands. The Grand Vizier laid his palms beside hers, fingers spread.
'As Anzbek sends,' the channel whispered,
then bowed her head. She touched her circlet to the sphere and opened her mind
to deliver the record of the tribal elder's true vision.
The Grand Vizier to the Emperor of
Tuinvardia closed his eyes to receive. His brows hooked into a thunderous frown
the first moment he accepted the contact. 'Shape-changers!' he said, shocked.
His seamed face blanched. 'Ones able to meld and recombine, even dissolve at
their sorcerer's will. They fly across the Great Divide through Hell's Chasm.
The lines that reanimate them .. . are intensely complex.' He drew a vexed
breath. 'Record this!'
The master scribe to his right rushed from
the dais to the work table. Fingers flying, he assembled parchment, ink, and a
quill pen with a fine, copper nib. He barely had the implement dipped before
the Grand Vizier started dictation.
'East to west axis, parallel, doubled.
North down to centre pin, then rise north-east, at twelve degrees. Arc to
south, run a ground line, six point star at south, then a sunwards spiral,
rising. End at heaven point. Lift the pen. Set down at west, now mirror the
geometry at ninety degrees.'
'Murder and mercy!' murmured the master
still seated. He had abandoned his labour over the talismans, stunned by the
unprecedented pattern of ward now emerging, line by line, on the parchment.
'What is that thing?'
'Abomination,' whispered the Grand Vizier,
never in memory so curt. His forehead broke into alarming sweat as he opened
his eyes and fought his breath steady. 'One we may not have the wisdom to
counter; would that Eishwin were still alive.'
'Eishwin?' The master scribe who remained
on the dais cleared his throat in contempt. 'That lunatic hermit? But he only
expounded on elementary design! A raw junior might consult his text. No one
else would see fit to bother.'
The Grand Vizier's lips twitched. 'Basic
text was the only knowledge the crafty old conjurer chose to write down.'
Shaking his head, he said in strained quiet, 'Not all his workings were
executed inside the lines of earthly dimension. The myth lingers, that Eishwin
found ways to write as they say the most gifted of shamans can sing, in the
language of light, that lies beyond eyesight.'
'Pure nonsense!' snapped the master still
poised with the pen. All power of pattern was earth-based! How else to
influence the subtle flow of the unseen through scribed lines, than to lock its
expression in place through physicality's transfixing stability?
Again the Grand Vizier shook his bald head.
'I studied for years, and still the key to Eishwin's perception eludes me.'
Nor was he alone in his failure. The
ignorant young might dismiss Eishwin's lore as absurdly simplistic. Only the
most patient of the learned suspected the primal ciphers the conjurer left as
his legacy might invoke powers outside of geometry. 'The Southern Council still
holds debate on the subject.'
'An esoteric waste of time,' muttered the
master scribe taking dictation. He blotted the drying ink from his pen, his
lips pressed tight with disdain. 'The known ways work best. Why trouble with
pointless experiments?'
Earth patterns and copper invoked
immobility, and froze consciousness into time. That made them reliably stable
to work. Air and fire patterns were uselessly volatile. The action of water ran
too subtle and slow. The way of the shamans inducted the mysteries through
sound, and dissolved standing currents of flow. Yet the knowledge inherent in
tribal tradition was kept closely guarded. The course of initiation such people
followed demanded a lifetime of ascetic discipline. Just as well, that their nomad
ways suited them for work far afield. The emperor's treasury held wealth enough
to buy their help from the Scoraign chieftains. A circle of desert-bred shamans
could sing empty-handed. Their lore could be worked in a scouring downpour, in
wind storm, in snow, and in darkness. Oral tradition required no pattern books;
used no pens, no parchment, no ingots of iron or copper. The tribe folk could
patrol the most inhospitable canyons on foot, bearing little beyond a weapon to
forage, and a headcloth and robe to stay warm.
The mere thought of leaving the comforts of
court for a rough journey into the wastes raised the attendant scribes to
consternation. They kept their irritable silence, while the Grand Vizier bent
to resume communion with the channel's copper sphere.
'Pray the old ways work at all, in this
case,' the old man whispered as, again, he closed his eyes to receive.
'Dictation,' he resumed at due length,
though his voice shook. 'At east mark, scribe a half circle to west. Add a sine
curve, rising, with the rhythm of the geometry to be one, two, three, five,
seven, eleven, thirteen ... the same again, but in mirror image ...'
The pause that ensued seemed far too
prolonged. At the bench, pen in hand, the master scribe prompted, 'My Lord
Wisdom?'
His tacit query drew no response.
The next moment, the sphere shrieked in
vibration. Heat followed. The channel yanked herself back with a cry. Forehead
blistered, she released her clasped grip and cradled seared hands to her
breast. The copper implement clanged down the stair, trailing a wisp of vile
smoke.
The emperor's Grand Vizier made no sound at
all. His limp palms draped over his mantled knees, and his robed body slumped,
unsupported. All at once, he keeled over and pitched from his chair. The channel
caught him, then lost her grip to burned hands. Crying, she fumbled, while the
venerable conjurer toppled amid the heaped silk of his robes. His eyes stayed
wide open, stilled in the spill of the candlelight. His unbreathing mouth gaped
in sudden death, trickled with blood from a tongue bitten through in
convulsion.
'First order of mercy!' shrieked the
shocked scribe on the dais. 'What unspeakable evil could cause this attack?'
Sunk to his knees, he cradled the purpled face of his mentor. Yet no succour availed.
The Grand Vizier was gone, who had handled Tuinvardia's defence against sorcery
through a half century of exemplary service.
His colleagues' distraught shouts brought
the emperor's guards at a run.
The scribe at the trestle clutched his pen,
as armed men crashed the doors and barged into the chamber. No chance was given
to disparage the futility of their bared swords. The partially executed defence
pattern on the parchment exploded into a whirlwind of conflagration. Screaming,
both hands and sleeves set aflame, the vizier's most advanced master scribe
collapsed before help could reach him.
* * *
In the deeps of Hell's Chasm, Mykkael and
Princess Anja worked a cautious passage through a chain of ice tunnels. Here,
where the gorge split the Great Divide, the continuous tumble of glacial debris
often jammed the constricted watercourse. Each year, the raging force of spring
melt waters drilled out the channel anew. With summer's approach, the spate had
fallen. The verge offered a narrow, dangerous ledge carved out of compacted
ice. Here, the passage became exceptionally hazardous for the horses. Even
shod, the animals slipped and skidded. Glassy chips were gouged up by their
hooves as they scrambled for purchase beside the boiling race of the current.
Here, even a skilled rider's weight might
unbalance them. Mykkael insisted they proceed on foot. Still pursued by the
weaving lights wrought by the sorcerer's long spell, he held the rearguard with
drawn sword. The blade whined aloud. The viziers' tattoo at his nape stayed
unquiet as well, a constant, spiking ache that chafed at his already volatile
nerves. He lit the way with a torch, held left-handed, his reflexes cranked to barqui'ino-trained vigilance that
reacted to every flicker and jerk of cast shadow. Nimble Covette had cast off a
shoe. The bare hoof caused her two scrabbling falls, with only Anja's shouted
commands warding off lethal panic.
To grasp the mare's reins and try to assist
was to invite a disaster. Upon the slick ice, no footing was safe. At the first
opportunity, Mykkael cut a stave from a deadfall. He lashed Anja's skinning
knife on to the tip. Throughout his work, the lurid flares of sent spellcraft
flashed and wove at the edge of the wardings. Their unsettling colours ghosted
over his dark face, and the broken scabs of the sword cut marring his fingers.
'Use this,' he ordered. 'Right-hand side,
between you and the water. Spike the blade into the ice like a walking stick.
Princess, hear me! You don't take even a
single step without securing your balance beforehand.'
Shivering, her face waxy blue from the
cold, Anja nodded. She took the stave in numbed hands and pushed on. Utterly
miserable, she withheld from complaint. She jabbed down the knife and moved
ahead, while her heart drummed with terror and her frosted breaths plumed in
the torchlight. Onwards she pressed, hurting down to the bone, yet too
frightened to contemplate stopping. Behind her, Mykkael limped on watchful
alert. His scarred knee, and the slap of the bootless foot he had strapped in
green leather, demarked his halting progress. His war injury had stiffened,
made worse by hard usage and uneven ground. Yet to pause was unthinkable, even
to soak the inflamed joint in the ice melt. Not while the shaman's mark on the
sword wailed its incessant warning.
'Princess! Princess, stop nowY
Mykkael spoke twice more, still unable to
break through Anja's leaden exhaustion. She spiked in the stave, blindly
absorbed by the rhythmic punishment of setting one step after the next.
'Your Grace, hold hard!' His insistent
fingers bit into her shoulder. 'I should lead the way into the open.'
Anja edged to the side of the treacherous
verge. Mykkael squeezed past with precarious care. The hide padding on his foot
had torn through. Under the juddering light of the flame, Anja saw bloodied
prints on the ice, caused by a gash on his toe. The hip he had bruised just as
clearly gave him discomfort.
Yet the chance to seize respite stayed out
of the question. The sword's mark buzzed its relentless alarm, and seen at
close quarters, the captain's skin puckered with wave upon wave of raised
gooseflesh.
'Witch thoughts?' Anja asked. 'What do you
see?'
Mykkael's dark eyes flickered towards her,
then away. He wrung out a gravel-rough answer. 'Nothing coherent.'
...
an ancient vizier in a robe marked with symbols, lying dead in a ring of
shocked faces; a vanguard of riders in exquisite, fine armour, riding hellbent
over foreign terrain; an old man wearing tribal knots in his hair, rapidly
speaking the desert variation of Scoraign dialect; then the dream-caught image
of a warrior, himself? wrapped in what looked like spun silver and shadow, and pursued by
horrors fit to bring madness ...
'Mykkael?' Anja whispered. While the
horses' breath clouded around him, she closed a tacit hand over his forearm.
'Captain?'
...
Jussoud, his deft fingers glistening with burn unguents as he treated a man
whose flesh was seared beyond recognition ...
Racked by a horrible, lingering chill, Mykkael
unwound Anja's grip. He stared into her eyes, a glance that scoured for its
depth of searching intensity. Then he touched her wrist to his forehead, a
salute foreign to the northern manners practised in Sessalie. 'This is not
Efandi,' he whispered. 'No sorcerer has
yet seized a permanent hold on the land.' The scrape of his words seemed
almost a litany, scarcely audible through the shear of the current over its
milk-glass bed of ice.
To Anja, the captain's grasp felt
alarmingly hot. She prayed the effect was no more than the contrast posed by
her own numbed hand. 'Mykkael?'
He nodded, moved, stated, 'Ready the bow.
Expect this, we're going to face ambush.'
Anxiously frightened, Anja called after
him, 'How do you know?'
'Tattoo,' he gasped answer. 'It's a burning
brand on me.'
The poised torch just as much of a weapon
as the bared sword clenched in his grasp, he advanced towards the tunnel's
gapped opening. Outside, the darkness hung like draped felt. Mykkael filled the
aperture, shoulders cloaked in his spattered surcoat, and his hands chiselled
bronze in the fluttering firelight.
Anja fumbled to unsling the bow. Shielded
by Mykkael's readied stance at the forefront, she tugged the quiver at her hip
into convenient reach. The scouring slap of whitewater filled the ice cave,
with the horses' steamed presence crowding her back, loud with the scrape of
shod hooves.
Mykkael's fingers tensed in the torchlight.
The blade keened, a shrill note that shredded the mists combing off the arched
ice overhead. He advanced a tight step, edged one foot on to the gritty rime of
moraine laid bare by the thaws.
Something winged and weighty dropped,
moving fast. Sword, torch and man exploded into blurred motion. The jerked
flame fluttered down to a trailing coal, outlining the warrior against what appeared
insubstantial as shadow and smoke. Yet his striking steel chimed. The minion
antagonist he fought was unnervingly solid. Claws snatched the frayed hem of
Mykkael's surcoat and opened a howling rip. Thrust, clang! slash, clang! the
embattled rhythm of attack and riposte cast ringing echoes back down the cleft.
Anja laboured to close her chilled fist on
the bow, then manipulate the nocked arrow. Her grip on the string seemed too
numbed to draw, even had the captain's raging attack not foreclosed her clear
view of a target. In darkness, the two-handed battle he sustained moved too
swiftly for vision to follow.
The horses stamped and sidled, shaken from
their exhausted torpor. Anja spoke, desperate to calm their distress before
sliding hooves caused a mishap. She dared not look back, dared not loose the
bow. Trembling amid the spun murk of the mist, she watched Mykkael's defence, a
harrowing display of the barqui'ino
mind that reforged the body into an engine of relentless ferocity.
The torch struck, raining a scatter of
sparks. Teeth clashed and snapped, screeling into a ribbon of jabbing, sharp
steel. Impact raised a sulphurous sizzle of flesh, and a horrific, keening
howl. Mykkael's bootless foot came down on ice. He slipped, with the scarred
leg unable to compensate. Down on one knee, his cleared sword scarcely wavered,
its targeting point all but nailed into space, with his raised arm holding form
overhead in a lightning-speed act of recovery.
Anja pulled the bow. She took aim at what
appeared empty dark and released, both arrow and pent breath let go with a
grunt. The shaft clashed into the black shine of scales.
Its feathered nock vanished, hard followed
by the streaked silver of Mykkael's stabbing blade. Fumes roiled. Smoke poured
from the minion's rent flesh, deadly proof that he fought another marauding
shape-changer. Leathered wings beat the air, scraped over rock and dislodged a
stinging shower of gravel. Mykkael regained his stance and lunged into the
pelting assault. Enfolded at once by billowing smoke, his sword dipped and
flashed, backed up at each sally by the battering club of the torch shaft.
Through juddering light, and explosions of
sparks as the blows thudded home, Anja tracked the captain's advance. She
forced her shaking hand to string the next arrow. By the time she had the shaft
firmly nocked, no clean shot was possible. Mist had obscured Mykkael's moving
form. She heard steel clash and skitter, knitted into the minion's harrowing
wails. Set amid failing light, the interlocked contest of man and monster was
reduced to chaotic confusion.
That moment, an inrush of flying things
pelted into the ring of the wards. They swooped down at suicidal speed, as
though trying a concerted attack of sheer numbers to overwhelm its protection.
Mykkael surely sensed the unpleasant effects. He shouted, perhaps seeking to
turn the assault. Yet the wave of long-spelled abominations kept coming. They
converged upon him, unfazed as their fellows struck the viziers' raised pattern
and dissolved, bleeding flames in gyrating colours.
Since archery was futile, Anja stowed the
bow and arrow to free her hands. The stick lashed with the knife could serve as
a spear. That idea resolved, she began to advance, just as something coiling
and heavy crashed with a bellow and carved up a scatter of gravel. Mykkael's
sword clanged. More smoke roiled, clouding her sight, as claws scrabbled over
wet rock. The struggle cut short with a thunderous splash. Mykkael reappeared,
his steel glistening scarlet, and his left arm torn bloody under the dimmed
glow of the torch.
Still immersed in barqui'ino awareness, he plunged out of the smoke, tossed the
stubbed wood away, then seized the princess at scruff and waist. His fierce
grasp hurled her astride, amid the bundles lashed on to Kasminna. Speech seemed
beyond him. The flat of his sword spoke instead, slapping the sorrel's rump and
startling her into a wild-eyed canter. In unbroken stride, Mykkael thrust past
the grey gelding and remounted Stormfront. Through the lightning-burst flares
as more accursed creatures crashed to destruction against the wardings, he
belted his heels into the black gelding's sides and veered him hard after
Anja's mare into the open darkness.
No sign remained of the horrific creature
he had just driven into the spate. The black gorge of Hell's Chasm opened
ahead, a sinister slit bisected by the roaring leap of whitewater. Anja had no
choice but to entrust her safety to her mount's sharper eyesight. She clung for
her life to the mare's wind-whipped mane, repeatedly calling to urge Vashni and
Covette to press tired strides and keep pace.
'Shape-changer,' gasped Mykkael, his
diction strangled by barqui'ino-induced
adrenaline. 'Downstream.'
Anja finished his thought to clarify her
understanding. 'You think the minion will reassemble?'
'Must. Very quickly.' Mykkael leaned out,
yanked the lead rein with his free hand, and swerved Kasminna around an
obstruction her distraught rider had missed. 'Run!'
He steered Stormfront's surging flight
alongside the mare, riding bareback with a skill the princess suspected could
only be matched in the heart of the eastern steppelands. He held the horses to
their pounding charge, unwilling to let up as they leaped over potholes, and
hammered headlong and stumbling across rimed ice and beached mounds of river
stones.
Stormfront snorted a rattled warning and
shied. The sword's warding shrieked. Kasminna leaped sideways, blowing with
terror, as the stony ground seemed to heave into motion under her back-stepping
hooves.
The violent swerve wrenched Anja off her
seat. As the mare dropped on her haunches and spun away, urgent hands snatched
at her clothing. She felt the vibrating cry as the warded sword's hilt gouged
into the small of her back. Then blank air opened under her, and she slammed
with a grunt across the withers of Mykkael's black gelding.
The precious, copper-tipped arrows
slithered, falling out as the quiver upended. Anja shot out a forearm and
pinned them. Through the lurch as Stormfront slid on his hocks and fought into
scrambling recovery, Mykkael's left fist remained locked in her jerkin.
Battered, face down, her braid whipping her cheek, Anja clung, jolted
breathless. Single-minded, she rescued the arrows, her breast jammed to the
captain's straining thigh. The bowstring grated and sawed at her collarbone at
each surging, equine stride.
She could see little of the creature the
captain confronted, beyond its horrendous talons. Through the violent gyrations
of combat, she glimpsed scaled sinews, punch-cut against a spinning view of pressed
gravel and gouged ice and raced water. Anja heard the captain's desperate, fast
breaths, as the sword in his hand screamed and clove through barqui'ino attack forms over her head.
Something heavy and hot seized her ankle, slapped away in a spray of liquid.
The blade's warding shuddered complaint.
Anja shut her eyes. Dizzied to nausea by
the stench of the captain's fouled surcoat, and the wildly tilting ground, she
held like grim death to the sheaf of salvaged arrows. Her other fist clutched
the cross-gartered ties binding the leathers to Mykkael's calf. She hung on to
him, desperately mindful that his undisturbed balance was critical for accurate
sword work. Both of their lives would be forfeit should she slide off centre,
or fall off.
The bruising, rough ride drove the air from
her chest each time Stormfront shifted direction. Mykkael kept his seat through
superlative horsemanship, a sword wielded astride without use of stirrups a
feat few men alive could achieve. Anja endured, from moment to precarious
moment. Through the scatter of stones under Stormfront's hooves, she followed
the clang and clatter of steel, aware that one man's pressured defence was all
that forestalled an unspeakable fate. The spelled monster that hissed and
snapped overhead lunged for its prey without quarter. She felt the whuff of its
breath on her back, and winced to each clash of its teeth. If she chanced to be
seized, her form would become a shape-changer's guise for a sorcerer to deploy
at will. She could be worse than dead, with an imposter left to claim
Sessalie's crown uncontested.
Mykkael twisted hard left. His sword struck
moving murder. Anja felt the impact shock through his taut body. His hand on
her jerkin convulsed with the force of his recovery, as he snapped his entangled
blade free. Ducked under a sense of ponderous movement, her person snatched
close and sheltered against a smoking pelt of hot fluid, she clung grimly as
the captain stabbed in his heels and called out.
Stormfront responded, bunched and shot
forward. A descending claw whistled close overhead. The sword clanged again,
gave a sliding ring in deflection. Mykkael shouted. 'Jee!'
Anja braced, prepared, while the gelding
wheeled sideways. Tail streaming, hooves pounding rough stone, he avoided the
coiling slap of scaled tail, spiked at the end with barbed horns.
Vashni's shrill scream arose at their back.
Anja turned her head, found her view obstructed by Mykkael's leg. Darkness
masked even the partial glimpse of what mishap had just transpired. Claws
scuffled on stone, milled through by the clatter of Stormfront's headlong
flight. Then something massive splashed into the flume. The noises of struggle
receded behind as the horses opened their stride, hazed into a panic-stricken
gallop. Only two sets of hoof beats trailed after the valiant black gelding.
Poor Vashni's demise had opened the way to
escape for the riders and the two mares.
Anja blinked through the burn of fresh
tears, jounced against her protector. Above her, unending, the whining cry of
the sword sustained its pitch through the scrape of Mykkael's raced breathing.
He did not pull up. Even when Stormfront's
long strides devolved into a choppy canter, and his sweated coat streamed
strings of lather, the desert-bred captain shouted to enforce the frantic pace.
'You'll kill him,' railed Anja, afraid for
the gelding. Kasminna was flagging, and Covette, one foot shoeless, lagged
dangerously far behind.
If Mykkael heard, he did not draw rein.
Only when the next ice tunnel forced caution did he slacken from headlong
flight. By then, the hard, running tremors brought on by barqui'ino recoil stormed through his overwrought flesh. Warned
that his mind might not be coherent, the princess held on in agonized patience.
Despite the fact that her midriff was bruised by the ridge of the horse's
withers, she stayed passive in hope that her quiet would help restore the
captain's hazed reason. In his prudent, right mind, surely Mykkael would choose
to dismount, and light a torch to traverse the black maw of the passage.
Yet no respite came. Riding the razor's
edge of raw reflex, the warrior stayed astride with drawn sword and drove
Stormfront ahead without let-up.
'I'm not harmed,' Anja ventured.
Mykkael shuddered, head to foot, and
managed a stilted reply. 'I know.'
Anja forced back the hot sting of tears,
and doggedly pressed him again. 'If Stormfront slips, even once, we're both
lost.'
All but deranged by the skittering slide as
the black gelding's forehooves lost purchase, the princess endured with her
breath stopped.
'We daren't pull up,' Mykkael stated at
length. 'If that vile thing overtakes us again, we're foredone.'
'You're hurt?' Anja asked, while the
tremors whipped through him, aggravating his hitched shortness of breath. Her
query went unanswered. Enveloped by the chasm's dank blackness, she could see
nothing at all. Neither could she dispel her anxiety by touch. Not with her
left hand clutching the arrows, and all her security dependent upon her grip on
Mykkael's makeshift footwear. As Stormfront slewed again and again, scrambling
for purchase on ice, she dared not risk loosing her grasp for even a fraction
of a second.
No choice remained. Equine senses must be
entrusted to secure Stormfront's imperilled riders.
Too long, they traversed the echoing dark,
with the race of the current a blast of raw noise, and the horses' terrible,
laboured breaths cruel proof of their overtaxed resource. By the time the far
side of the tunnel emerged, a faint oval rinsed grey by starlight, Anja was
shaking from overwrought nerves. Her hands were knotted with fiery cramps, and
sweat slid in drops down her temples.
'Hyaa!' Mykkael's shout rousted Stormfront
to a staggering trot.
Kasminna ripped out a startled snort, laid
back her ears, and plunged after him, with Covette in limping pursuit.
'Are you crazy?' yelped Anja, pummelled
again, her sick fear whipped on to wild outrage.
'Sword!' Mykkael gasped.
Too late, Anja realized: the angry, wasp
hum of the steel had not slackened.
Horse and paired riders burst into the
open. Mykkael shouted again, just as something huge missed its pounce from the
back of the ice face. Stone rattled as it landed and launched into frenzied
pursuit. The sword's warding screamed, and the spent horses bolted in a fresh
burst of primal terror.
Left, right, left again, Stormfront changed
his lead to thread through a maze of shattered boulders. He leaped the frothing
seam of a freshet. The bough of a deadfall snagged his left side, gouging at
Anja's legs. She hung on, lashed and battered. Mykkael, crouched above her,
used his braced sword to fend off the stinging branches. The cavern around them
had widened again, prime ground for a night-hunting kerrie.
Ahead, the change in terrain spelled
disaster: the flume crashed down a laddered incline, then whirled with a
thunderous roar into the black depths of a basin. Water exploded over the rim
at the far side, streaming trailers of spray under starlight. The spillway of
the falls overhung the sliced edge of the world, gateway to the impassable
cliff that ended the run down Hell's Chasm.
The drop beyond was sheer, a vertical
buttress that cleaved away into vacant air. There the rushing water plumed
downwards, winnowed into veils like hurled dust, towards the distant floor of a
canyon blanketed under white mist.
Anja beheld that vast drop off, then the
gulf to the distant, far side. Upside down, the scope of the view set her
mortal senses reeling. Recognition struck like a cry against silence, that she
beheld her own certain death, and the bittermost ending of hope.
'We're defeated,' she gasped.
No human means could conquer an obstacle of
such overpowering scale.
Her plaintive distress went unheard. Mykkael
was not listening. Or else his awareness stayed riveted on the threat that
still charged on the heels of the straggling horses.
He slapped the flat of his sword down on
Stormfront's shoulder, turning him, hard, from the sloping drop towards the
basin. The gelding slithered on stepped granite. Iron shoes scrabbling, he
clawed himself into recovery, and snapped his hocks back under himself. Against
chance-met failure, against futile ruin, the black horse rebounded. Dry grass,
then brush, then needled branches slapped into Anja's dangling face. Eyes
closed, skin stinging as thorns ripped her cheek, she plunged through the
bruised evergreen fragrance of cedar. Then dank stone and darkness swallowed
their striving. The horse's clattering gait dispersed into echoes cast back by
a stone enclosure.
'Hyaa! Stormfront, forward!' Mykkael
pressed the shivering horse into the black cavern carved out by the current in
years when the basin swirled higher. The mares clambered after. Hooves splashed
underfoot. The horses traversed a small streamlet or pool. Icy droplets
splashed Anja's eyelids. Her dangling braid wicked up moisture. Then
Stormfront's powerful body heaved underneath her as he surged upslope and
arrived on a narrow, dry ledge.
Mykkael snatched the back of her jerkin. Without
word or warning, he hurled her off the exhausted gelding's back.
Anja struck ground with a bitten-off cry,
winded and scraped and on fire with outrage. The string of the slung bow sawed
into her neck, while her salvaged arrows clattered around her.
The captain vaulted on to his feet just
behind. 'Princess! See to your horses!' No time remained to speak of regrets.
Sword raised, Mykkael scrambled on limping, fast strides to contend with the
minion still bearing down from outside.
THE HORSES WERE NOW TOO EXHAUSTIVELY SPENT
TO FALL PREY TO CHANCE MISADVENTURE. ANJA LEFT Stormfront's fallen reins
trailing. Too winded to stray, the gelding could be trusted to recover at will
in the company of his teammate. As Kasminna, and finally Covette, straggled in,
sorely limping, the princess shoved aside pity for their battered plight.
Consumed by necessity, she groped on hands and knees in the darkness, seeking
her scattered arrows. She located three, ripped the bow from her shoulder, then
pushed her bruised body back upright and rushed downslope after Mykkael.
Alone, he could scarcely defend the cleft's
entrance with no more at hand than his sword.
She reached him, wrung breathless, and slid
to a stop in a scatter of gravel. He held his blade raised. Eyes searching the
darkness, he dug into his scrip, while, outside, the sorcerer's minion gave
chase across the rock verge. It caught their scent with scarcely a pause, and
veered into the brush at the mouth of the cavern. As before, the captain
acknowledged Anja's presence without breaking his active focus. Never turning
his head, he fished out the twist of leather holding his flint and dry tinder.
'Pluck a spray of cedar and light the green
needles,' he ordered, then offered the packet. His voice did not shake, or his
hand, though the burgeoning wail of the sword signified urgent peril.
Awkward and fumbling, Anja juggled to free
her burdened hands. 'The bow,' she gasped hoarsely.
'At my feet! Drop it!' Mykkael plucked the
arrows from her clutched fist with the speed of a striking adder. 'The fire
comes first!'
Anja shed the weapon with a clatter and
shouldered the task he demanded. Limned against the swirling pool of the basin,
the fell minion that hunted charged in. Its glimpsed form was black-scaled, and
sinuously fleet under the thin gleam of starlight. Anja wrenched off an
evergreen bough and doggedly wielded the flint. Cold and near panic had dulled
her dexterity. She could scarcely command her dazed fingers.
Mykkael sensed her difficulty. While the
sorcerer's sending hurtled upslope, the captain pinned the wasp hum of his
blade flat to his side with his elbow. He snatched flint and striker out of her
hands, and thrust a raked spark to the cedar. The frond caught. Flame
blossomed, fanning a billow of smoke. Mykkael snapped another branch from a
sapling, touched that alight also. Then he hurled the spill into the path of
the oncoming monster.
Smoke spun on the wind. The creature
bellowed and yanked back as though grazed by flung poison. Its sinuous form
lost definition, then dissolved into whirling mist. Yet this time, the change
brought no moment of respite. Warned by the relentless buzz of the shaman's
mark, Mykkael secured his drawn sword and snatched up the bow. Fast as he
moved, the shape-changer's tactic outmatched him. With diabolical speed, the
minion recondensed and shifted into the known form of a man.
He stepped out of the night empty-handed
and helpless, with no stitch of state finery upon him.
'Anja, beloved,' called the High Prince of
Devall. Exquisitely handsome, clean-limbed as fine marble, he extended his
opened arms in appeal, entreating the princess to spare him.
The bowstring twanged in release. Mykkael's
aimed shaft slapped through defenceless flesh, simultaneous with Anja's choked
outcry. Though reason insisted the fell creature was tainted, the wrenching
sight of such beauty, cut down, stunned the heart with unparalleled savagery.
As the princess crumpled, hands pressed to
her face, Mykkael left her side. He accomplished his butcher's work with the
sword with what seemed an undaunted efficiency. While the princess wept for
grief, mourning the suitor she once might have honoured in matrimony, the
desert-bred captain who guarded her life disallowed any pause for condolence.
Relentlessly silent, he destroyed the gristly remains there and then with a
blaze set from dead wood and cedar.
The pyre burned bright, overseen by the
ice-chip gleam of the stars. The roil of the chasm's black waters thundered on
the stilled air, with no sanctuary rites to honour the dead, or sing the eulogy
to grace passing royalty. Anja observed, shuddering in the windy cold, alone
and distressed and uncomforted.
Mykkael prowled the brush at the mouth of
the cavern. Though the whine of his blade had subsided to a whisper, he
remained too cranked with tension to settle. He paused more than once to crouch
in the shadows, forehead braced on crossed wrists at his sword hilt. The
restless gesture seemed natural, until Anja realized the posture masked an
ungovernable onset of dry heaves.
'Mykkael?' She arose, crossed the hard,
stony soil, but no careful approach could disarm his flinching recoil.
On his feet, his weapon hilt cradled tight
to his breast, he gasped, 'No. Princess, I beg you, go back and stand with your
horses.'
'They don't need me.' Steadfast, Anja
continued to offer her hand. 'Come away, Mykkael.'
He shook through a horrible, wracking
tremor. 'You do understand, that minion was no man.' Fear seized his voice, or
an undisguised pain, from a source that could not be fathomed as he turned his
face from her and finished, 'Nothing remained of the person you knew. Only an
abomination.'
Anja realized she had seen more clearly
than he. Through the gift that her sire described as a cold start, she had
discerned the false apparition was not sourced in a human awareness. 'Captain,
leave be,' she admonished. 'I already saw the distinction.'
But revolted nerves could not always be
reconciled through logic. Mykkael coughed behind his raised wrist, the ripped
shreds of his sleeve dark with blood. 'One doesn't grow hardened. If you can
find comfort, the cedar is proof. Your suitor won't rise from these ashes
tonight.'
Anja grasped his tensed fingers. 'Come
away, Mykkael. The fire can accomplish its purpose without us.' Her tears came
then, fast and hot in release as he permitted her touch, and allowed her to
draw him aside.
The kerrie descended just as they turned to
re-enter the mouth of the cleft. It swooped down in a rushing tumult of air
from the cliff face above their heads. Mykkael hurled back into barqui'ino mind. His shove tumbled Anja
ahead into shelter. The move marked the start of a seamless pivot as he spun to
engage a defence. His effort appeared foredoomed at the outset, with the sword
his sole weapon at hand.
Against fire and talon, one man with a
blade would have to be sorely outmatched.
Choked silent by horror, Anja embarked on a
hands-and-knees search to reclaim the dropped bow. Too late, she recalled she
held no more arrows. Crushed to despair, she could only pause, numb, while the
kerrie snap-folded spread wings in descent.
Its powerful, deadly strike seemed
inevitable. Her valiant protector would be cut down before her anguished,
stunned eyes. If Mykkael had regrets, his thoughts did not show. He did not cry
out, or turn craven. Sword lightly raised, his stance set in readiness, he
maintained his trained form. His battle-hard nerve engaged no wasted motion.
Against the backdrop of plummeting predator and starred sky, his poised state
of preparedness defied fate.
Mykkael held to life against all threat of
ending, without rage, without recoil, without fear.
Had the kerrie been fixed upon human prey,
that windy escarpment might have become the tragic site for a final stand. As
events unfolded, the warrior's quiet acceptance itself framed his grace of
salvation. Mykkael awaited his moment,
unmoving; while the marauding creature ripped out of its plunge, aimed for
its intended, first target. It struck the whirlpool in the basin with a splash
that cast up an explosion of spray.
Massive pinions deployed, and fanned up a
stinging barrage of forced air. Through back-bent brush and gust-flattened
evergreens, Anja saw the predator arise from the depths with Vashni's corpse
seized in mailed talons.
The dead gelding, not Mykkael, would be
taken to sate its ravenous hatchlings. The kerrie soared upwards, bugling
triumph. It carved a steep circle and dipped over the ledge, streaming flame
and roiled sparks in its gliding wake as it soared down the night-dark canyon.
* * *
The severity of subsequent barqui'ino reaction left Mykkael unfit
for close company. Every move, every breath made him flinch with hazed nerves.
He countered the affliction the best way he could, and immersed himself in the
frenetic activity of setting arcane defences. If Anja feared his efforts with
fire and cedar ash might not be sufficient to repel the demonic forces that
sought her destruction, she knew not to speak. The warrior drew steel at her least
untoward movement. He could not be approached, far less withstand human contact
or touch. His given promise to attend to his wounds must wait until the throes
of raw backlash subsided.
Anja herself had small will to face her own
toll of aches and bruises. To stave off the crushing despair of defeat, and
escape morbid thoughts of the precipice that surely crushed every option but
death, she bent her scraped knees and climbed back to her feet. Then she
hobbled in aching, uneven steps to look after her exhausted horses.
They numbered three, of the six exceptional
creatures she had sequestered in Farmer Gurley's back meadow. As hard-run
survivors, how sorrowfully they had changed, standing with lowered heads, sides
heaving, with their proud tails hanging limp and snarled and mud-stained. Anja
ran her stinging, scraped fingers over the crusted salt matting their coats.
She accounted the sad tally: of staring ribs, and sunken flanks, and the
heartbreaking list of more hurtful damages. Never before had Kasminna been too
dispirited to head butt and nip. Her hind fetlocks were puffy, and her near
shoulder skinned bloody from a crash on the sticks of a deadfall. Covette had a
bashed knee, hot and sore with tight swelling. Her bare hoof had split to the
quick. She stood three-legged, unwilling to put weight on the crack.
Stormfront, proud creature, had claw wounds in his neck. If Mykkael's superb
horsemanship had spared his legs, the gelding was wretchedly muscle-sore.
Anja laid her cheek on the black's steaming
side, too drawn and weary to weep. She had no liniments, no bran mash, no
flannel leg wraps or restoratives. For her horses' suffering, she had no balm
to bring them relief. Their sacrifice found her worse than empty-handed. Her
fingers were too raw and clumsy with cold to manage girth buckles or knots.
'I can help.' Mykkael's clasp, still
unsteady, closed over her shoulder and edged her gently aside. He assisted with
the crusted ties binding his bundles of rope and rolled leather, removed
Covette's saddle and bridle, then drew Anja away with the same uncompromised
firmness he used to quell Kasminna's surliness. 'If you'll help tend the fire,
your Grace, I can arrange the warm water you need to make you and your animals
more comfortable.'
Anja stared at him, numb.
'Warm water.' The smile he offered was
woundingly civilized. 'I can deliver my promise.'
He accomplished the feat by heating stones
in the coals, then dropping them into a filled catch pocket in the stone ledge.
Anja huddled to one side, stoking the blaze with the wood he had dragged from
the deadfalls washed in and stranded at the high-water mark. Whatever harrowing
end lay ahead, the princess would not lack for warmth. The supply of dry fuel
proved blessedly plentiful. In the course of his rock shifting, Mykkael
discovered the fact that kerrie wing leather resisted an unshielded flame.
Delighted by that unsuspected advantage, he set to with a cut length of sinew,
and a buckle tang ground sharp for use as an awl. Within a short time, he had
fashioned a hide bucket. A sweet-smelling herb he kept in his script created a
healing infusion. The balm would ease Covette's injured hoof, and rinse the
crust from Stormfront's deep gashes.
'I can make more,' Mykkael reassured her,
met by consternation as his bloodstained clothes reminded her that the horses
were not alone in their need for a remedy. 'You ought to rest, Princess.'
Anja refused. Her own respite would be
deferred until after her animals were tended. She would have each hurt
doctored, each damp coat rubbed dry, and each mane and tail free of tangles.
'Once that's done, you made me a promise, Mykkael. I won't sleep until I see
your injuries given the basic care you've neglected.'
He raised his eyebrows. 'In that case,
we're going to require clean linen.' He blotted damp hands, looking mildly
hopeful. 'Your Grace wouldn't balk at boiling laundry?'
She stared back, nonplussed. 'Your surcoat
and shirt? Not at all.'
Mykkael bowed to her. He could do no less.
Shown a difficult challenge, King Isendon's daughter would take down her chosen
target. Then by your wish, Princess, the horses come first.'
* * *
Mykkael limped and sat at the last, his
game leg propped straight on a boulder. The poker-stiff set to his back
disclosed the debilitating cramps that had probably gnawed him for hours.
Despite the impassable setback posed by the gulf at the precipice, he had not
stinted his care of the horses. The vantage he chose when he finally rested
afforded a clear view of the cavern's entry, perhaps to allow him to stand wary
watch. Or else he employed the evasive excuse to hold his fixed interest
elsewhere. Head turned away, he tugged off his torn surcoat.
Anja accepted the soiled cloth from his
hand. She rinsed off the ill-smelling muck in cold water before she shoved its
bulk into the steaming bucket and stirred it about with a stick. 'You don't
believe in futility, do you?'
'Your Grace?' He still did not face her. 'I
don't intend to allow you to die here.'
Low spirits pressed Anja to sharpness. 'We
have a choice?'
Mykkael surveyed her then. His dark eyes
stayed shadowed. 'I promised you, Princess, and your sire before you. Why
should you cast away hope?' Gaze on her, he unfastened his sword harness, then
secured the sheathed blade, hilt laid ready to hand across his braced leg.
Anja swallowed. 'I don't see any way to
escape.'
He raised his marked fingers, tugged loose
the grimed lacings at cuff and collar. 'What meets the eye is the limited
world. Our five senses don't fathom the greater part of existence.'
His persistent calm chafed against her
despair. 'You don't have any plan.'
'Not yet.' Mykkael peeled off his shirt.
'When the time comes to act, there will be one. Until we are dead, we must
trust in the future. There has been blood and striving to have come this far.
Would you give Vashni, Fouzette and Bryajne the dismissal of your retreat?'
A great deal of the blood had been
unequivocally his, Anja saw in silenced dismay. Through the stained ruin of
Jussoud's pine-gum dressings, she mapped the bared sword cut across chest and
shoulder, then the undressed gashes the shape-changer had clawed across an
older slice on his left forearm.
'Princess?' Mykkael prompted.
She started, raised her glance from his
hurts, and accepted his offered garment. 'Who tried to kill you?'
'In this case?' His desert-bred features
turned taut and grim. 'A foreign enemy who wanted me dead. There have been a
number of those in my history.' He worried the lifted edge of the dressing,
then hissed through shut teeth for the unpleasant fact that the gum was not
going to pull free without force.
'You'll need a hot cloth,' Anja said.
'Here, let me.'
He glanced up, his eyes snapped to live
fire. 'Not yet, your Grace. Those rags have to boil, first. Leave me my due,
for experience.'
His protest was scarcely enough to
forestall her. In a strategic attempt to deflect conversation, he shifted his
sword and arose. On his feet, his sore posture became all too evident as he
yanked off his belt, still bearing the packet of the first shape-changer's
salt-stunned remains. He tossed strap and bundle down at his feet. Then he
stripped in one move to his smallclothes. The flurried, forced catch as he
tossed Anja his shed breeches evinced his nettled distaste.
Yet like the fine sword brought out for
inspection, he stilled in leashed tolerance for her review. Anja withstood the
blazing intensity of his self-contained presence. Her survey brushed over the
odd scrap of embroidered silk he wore wrapped at his waist, then moved on and
tallied the score of his more intimate injuries: the opened weal on his thigh;
the scraped bruise on his hip; and last of all the bandaged puncture she had
watched him repoultice in the darkened hour before dawn.
Yet no present cut or bloodied abrasion
could compare with the bared testament of his healed scars.
'Those weren't caused by sword cuts,' Anja
gasped outright.
He did not need her glance to guess which
past foray had raised her horrified comment. Amid the clean weals acquired in
battle, the knotted, red burns left by a heated spear point were no pretty
sight, though they had been branded in cruel, precise rows across the lean
flesh of his flank.
Mykkael shrugged. 'A man wanted information
I didn't have. He earned little else but my screams for his efforts.' Soft
brown, his eyes remained on her as he finished in piercing rebuke. 'Truly,
Princess, there are better distractions.'
Anja blinked, looked away, her left arm
tightly clasped about her raised knees. She addressed his abstruse change of
subject head on as she stirred the soiled breeches into the steaming water. 'Is
this whole ordeal not the mask for a farce?'
Why clean a sword slash, or bind up a
bruise in hot compresses? Why trouble to minister to any raw wound that would
be given no grace to mend as the legacy left to a corpse?
Mykkael resettled himself across the fire,
his marked hands clamped with gouging force on the muscles that seized his
lamed knee. When he answered, his words bespoke razor-edged care. 'The last
princess I guarded escaped death by sorcery, though her sire's wide realm was
laid waste.'
Anja dropped the stick as though scalded.
'She survived?'
The captain bent his dark head. He nodded.
'She lives yet in safety. Why should you do less?'
The oddly hackled force of his statement
raised Anja's intuitive instincts. She stared at him, read the unquiet tension
coiled through his naked shoulders. The insight unfolded too deep an awareness.
'She's alive. Pray tell, at what terrible cost?'
That thoughtless comment stung him too
sharply. Caught without any ready defence, he recoiled and presented his back.
Anja's breath stopped.
The mistake snapped him short. Now
compelled to confront a disgrace hurled beyond tactful phrasing to salvage, Mykkael
answered her stunned shock, his tone pared curt. 'Taskin's earned justice,
administered with fairness. Your Grace's safety required a breach of discipline
on my part. Since the facts were exposed, the crown commander was duty-bound.
He had no choice but to handle the matter according to form.'
'Three stripes?' Anja whispered. That
surface dismissal seared away her last vestige of mannered restraint. 'Blinding
glory, Mykkael!'
What were those few weals, but a pittance
before the scars of a flogging that had savaged his flesh long before.
'Your Grace, I'm no felon!' Mykkael cracked
back, irritable. For pride's sake, he held, not hiding the sight of the damage
exposed in the firelight. With his face turned to shadow, he could not discern
that her spilled tears held pity, and not the censure of speechless revilement.
The swift explanation ripped from him in
fury, an unwanted reprise of a history he deeply preferred to expunge from the
public record. 'I was fighting the Sushagos. Our position was desperate. We
needed a man to pose as a deserter to gain trust in the enemy camp. Too long an
entrenchment had soured our attackers with boredom. Their vindictiveness went
beyond vicious. Since they were deeply suspicious of spies, the person we sent
had to be more than convincing. My own second officer laid on those stripes. He
protested the command, long and bitterly. At the end, he did as I asked because
I was the only man standing who had the strength left to volunteer.'
Anja fell back on the steel of state
discipline. Through distress, she forced her voice steady. 'You stood in
defence at the siege of Evissa?'
Mykkael spun around, still too riled to
face her. 'Your Grace, I broke the engagement by means of that foray. The
garrison there stayed intact to win victory.' Self-absorbed in his rage, he sat
once again. Sword recovered in hand, he glowered towards the egress that led to
a precipice that surely was
foredoomed to break him. 'Princess, you will not speak again of defeat. Cliff
wall or castle, I will get you away. No sorcerer's demon will claim you.'
The rags, she decided, had boiled enough.
Anja fished the torn shirt from the bucket. The instant the fabric cooled
enough to be grasped, she shredded a strip off the hem. Aware Mykkael's senses
would track every move, she gave him the courtesy of spoken warning before she
approached.
'Captain, how could you cleanse any wound
on your back? If you can truthfully tell me you would have freely asked for my
help, then I will apologize with due humility.'
Tension fled all at once. He rested his
forehead against his marked knuckles, shaken to sudden, wry laughter. 'Words,'
he said finally, his diction half muffled. 'How often they can cut deeper than
steel.' Erect once again, he matched her frank glance. 'Let me mend my ill
manners. I ask your Grace for that kindness, here and now. Be still, Princess.
You need not apologize. For you, as a ruler, there can be no worse nuisance
than a man who won't redress his own errors of judgement.'
'Oh, there are worse plagues.' Anja grinned
through the relief that threatened to unstring the feelings flooding her near
bursting heart. 'Trust me, I've suffered far worse. You haven't seen Lady
Bertarra trying to teach my ungrateful court maidens to dance.'
'Mehigrannia show mercy, your Grace.' Mykkael
smothered a smile. 'I have been spared. Count me profoundly grateful.'
He did not appear to resent her light touch
as she set to with the rag. For all her neat care, he still sucked a sharp
breath as she worked the neglected gum dressings away from his clinging scabs.
Informed, by her frozen pause, he turned his head and regarded her with
reproach. 'You think I am stone? That I can't feel pain?'
Anja blotted the persistent tears that
striped through the grime on her cheeks. She shook her head, wordless, tossed
the used rag back into the pot to drive off its insipid chill. Mykkael did not
press. His patience bridged the drawn interval while she fought to recover
composure.
'You don't seem to feel fear,' Anja managed
at length. 'At least, you didn't move, or shrink back when you faced down a
kerrie that seemed bound to kill you.'
Mykkael reached out and clasped his hand
over her shaking fingers. As soon as she steadied under the contact, he let go
and faced forward again. 'I don't fear death. That is but one thing within the
wide world, fraught with all sorts of uncertainties.'
Rag recovered, Anja wrung out the excess
hot water. She dabbed the dirt from abused flesh and raw skin, her tender work
veiled beneath drifts of steam. 'What do you fear, Mykkael?'
'Failure.' The admission came bald-faced.
He would not elaborate. The rock-hard muscles under her hands evinced his
adamant silence.
Somewhere, Anja realized, he had failed someone. Yet even the brazen
nerve born to royalty balked at setting the unkind question. She chose not to
force his unwilling disclosure. Mykkael might serve, but the crown did not own
him. She would leave the seal on whatever sorrow had plundered the depth of his
peace. Nor could she degrade his dignity further. She would handle only those injuries
beyond his reach, and leave his competent store of experience to attend to the
rest on his own.
His diligence on that score resulted in a
rigorous round of cleaning, then an unpleasant soak under bracing, hot
compresses for the bruised hip, the claw cuts, and the puncture. Mykkael left
the older wounds open to let the new scabs harden and dry. 'We don't have the
right unguents,' he explained as he wrung out and hung his cleaned clothes. At
the last, he recovered the rag to scour the stains from his harness. 'Without a
salve, a closed wrap would make the wounds fester.'
Long before morning, his concern of
infection would surely become a moot point. Yet Anja was too weary to argue the
issue with a male creature engrossed in blind stubbornness.
Exhausted at length, she drowsed by the
fire. Mykkael woke her just once, to loan his cleaned shirt. 'So your own can
be washed, if you wish it.' She accepted his offer, used the rag for a sponge
bath behind the hung cloth of his surcoat. While the captain changed out the
used water and boiled her clothes in his bucket, she found she could not make
her eyelids stay open. She slipped into sleep, and in time, the dreamless
blackness of total immersion spiralled her down into nightmare ...
* * *
Through
coiling mist, Bryajne came on, his black tail and mane streaming to the thrust
of his powerful canter. Astride him, the rider who bore down was naked. Even
armless and headless, she knew him as the brother fallen to usage by demons.
Her tears launched the arrow from Mykkael's bent bow, and the shaft flew with
vengeful accuracy. Heart-shot, Kailen tumbled beneath milling hooves, and blood
ran like a cry through the darkness.
'Sweet
Anja, my princess, Devall's future queen.' Her lost suitor's whisper arose with
entreaty. 'What can your desert-bred warrior win for you? Why choose oblivion
and an obscure death? You need not betray us. We can still return. You can
marry in state and be adorned with my bride gift of rubies. Devall and Sessalie
can still be joined in beneficial alliance ...'
* * *
Anja's scream brought Mykkael to her side
at a run. His strong hands braced her up as she wakened.
'What did you see?' His gaze was trained on
her as her eyes fluttered open. The bow he had just cast aside clattered
downwards and hooked over his upright, bent knee.
Anja swallowed, helplessly unable to stop
shaking. She still wore his shirt. His dried surcoat, cast over her, kept off
the cold. Though he had not slung his harness over the exposed scab on his
chest, she did not fail to notice the ominous sign. The bared sword he had
hastily thrust through his belt rang yet with diminished vibrations.
Her whisper came ragged. 'What did you just
shoot?'
The word he uttered was no language she
knew, yet his tone bespoke pity and sorrow. He folded his good leg, drew her
shivering form close. The firm grip he tucked over her forehead pressed her ear
against the raced beat of his heart. 'You heard voices?' he asked. His
knife-edged wariness could never be masked, no matter how carefully he framed
the pretence of gentleness.
Anja shook through an unwonted chill.
Anguished, she repeated, 'Captain, tell me the truth. What unspeakable thing
did your arrow take down?'
'Need you ask, Princess?' He brushed aside
a loose wisp of her hair, and smoothed the slipped surcoat back over her
shoulders. His considered silence suggested concern, an unbearable burden that
wore him half desperate to contemplate. At due length, he addressed her stifled
emotion. 'If you listen, beware. The whispers you heard only speak for the
sorcerer. They will come again. If you let them drive you to conflict, they'll
tempt you.'
'Kailen was my brother!' Anja shuddered as
the captain's crossed arms surrounded her horror and drew her more tightly
against him. She appealed to him, desolate. 'Is his fallen spirit truly not
dead?'
'Princess, I'm sorry.' Mykkael tucked her
head underneath his raised chin, the better to maintain his unrelaxed guard
against the night's gathered darkness. 'Sessalie's crown prince is no longer
human. He has spoken in dreams, yes? Then stay wary, I beg you. His words are
false and his promises will never be what they seem.'
Lulled by the warmth of his intimate
contact, Anja allowed her jangled nerves to be soothed. 'What harm could
Kailen's poor ghost bring to me?'
'Your Grace, there lies a danger past reach
of my weapons.' Mykkael shifted position to ease his scarred knee. Yet
something more than a physical discomfort weighted his warning to grimness. 'If
the wardings I bear give me certain protection, you have birth ties to kin that
can't be revoked. The will of a demon now plays that connection to secure his
claim to make conquest.'
He feared to explain the extent of her
endangerment: that her survival made Sessalie's ground doubly vulnerable. For
as long as her kingdom was threatened, and she remained untainted and free, her
mind would be stalked and hunted. Any
demon's bound sorcerer could make use of her blood lineage to strike through
and suborn the minion that had been Kailen; then that seized foothold would be
worked in turn to launch covert attack on a rival.
Too aware of the range of hideous
consequence he had once spared the Efandi princess, Mykkael gave Anja his
straightforward warning. 'If you succumb to this sorcerer's blandishments while
asleep, I can do almost nothing to save you. Awake, aware, rely on this much.
If I win through with the salt-trapped remains of the shape-changer's minion in
hand, there will be a chance to enact a full banishment. That is your brother's
sole hope of release, and your lasting promise of safety. Without trained
assistance, Kailen's spirit can never be freed from demonic enslavement. If
Tuinvardia has no skilled vizier to achieve this, there are others among the
wise who would help in my name.' Mykkael's resolve rang through like sheared
steel as he committed his heartfelt will. 'Princess Anja, if I ask, and I will,
take my oath at this moment: all that can will be done to redeem your lost
brother from darkness.'
Awareness touched through, of a grief
locked inside him, a pain raw and deep as an unhealed canker kept wrapped and
hidden from view. 'Whom did you lose?' Anja whispered.
He turned his face, sharply. She held,
expecting the burn of his tears to spill through her pillowing hair. Yet no
moisture came, no release. His voice remained dry as the desert that birthed
him, a lonely phrase fashioned of wind. 'No one you know of.'
Yet the impact of that prior loss branded
in him the imperative need not to fail.
He would not yield a life he had sworn to defend, though the brute trial of
Hell's Chasm made his task a hopeless mockery.
Anja turned in his arms. She tilted her
head, kissed the hollow of his throat with all of her passion unleashed. 'Let
there be an hour of joy before death. Mykkael, I beg, let me give this for both
of us.'
His hands caught her shoulders, cupped her
form as though precious. Then, speechlessly shaken, he slipped his fingers
upwards and cradled her face. He stared down at her, stripped by a turbulent
distress that cut through to his well-guarded heart. 'On my sword, Princess, you are not going to die. Nor am I free
to accept such a terrible gift.'
Anja gripped him. 'For all I know, Sessalie
has already fallen to sorcery!'
Mykkael shut his eyes, shook his head. Not
untouched, nor inhuman, he was trembling also. 'No, Princess. Anja, please, no.
End this folly. You know by the voices you heard in your dream that Isendon's
rule is not broken. Witch thought shows me Taskin, on guard at the king's side.
Your sire's charge of protection still binds me to your defence.'
The brave words were sincere. Yet the
wrenched conflict in the captain's expression firmed Anja's resolve by the
honest force of its agony. 'You are more than the warrior, Mykkael! Just as I
am human, and not immune to love behind the state mask of the princess.'
His hands tightened. 'If that's true, Anja,
then you will wait! Survive Hell's Chasm. If we win through, if I bring you
into Tuinvardia unscathed and living, only then can I set down my sword. Give
your heart as you wish, and to whom you wish, then. But until you have reached
a vizier's safe haven, I remain bound to
your service.'
The gist of his earlier words by the marsh
resurged with uncompromised clarity: that the honour of kings stood or fell by
the hand of the warrior entrusted to bear arms on the field.
Mykkael's strength was unimpeachable and
his gentleness beyond protest, as he eased himself clear of her offered
embrace. There, he paused. Her trembling hands remained clasped in his own. He
sustained her filled eyes without flinching. 'Your Grace, you are beautiful. I
have seen no woman whose generosity can match your magnificence. But my pledge
has been sworn. I can accept nothing of personal ease until my crown oath to
your sire sees closure.'
She smiled through the spilled blur of her
tears. 'No princess has ever been served with so bright and cruel an integrity.
Nor, if you die here, has any crown in the nations ever commanded as steadfast
a champion. You are not surpassed. That becomes your last epitaph. Should you
starve for a line that is destined to pass out of living memory with me?'
'A sorrowful blessing,' Mykkael
acknowledged, no less gruff as he released her at last to resume the dropped
charge of his weapons. 'Forgive my ingratitude. Tonight must stay desolate. I
do know your worth. If I fail to deliver the free gift of tomorrow, or if I win
through, there can be no reprieve from this quandary. Better by far, Anja, to
have witnessed your political marriage as Sessalie's princess. My name has no
meaning, apart from my sword. I should have beheld nothing more than the dream
painted into your portrait. Best, if your Grace had never known the nature of
my close company.'
The
channel conveyed desperate word back to Anzbek, that the emperor's Grand Vizier
had perished while striving to fashion a pattern to guard Tuinvardia's
threatened north border. The tribe's dreamer garnered more in his wandering
sleep: of cedar fires burning an unconscionably foul spell line, and a
fair-haired princess's tears. The warrior still lived, enveloped in the
silver-edged shadows no scryer's talent could pierce. When the shaman's circle
had shared these grim tidings, Anzbek spoke. 'The signs all converge. Hope lies
in the warrior's wardings. He carries the songs to secure our salvation. This
princess, by blood, holds the key to alliance that can bind Sessalie's ground
under Tuinvardia's protection. Our future now hangs on the thread of two lives.
Sing for mercy and strength, that they might survive ...'
THE NIGHT SLOWLY WANED. ANJA STAYED
WAKEFUL, TOO HARROWED TO RISK THE DANGERS THAT MIGHT STALK her in dreams. Mykkael's
adamant service constrained him from comfort. He kept his strict distance,
engrossed with a contrivance fashioned from tied rope and wing leather. Twice
more, his sword's wardings clamoured in warning. Each time, he hazed off the
renewed assault. The sorcerer's minions were held in lurking retreat by
clouding the cleft's entry with cedar smoke. The evasion was stopgap. The enemy
need do no more than keep them pinned down. A blind fool could see the fuel of
evergreen would scarcely last beyond daybreak.
Light-headed from hunger and too little
rest, Anja donned her cleaned clothes and huddled in silenced misery. Though
she made no complaint, her gloomy despair did not-escape the captain's keen
vigilance.
'We'll be leaving at dawn,' he ventured at
due length, returned on what seemed a routine trip to build up the failing fire.
Anja gave a dispirited poke at the coals
with the stick lately used to hang laundry. 'You've designed us a plan.'
Mykkael's pause suggested the unusual
weight of his reticence. 'I've mapped out a tactic.' His innate honesty would
not let him mask the bald truth. 'If the odds aren't encouraging, they're not
suicidal. I have measured the risks the best way I know, with the outcome by no
means a sure failure.'
'I trust you,' murmured Anja. 'How could I
not?' Yet his reluctance continued to burden the stillness, and his glance bent
aside in avoidance. She drew a tight breath. Her own nerve faltered before
broaching the obvious necessity. 'If we're climbing, I realize, my horses can't
'We're not climbing.' Busy reclaiming his
last treated arrows, Mykkael smoothed a marred fletching between competent
fingers. 'To try such a feat in this warren of kerries would be irredeemable
folly.' He confronted her squarely. 'Your Grace.' Reclad in the tattered cloth
of his surcoat, with his harness in place, he should have worn the guise of the
captain, invincible in his field-battered trappings. Instead, he appeared
uncharacteristically irresolute. Despite this, his phrasing stayed swift and
direct. 'The horses can't go. Princess, you must choose the fate that your absence
bequeaths them.'
Here, Sessalie's royal demeanour outmatched
him. King Isendon's daughter had been raised and tempered for the hour she must
decree life or death for the weal of a sovereign nation. Crown blood to sworn
captain, she responded. 'I would not have the animals suffer. Please grant them
the mercy you gave to Fouzette. Only this time, I would stand at your side and
hold their heads through their moment of crossing.'
'Princess.' Mykkael bowed to her. He
fetched his strung bow, selected three arrows, and doctored the points with the
dart venom kept in his scrip. Ready too quickly, he faced her with an
expression like hammered iron. 'The act should be done near the mouth of the
cavern, where kerries can clean up the carrion.'
Through her glass-edged onslaught of grief,
Anja was nonetheless able to follow his cold line of reasoning. The ugly
practicality Mykkael suggested would spare the remains from falling to usage by
demons.
Her words emerged as a tortured whisper.
'Let's have this over with.' She managed the courage to lead the first step,
and unfasten the horses' hitched lead ropes.
Even starving and worn, the three animals
raised their heads, and whickered their acknowledgement of her presence. They
followed her, trusting. Covette's lurching limp and Kasminna's mild lameness
clopped a ragged refrain to Stormfront's almost unimpaired stride. The slight
stiffness that lingered from last night's rough flight scarcely marred his
panther-smooth grace.
Anja arrived at the site the captain
selected. Her ravaged heart let the horses nibble the dry grass, while her
numbed mind scarcely noted the laced bundles of wing leather left snugged in a
niche to one side. Dead to curiosity, she had no attention to spare for Mykkael's
nightlong hours of endeavour. She had no eyes to see past the proscribed lives
of her beloved horses. Ripped to the verge of unquenchable tears, she bundled
her chestnut mare's blazed head against the front of her jerkin. 'Covette
first,' she said, all but strangled. 'The cracked hoof pains her worst. She is
suffering.'
Mykkael stepped in close. His back turned
to her shoulder, he ran a fierce hand down the chestnut mare's crest. His
resolute body shielding, that she would not see his arrow as it struck, he bent
the bow, held his breath and released.
No kindness could mask the snick as the
point punched through living flesh. Covette jerked in startlement. The spider
venom worked mercifully fast, masking the bright edge of her agony. The mare
jerked again as the shaft lodged and settled. She swayed on her feet. Then with
a mortal, shuddering spasm, her hindquarters crumpled. Mykkael steadied her
shoulder as she went down. His hand, unerring, felt for the raced pulse in her
neck. Head bent, he waited through the hung moment of passage. As the valiant
chestnut's heart slowed to ragged rhythm and finally stopped, he straightened,
still wordless, and signalled the bittermost end.
On her knees by the side of her stricken
animal, Anja wept, unable to move.
Mykkael caught her up, eased her back to
her feet. 'We must hurry,' he said, softly urgent. 'Although there's no blood,
the kerries won't be far behind us.'
He positioned himself at Kasminna's
shoulder, viced to patience as Anja responded. She let the inquisitive mare lip
at her sleeve, not minding if she was bitten. Yet her indulgence passed
unrequited. The next arrow bit deep. The proud sorrel grunted. Ever the rebel,
she would not yield her life lightly. Her braced forelegs resisted the drag of
the poison. Nose to the ground, her dark eye wide and puzzled, she trembled. A
dribble of foam slid from her slackened muzzle. She folded at last. Anja
crooned nonsense into her ear, while her noble frame quivered and sighed out
her final, warm breath.
Wretchedly sobbing, Anja shoved off Mykkael's
touch. She thrust to her feet unassisted, and stood before Stormfront on the
visceral blast of her anger. What was her worth, as princess or as human, that
these dumb, trusting beasts should give up their lives for a horror outside
their natural understanding? They had served her, unstinting. Where came the
right, to demand of their grace the ultimate, ruinous sacrifice?
'Shoot quickly,' gasped Anja, wrenched to
ragged self-hate. 'For I can no longer endure this.'
Craven, she buried her face in black mane,
her arms locked to her gelding's scabbed neck.
Time stretched, hung, spun out with the
wind a soughing whisper through standing evergreen. 'Shoot,' Anja said,
tortured. 'End this, I beg you.'
She heard, at her back, the slight rustle
of cloth. She braced, heart torn beyond bearing. And still, nothing happened.
Mykkael had lowered the drawn bow. 'I can't.'
His voice sounded seized, as though he
fought tears. 'Mehigrannia show mercy, I can't.' As his hand failed him, he let
go of the arrow that promised Stormfront a clean, painless death.
Anja spun on him, wild. 'Did you think I
loved Covette or Kasminna any less?'
He shook his head, speechless. Her attack
scarcely fazed him. Had a kerrie descended, it might have taken him uncontested
in the shock of his deadlocked reaction.
'I can't finish this.' The admission
ruffled his skin into gooseflesh, while the sound of his own utterance seemed
that of a displaced stranger. He gestured, struck helpless. Before Anja's
betrayed pallor, he forced out the raw speech to explain.
'This animal is not crippled or impaired by
hurt. His spirit is that of a fighter, like mine.' Arms crossed at his chest,
as though to bind up his faltering will, Mykkael stated, 'My instinct implores
me to let this brave creature stay on his feet. His will is all fire. Can you
not see? This horse should die fighting, as I would.'
Anja glared, shaking, her regard without
quarter. 'You would risk my best gelding to demons?'
Mykkael stared at his hands, which were
trembling. 'Even so. I can't kill him. Not without wounding a part of myself.'
Gripping the lead rope in white-knuckled
fists, Anja straightened. With her disordered hair and her ragged, boy's
jerkin, she was no less in that moment than Sessalie's ruling princess. 'What
would you do if I granted you Stormfront's fate? Look at me, Captain!' Firm in
her right to wield royal prerogative, she waited until he obeyed her. 'Answer
my question!'
Mykkael matched her demand. If he shed no
tears, his eyes showed an anguish that ripped through all pride and pretence.
With his human soul stripped woundingly naked, he still answered without
hesitation, 'I would rub his coat with cedar ash and entrust him to meet his
own fate.'
For one second more, Anja weighed his
resolve. Then she passed magisterial judgement. 'So be it.' She handed over the
black gelding's lead rein. 'I make you the free gift of him. Stormfront is
yours. Treat with him as your conscience dictates.'
Mykkael crossed his forearms and bowed to
her. Then he caught up her icy, numbed fingers and closed them back over the
gelding's headstall. 'Take this prince of horses and lead him inside. Dust him
down with the ashes in my stead, your Grace. Cover him well. I require that
help if I am to finish what must be done to deliver you from Hell's Chasm.'
As Anja froze, unable to act, or face the
pitiful forms of the mares now sprawled in limp death on the rocks, Mykkael
caught her rigid shoulders. He dealt her a bracing, light shake. 'Your Grace.
Go. Now. I have ugly work to complete, and I implore you to leave. Trust my
word when I say that you don't want to be here to watch what has to happen.' He
gave her a firm push towards the cavern.
Forced to step forward, or fall on her
face, Anja unlocked planted feet. Stormfront followed. His blazed head turned
once, a puzzled inquiry to see why his companion mares were not following. His
desolate whinny broke Anja's heart. She took charge, caught his silver-bossed
cheek strap, and led him away. Through blinding tears, she did not look back.
She did not see Mykkael draw his skinning knife and kneel down on the ledge
beside the slain hulk of her sorrel.
* * *
The captain was forced to work swiftly,
because of the blood. His hands knew their task well. The brutal experience of
hard campaigns had well taught him how to gut a dead horse, and clean out its
entrails and viscera. Befouled to the elbows, Mykkael dragged out his prepared
cache of wing leather, then lined the emptied cavity of the mare's abdomen. He
punched the holes between ribs that would bind up the carcass with improvised
lacings of rope.
He well understood he had no time to spare.
Kerries were bound to descend, any moment, to drag off the carrion. A fast
rinse sluiced the gore from his fingers and wrists. Resolute, he moved on to
fetch Anja.
Mykkael found her crying, her face buried
in Stormfront's ash-streaked mane. 'Come away, Princess. Our moment can't
wait.' He used his knife to slice through the lead rope. Once the horse was set
free, he bundled the princess's grieving form to his side, then steered her
ahead without compromise.
Her stumbling steps reached the mouth of
the cavern. Anja smelled the blood first, then the stink of spilled viscera.
Jerked back from his hold, she beheld her brutalized mare. The intelligence
that framed her most difficult asset grasped the gist of his chosen intent.
Her face drained to white ice. Yet the
impact of her shocked disbelief stunned her for only a moment.
'No! No!' She spun and slammed into him.
'No, Mykkael, I can't do this!' She pounded a fist against his unyielding
chest, heedless of the flesh wound her fury might savage. 'Put me down without
pain as you did for my horses! Don't risk me, oh, merciful grace, Mykkael! I beg you, don't even think to expose me as kerrie
bait!'
The captain locked his arms. Beyond pity,
he pinned her frantic struggles against him. Head bent, trained hands too quick
for her thrashing fight, he caught her face in a vice grip and kissed her.
Startlement hurled Anja into wild
confusion. In the unguarded moment while sense and reason stood diverted, he
betrayed her young trust. The duplicitous finger he stroked at her neck pressed
down and pinched critical bloodflow. Lips still pressed to hers, he allowed,
her no quarter; gave her no chance to fight the enormity of what was happening.
While her eyelids fluttered and her pupils dilated, he held on, trained to
sense the forerunning tremor as her limbs slackened. Then he released the
pinched arteries. He tapped his clenched knuckles in a precise blow at her nape
with just enough force to fell her.
Unconscious, Princess Anja of Sessalie
sagged into the clasp of his arms.
Time fleeted. Above, Mykkael sensed shadows
slicing the grey pall of daybreak. Interested kerries were already circling.
Spurred by straight fear into barqui'ino
reflex, he bent and tucked Anja into Kasminna's gutted abdomen. Nestled into
his improvised lining of wing leather, he prayed to his goddess that Sessalie's
princess would stay reasonably safe. Outside the dire mischance of a fall, no
encounter with kerrie fire should harm her. When she wakened and struggled, no
matter how dreadful her panic, she must
not tumble out. Mykkael whispered a plea for her royal forgiveness, while
his flying fingers threaded the readied ropes tight. In moments, he had the
princess secured inside the laced ribs of the carcass.
Air whistled, above him. Mykkael sensed the
kerrie's stooping descent. He snatched up the bow, then retrieved the arrow
once readied for Stormfront's unfinished deliverance. His hurried touch
rechecked the rope on the makeshift sling he had fashioned to bear his live
weight. Scant seconds ahead of the predator that dived in to seize his laid
bait, he leaped into the rock cleft and wormed into the sack he had sewn out of
wing leather. In the last, frantic second, Mykkael strapped his waist with the
line he had fixed as a safety.
Then the crux was upon him.
The kerrie touched down like the shadow of
doom. Buffeted by its turbulence, Mykkael huddled with stopped breath. His skin
streamed icy sweat within the suffocating cover of wing leather. If he had
misjudged, if the creature he had lured was not starved for meat, it might balk
and notice the odd set of his ropes, under the heaped entrails left as a decoy.
It might tear up the carcass in a frenzy of rage, or refuse the doctored meal
altogether.
Thought suspended, Mykkael awaited the
drive of primal instinct that should
prompt the kerrie to pluck up the carrion laced with the scent of fresh blood.
Pinned by the agony of irreversible decision, he watched the predator fold
knife-edged, bronze wings. Armoured talons clashed as the beast stalked and
spun, snuffling the breeze with its tasselled tail lashing. Crested head
raised, suspicious eye darting, it inspected the ledge at the verge of the
basin, then scouted the skyline for rivals.
Finding none, it trumpeted and spat flame,
and shook its leonine neck ruff. Then it bent its terrible, scissor-sharp beak,
and with a horrific delicacy, snapped up the spilled viscera. The taste whetted
its appetite. One stride, and it loomed overtop of the carcass. With a
dreadful, finicky strength, its huge talons lifted, settled, bore down. Claws like
curved hooks pierced through sorrel hide, and grasped the slabbed muscle at
shoulder and croup.
The kerrie bellowed and unfolded broad
wings. Its first, driving downbeat hammered the air and launched it to upward
flight. It rose amid a gale of ripped wind, bearing the horse in its talons.
The attached braid of rope slithered and whumped taut. The strung leather sack
containing Mykkael was jerked headlong out of the crevice.
He was dragged, bounced, rolled in a
bruising tumult across obstacles of brush and stone. The fear froze his heart,
that his improvised rope might snag and snap under the strain. Yet the plaited
line held him. The ground spun away in a dizzying rush. His stomach turned over
in the wrenching lurch as the airborne predator lofted his slung body upwards.
The kerrie clapped down spread wings, then soared over the precipice, angled to
glide on the lifting breeze wafting off the high cliffs of the canyon.
Mykkael caught his raced breath. Far below,
the diminished landscape reeled under him as the kerrie veered south towards
its rookery. Everything now relied on
his strength, his agility, and his trained skill to bear weapons in adversity.
If his hand, or his wits, or his courage failed now, or if mischance led his
tactic amiss, the princess could die screaming, torn apart by the ravenous maws
of vile hatchlings, or far worse. Spirit from flesh, she could be flayed into
madness, then hurled into bondage for all of eternity. She could still fall as
a defenceless pawn to the sorcerer who spearheaded a demon's invasion.
Her hope of escape irretrievably committed,
Mykkael braced his strung nerves. Suspended in the rocking, unstable sling, he
freed his hands and readied his weapons.
* * *
The blackout faint soon released Anja's
smothered consciousness. She awakened, strapped into tight confines, whirled
dizzy and flooded with nausea. The pervasive smell of bloodied meat overwhelmed
her turned senses. She choked down her panic, scarcely able to stir amid the
wing leather binding her folded limbs to her chest. Aware with sick fury that
she had been strapped into the carcass of her dead mare, she gagged for breath.
Mykkael had left her the barest slit
opening to let in fresh air. Through the turbulent whistle of wind from
outside, she felt the buffeting force of the kerrie's wing beats. Her effort to
peer through the crack showed a reeling view of the canyon below, the shine of
flat water coiled across a distanced tapestry of scrub landscape. Anja coughed.
Her skin flushed to chill sweat. The surging lift as the predator turned
towards the cliff face upended her unsettled gut.
Before she threw up, Anja shoved her face
to the gap. She swallowed back the taste of churned bile. The slight change
only served to unveil the horrid extent of her straits. She sighted the
slender, whipped line of black rope, then the man, suspended above the abyss in
a makeshift sling cut from wing leather.
Horror lanced through her. 'Earthly powers, MykkaelV
The fear that followed all but unstrung her
mind, for what she saw, the monster who bore Kasminna's carcass must inevitably
notice as well. Kerries had rivals. They were wont to snatch game from the
claws of their adversaries. Mykkael had taken an unconscionable risk to surmount the dead end at the precipice.
Worse, how was he to survive the inevitable crash landing, when the predator
that bore them swooped down and alighted upon its inhabited nest in the
rookery?
Anja wrestled with drowning horror as her
imagination ran rampant. Her desert-bred captain would be crushed, torn apart,
or smashed wholesale. The sling gave him no shred of protection. Already, the
kerrie swung into approach. The pinnacle with the rookery's snagged eyries
unfolded into clear sight. The excited squawks of the hatchlings arose, shrill
and thin on the morning air.
The kerrie banked into a circling descent.
Spurred by mortal terror, Anja forced her constricted forearms upwards. She
wedged her working fingers into the slit and pried at the roped flesh to widen
her range of view.
'Mykkael,' she entreated.
Though her voice emerged muffled, he had to
hear. The line suspending him was barely a spear shaft in length. If he did not
respond through the thundering wind as the kerrie plunged earthwards, he was
not oblivious to the predicament that rushed to confront him. Huddled into the
sling, he had positioned his bow. His arrow was nocked to the string. As Anja
watched, he flexed his shoulders and drew. He took careful aim, striving to
compensate for the gyrating swing of his vantage. Anja's breath caught. The
shot he undertook carried desperate, long odds. Chance must play an equal hand
to all of his years of trained skill. No matter how seasoned, the warrior must
realize that he danced the knife-edge between flagrant risk and sure death.
Mykkael trusted his own measure. He took
steady aim, but riot without sign of stressed tension. Anja saw the sheen of
sweat on his brow. She had never known a man's face could reflect such savagely
intense concentration.
Undone by dread, her shaken will faltered.
She could not bear to watch. Eyes shut, she huddled in blood-reeking darkness,
and waited for the loosed arrow that would determine the course of her fate.
* * *
Mykkael sighted his target. The drag of the
wind at his wrist, and the yawing drift of the sling fouled his sighted line.
Again and again, he corrected his aim. He resisted impatience; rejected defeat.
Against rising frustration, he steadied the drawn shaft, and damped the breeze
humming through the taut string. Too much relied on caprice and blind chance:
that Benj's rambling on the habits of kerries held truth, and their talons
would reflexively bind to a kill in the same fashion as large birds of prey.
That a low dose of dart venom would induce the predicted response in a
half-avian monster: slow its reaction and mar the fine balance required for
spatial co-ordination. If, in harsh fact, a nerve poison drawn from spiders
would affect the dread creature at all.
The list of unknown variables could do
nothing but spoil the nerve of the archer who measured his mark.
Mykkael turned his face, blotted streaming
sweat on his shoulder. He induced the tight focus of the barqui'ino mind, gauged the drift of his arrow, then judged his
moment and released.
The shaft launched, a close shot into the
blood-rich muscle of the predator's pumping wing. The shaft smacked home, sunk
down to the fletching. Mykkael braced just in time. The monster recoiled from
the needle-sharp sting, and rolled into a lurching wingover.
Mykkael gripped the hurled sling with
desperate hands to avoid being tossed out like flotsam. As the upended world
whipped in violent recoil, he clung, while the enraged kerrie righted. It
screamed with rage. Then its crested head swivelled downwards. The massive,
honed beak snapped at the trailing rope in an effort to shed its bothersome
human cargo. As the tug of the wind, and the considered placement of the
sling's tether balked its reach, it convulsed the bulging sacs behind its jaw
and hurled a crackling plume of live flame.
The warrior evaded incineration, just
barely. Balled up behind shielding wing leather, he ducked his head. The
sheltering membrane grew scaldingly hot. His gripped knuckles seared to raised
blisters, and he retched from the smell of singed hair. Hurled this way and
that as the kerrie wrenched to unload him, he coughed on the oily fumes thrown
off by the monster's incendiary breath. Below him, the roosting ledges tilted
and rushed ever closer. If the poison set by his arrow failed now, he would
smash into a nest of blood-frenzied, ravenous hatchlings.
Eyes tearing on smoke, Mykkael battled
despair. He would not escape injury on the hard rocks, or the spiked dead wood
that shored up the eyrie. Long before he could cut himself free, he would find
himself torn limb from limb by the predator's immature young.
Worse, Anja had roused. He had seen her
fingers plying the crack he had left to allow her to breathe. Her inevitable
state of trapped panic posed a cruelty beyond contemplation. Tossed and spun by
the kerrie's buffeting flight, Mykkael understood he must take futile action.
Before the creature hurled downwards to seize its firm stance on a roost, he
must risk its fire, climb up the rope, and try to force an alternative landing.
Yet as he groped for the knife to cut
himself free, the kerrie's flight suddenly wobbled. The huge wings above broke
their rhythm, then faltered in mid-air. The creature shook its ruffed head,
beak parted in panting distress.
The poison was working. Warned as a shudder
played through the rope, Mykkael risked a glance outwards. He saw with jolting
dread that the cliff wall encompassed his entire field of view. The roosts with
their white streaks of guano were all but on top of him. With juggernaut speed,
the kerrie plummeted in. It came on too recklessly fast to secure any chance of
safe landing.
Survival, now, relied on its instinct for
self-preservation. Either it would succumb to confusion and collide headlong
with the rocks, or it would seize the more sensible choice and pour its failing
strength into a glide. Rather than suffer a suicidal crash into the roost's
narrow precipice, it must attempt the
less critical descent, and alight on the open terrain of the vale.
Mykkael forced his breaths even. The sling
that suspended him was spinning too wildly to allow a last-ditch intervention.
The fate of Anja and Sessalie now rode on the winds of chance-met design.
* * *
Whirled breathless with strained nerves and
fright, Anja saw the uprushing ground through the laced slit in the carcass.
She had heard the release of Mykkael's bent bow; felt the thump of the arrow's
impact. The wavering dip of the kerrie's impaired flight turned her stomach.
Fighting down nausea, fist pressed to her mouth, she had squeezed her eyes
closed to shut out the harsh moment of impact against the reared cliffs of the
roost.
Then the kerrie effected a clumsy, banked
turn. Wind whistled through its taut pinions as it struggled to brake. Too
panicked to look where it tried to set down, Anja heard and felt the drag of
the sling as it thrashed through a low stand of trees. Then the trailing rope
snagged in green limbs and hooked fast. The monster jerked short in full flight
and upended. It slammed downwards, struck earth on its back, and released its
clutched grasp on the carcass. Anja felt herself spun upside down. Hurled end
over end, until her tumbled senses lost all sense of direction, she whimpered
and bit her tongue. Then the dead horse that enclosed her ploughed into the
ground with a thump that knocked her breathless.
Shock momentarily darkened her eyesight.
Her over-flexed wrist burned from a sprain. The slit in the mare's abdomen
showed a close-up view of shag moss and round pebbles. A trickle of water, not
seen, ran over more rocks close by. Lashed to terror by helplessness, Anja screamed
Mykkael's name.
She could hear the kerrie thrashing nearby.
Its spat fires flung drifts of black smoke on the breeze. A kicked rattle of
rocks, and the clash of its beak evinced its ongoing struggles. But whether it
battled a wounded man, or shuddered in the agonized throes of distress from an
arrow, Anja could not determine. Coughing oily soot, half choked by nausea, she
strained and shoved in crazed need to burst free of the imprisoning carcass.
'Mykkael!'
He did not come. She would not see rescue.
The captain was surely smashed bloody and dead. Anja forced back hysterical
sobs and flogged her mind for the means to escape. No solution presented
itself. She had no blade or cutting tool on her, not even the skinning knife
lost in the gorge. The lapse meant she had no option left but her teeth. She
would have to try to gnaw through the wing-leather rope.
'Blinding merciful powers!' Her ugly predicament could get no worse. The vile, black
sinew revolted her nose. It must inevitably upend her gut as she sampled its
sickening taste.
Braced for the worst, whipped on by
desperation, Anja shoved her tear-streaked face towards the slit.
Fingers reached through, brown and strong,
and restrained her. 'Your Grace, hold fast! Let my knife cut you free.'
'Mykkael!' Undone by her savage flood of
relief, Anja hammered at the mare's ribs with trapped fists. 'Damn you, Mykkael! I told you I
wouldn't endure this!'
His blade snipped the first rope, then
parted the next with deft haste. 'Yes, I heard you.' The clipped words sounded
strained. 'You can pummel me later.' A tug jerked the carcass. The laced ties
slithered loose. Another few slashes cleared the bindings away. Mykkael grabbed
her shoulder and yanked. Still bundled in the gory wrapping of wing leather,
Anja should have landed, secure, clasped into the captain's locked arms.
His effort went wrong. He fumbled her
weight, pinned her to his bent body and let her slither to earth with a grunt.
Her fleeting, disconcerted view of his face showed his bronze flesh drained to
grey pallor.
'What's wrong?' she demanded.
'Ribs,' Mykkael gasped. 'Cracked some, on
landing.' He forced a breath through the jerk of seized chest muscles, and
added, 'We have to run.'
Smoke streamed on the wind. A stand of
nearby trees had caught fire. The stink of smouldering hair and charred
feathers surely signalled the kerrie's demise.
Yet Mykkael drove her on to her feet,
wildly urgent. 'The monster's not dead. My arrow won't work deep enough to
dispatch it. Come on!'
Belatedly, Anja reasserted her balance.
Only as her step met firm ground did her scattered awareness reorient. She
realized with giddy exhilaration that she stood on the floor of the canyon. The
silhouette of the cliff walls reared overhead, blurred by the haze of the
burgeoning dawn.
Wonder unstrung her. 'We're over the
precipice. Clear of Hell's Chasm and over the Great Divide.' The way to
Tuinvardia lay open before her, with no insurmountable obstacle left to
obstruct their passage into the western plains.
'Kerries!' Mykkael snapped. He clamped a
blistered hand on her wrist and dealt her a frantic shove forward. 'This
dropped carcass is no less potent a lure. We're still under threat of
predation.'
Nor would the sorcerer's minions rest, now.
Without knowing the Name of the demon that bound them, the captain had no means
to estimate how far they must flee to outdistance its line of reach. Anja
roused at last, her complacency shattered before Mykkael's driving concern. The
last arrow was spent, and the bow had been smashed amid the tumult of landing.
Now, Mykkael possessed little else but his sword and his wardings to secure
their journey towards safety.
THE PRINCESS FOUGHT TO RECOVER HER BURNING,
SHORT BREATH. WORMED INTO A NOOK UNDERNEATH A CLUSTER of tumbled boulders to
escape hot pursuit by a kerrie, she still clutched the wing leather under her
arm. Since Mykkael insisted on keeping the trophy, she had been required to
carry the load to keep his hands free to bear weapons. The sprint to reach
shelter left her beaten limp. Anja could do little else but draw gulps of air,
and wait for her spinning senses to settle.
'Just a bit further,' Mykkael encouraged
her from the darkness behind. As though he expected her flare of rebellion, he
tapped on the heel of her shoe. 'Witch thought,' he gasped, his explanation
clipped short by the hitch of his battered ribs. 'Don't balk now, Princess.
There's a much better place to take respite.'
Anja spat out a clinging cobweb. Nursing
her painfully swollen wrist, she shoved the wing leather ahead and edged
forward. Something slimy slithered under her hand, most likely a startled
salamander. Anja whispered a shaken curse. The encounter scarcely bolstered her
confidence in a rock pile just as likely to harbour a nest of venomous snakes.
If her hackled instincts clamoured for her to back up and escape, she had the
captain's straits to consider. His laboured progress evinced his discomfort.
Any prone crawl through close quarters would grant his injuries little
surcease. Nor would the tight confines permit him the space to slip past her
and take the lead.
The princess elbowed ahead, inch by inch.
True to Mykkael's promise, within a few feet, the tortuous passage opened up
into a void. The jumbled boulders let in dusty streamers of light, with just
enough space to sit upright.
Anja cleared the narrows and made way for
Mykkael. He emerged with strained difficulty and crouched on the earth floor,
one hand braced to prop his torso erect, while his forearm stayed clutched to
cracked ribs. Nonetheless, he kept vigilance, tracking the frustrated bellows
of the predator their dash to the bolt hole had thwarted. The downed struggles
of its poisoned fellow had swiftly attracted a horde to sate themselves on its
weakness. An immature male too inexperienced to fight for a share of the
carcass had circled the site, then chased the two humans to earth.
'I'm sorry, Princess,' Mykkael ground out
at length. 'If we're not to stay penned, we'll have to use trap scent.'
Outside, the new day had lifted the mist. Broken sun pierced a thin cloud
cover. Lacking the need to mask any horses, enough potion remained to maze the
predators' light-impaired senses and cover the start of their southward journey
through the canyon.
Yet the void left behind by the wicket
teams' absence did little to balance that life-saving asset.
'Stormfront,' broached Anja between panted
gasps. 'You used him! Kept him living as a diversion.' Like that treacherous,
surprise kiss: a cold-blooded act that made her ache to strike out at the
self-contained warrior before her.
Mykkael measured her blaze of resentment.
He chose to address her straightforward pique concerning the gelding foremost.
'Not entirely, no.' Though a simple confession would have served to vent the
worst of her festering anger, he had too much respect to belittle her feelings
by sheltering behind a falsehood. 'Sometimes I must honour my deeper instincts.
For Stormfront, I could not loose the bow.'
'Why?' Anja pressured. 'Was his future
foreseen by a witch thought? Did you have any sure reason to spare him?'
Mykkael glanced down, though not in regret.
Gloom masked his subtle expression. Outside, the incessant rattle of rocks
bespoke the kerrie's balked efforts to root out its fugitive prey. Since the
gaps in the sheltering stone overhead allowed the beast wind of their scent,
the captain grimaced and shifted his weight. He dug into his scrip and fetched
out the dregs of Benj's repellent trap potion. After he loosened the cap with
his teeth, he answered the question left dangling. 'I had no good reason then,
and no empty promise to leave with you now. Your Grace, I won't justify my
broken nerve. I could not kill the horse. He became your diversion. Understand
this much, and clearly. I have sworn a crown oath. Beware of your gifts,
Princess. For I will wring use out of every advantage to ensure your continued
survival.'
Anja stiffened to shout at him.
He cut her off, merciless. 'Admittedly, you
are now still alive to revile my choice of tactics.'
'Alive!' Unable to contain her explosive
fury, Anja ground her fists against her tucked knees. 'Oh yes, we survived an
unconscionable risk! How close did I come to being shredded by hatchlings? No,
don't answer, Mykkael! That horror did not happen by the grace of sheer luck!
How dared you defy my free will on
this matter? Tell me, Captain!' Green eyes narrowed, the princess looked wild
enough to spit in contempt at his feet. 'What would you have done if your
overweening folly had ended in failure?'
He maintained his fixated gaze on the
ground. Yet the fingers supporting his crouch had turned rigid, and his
carriage was not relaxed.
'Answer me, Captain!' Anja's anger swelled
in her, wounded hurt and emotional recoil built to an ungovernable rage. 'Did
you have a contingency plan for defeat? Or would you in your idiot glory of
male pride have stood by as I perished, screaming?'
'In my scrip,' Mykkael said, 'I still carry
one blow dart.'
Shock reeled her off balance. Anja sucked
in a ragged, stunned breath. 'Merciful powers!' Yet even that stark admission
held no power to deflect her fury. 'You let down Stormfront,' she snapped, her
ardour still savaged by his past night's adherence to duty. 'Do you love me
enough to have lost your nerve, if my straits had demanded a mercy stroke?'
He did look up, then, his regard sparked to
searing self-honesty. 'Princess, I don't know. I can't answer that question.'
'You betrayed me!' accused Anja.
Though Mykkael knew very well she condemned
his brazen handling of her affections, his nature when stubborn was adamant
steel. She had backed him as far to the wall as he was prepared to allow her. He would not apologize. Neither would
he grant her the one glimpse she craved, of clear insight into his heart.
Instead, he adhered with unwavering form to the unanswered fate of the horse.
'You told me that gelding doesn't like snakes. Princess, I entreat you to look
there for hope.'
To make certain the contentious subject
stayed closed, he upended the opened phial at speed and sprinkled her hair and
her clothes.
* * *
Once the kerrie grew bored of rooting up
stones, princess and captain abandoned the bolt hole and turned downstream
towards the emperor's realm of Tuinvardia. They followed the riverbed, where
the gravel-strewn verge offered the easiest footing. Mykkael moved badly,
despite the tight strapping improvised to bind up his cracked ribs. The rough
ground overtaxed his scarred knee, and the constant need to keep vigilant guard
pitched his wary senses to snapping. In the canyon's flat lowlands, with roost
sites on both sides, the predation of kerries posed a constant threat.
Mykkael's limp could do nothing but
steadily worsen. Lines of pain and fatigue etched his features. He pressed
onwards, undaunted. As morning wore on, he expended his waning resource without
reservation or complaint. Anja watched him wrestle the looming certainty that
the seizing cramps in his leg must eventually come to impair him. Unable to
walk, unfit to wield weapons, his oath to defend King Isendon's daughter would
soon be an empty promise.
After a trying passage across a dry wash,
Anja could no longer bear to watch his determined, halting step. 'We should
rest,' she entreated.
Mykkael shook his head, no. He answered,
his speech gritted with the sawing discomfort of who knew how many other
contusions left by his jounced fall through the treetops. 'Rain's coming. We
dare not pause.'
The low clouds overhead were steadily
gathering, piled up by moist wind from the south. The drizzle that threatened
to blow in by nightfall was bound to rinse off the trap scent. Their last ploy
to deter the questing feints of the canyon's infestation of kerries was not
going to withstand a soaking. Yet more than weather hackled Mykkael's deep
instincts. As his dark skin ruffled up into gooseflesh, he moved with one hand
gripped to his sword hilt.
Whether he suffered from witch thoughts or
the arcane prompt of his wardings, the grim depth of his silence spoke volumes.
Anja was too unutterably worn to make even half-hearted inquiry. Her best
effort required her to keep moving, and avoid pointless conversation.
Even so focused, even so brave, her leaden
despair overwhelmed her.
The bleak landscape offered no sign of
habitation or safe harbour. Its barren expanse of open floodplain and brush
extended to the horizon, clumped with hillocks whose crowns of scrub trees
showed the patched scars of fire, where kerries had engaged in their savage
rites of spring courtship. No game moved in the coverts. Even Mykkael was moved
to make comment, that the mud at the river's edge bore no tracks left by deer,
mice or hare. Hungry and silent, he plodded ahead, well accustomed by war to
the stresses of privation.
Anja had no such hard experience to buoy
her. Never so sore and tired in her young life, she strove to bear up. Her step
dragged, regardless. As noon brought a sky dimmed under clouds, with more
ominous banks piling up to the south, she fell back upon brute determination.
The sloppy fit of her shoes chafed her feet, until both of her heels rubbed to
blisters.
For all that, her limp was less pronounced
than Mykkael's. At last, beyond hope, Anja reached the point where further
effort seemed meaningless. She realized the captain's bad leg had locked. He
now moved hunched over, often using his hands to raise his scarred knee over
even the most trivial obstacles. Descending a mild slope, he almost fell down
as his quivering muscles betrayed him. Undone by pity, the princess stopped her
raw outcry behind a closed fist.
Such punishment could not be allowed to
continue. Anja reviewed her dearth of wise options. The kerries that stalked
them were circling nearer. The bold ones raked past, claws ripping the wind to
a whistle of air, while the breeze off their wingtips flattened the gorse with
the violence of their passage. Inevitably, one of the large males dipped close
and hurled an eruption of flame in their path.
Mykkael recoiled to hair-trigger wariness.
When the next beast stooped over them and spat its volatile fuel above their
heads, he shouted, 'Anja, get down!'
His war-sharpened response already acted to
compensate. He reached out, shoved the princess flat on bare stone. His
crouched pose shielded her body, with the salvaged wing leather bundled over
his sheltering shoulders.
The kerrie passed over them, raining fire.
The barren outcrop they traversed offered no prospect of safety. As the
incendiary vapour burned away to an oily pall of black smoke, Mykkael dragged
Anja back to her feet.
'Run,' he gritted.
They managed no more than a half dozen paces.
When the second pass came, Mykkael took a longer time, rising. The effort taxed
him to grunting distress. Still, he straightened, erect. Sweeping the sky for
the next sign of threat, he blotted the beaded sweat from his brow, lips
clamped with determined ferocity. Then he extended his hand and assisted Anja
up off her knees.
'We need a bolt hole,' she scolded, point
blank.
When he tugged the straps of his harness to
rights, and flatly refused her suggestion, Anja tried using her evident
weariness to make him back down and seek respite.
He would not hear reason. His dark,
shadowed eyes remained fixed upon her, all the spontaneous grace of his humour
erased by unyielding demand. 'No, Princess.'
Anja whirled aside, hands pressed to her
face to mask the moisture flooding her lids. Unlike him, she would not grasp at unfair advantage. Royal
pride and straight character would not let her turn her woman's tears against
him as a weapon.
The quiver that rocked her braced shoulders
betrayed even that sorry intent. Mykkael's arms closed around her, his offered
comfort kept tenderly light to avoid jostling his damaged ribs. 'Princess. Bear
up. No matter how bad things appear at this pass, I promise you, I have endured
worse.'
Anja choked back a sob of despair. 'Merciful
powers, Mykkael! By now, you have to be lying.'
Her head pressed against the warm hollow of
his throat, she felt him swallow. His answer brushed through her fouled,
tangled hair. 'Your Grace, how I wish that I was.'
He could never discount the intent of her
enemies. No choice was possible, except to sustain. They had been marked as the
prey of a sorcerer, a creature slaved to the vile will of a demon, whose
insatiable craving for pain and conquest was never going to abate.
Anja sniffed. She rubbed her damp cheeks,
and assailed him with logic. 'Apparitions are no longer dogging our trail.
Don't you think we've outlasted this sorcerer's reach?'
'I can't promise that we have.' Mykkael
released his tenuous clasp. Uneasy habit restored his hand to his sword hilt.
Eyes turned aloft, still tracking the shuttling weave of the kerries as they
dived at close rivals and scrapped in querulous spats of flame overhead, he
shared his stark premise. 'Our ploy at the canyon has most likely broken the
enemy's hold on our trail. At twilight, when the barrier between this world and
the unseen becomes thinnest, the sorcerer will spin lines of seeking. I won't
know until then if we have gained enough distance to escape a short curse laid
by the creature's bound minions.'
How could he divulge the unbearable truth?
The horror of Kailen's fate had already rendered the sister a game piece. Kin
ties to her brother laid the invading enemy open to an unsettling vulnerability.
Without learned protection, Anja would now be stalked by every other warring
demon who contended for supremacy in the nether realms.
No stubborn pride, no act of courage, and
nothing akin to sane reason drove Mykkael. Anja regarded the stripped planes of
his face, and there glimpsed the abject terror that would pressure him past
human limits.
'Some fates.' he said faintly, 'are too
ugly to contemplate. I beg you, your Grace. Find the strength you don't have.
For both of our sakes, carry onwards.'
Anja reforged her shattered equilibrium and
straightened. She took another step, then another. At each subsequent stride,
she resisted the impulse to block her ears. She tried not to hear Mykkael's
scraping limp as he marshalled his spent resource and held his place, guarding
her back.
The kerries circled above them, relentless.
Kept staunch by no less than her simmering anger, Anja felt she should welcome
the creatures' murderous appetite. At least as a bone in the teeth of a
predator, she would win a petty victory. The sorcerer's deathless desire to
trap her would suffer a backhanded setback.
Wings rushed overhead. Another hackled male
banked and dived in aggressive pursuit. As it ripped overhead, its beak opened
to lash them with fire, Mykkael snatched for the wing leather draped from his
shoulder.
Just then, an earth-shaking bellow sounded
above the gouged seam of the river course. The huge male sheared off. Its
violent manoeuvre flattened the reedbeds and rattled the dry brush on the bank,
then winnowed the thickets on the far shore in the blast of its turbulent wake.
The captain stopped, listening, as with one mind, the opportunistic kerries
that trailed them peeled away like a flock of scared pigeons.
'What is it?' Anja asked, hating the thin,
lost sound of her voice.
Mykkael shook his head. 'I don't know.' He
drew his sword. Plunged by hazed nerves to
barqui'ino awareness, he caught her wrist and pressed his gimping stride
forward.
Anja easily kept pace with his dragging
leg. Scrambling, together, they surmounted the next hillock. Huddled amid the
rocks at the crest, the tatter of wing leather pulled over them, they were
suddenly combed by a cracking wind as a low-flying kerrie streaked over them.
The creature was a massive, adult female, identified by her chevron-marked tail
vanes, and by the lack of furred crest at her neck. Her trumpeting cries
sounded over the vale. With enraged, darting rushes, she looped to and fro,
chasing the pack of scavenging kerries and making them scatter.
'She's guarding young,' Anja breathed to
Mykkael, too frightened to move or speak loudly. 'Most likely a fledgling.
The mothers defend them as they learn to
fly, and guard their first efforts to hunt.'
But Mykkael was not watching the ground, or
the brush. His incredulous gaze stayed fixed skywards.
'Do you see?' He pointed towards the
rampaging female.
Anja followed his gesture, then picked up
the faint equine whinny of distress. The predator held Stormfront clenched in
her talons, an unmarked prize borne in for her offspring to hunt on the open
ground by the riverbed.
'Stormfront!' Hands pressed to her lips,
Anja shuddered. Before her wide eyes, the monstrous creature descended into a
thunderous hover, then opened the terrible trap of her claws and released the
black horse to run free.
'Merciful grace! Mykkael, do something.'
Beneath their exposed vantage, a sinuous form flapped pin-feathered wings and
hurled itself with raucous cries from the thickets. Stormfront sighted the
movement, bucked once, and bolted. Fast as he sprinted, tail curled in terror
over his hindquarters, the young kerrie's bumbling charge outmatched him.
'Mykkael!' implored Anja. 'Act, I beg you.
The poor gelding's going to be shredded alive.'
'I can't take him down for you,' the
captain said, desolate. 'Not with safety. We don't have the bow.'
'Then get ready with your poison and dart!'
Whipped on by her unsated, venomous anger, Anja hurled back the loose cover of
wing leather.
Mykkael moved to deter her. Slowed by the
disastrous cramp of his ribs, this time, he could not react soon enough. His
lightning snatch failed to pull her back down, or forestall her piercing shout.
'Stormfront! To me! Hai, Stormfront!'
The black gelding heard her. Obedient to
his training, he swerved. Straight as a shot arrow, he raced down the vale,
ears flat and tangled tail streaming. The fledgling came also. Naked head
raised, beak parted for murder, it changed course with harrowing speed, intent
on its fleeing prey. No obstacle thwarted its bloodthirsty rush. Large as a
bull and bent upon slaughter, it must seize its brought meal, or go hungry. If
its short, gliding efforts with immature wings could not yet sustain airborne
flight, its coordination on level ground was formidably lethal. It had fire
sacs as well, and blazing green eyes, fixed on the horse in the glittering
frenzy of bloodlust.
Mykkael snapped out a curse in guttural
consonants. 'Stay here! Lie low in the rocks, and don't move.' He pressed his
drawn steel into the princess's startled grasp. Then he muttered a prayer in
straight language begging for Mehigrannia's mercy, and snatched up the torn
scrap of wing leather.
Too late, Anja measured the scope of her
folly. The captain had warned that the
guarding protections he carried would not reach past fifteen paces. If the
shaman's mark sung into his blade was not sufficient to guard her, he could do
nothing to spare her, should the sorcerer strike in his absence. Nor could Mykkael
avoid intervention. Not with the panicked horse pounding in, luring the fledged
kerrie and the certain wrath of its protective mother down on them.
The warrior had no time to pick his way off
the outcrop. His scarred knee must disastrously slow him. With the wing leather
bundled around his frail form, he jumped, tucked and rolled down the slope of
loose scree. He fetched up at the bottom, sprawled in the path of the galloping
horse, and the bounding rush of the predator.
The impact slammed the wind from his chest.
Muscle cramps triggered by his jarred ribs curled his form in a quivering knot.
Hands pressed flat to earth, he fought to arise. Even from Anja's vantage,
above, his rigid strain was apparent as he battled through pain to command his recalcitrant
body. On his feet, staggering, left arm pressed to his side, he mantled his
shoulders in wing leather. He knotted the tattered hide under his throat, then
flung up his head in a dogged, lamed effort to set his balance in readiness.
His toll of injuries would not let him
straighten. Nonetheless, he called Stormfront to him.
Steel flashed in both fists. He had drawn
his knives: the curved dagger Anja had seen him use to skin game, and another
one, smaller and thinner, yanked from a concealed sheath that must have been
masked inside the laced seam of his belt. The cutting edge of its blade did not
shine. The glint of the metal seemed oddly dulled, as though coated over with
varnish.
Anja's heart all but stopped as Stormfront
bore in. She pulled in her shallow, raced breaths through an onslaught of
choking fear. Pressed to chill rocks, she watched Mykkael's stand, wrenched by
the punishing cost of her idiocy, and on fire with hope that his left-hand
weapon might have been treated with poison.
Barqui'ino-trazned, surely he stood a chance.
Yet the odds appeared insurmountable, as
his monstrous adversary surged in pursuit of the haplessly tiring horse. While
Stormfront approached the base of the rise, Mykkael dug in his toes. Anja had
observed the same gesture before, as he made sure of his footing. Aware the
slight motion foreran his first move, she tracked his poised figure,
unblinking.
Mykkael waited until the inbound gelding
was almost upon him, then shouted the familiar command string. 'Stormfront, whoa!
Hold hard! Stormfront.'
Ruled by drilled habit, the black dropped
his hindquarters into a braking slide. Gravel scattered under his scrabbling
hooves. Through the stopped second as his pounding run slackened, the fledgling
kerrie launched into a soaring spring.
The instant its talons left the ground, Mykkael
threw out his arms, and hazed the oncoming horse off.
Stormfront shied. Already settled on to his
hocks, he reacted on reflex and spun hard to the right. The young kerrie yawed
its wings, head turned and scrawny neck extended in an awkward effort to
compensate. Mykkael followed through with a flicked throw of his knife. The
blade flew at short range, its hurled impact augmented by the speed of the
predator's charge. Keen steel impaled the fledgling's exposed fire sac, then
drove on through into its throat.
Volatile fluid spewed on to the ground,
gouting flame; and also, seeped into the knife cut sliced between the cartilage
bands of the monster's windpipe. The influx dribbled a caustic stream over sensitive
internal tissues. The kerrie gurgled a bellow of surprised pain. Its tumbled
crashlanding ploughed over Mykkael, who had dropped into a protective crouch to
avoid the uncontrolled slash of its talons.
As the warrior was milled under, the
fledgling squalled murder. It flapped and thrashed in wild agony. Its
distressed cries raised deafening screams from above, as its mother folded her
wings and hurled down in vengeance-bent fury.
The Princess of Sessalie blinked streaming
eyes. Whipped by gusting wind, she sighted the man, his surcoat entangled in
the blind clench of a talon. Locked in a struggle to spare his frail life, he
fought to drive himself into precarious shelter underneath the stricken
fledgling.
'You once slew a roc,' she whispered
entreaty. 'You told me yourself that you hazed off a dragon to salvage a
critical supply train.' Surely the desperate tactics used then could assist
with this lethal predicament.
Anja swallowed, her mouth dry as dust.
Against hope, she pleaded, 'Don't let my stupid, childish pique become the
mistake that will kill you.' The profligate waste of a gifted man's valour tore
her wide open and shamed her. She had truly learned nothing from Taskin's sage counsel concerning the unjust punishment
that might befall through her arrogance as a royal. 'Mykkael,' Anja gasped,
'whatever happens, survive this!'
Then the dread shadow fell. The female
kerrie alighted to defend her wounded young. Her evil head snaked, and the
gaped beak slashed down in a harrowing strike. She darted and stabbed, missed
and missed yet again. Her vision was repeatedly obscured by the battering wings
of her offspring. Mykkael still fought, unscathed. Caught like a burr beneath
the fledgling's scaled belly, he offered too small a target.
The balked mother shrieked her rage and
frustration. A sidewise swipe of her head bowled her squalling youngster over.
As the flailing fledgling toppled, topsy-turvy, the warrior was left exposed.
He clung, one fist clenched to the taloned leg's pin feathers, and the other
one glued to the haft of his smaller blade.
The female kerrie raised hooked claws. Her
lightning-fast snatch plucked him away. As her talon closed over him, Mykkael
jabbed in the knife. Her mailed clasp recoiled. Instinct ruled her reflexive
reaction. Her attempt to stamp down, or apply crushing pressure, would just
serve to drive his steel deeper.
Anja damped back her screams, knuckles
jammed to shut teeth. She dared make no sound. Whatever befell now, she must
not add to her tragic mistake: any shrill outcry might draw in another
inquisitive predator. Stormfront had fetched to a halt to one side. His thin
flanks heaved and his distended nostrils showed linings of red. Foam spattered
from his dripping muzzle. He was utterly spent; momentarily safe, as long as he
did not move.
Saved, as her human protector was not,
trapped in closed battle with an enraged, adult kerrie. Where another man in
his straits would have seized on the monster's flinching hesitation and
snatched the opening to batter his way free, Mykkael wrapped his arm around the
beast's armoured leg. Undaunted, he bore in, and hacked with the knife. His
effort sawed past tendons like cables, then thrust razor steel into the tissue
between. Anja shared his grim concentration. Bound by willed purpose, he sought
the pulse of the deep artery.
The female kerrie howled her pain.
Thrashing her wings in a battering storm, she raised her maimed talon and
clashed her beak to pluck out, or burn, the verminous creature whose stinging
persistence lit her nerves to searing, bright agony.
Mykkael must have sensed her oncoming
strike. He let go and rolled clear, just as her flame-spewing jaws snapped and
bit in vain effort to free his jammed knife blade.
A wing slammed the ground, whipped up
flying stones that near crushed him. The captain wrenched himself sideways. In
the maelstrom of torn brush and loosed fire and smoke, he was a scrap of tossed
flotsam, wrapped in a bloodied surcoat. The kerrie's wing battered his tucked
frame again. The whoosh of the pinion tips slapped down and tumbled him head
over heels towards the rise of the hillock.
Through her stifled terror, Anja realized
the monster was dying. Whatever fell poison Mykkael used on his blade, its
effects unstrung the predator's co-ordination. Yet the shuddering tempest of
the female's death throes only redoubled their peril. Rival kerries would soon
be descending to prey on her weakness and feed.
Her fledgling had also shuddered into
collapse, internally burned by its volatile secretion until it succumbed to
suffocation. Its ejected faeces flecked the ground in rank spatters as it
twitched and rolled in extremity. Anja shoved upright on quivering knees, alive
to the imperative danger. She snatched up Mykkael's sword and scrambled
downslope, knowing she had scarcely minutes to roust up her wounded protector
and find a secure cranny for shelter. The reek of fresh carnage dispersed on
the breeze, added to the enticing scent of a lathered horse run to exhaustion.
The ravenous kerries prowling the cliffs by the rookeries would quickly catch
wind and take notice. They would wheel and converge, fighting each other with
fire and beak and savage claw, crazed beyond caution with bloodlust.
Anja sprinted downslope. Sliding through
gravel, uncaring whether her rush threw her down in a headlong tumble, she
dropped to her knees beside the tattered bundle of cloth and scraped limbs
fetched sprawling amid the low brush. 'Mykkael!'
He was up on one elbow, and struggling to
arise. Blood seeped through the front of his surcoat. The small, spreading
stain was low on his belly, result of a puncture or claw cut. The wound's
position was desperately grim, Anja knew at first glance.
Tears flushed her lids. She blinked them
back, furious. 'Mykkael, bright powers forbid!'
Jaw clenched with agony, he raised his eyes
to her face, the set to his drawn features obdurate. 'Catch Stormfront,' he
grated. 'I have trap scent still left. The flask's in my scrip. Get it out. Use
what's left. Anja, hurry.'
As she drew back, unwilling to risk her
fumbling hands too near the hurt on his abdomen, he barked with impatience.
'Princess, do it!' His eyes pleaded. 'I've been mauled, but there's still the
chance the result won't be fatal.'
When her choked gasp denied this, Mykkael
muttered an incoherent phrase concerning Sanouk dragons, and Jussoud's gift of
a sash.
'Captain, don't speak.' Anja bent at his
side, sought with shaking hands to carry out his bidding. As her seeking
fingers unfastened his scrip and sorted the disparate contents, she glimpsed a
scarlet-stained edge of bright silk beneath the rent in his surcoat. The
tissue-thin cloth had been driven deep into the puncture.
'Seasoned soldiers wear silk to draw
embedded arrow points,' Mykkael informed her with desperate clarity.
This time, Anja grasped his obtuse meaning.
If the kerrie's talon had not pierced the fabric, the gash would be clean. He
might not succumb to the wasting death from wound fever induced by the tainted
claws of a predator.
'We can't know if we don't survive.' Mykkael
hazed her on, adamant. 'Go. Call back Stormfront. Work quickly.'
Anja searched out the phial. She squeezed
his clenched hand and left him the sword, aware he would need the blade as a
prop to assist his pained effort to stand.
Stormfront came at first call. He was
wretchedly limping. Anja checked his bad leg, and wept to discover that he had
injured a tendon. If he walked far now, the tear could grow worse, until at
last, the exertion crippled him. She doused him with trap scent, then tore off
her belt, binding his hot fetlock and foreleg in leather to support the damaged
tissue.
Mykkael's halting step arrived at her
shoulder as she buckled the makeshift wrap tight. Anja shot straight, appalled
to discover he could move at all with the gravity of his injuries. He had
retrieved his curved knife. The dropped scrap of wing leather trailed from his
shoulder, and his streaming face looked like death.
'Get on,' snapped Anja. 'I'll brace your
knee as you mount.'
'Stormfront's lame,' Mykkael whispered. 'To
ride would be cruelty.' The stark alternative haunted, that the merciful choice
would be to use a dart, and put an end to the brave gelding's suffering.
'No!' Anja rubbed her wet chin with the
back of her sleeve, while her eyes brimmed and spilled all over again. 'No, Mykkael!
Please. Stormfront will bear you. Lacking your instincts, he would already be
dead. He's your horse. Let him help your survival!'
When he drew back, either dizzy with shock,
or suspended in agonized hesitation, she seized the front of his surcoat. 'Mykkael,
I beg you, get on! If you don't stay
alive, I won't find the will to keep breathing!'
IF NOT FOR THE DIVERSION OF TWO DYING
KERRIES, ANJA COULD NOT HAVE BORNE MYKKAEL AWAY ON THE BACK OF the exhausted,
lamed gelding. The best Stormfront could manage was a ragged walk. The slow
pace felt like torture, with the dregs of the trap scent scarcely sufficient to
mask the redolent sweat that steamed from his coat.
Anja wended her wary way through the scrub,
stumbling over roots and small stones. One step to the next, she sensed each of
Mykkael's rasped breaths like a knife blade scraping her nerves. He rode with
his elbows clamped to his sides, wrists braced against the horse's high crest,
and his hands knotted into black mane.
'I've killed you,' said Anja.
His laboured whisper came back reproachful.
'You haven't. Princess, I'm not close to dead.'
Yet the inexorable, spreading stain on his
surcoat belied the assurance that he could stay upright much longer.
Ruled by his oath, Mykkael addressed the
stark points of survival forthwith. 'We have to find some sort of shelter, your
Grace. The scent of my blood could draw kerries. Turn Stormfront out of the
riverbed.'
Anja stared at his sweating face,
horrified. 'Go towards the cliffs?
Mykkael, that's madness!' How could they seek refuge beneath the high ledges
infested with active rookeries?
Yet the captain insisted. 'We have to try.
This time, a rock pile is not going to serve.' The river bank was too flat and
barren for the cave they required to spare Stormfront. There, Mykkael at last
bowed to sound sense. He could no longer walk. Although sadly lamed, the black
horse provided his sole chance to stay upright and moving.
Anja dared not indulge in disheartened fear
or trepidation. She measured the captain's insecure seat, afraid as he swayed,
and the impaired reaction of his swordsman's balance barely snatched him short
of a fall. Such misfortune could end only in disaster. If he lost consciousness
and tumbled off Stormfront, the princess realized she lacked the strength to
drag his limp bulk back astride.
Worse yet, his seasoned gaze touched upon
her and read every looming fear. His expression reflected wretched distress as
he gathered himself for another strained effort to speak.
Anja cut him short. 'Don't say you've seen
worse, Mykkael!'
The forced ghost of his former smile
twisted one corner of his mouth. 'This is almost as bad as it gets.' He shifted
cramped fingers, shut his eyes, then compelled himself to complete a sweep of
their immediate surroundings. Ahead, the river meandered between vertical
stacks of stone, the weathered flanks of the lower slopes mottled dun with
tattered stands of scrub woodland and spiny vegetation. 'Turn east, just a bit.
Yes, I ask, trust my instinct. Anja, please. Do not stop this horse! For your life's sake you have to listen.'
Scoured by the cut of the wind, the
princess did as he bade her. The necessity drove her to flinching remorse. Each
of Stormfront's jolting, hitched strides dealt the warrior an unmerciful
jostling. He was streaming cold sweat. Internal bleeding and the relentless
loss of fluid would be causing his reeling dizziness.
'You need to drink water,' the princess
informed him.
Well aware the suggestion framed an
imperative, Mykkael said, 'Soon. Listen first.'
The decision chilled Anja. She doused her
fierce protest. Too experienced not to recognize the limited reach of his
resources, the captain must know and
would gauge to the fine, bitter edge, just how long he could trust himself
to stay aware. Since obedience was the only relief in her power to grant him,
Anja faced firmly ahead and placed one aching foot after the next. As Mykkael
mustered the strength to instruct her, she held stalwart, unable to bear the
desperate sight of his suffering.
'Anja. Record what I say into memory. The
warding sung into my sword is Sanouk, from the eastern steppelands. The
connection will have meaning to the viziers in Tuinvardia.' At her sharply
turned head, he nodded encouragement. 'You'll get there. Just listen. Your
brother's remains must stay guarded at all costs. Perincar's pattern tattooed
at my nape will still function, whether I'm living or dead. The older lines
done by Eishwin will not. They are tied into my ancestral heritage, and they
must fade if my spirit should leave the flesh.'
Anja's grief was too savage. 'Mykkael! No.
I won't drag your dead carcass!'
His dark eyebrows arched. In a tortured
effort at humour he said, 'I rather thought you should flay off the skin. I
salvaged my knife for the purpose.' When her choked silence threatened to
devolve into dispirited misery, he fell back upon searing honesty. 'You can
count on my will to stay living, your Grace. Yet I must consider my duty
foremost. No matter how dedicated, the best warrior born can still fail.'
'Then stop talking!' snapped Anja. 'I don't
have your knowledge of sorcerers and war. Alive, you can help me. Dead, you're
no use. Mykkael.' She paused to contain her relentless anxiety. 'Sessalie's
people, and I, still depend on you. Just stay alive. If you insist I must find
a cave under the rocks of a kerrie roost, you'll hear my request, and not nag
me with cruel distractions.'
'Your Grace.' His whisper emerged too
complacent.
Her anxious glance found him slumped
against Stormfront's neck, his eyes wide open and fixed, as though his sight
faded with faintness. 'I forgive you,' he added. 'Stormfront's life was well
worth the risk taken with mine.'
Which words woke her fury. 'You will not
leave me, Mykkael. Nor will you shame the gift of this fine horse, whose
courage will bear you for as long as it takes. Together, we will see you
through to Tuinvardia and into the care of a healer.'
'Your Grace.' the captain said faintly. 'On
reaching safety under the charge of my sword, you already carry my oath.'
Anja walked. Stormfront limped alongside
her. Mykkael's sawing breaths came and went. The promise of help seemed a
distant, vain dream, with the horizon rolling away into featureless haze. No
sign of habitation broke the desolate terrain. Overhead, the scud of grey cloud
was still massing. The river rippled with ominous whitecaps, snapped up by a
rising breeze. Anja folded her arms, huddled into her filthy jerkin. She
matched her step to Stormfront's plodding stride, while the air silvered under
the first veils of drizzle, and the rocks glistened pewter with moisture.
Against the pall of the oncoming storm, the cliffs rose like dull iron, with
the wheeling kerries over the rookeries reduced to knifing, swift shadows.
The princess paused only once, to drape Mykkael's
slack form with the salvaged tatter of wing leather. His skin was damp and too
warm to her touch. Hoping the gravid sensation of heat was provoked by her own
chilled hands, Anja laid her palm on his forehead. There she encountered the
scalding flush that presaged the onset of wound fever. Whether the captain had
succumbed from the initial sword puncture, or yesterday's neglected gashes, or
the disastrous bout with the kerries, did not matter. Mykkael was sinking, with
no skilled hand within reach to offer him comfort or succour.
Anja could do nothing else but keep moving. The stricken crown officer left in
her care seemed the last life in the world, while her past experience as
Princess of Sessalie seemed a dream whose importance had vanished. What shaped
the meaning of a man, or a people, or a horse, if the devouring hunger of a
sorcerer's lines could destroy joy and laughter, and rob the last hour of hope?
No answer arose. Only sere desolation. Anja
stroked Stormfront's sodden forelock. She made no more empty promises
concerning mashed grain and comforts. As the weeping, cold rain soaked into her
clothes, and dripped from the bedraggled ends of her hair, the trap scent must
slowly rinse off. Scavenging kerries would track their damp warmth. Hunting and
hungry, they would soon descend, and the end would be swift and terrible. Anja
slogged ahead anyway. She gimped on sore feet, while the afternoon started to
fail, and her borrowed shoes stretched from the puddles. Slipping, trudging,
pummelled numb by fatigue, she moved with her arm braced on Stormfront's
shoulder. She kept time to the draw of Mykkael's tortured breath, and the
horse's irregular hoofbeats.
'No!' The captain's sharp word held ringing
distress. 'No, Orannia, don't do this.'
Anja lifted her drooping head, grabbed the
brown fist clenched like iron in Stormfront's soaked mane. 'Mykkael, what's
wrong?'
'If she dies,' he gasped, breathless, 'the
sorcerer's demon will claim her!'
Thrust past the first, ugly start of her
fear, Anja realized he was raving. 'Mykkael,' she entreated, 'Mykkael, I'm not
harmed. The wards in your sword hilt are silent.'
But the voice he heard in delirium was not
hers. He did not respond to assurance. Words poured from him in an anguished
torrent, fuelled by heartsick memory. 'As her family, I beg you, assist me! Do
not allow her to take her own life and become for ever consumed. Please, no! I
don't care how she cries, or what torment she suffers in madness. You must
stand strong, as I have. Guard her, each minute. Don't give her life over to
Rathtet without fighting.'
Anja stroked his wracked face, and laid her
cheek on his forearm. 'Hush, Mykkael.' Her woman's touch seemed to calm him.
'Whatever princess you speak for, she's safe.'
He subsided. The last word he whispered
held shattering sorrow, and a clarity cruel as glass. 'Orannia.'
Anja could do no more than press onwards,
coaxing Stormfront's choppy stride towards the encroaching cliffs. Daylight was
fast fading, sped on by the gloom of the storm. As sunset approached, no
clinging remnant of trap scent would deter the kerries' night-hunting acuity.
Under the rock face, the streaming water
splashed into shallow catch basins. The sloped verges were surrounded with lush
groves of trees, and tangles of late-blooming wildflowers. Their sodden colour
did little to restore Anja's courage. She had gone beyond tired. Wending a
dispirited course under the dripping evergreens, she was chilled and wet, and
starting to shiver. The rock wall to her right showed no trace of an opening.
The marshy tussocks around her were broken by flooded gullies and split stone,
a trial to Stormfront's lameness. Mykkael's raving had lapsed into ominous
quiet, the rasp of his breathing grown shallow and thin. Anja touched his hand,
and found the clenched fingers icy. Fear rode her, that he was slipping away.
He needed rest, and a fire for warmth. Yet
her ongoing search encountered no safe place for respite. She kept on, without
other option, except to sit down and give up in the rain.
That moment, cold as tapped crystal, the
shaman-sung pattern etched into the sword hilt sang out a note of clear
warning.
Anja stopped Stormfront. Planted against
his steamed shoulder, she fastened wet fingers around Mykkael's wrist, as the
sword in his harness continued to ring, and terror hazed her to trembling.
'Captain,' she whispered. 'Beware, there is
sorcery.' Torn apart by harrowing dread, she did not expect him to answer.
Yet the queer, thrumming cry of the blade
had cut across his mazed senses. Mykkael stirred and sucked in a hitched
breath. He raised his bent head and made a brave effort to survey the dripping
slope under the cliff face. After a moment, a frown marred his brow. 'Do you
smell the breeze, Princess?' he whispered. 'That's no kerrie's fire, but wood
smoke.'
Anja had not picked up the detail.
Light-headed from hunger and adrift in bleak misery, she was never so keenly
attuned to the nuance of the open wilds. She gripped Stormfront's cheek strap,
blinking through misted lashes, but could detect no glint of a nearby blaze.
That moment, in front and behind, the
soaked leaves of the thickets rustled and shed their strung burden of droplets.
Furtive movement closed on their position
from all sides, driving Mykkael to wild anxiety. His clawing effort to
clear his sheathed sword was clipped short by a spasm of agony.
Stormfront was too worn and crippled to
run. Anja stood exposed, while the surrounding wood came alive with the
emergent forms of twelve people. They were clad in tanned pelts and deer hide.
Oddments of carved bone swung from their belts, and their shoulder-strapped
bundles of belongings. Each held a straight spear with a leaf-shaped steel
point, and a grip made of cross-wrapped leather.
Except for one, in the lead, an unarmed old
man who carried a slender wood staff.
'Don't move,' Mykkael grated. 'We're pinned
down.' He jammed his hands against Stormfront's crest and forced his cramped
posture back upright.
While he battled to secure his reeling
balance, his sword hilt fell ominously silent.
Anja huddled against the drooping black
horse and surveyed the ring of queer foreigners who had crept up and set wary
ambush. They made no overt move towards violence. The spears stayed upright.
The bone-handled knives at their hips remained sheathed, while their
dark-skinned, foreign faces inspected captain and princess with scouring
interest.
Held straight by royal bearing, Anja
regarded them back.
Six were wizened elders. These wore ornate
bracelets on their forearms and wrists, fashioned of silver and copper. Two
pairs were young warriors, of exquisite, lithe build. The other cloaked forms
appeared to be female. Man, woman or elder, their faces had the same
sharp-edged leanness, the same angled jaw and high cast of cheekbone. They
could have been stamped from the selfsame mould as the desert-bred captain
beside her.
Anja stared at their elderly leader. The
white hair at his temples had been laced into braids beneath a peaked snakeskin
headdress. He carried no weapon. His simple, cut staff bore no decoration.
Despite his exotic, uncivilized clothes, his weathered features bespoke a
commanding presence. Caught like a stunned rabbit under his gaze, Anja realized
that Mykkael might have looked so, had he the chance to live out his years to
the dignity of advanced age.
Stormfront tossed his soaked mane and
snorted. The movement jostled the captain, and broke the uncanny quiet settled
over the glen like a spell.
'They're tribal,' breathed Mykkael.
'Scoraign shamans, beyond doubt.' His wet skin ruffled up into gooseflesh as
though his mind went on fire with witch thought.
'Mercy,' gasped Anja. 'Mykkael, you told me
they'd kill you for being an outcast.'
He unfastened a clenched hand and touched
her to silence. 'Let me handle this, Princess. Despite their stern customs,
they won't be discourteous.' Unsteady with pain, braced upright on Stormfront,
he raised his closed fist to his forehead in trembling salute.
The elder in front returned the same
gesture. His spill of white hair blew in the damp wind. His attendant circle
made no forward move. The warriors stood with stilled hands on their spears,
apparently not concerned for the hour, or the predations of night-hunting
kerries. The old man's dark eyes raked the princess's protector, avid as
piercing black glass. He did not speak. His tradition insisted the male
stranger on horseback should be the first to declare himself.
Mykkael strove to match that implicit
demand. Erect as his injuries would allow, alert though his ears rang with
fever, he addressed the elder in the poorly accented southern dialect used by
the caravan traders. 'She is Princess
Anja of Sessalie, descended of King Isendon and Queen Anjoulie. Of her line,
she is both the last born, and the last, after her sire who is failing. You
behold the heir who must bear the light of her ancestry unto the next
generation. Her nation is under assault by cold sorcery. Her people have no
vizier to defend them, and no shaman to hallow the ground. If you will accept
her and grant her protection, my first charge to her sire will be fulfilled.'
The ancient man measured him. Bone-thin and
graceful, with hands that revealed the hard wear of a lifetime clasped to his
stave, he said nothing for a drawn moment. Then, as though each word had been
carefully weighed, he said, 'Warrior,
behold, you are heard. I am listening.'
'There
is more.' Mykkael inclined his head. 'This woman's brother, Prince Kailen, has
been bound beyond death by a shape-changer. The creature's dissolved head and
right arm remain in my hands, prisoned in leather and salt. My oath of service
to Sessalie's crown demands my vigilance, until his Highness's spirit can be
redeemed. I ask, might Tuinvardia's knowledge achieve his safe passage through
banishment? My life is pledged to stand guard, that Isendon's son should not
fall to further ill use as a sorcerer's abomination.'
No move from the elder; the warriors
maintained their motionless poise. Their stark expressions revealed their harsh
understanding. To a man, they realized the gravity of the peril this outsider
had brought to their country. The shamans behind exchanged unsettled glances,
while darkness loomed, and the gathered mist drifted. Rain trickled and fell.
In due time, the ancient inclined his head towards Anja, granting leave for her
consultation. Then he settled to wait in strict form, while Mykkael shared a
whispered translation to summarize the exchange.
After the princess's nod to her spokesman,
the aged shaman deigned to give answer.
'Warrior, tell the woman you guard, we accept her. She will be given the same
care as our Jantii tribe's daughters, until presented to Tuinvardia's emperor.
If our circle should fail, and her enemy triumphs, all shall weep, for our own
will have fallen before her.'
Mykkael saluted, fist to forehead again. 'You do her high honour, as the line of her
ancestry deserves.'
Anja, listening, did not grasp the strange
words. She could but watch as the old shaman addressed the captain again.
'Warrior!
For the burden you carry, named as Isendon's son, fox clan circle will
undertake a deliverance, but at a price. To attempt this banishment, you must
grant us the song line that Jantii tribe does not possess. Give my people the
patterns sung into your wardings if we are to try to achieve what you ask.'
Mykkael caught a hitched breath. He shut
his eyes through a moment of reeling dizziness, then murmured in clipped words
to Anja, 'Princess, you shall have learned help. Let me make the arrangements,
and pray that Prince Kailen may be redeemed along with you.'
'What are the demands, Mykkael?'
He jerked his chin, no; refused the pause
to enact explanation. The entreaty on his stripped face suggested his lucid
awareness was slipping away. If he should succumb, she would have no one else
to treat for her. Anja rested her hand on his knee, and gave him her tacit
consent.
Mykkael bowed his head to the elder
forthwith. Besieged by pain, he bound over the price that was asked without hesitation. 'Take all that I have, beginning with this
blade I carry.'
Too stricken to unbuckle his harness, he
bent. His face turned in wrenching appeal towards Anja. Aware that his gesture
presaged a surrender, but not knowing what terms must be served, the princess
was forced to draw the weapon on his behalf. At his firm bidding, she laid the
battered blade on the ground at the old man's feet.
Mykkael fought a wringing shiver and
straightened. The next phrase he spoke came through ragged, while Anja stood trembling
behind Stormfront's drooped head. She listened to each foreign syllable in
tense, agonized silence.
'A
Sanouk circle sang the white ward on that hilt. Begin there.'
Even pressed to the bittermost edge of endurance, the grace of Mykkael's ear
for language shone through. His gutturals had instinctively altered to match
the living example before him. 'My nape
bears the tattooed patterns of guard wrought first by Eishwin, then augmented
by Perincar to fight Rathtet. Into your hands, I commit my live flesh, bearing
these protections as you require.'
The elder raised his stave, then thumped
the end to the earth's breast to seal a pact of honour with the mounted
stranger before him. 'Warrior! I am
Anzbek, born to fox clan's mothers. Let my name and ancestry bear witness to
Jantii tribe's pledged half of the circle.'
Anja saw Mykkael's locked fingers whiten.
She felt the terrible spasm that raked him shudder through Stormfront's neck.
She dared not move, even to offer her hands. Though the next moment brought his
collapse, his bearing decried any effort to help. Whether he fell off the back
of the horse, the princess could not in that moment have risked the affront to
his dignity.
Mykkael had to fight, now, for the breath
to frame speech. He had lost all aplomb. In appeal before Anzbek, threadbare
with emotion, he set seal to his share of the bargain. 'Elder, I am Mykkael. I have name, but no claim to ancestry. Let the
sword at your feet and the gift of Sanouk regard stand for my half of the
circle.'
Anzbek touched his fist to his brow. Then
he raised his staff in salute and announced to the tribesfolk assembled around
him, 'Jantii people, bear witness! This
pledge is accepted.' He bent and collected the sword, and clasped the
marked hilt to his breast.
'Hail,
Mykkael! You do us great honour!' His sharp eyes
glittered. 'Hear my praise, warrior! Know
that your run through Hell's Chasm has restored our hope, and that of the
brothers we serve in Tuinvardia. The line of song that your valour has bequeathed
shall be sung with reverence by fox clan circle's children. For as long as life
lasts, their grandchildren will preserve the notes after them, and their
offspring, throughout generations to come.'
The old shaman spun his staff. He thumped
the base to the ground, setting seal to an oath his tribe must uphold for as
long as their descendants walked on the earth.
The young warriors slapped their opened
palms to their spear shafts. They broke their poised stance and pressed
forward. Yet as their crowding attentions closed in, Mykkael reeled. Stormfront
sidled to his sharp shift in weight. Before the captain's lurching slide should
pitch him off the black gelding's back, Anja lunged and braced up his limp
weight.
'He
must not ride further,' Anzbek pronounced, still speaking
in Scoraign dialect. He gestured a hurried command to his tribesmen. 'My brothers, ready your spears.'
Yet as the elder shaman reached out to
grasp Stormfront's headstall, Anja jostled the gelding away.
The old man snapped short. Startled by her
vehement hostility, he folded his hands on his staff, then jerked his chin for
his spearmen to hold in restraint. 'Does
this warrior's bargain not please you?' he inquired in stiffened surprise.
Anja did not know a word of the language.
She had heard Mykkael speak, but had grasped little beyond their demand that he
yield up his sword. 'No spears!' Embarrassed that her protest must be phrased
in Sessalie's clipped tongue, she flushed and said lamely. 'Forgive me.'
Although convinced she could not make herself understood, she was bound by
state courtesy to apologize. 'I don't speak Scoraign dialect. Even so, I won't
let you kill him.'
The elder responded in stilted northern.
'Kill him?' He raised grizzled eyebrows. His dark features clouded, while the
air surrounding his peaked snakeskin hat seemed oddly limned in a soft, grainy
light. 'The warrior has promised the songs in his wardings! Do you forbid him
this choice?'
Anja swallowed. Her stance stayed
arm-folded and adamant. 'Mykkael told me himself, if he dies, Eishwin's pattern
will cease to guard against sorcery. If you desire the protections he carries,
have your warriors put up their spears. For this man's life's sake, I will not
back down. Not being armed, I can do no more than beg the grace of your reprieve.'
The elder grunted. The stave in his fist
stayed grounded to earth as he shrugged with frowning puzzlement. For a
drizzle-soaked interval he studied the princess's face. In dirt and weariness,
he would read exhaustion, and hunger, and trials of harrowing uncertainty.
Whether or not he grasped the gist of her speech, his shining black eyes seemed
to measure the conflict she held in her heart.
At length, he addressed her. His tone
stayed polite. 'Princess Anja, you have been named and set under our protection.'
His accent was inflected with a musical lilt that rendered the phrase gravely
pleasing. 'We certainly realize your Mykkael is hurt. The spears of our
warriors will only be used to fashion a litter to bear him. Jantii people have
knowledge of wounds and their treatment. Stand aside. If you value this man's
pledge as we do, you must stand down and allow our healer to treat him.'
When she hesitated, still uncertain, his
humour resurged and transformed his stern features with laugh lines. 'Daughter,
do you fret for the beast? He is our sacred relation as well. His hurts will be
tended with mindful care.' Gently, firmly, he captured her chilled hand. 'Give
the rein, Princess. Let Anzbek of the fox clan circle extend Jantii tribe's
hospitality.'
Presumptuous at the last, he pried her
frozen fingers off the black gelding's headstall. 'Go with the women,' urged
Anzbek. 'Our elders will attend to the warrior, while the young men look after
the lame horse.'
A tender, shy touch brushed at Anja's stiff
shoulder. One of the women stood at her side, her approach unnervingly
soundless. 'Come away, Princess. We have a fire. You must take food and shelter
in a cave in the rocks not far off.'
'Kerries,' Anja protested, still resisting.
'There are roosts in these cliffs. The creatures will prey on the horse.'
The desert-bred woman smiled and tapped a
contrivance made of cord and carved wood, looped on a thong at her belt. 'Not
to worry. Our people know what to do when such flying marauders come hunting.'
Anja regarded the warriors, closed in and
awaiting her permission. Their fierce expressions were not unfriendly. The six
elders, also, watched her next move. Ripped by indecision, she turned her
soaked head, and finally surveyed Mykkael. His limp frame bore upon her
sprained wrist, the unconscious bulk of his weight more than her failed
strength could sustain. The shallow draw of his breath brushed her neck, the
rhythm now broken and ragged. The relentless drizzle beaded his skin, wisped to
raised steam by his fever. Whatever binding promise he had yielded along with
his sword, he had appeared to meet his fate willingly. Untreated, he would
certainly die of his wounds. When these Scoraign people stripped off his
clothes, they would discover the fact he was outcast by his lack of tribal
tattoos.
The spear thrust demanded by their strict
tradition would at least grant a clean end to his suffering.
Night was fast approaching. Too starved and
tired to argue, or strike out through the wilds on her own, Anja accepted the
inevitable last choice. She must follow the example set by Mykkael before her,
and accept the shamans' protection.
Pride set her back straight. If she would
cast herself upon Jantii tribe's mercy, she would show no less than the steel
of her royal dignity. She gave the elder her magisterial nod. As the warriors
stepped in to lift Mykkael from her, she delivered her formal, last word.
'Treat this man kindly. He has served his oath to my sire with great courage.
For the sake of his honour, which has placed my safety foremost, I must accept
his agreement.'
Anzbek thumped his staff.
The warriors bore in. As the captain's
slack frame was eased from Anja's shoulders, she swayed, wrung to sudden
light-headedness. The tribal woman instantly offered an arm and steadied her
failing balance. As saving hands guided her step through the gloom, the
princess glanced backwards just once.
Two of the warriors stood guard beside
Stormfront, weapons held at the ready. Their vigilant stance was fluid as Mykkael's
must have been, before the misfortune of war had crippled his knee. Anzbek
oversaw the greyheaded elders, who folded the wounded captain into the warmth
of their own shed mantles. Their handling was firm, and showed respect for his
injuries as they lowered him on to their makeshift litter. Steel spear tips
glinted. Voices murmured and exclaimed in thick dialect. The rolling gutturals
had a rhythmic beauty, if one had an ear for the music. Movement flurried as a
tall spearman broke away and scolded someone unseen in the underbrush.
A wiry young boy Anja had not seen earlier
slithered sheepishly out of a tree. Called to heel by Anzbek's brisk gesture,
he unreeled an object strung on a plaited string.
Moments later, the gusting breeze of a
scavenging kerrie winnowed over the trees. The boy spun the contrivance over
his head and whirled it in gyrating circles.
A keening note sawed through the night air.
Put off by the ear-splitting sound, the predator sheared away, huffing smoke.
'Come, sister,' entreated the woman in her
accented northern. 'You are weary and tired. My people will fetch you hot water
to bathe. While you soak your hurts, let us clean the unpleasant smell off your
clothes and arrange for your rest and comfort.'
Amid
drifting consciousness, King Isendon of Sessalie dreamed. A wizened shaman sat
with his daughter, Anja, his gnarled hand placed at her heart. Ancient eyes
closed, a battered sword on his knees, he raised his voice and started to sing.
The failing monarch felt each note as the kin tie to his heir rang out in
summoned vibration; and all over the kingdom under his rule, the gathering
darkness of the sorcerer's lines broke apart and scattered like vapour. The
sweet notes pealed on until nary a shadow remained. When at due length the feat
was accomplished, the king woke to find Jussoud bent above him. 'Did you hear?'
The
nomad nodded, wonder shining in his grey eyes.
'Fetch
Taskin,' said the king, very clearly.
The
commander's voice answered, close by. 'Your Majesty, I am with you.'
King
Isendon smiled. 'Captain Myshkael brought my daughter to Tuinvardia alive. The
allies she treats with have spared us.' This said, the old monarch drew his
last breath and, content, his exhausted heart rested.
THE OLD SHAMAN LIFTED HIS HAND FROM THE
SWORD HILT THAT HAD ENABLED THE WARDINGS SUNG BY Sanouk shamans for protection
to be woven into Jantii circle's singing. He opened black eyes. Before him sat
the young princess whose bloodline had provided the bridge to cleanse the
demonic incursion that had threatened Sessalie's unspoiled ground. She was cleaned
and fed, though scarcely rested, with borrowed clothes of Scoraign design, and
her pale hair shining by firelight. As the surrounding shamans stirred out of
trance, the eldest nodded his proud acknowledgement of their night's difficult
work.
Now the identity of the unknown invader
could be addressed with safety.
Anzbek spoke. 'The demon that tried to
force conquest in Sessalie, and extend his reach to despoil Tuinvardia is known
as Gorgenvain. Of Nine, he is Tenth. Let his Name and the song to dispel the
powers of his bound sorcerers be recorded for all of eternity.'
The deed was finished, with the dread spell
lines broken, that had sought to destroy Anja's people. If the Kingdom of
Devall yet stayed enslaved, the future was not without hope. The warrior had
brought them Perincar's patterns tattooed on to his scalp. He also carried the
earlier mark invoking his desert-bred ancestry, drawn with Eishwin's unequalled
finesse. Scoraign elders possessed the initiate awareness to access the
mysteries behind their own heritage. The combined sum of Mykkael's wardings
could forge them the new songs to enact an aggressive attack. The vizier's
master scribes owned the knowledge to decipher the wisdom inherent in
Perincar's legacy. The lore books in the emperor's libraries would help them
define the geometry, and configure the powerful banishments needed to counter
Gorgenvain's bid for expansion. Short curse, or long spell, with Tuinvardia's
assistance, Devall's conquered ground might be freed.
Yet the young princess who had helped bring
three nations' salvation remained unconsoled, though her gratitude for the
circle's deliverance was phrased with heartfelt sincerity. Her green eyes still
reflected deep sorrow, the source for which was the warrior.
'Let me see him,' she entreated. 'Promise
me Mykkael will live!'
Anzbek sighed. With the sword still cradled
across reverent knees, he called upon vision, and weighed Anja's anguish. Her
birth gift of beauty was no longer untouched. The face she showed to the world
had been pared to strong womanhood by the forces of grief and adversity.
'Daughter, no wisdom in my possession can promise the course of the future.'
His eyes upon her shaded with pity, he
gathered the steel, and his staff, and arose. Ancient though he was, and
despite the late hour, he moved easily.
'Come, daughter. You shall visit your
warrior.' Old hands raised the sword, and gave it into the princess's keeping.
'I award you the honour,' said Anzbek. 'You shall restore this treasured weapon
to Mykkael's side. Our people now share its song of bright warding. The gift of
Sanouk protection should now be returned to the man who received it.'
* * *
They had laid the warrior on a bed of soft
furs, behind a rough screen to lend privacy. The curtain had been fashioned
from his torn surcoat. Although the device had faded with washing, Sessalie's
crown and falcon blazon shone like old blood in the firelight.
Mykkael lay motionless, stripped of his
clothes, and covered in the dusky colours of the Scoraign elders' borrowed
mantles. His marked hands were still. His features seemed a grave mask in
bronze, with the cleaned swath of silk embroidered with dragons pillowed under
his head.
Anja stepped past the two warriors who
stood vigil. She sank to her knees by the man who had served as her sworn
protector and laid his longsword flat by his side. The battered steel seemed as
hard used as his body, that now appeared scarcely breathing.
Grief blinded her. She blinked, but could
not stop flooding tears. Hands raised to stem her unbearable sorrow, she gasped
through her muffling fingers, 'Don't tell me he's dying. Surely your healers
hold hope for him?'
The old shaman regarded her, solemn in his
peaked snakeskin hat, and his air of matchless dignity. 'He is not for you,
Princess. Will you leave him to us?'
Anja swallowed with difficulty. 'Leave him?
How can I? He said your kind would kill him because he did not merit tribal
tattoos.'
Anzbek stared at her, thunderstruck. 'Not merit?' He gripped his birch staff, his
brows snagged into a frown. 'Princess Anja of Sessalie, are you naming this
warrior an outcast?'
Anja met the shaman's glaring black eyes,
aroused to spitfire anger. 'I name him my captain, and cherish his value.
Unlike your tribes from the Scoraign, the life in his body is dear to me.'
Utterly taken aback, Anzbek jerked a fast
gesture to the paired warriors, who now bristled. 'Hold!' he commanded, staying
the fists aggressively gripped to their spears.
Due care must be taken. This princess was
young, and bravely impulsive. She was also raggedly tired. She may not have
intended to slight Jantii tribe's hospitality, or use words that inferred a
killing offence. Anzbek knelt and looked into her eyes, and there, read a fear
too fierce to be tamed.
'Daughter,' he said gently. 'How do you
presume our Scoraign people have wronged him?'
'He is of your own blood,' Anja stated with
heat. 'Explain why his mother would expose him at birth.'
Anzbek folded his legs and sat down, his
plain stave laid crosswise over his lap. 'Did she in fact? Why don't you tell
me the facts as you believe they occurred?'
Anja coloured. Where was her right, as
Sessalie's princess, to speak of Mykkael's private origins? And yet, she must.
Her brash outcry had broached the matter headlong, and foreclosed the chance
for tactful diplomacy. Princess enough to stand as ambassador, she addressed
her duty unflinching. 'Mykkael told me he was abandoned beside a caravan route
as an infant. Northern traders found him, half starved and alone. Their family
took him under their roof and raised him as one of their own.'
Anzbek absorbed this with stilled
deliberation. Then he signalled his tensioned warriors to stand down. When he
gave his considered response, his heart was not angry, but sorrowful. 'The
names of Mykkael's parents are forgotten, this is true. The line of his
ancestry is not known to us. This is our loss.'
Anzbek stared towards the fire. He murmured
a prayer for the flames to consume his regret, then admitted the rest of his
failure. 'I cannot recover the story of the misfortune that turned this man's
path far astray from the clan that might have embraced him.' He stroked Mykkael's
forehead, the contact all reverence. 'I can say this much. Seer's talent such
as this warrior harbours is never exposed to the desert! If his birth mother
was raised in tradition, if she followed the way of her tribe, she would have
faced death before being parted from a child with such shining potential. More
likely her infant was left to a caravan because her own life was threatened.
She would have been pressed by starvation, or enemies, to have sacrificed a son
as gifted as this one.'
When Anja bowed her head in raw anguish
over the warrior's chest, Anzbek reached out and took her clenched hands into
his aged clasp. 'Daughter, Mykkael is not outcast. If you claim the right to
stand for his lost family, and appeal to Jantii people for his adoption, you
must first release him from Sessalie's service. Then fox clan circle would
gladly sing him a name in tradition, and grant him his tribal tattoos.'
Anja paused, drawn up short. Pinned under
the ancient shaman's regard, she must see beyond spoken words. Agree, or
refuse, the authority had been taken into her hands. The answer she gave could
never be simple. If Mykkael died, he would receive last rites among strangers,
but be granted the honour of kin. If he lived to resume his crown captaincy in
Sessalie, and rejoined the court at her side, he would need no such barbaric
markings. His desert-bred features already bespoke his foreign blood with a
burdensome clarity. Just for being what he was, he seeded distrust and
uneasiness amid Sessalie's ingrown society.
King Isendon's commission and the Lowergate
garrison had always been too small a domain to contain him.
Anja gave way at last, unable to sustain
the piercing awareness revealed in the shaman's wise eyes. 'Mykkael is dying,'
she whispered. 'How should my choice matter if he does not rise from this
sickbed?'
Anzbek nodded. 'You are right to be
anxious.' His sage nature admired her forthright character, that dared to face
the difficult truth. Since the young woman showed him her unflinching courage,
the shaman related the facts as fox clan circle's healer had told them.
'Mykkael is strong and resilient. He has
recovered from many past injuries that would have defeated a lesser spirit.
Of his hurts, all are minor, except for the
claw puncture low in his belly. That is the source of the fever he suffers, and
that, he must battle if he is to walk in the sunlight. The poisons that sicken
him rise from within. Princess, his life now hangs by a thread. Take hope from
the fact he has been two days, fasting. His gut was empty at the time he was
savaged. Our herbal infusions have flushed the rent clean. We have stitched the
ripped bowel with boiled sinew, and kept the wound open for drainage. Your Mykkael
could yet live if he can surmount the infection.'
Anja closed her eyes. Dread and uncertainty
robbed the serenity from her pale, northern beauty. Sunlight against shadow,
she bent her gaze to the warrior, her longing a blaze like new flame. 'Mykkael
is the strongest man I have known. What kind of life could your people give
him?'
Anzbek squeezed her fingers. Then he
blessed her braced strength, that dared to examine the future with
selflessness. 'I discern two paths, and a choice to be made, but my wisdom
cannot lend you guidance. For that, you must wait until morning and place an
appeal to Jantii tribe's seer.' The shaman unfolded his clasp and freed her
chilled hands. Arisen, staff in hand, he waited amid the limitless peace of his
silence.
For long moments, nothing moved but the
dance of the fire the healer had left burning for light. Princess Anja of
Sessalie surveyed the face of the man who had delivered her from the terrors of
sorcerers, and the harrowing trials of Hell's Chasm. Mykkael lay far removed,
adrift in unconsciousness. Since words were useless, and tears served him mean
tribute, she bent, kissed his lips, and reluctantly rose to her feet.
Anzbek steadied her stumbling step as she
pushed past the curtain, abandoned to grief. His self-contained presence led
her back to the women, who would see that she rested until daybreak, when the
seer could be summoned for consultation.
* * *
The clouds cleared by morning. Under the
cold light of dawn, the elder seer greeted Anja, clad in weathered hide and a
belt of carved shells, passed down for untold generations. He clasped her young
hands under the dripping boughs, beside the stilled verge of a catch basin
under the cliffs. Ripples fled over the water's bright surface, ephemerally
fleeting as mortal lives, that were just as swiftly erased from the changing
face of eternity. Surrounded by greenery and singing birds, the soothsayer
gazed into the princess's eyes.
His first words broke the pristine silence
like a knife cut of pure despair. 'Keep the warrior as yours, he will die of
his injuries.'
Anja yanked back. 'But that makes no
sense!' By her understanding of human nature, a spirit would strengthen when
embraced by love, and wane away in its absence.
A flicker of sunlight brightened the high
rim of the rock face overhead. A kerrie launched from its roost, spouting
flame. As deeply inscrutable as time itself, the desert-bred seer withheld
comment, wrapped in his mantle of deer hide.
'Why?' Anja entreated, scraped raw by her
sorrow. 'Why would Mykkael leave this world, when I care for nothing but giving
him royal position and joy at my side?'
The seer watched her, still silent. His
dark eyes were forthright as the blade on a Scoraign spear, that could warn
without drawing blood.
Exposed by that terrible, impartial
patience, the princess curbed anger that was hers alone. Like Anzbek, the old
seer would leave her to sort out her feelings. He would let her declare herself
without taking undue offence. No girl, but a woman raised for crown rule, Anja
determined to carry the riddle beyond the self-blinded pain of her heartache.
'What will the future bring if I should give Mykkael up?'
The seer tipped his grey head to watch a
small sparrow alight on a twig. As though the tracks of the world's fate rode
upon the seeds it flew home to its nestlings, he said, 'Your loved one may
live, and perhaps find his happiness. As warrior, he will choose his own hour
of death. Let him go, and I can tell you the wounding he suffers will not
compel his release.'
The tiny bird flitted. Burdened by Anja's
cruel distress, the seer gathered his robes and perched on a mossy boulder.
'Daughter,' he said gently, 'life is not
simple. The ties on a strong man's spirit are seldom straightforward, or free.
Your warrior believes himself bound to the weal of your kingdom. Do you see?
That commitment is forcing his sacrifice.'
She was young, and a maiden. Her disbelief
importuned him. 'He will die,' said the seer. 'In your heart, you know this.'
That desolate truth hurt beyond all
bearing. Yet Anja rejected the complacency of defeat. She did not require an
old man's gift of vision to sense the ebb of an indefatigable vitality. Mykkael,
in his wisdom, saw more clearly than she. If he lived, he understood the full
import of what she would ask. Tied by the oath he had sworn to her sire, he
could do no less than stand guard throughout her triumphant return. On arrival
in Sessalie, his heroic deeds would demand the accolade of crown gratitude.
Anja's young love would chain him to her side. And there, he would languish as
an embarrassment, penned amid the stilted ways of a hidebound northern society.
Mykkael's barqui'ino mind and
razor-sharp ethics made him too honest a cipher. The crown council would never
abide the clarity that walked in his presence. Highgate's titled families would
never accept him.
When the stillness itself commanded
response, Anja dared the same question she had broached to Anzbek the evening
before. 'What life will Mykkael have if I leave him?'
The seer shook his head. 'If you give this
man up, his future will no longer be yours, but his own. Though you ask, I
cannot interpret his path. Not after his step becomes parted from yours.'
Anja clasped her arms, anguished. 'If I set
him free, what is there for me?'
'Give me your hands,' said the seer, not
unkindly. 'That is a choice I can show you.' He gathered her chilled fingers
into his own, which were seamed and warm as brown earth. Then he looked deeply
into her eyes. 'Anja of Sessalie, you will leave this place to forge an
affiliation through marriage, and wed an emperor's son, the youngest Prince of
Tuinvardia. The pair of you will make your home in the mountains, and rule as
King Isendon's successors.'
'Marriage,' whispered Anja. After Devall,
and Mykkael, the prospect seemed bleak.
Shown her jagged-edged trepidation, the
elder inquired, 'Do you fear the young prince is not comely, or that he might
be of unsound character?'
Anja sighed. With her fingers still clasped
in the elder's calm touch, she regarded the pool, and the fugitive rings carved
by the falling droplets. 'I don't need to know.'
Yet the inner voice clamoured through her
resignation. This emperor's son might be beautiful and kind, or he could be
ugly and mean. The difference seemed moot. He would not be Mykkael. The seer's
steady presence impelled her to acknowledge that stifled fragment of honesty.
Love refused to stay mute. Though the pain cut like glass, the Princess of
Sessalie firmed her will and crushed down her passion with silence.
The blazing flame in her heart must not
blind her. Days ago, before the terrors of a sorcerer had impelled her flight
through Hell's Chasm, she had once confided to her best friend Shai, that she
would have gladly married a monster, if Sessalie's people should benefit. The
young woman who now watched the sunrise on the far side of the Great Divide had
touched horrors that destroyed goodness and life. She wept in mourning for a
dead brother. If the untried spark of her idealism had seared away under
hardship, the core of her upright integrity remained. The heritage of her royal
lineage was not revocable. Still, she held the weal of a nation in the palm of
her unsteady hand. A crown relied on her power to bind an alliance. Her duty
was clear, whether the emperor's son was appealing, or plain, or a wastrel.
The seer smiled, then released her as
though in salute. 'Brave Princess, you shall not choose without sight.' He
raised his finger and tapped her forehead.
The morning world rippled. Water and
dewfall blurred into dream. Anja beheld a
wide plain. A party of horsemen rode under the crisp snap of Tuinvardia's
banners. They were led by a young man with reddish hair and blue eyes,
splendidly tall in chased armour. He sat his fine horse with impeccable skill,
his clean-cut, handsome features lively with laughter as he caught a ribbing
from the troop captain at his right hand.
Then the brief vision fled, leaving the
fathomless gaze of the seer, regarding her with expectancy.
'He is younger than I am,' Anja blurted,
overcome by the boy's similarity to her lost brother, Kailen. The crown
prince's vivacity would be sorely mourned. How easily the incumbent council in
Sessalie might come to love this brash son of Tuinvardia's emperor.
'In fact the young man has a year more than
you.' The seer's seed-black eyes sparkled with a surprisingly caustic
amusement. 'As the emperor's fifth son, Prince Trigal's importunate humour has
yet to be tempered. He will mature quickly. If you take him as husband, his
well-spoken character will swiftly be put to the test. He would rise to match
you. Any man must. The passage you survived by the sword of your warrior has
sharpened you to discernment. You know what it means to be vibrant and living,
and to treat with hard choices fearlessly.'
'Mykkael's example would have me choose
peace for my people. Let his crown oath to serve be released.' Anja straightened
her shoulders with resolve. 'I will honour the strength of his sacrifice, and
marry for Sessalie, and rule as Tuinvardia's ally.'
The seer bowed to her. Then he turned, and
Anja discovered that Anzbek waited at the far edge of the glen. The eldest
dreamer seemed already aware that she had reached her anguished decision. His
snakeskin cap was perched atop his white head, and his regard showed tranquillity
as she left the seer's presence, and strode from the pond's verge to meet him.
'Daughter,' he addressed her in his
accented northern. 'We have a patrol of four warriors prepared to move south
down the canyon. Fox clan circle must bear urgent word back to court. Vital
patterns they carry must be received by Tuinvardia's next grand vizier. You can
go now, and meet Prince Trigal's armed company. Or you can wait here, until the
emperor's mounted escort can be summoned to receive you in state.'
Anja drew a painful, shuddering breath.
'Mykkael, has he wakened?'
The ancient shaman shook his head, no.
'Then let it be now,' whispered Anja
through the aching shimmer of her pent-up tears. 'Delay will make parting no
easier.'
* * *
After the brave young princess departed,
Jantii tribe's fox clan circle prepared to sing for the great warrior's
deliverance. The shamans waited until the new day warmed the ground. When the
lingering damp of last night's rainfall dried from the rustling leaves, they
bore him from the cave on a litter of spears. Four warriors stood guard at the
cardinal points as they laid him naked on the green verge at the edge of the
pool, in the flood of the morning sunlight. Birth to death, a man only borrowed
his skin. Earth mother's embrace would acknowledge him.
His Sanouk-marked sword they placed at his
right hand. At his feet, symbol of the harsh path he had trodden, they arranged
his falcon surcoat, and the shred of scraped hide that had lately contained the
shape-changer's perilous leavings. By these tokens, they signified his release
from a charge accomplished with unswerving strength. His other hand, they left
empty, freed for the future that was his choice alone to receive. At his head,
Anzbek held his planted stave, to keep the place of his ancestors, whose clan
name they did not know, and therefore could not invoke to watch over his
spirit.
Under his nape, against the warding tattoos
that defended the land from Gorgenvain's shadow, they placed the tattered silk
with the Sanouk royal dragons, for remembrance that they were not first among
the world's people to acknowledge his signal worth.
'Let the circle be joined. Grant this
warrior our song, for the healing or release his spirit requires for
completion.' Anzbek led the pitch that wove the first note through the sacred
hush of the clearing. Amid birdsong and the whisper of wind, the other singers
joined in.
Then the wizened elder who acted as
spokesman and healer knelt at the warrior's side. He extended his hands, palms
turned downwards, and evoked the listening silence to sound out the flow of the
life force. He would map the cords of love that bound Mykkael to survival, and
reaffirm those that were worthy. The ones that persistently tied him to pain,
the circle's raised song could dissolve, as his spirit granted permission.
Eyes closed, the healer probed gently. His
sensitive touch traced the bars of strong energy arising from Mykkael's heart.
With tender care, he tested each one. Of those that mattered, he found seven.
Two held clear potential to strengthen his will. Two more framed regrets. One,
shining bright as a chain, still enslaved him. And two more, again, held the
power to kill him, as they leached the stream of his vitality.
The healer addressed the least difficult,
first. Deft in wisdom, he opened the song and began.
His chosen register awakened the powerful
lines that spoke of kin ties and fellowship. Around him the circle of initiate
elders framed the imperative chord to quicken the tone into potency.
Far
off in Sessalie, Jussoud raised his head. His silver eyes glinted with pleased
recognition, as he acknowledged the distant, bright contact sourced by the
Scoraign shamans. He gave his reply without hesitation. I will speak for Mykkael.
He is the adopted son of the Sanouk dragon. His name is welcomed, and his star
shines with honour alongside those of my ancestry. His place in my heart is a
brother's. As my own blood, I will cherish him.'
The circle received the sincerity of the
steppeland nomad's affirmation, and used its colour to augment their song. The
rich chord they braided burgeoned and burned, woven into an exultation.
Bathed in a haze of glimmering light, the
healer's brown hands moved onwards and traced the tension in the next binding.
His sustained note changed key, and called on the aspect that bespoke shared
wisdom and teaching.
One
of eight chosen men appointed to keep the Sanctuary vigil over King Isendon's
bier, Sergeant Vensic, just promoted to crown commission, lapsed into a moment
of daydream. 'Mykkael is my mentor, the uplifting example who raised me from
the drudge of the farmyard. He showed me how to discover my gifts, and
instilled the discipline of self-achievement. For his inspired standard of
leadership, I honour him.'
The shaman's phrased melody affirmed the
tie, then enriched its resplendent tonalities. To the solemn acknowledgement of
professional competence, they unveiled the gift of Vensic's admiration and
loyalty.
The healer's touch tested with tacit care,
next pressing against the inflexible strings that anchored the warrior's
regret. He sang for the first, and the circle followed his line, rousing the
dissonance of a tragic conflict, engendered when an oath-sworn priority had
entangled with an upright crown officer's imposed duty.
Commander
Taskin cursed his forced inactivity, then the strapping that bound his right
arm, though the chubby physician who poked at his bandage insisted his shoulder
was healing. Imperious, impatient, he dismissed the prompt of the shaman-sent
dream with his usual brisk dispatch. 'Captain Mykkael? Damn his ungodly prowess
with a sword! His loyalty was ever beyond my reproach. For her Grace's
survival, I forgive him.'
The circle responded, and mellowed the
discord that carried the sorrow of bloodshed. Under their singing, the scar of
regret was reforged to the martial beat of a competent commander's awed
respect.
Again, the healer's touch shifted. While
the sunlight streaming into the glen smote through the enveloping glow spun by
the singers' weaving, he listened again with stilled subtlety.
His next note summoned the first of the
ghosts.
Prince
Al-Syn appeared, aggrieved as he had not been in life. His graceful, ringed
hands clasped the sceptre inscribed with the penultimate patterns of guard laid
down by his court vizier, Perincar. The wardings shone blue, that had once
failed to spare a kingdom engrossed in its arrogant complacency. His answer to
the song that called his shade to redress the cry of his doom re-echoed with
woeful remorse. 'For Mykkael, the bravest and best of the captains who stood to
Efandi's defence? Tell him that I lament the ruin caused by the folly of my
royal pride. I beg the grace of his forbearance for the cost he paid in blood
and suffering to spare the life of my only child.'
For the knot of sorrows Prince Al-Syn's
error bequeathed, the shamans sang of requital. One after the other, they
struck the clean notes that transmuted the horror that had overcome Mykkael's
valiant company, and the twenty-five of his finest men lost to a desperate
retreat. When the echoing resonance of terror had been quelled, and the grisly
event lay detached into distanced memory, the healer extended his touch yet
again.
His following note struck the chain of
bound duty and drew forth a monarch just departed.
King
Isendon of Sessalie already understood that his daughter was saved, with the
threat to his realm cleared and broken. To the peace of that knowledge, the
Scoraign seer raised his gift and sang into the future: of a kingdom's
succession secured in alliance with the Emperor of Tuinvardia. Anja would wed
Prince Trigal before harvest. War would follow, as the two allied nations sent
armed troops and learned viziers marching into the lowcountry. The engagement
would be savage, but brief, and the gratitude bought by Devall's restoration
would win Sessalie her right to seaport access in perpetuity. 'Captain Mykkael?'
The late king addressed those who petitioned his shade with magisterial
surprise. 'The man never failed any sovereign who employed him. He has served
my royal oath with the utmost integrity. With gratitude, I release him.'
The shaman's melody sang dissolution, and
freed the sworn tie to crown service. In the glen, the circle of elders rested.
Their pause gave thanks for the world's sunlight, and rejoiced for the warrior,
who now breathed more easily within their shield of spun light. When at length
they resumed, Anzbek bade them join hands, for ahead lay the shadows that
tugged hardest, weighing the heart and draining the passion Mykkael required to
live.
The healer poised his trembling hands, then
sounded the note for the final, most dangerous summonings. His tone called in
love, with a purity that scalded, and a haunting overtone that keened like
tapped glass with despair and desolation.
On
foot, trudging under noon sun in the company of tribal warriors, a
blonde-haired princess turned her head, and looked backwards with opened, green
eyes.
'Did
you love me?' said Anja.
This
time the burden of the reply fell to the stricken warrior. He appeared as a
faded shadow of himself, yet his answer was instant, and true. 'Of course, your
Grace. I ached to possess you the moment I dreamed of the spirit I saw in your
portrait. But your strength of character would have been wasted alongside a man
of the sword. Your people revere you. Their need for your peace is more
pressing than mine, that has been too well tempered for war. Anja, brave heart,
you were never for me. Therefore I held your love briefly and lightly, like the
butterfly poised in the opened hand once inscribed in a verse of your poetry.
Return in triumph to Sessalie. My witch thoughts will watch you ride spirited
horses and pick wildflowers in the high meadows. Princess, I beg you to marry
in state. Bear your crown with courage, and forget me.'
'No,
Mykkael.' Anja's smile was bittersweet, and her beautiful eyes, changed for
ever by poignant regret. 'Marry I must, but not to forget you. The artist who
once fashioned my likeness shall paint yours as well. The portrait will hang
over the throne within Sessalie's great hall of state. There, your bared sword
will hold the true steel of your ethics over the heads of my chancellors. Your
name is inscribed in my nation's history. Warrior, your story shall be told,
and retold to my royal children and grandchildren. Your part in their legacy
shall be remembered for as long as Isendon's blood reigns.'
Of Anja, the shaman circle sang of parting,
tenderly softened by the passing of years. They shifted the enduring burden of
sadness, and enhanced the rich depths of shared intimacy, selfless honesty and
grace, until the glen rang with the haunting purity and altruism of wise
choice.
Lastly, the healer stalled in hesitation.
His poised touch now tested the current bearing the most grievous binding of
all. He glanced, uncertain, towards Anzbek, who nodded.
'Mehigrannia sends the light of her mercy
as a balm to all human suffering.' The elder dreamer bowed his white head, his
grasp firm on his planted staff. 'What has been started shall finish here,
whether this singing begets life or death.'
The healer gathered himself one last time,
and began. The note he struck emerged as a whisper, then swelled and gained
force, until his throat spilled a cry of passionate sorrow over the morning
quiet. Pierced by its poignancy, the circle of Jantii shamans gathered and
sustained the difficult intonation. Tears spilled from their knowing,
experienced eyes, as they sang of terror and pain and enslavement, and wove the
fabric of dark refrain that comprised Orannia's madness.
The notes built and rolled, their forceful
beat like war drums and distant thunder. Anzbek, who guarded, sharply lifted
his head. His fierce gaze narrowed as he measured the conjured sound, and the
steel thread of discord laced through its depths raised his skin into violent
gooseflesh. As eldest, and dreamer, he sensed the ominous, unnatural forces that
bespoke active spell lines spun by a sorcerer. Worse, he could name the bound
creature's demon, an ancient, unforgotten evil preserved with strict vigilance
in the legacy of Jantii tribe's memory.
His shout ripped the close-woven chant of
the singers. 'Cease!'
One word smashed the burgeoning ring of
cruel power, and left desolate, ringing silence. For a heartbeat, no voice
spoke but the sough of the wind. Then the ancient shaman sank to his knees. He
lowered his white head. The thin braids at his temples trailed on the ground,
as he touched his forehead against Mykkael's brow.
'Ah, warrior,' he said in his gentlest
whisper. 'Fox clan circle recall the lines for Rathtet.'
There and then, out of gratitude, he
started the old song of warding, leading the banishing phrase that resurged as
the circle rejoined him. The chant swelled and resounded. As Anzbek dreamed to
enact the grand healing, their powerful harmony burned to moving light, then
bridged over distance, sustained by the patterns stitched into the heirloom
embroidery tucked beneath Mykkael's head.
Far
off, in the eastern steppelands, sheltered under a painted tent, a raven-haired
Sanouk princess stirred awake and opened her silver-grey eyes. The old matron
who tirelessly guarded her life sat erect, and beheld the dawning miracle of
her restored sanity. 'Orannia? Granddaughter?'
Tears
spilled down the woman's creased cheeks. 'Granddaughter,' she repeated,
astounded. Then the startled elation that lifted her heart was seared through
by the gift of a witch thought. I see your man, Mykkael, astride a black horse,
guarded by our Sanouk royal dragons. He comes, his arms open to meet you.'
In the glen, while the circle of Scoraign
shamans repeated that grateful refrain, Princess Orannia responded. Her voice
shot new light through the weave of the dream, and the notes were all of
rejoicing.
'My
heart beats with gladness, for the name of Mykkael I will love him. Pray send
him speedily home.'
THE NOTES SWELLED INTO A MIGHTY CHORD, THEN
BLENDED TO UNISON AND DWINDLED TO SILENCE. THE song for the warrior's healing
was done. The seer broke the circle and summoned his gift. His face bright with
gratitude, he spoke for Mykkael's future, and foretold a long life, both vital
and vibrant.
Yet when the shamans arose, and the
guarding spearmen offered their mantles to bear up the hero's sleeping form,
Anzbek planted his staff and forbade them.
'We are not finished. This man may marry
into Sanouk, and bring up his children in steppeland heritage. Yet he is a son
of the Scoraign desert. Although his ancestry has been forgotten, let him not
make his way in the world without the acknowledgement his beginnings have sadly
denied.'
Still murmuring in wonder, the shamans
re-formed their circle. Next, Anzbek delved into his mantle and produced a
phial of obsidian dye, then a brush fashioned from the fine hair clipped from
the black gelding's forelock. 'Let today's inscriptions be done in paint. When
Mykkael recovers awareness and strength, the honours rightly bestowed on this
hour can be awarded with formal ceremony. As he wishes, he shall bear proper
Scoraign tattoos.'
The healer accepted the dye and hair-brush.
His warm acquiescence came touched by dismay, for he had no line of beginning.
'What story shall be told of Mykkael's blood origins? What design should be set
at his navel?'
Anzbek spoke without hesitation, having
given the matter his circumspect thought. 'The sign for his mother's clan need
not be left blank. None can deny he is Scoraign-bred. He shall be given the
mark of all tribes, set into the sacred circle. This relationship has been
justly earned. For the patterns that ward against the Tenth Name, all our
people owe him for protection.'
The surrounding elders thumped the earth
with their hands, and sang the note for appreciation.
'The marks of origin shall be done as
described,' the healer agreed. Though surprised by the daring departure from
form, he nodded his earnest approval. 'Tell me, what name shall I paint him?'
'His own,' Anzbek replied. 'For he has
marked his worth on the world's weave alone. The nations who carry his debt for
their sovereignty do him honour as Mykkael already.'
Then the eldest Jantii dreamer lifted his
staff and called the circle to listening silence. With reverence, he recited
the accolades, by which Scoraign people would know the inner spirit of the one
reborn to a name on this day.
'Mykkael is a warrior! Let his heart bear
the sign of the sword, turned upright, the alignment given to mercy. His left
wrist, which must show those gifts granted at birth, will bear the eye of the seer.
On his right wrist, for the path he has chosen through life, place the arrows
of high honour and sacrifice, configured between the stars for endurance and
courage, and the sun's triumph of lasting victory. He has been sorely tested,
this man. His history of service is written in scars that require no further
embellishment. May his union with Orannia grant him fine children and much
laughter, as they grow to maturity and bring him the wealth of happiness and
strong grandchildren.'
Anzbek raised his birch staff to the sky,
and song arose at his bidding. The gathered shamans offered the warrior their
pealing tribute, as the healer set his brush to the dye, and began to record
Mykkael's heritage. The elder took pride in his work on that day, while Jantii
tribe's fox clan circle bore joyful witness.
Birth to death, Scoraign people only
borrowed their skins. Henceforward, Mykkael would be graced with the symbols to
honour that ancient tradition. To trace such marks on the living man was to
acknowledge his presence. Each chosen tattoo would reflect for all eyes the
intangible flame of his being, that endured, as his deeds would endure, beyond
the frail bounds of mortality.
Al-Syn-Efandi - Prince of Efandi, whose
realm was overrun by a sorcerer.
Anja of Sessalie - Princess of Sessalie,
youngest child of King Isendon and Queen Anjoulie, sister of Crown Prince
Kailen.
Anjoulie - deceased Queen of Sessalie, wife
of King Isendon, mother of Anja and Kailen.
Anzbek - Scoraign tribal elder, dreamer of
Jantii's fox clan circle. baeyat'ji'in -
do'aa term meaning 'beware of me'. barqui'ino
- a rare form of martial arts, which shifts the awareness to a primal state
of focused clarity.
Benj - poacher and woodsman of Sessalie,
husband of Mirag, father of Timal.
Bennent - First captain of the Royal Guard,
second in command to Taskin.
Bercie - palace wine steward's wife in
Sessalie.
Bertarra - the late Queen Anjoulie's niece.
Beyjall - a foreign apothecary who lives in
the citadel. borri'vach - an idiom
used as a curse in Scoraign dialect, meaning 'to douse the problem with sand'.
Bryajne - a buckskin gelding.
Bull Trough Tavern - tavern and brothel in
the Falls Gate district of the citadel.
Cade - Lowergate Garrison's day sergeant.
Cafferty - assistant to the Fane Street
physician.
Canna - maidservant to the Princess of
Sessalie.
Cockatrice Tavern - a tavern in the Falls
Gate district of the citadel.
Collain Herald - court officer of Sessalie.
Covette - a chestnut mare of desert
breeding.
Crossroads Market - an unlicensed assembly
of squatter vendors outside the citadel walls.
Crown Advocate - ambassador for the King of
Devall who stood as spokesman for the High Prince's suit for marriage.
Cultwaen Highlands - a country to the west,
with advanced knowledge of sorcery.
Dalshie - Benj the poacher's lead hound.
Dedorth - scholar of Sessalie. deit'jien tah - do'aa term meaning 'the
target that kills without quarter'.
Devall - a wealthy coastal kingdom situated
in the northeastern lowcountry, whose High Prince sues for the hand of the
Princess of Sessalie. do'aa - the barqui'ino term for an enclave of
learning, under a master teacher, whose students are sworn to life loyalty.
Dreish - a coastal town.
Ebron - a lancer of the Royal Guard.
Efandi - a kingdom in the southeast,
overrun by hot sorcery. ei'jien - do'aa
term meaning 'luckless sitting target'.
Eishwin - a vizier who fought in the wars
that defeated the Sushagos.
Evissa - town in the southeast that was
besieged by the Sushagos sorcerers.
Falls Gate - a postern in the outer wall of
Sessalie's citadel, that leads into the disreputable quarter of town.
Fane Street - a lane in the Falls Gate
quarter of the citadel.
Farrety - a lord of Sessalie.
Fingarra - a kingdom in the mountains that
lies south and east of Sessalie.
Fouzette - a northern-bred bay mare.
Gance - a kingdom to the northeast.
Gorgenvain - name for the tenth demon.
Great Divide - the high range of mountains
that run north to south, and are impassable except in a few places near the
southern coast.
Grigori - a lancer of the Royal Guard.
Gurley - a farmer in Sessalie. haw - voice command
to turn a horse to the left.
Highgate - the portal leading into the
third and highest tier of Sessalie's citadel, holding the king's palace, the
Sanctuary, and the homes of the old blood nobility.
Howduin Gulch - a rift and a glacier in the
ranges lying southeast of the citadel.
Indussian - refers to Indus, a kingdom
known for its healing arts.
Isendon - reigning King of Sessalie.
Jantii - a tribe from the Scoraign Wastes.
Jedrey - noble-born sergeant who serves on
the night roster of the Lowergate garrison. jee - a voice command to turn a
horse to the right.
Jussoud - Sanouk nomad who serves the Royal
Guard as masseur and healer.
Kaien - master of a barqui'ino do'aa.
Kailen - Crown Prince of Sessalie, brother
to Princess Anja, son of King Isendon and Queen Anjoulie.
Kasminna - a sorrel mare.
Katmin Cut - a pass leading into the upper
ranges, west of the citadel in Sessalie. kerrie - a winged, fire-breathing
predator inhabiting the ranges, that preys upon large game and cattle.
Kevir - a lancer of the Royal Guard.
Lindya - widowed daughter of Commander
Taskin. long spell - the line of power strung by a demon-bound sorcerer. See
Appendix for further detail.
Lowergate - the keep that houses the
citadel's garrison, and also, one of the fortified entrances through the lower
tier wall.
Mantlan - a kingdom famed for its wool,
dyeing and carpets.
Marshal of Devall - commander of the high
prince's honour guard.
Maylie - a prostitute employed in the Bull
Trough Tavern.
Mehigrannia - goddess of the Scoraign
tribes.
Middlegate - the portal through the middle
wall of the citadel, which separates the merchants' district from the lower
town.
Mirag - wife of Benj the poacher, mother of
Timal.
Mistan - a lancer of the Royal Guard.
Muenice - a noble of Sessalie.
Mykkael - a desert-bred foreign mercenary,
who serves as Captain of the Lowergate Garrison.
Myshkael
- a lisped pronunciation of Mykkael's name, an affectation common to Highgate
society.
Orannia - daughter of the Sanouk royal
line, who once served in Mykkael's company.
Paunley - a soldier of the Lowergate
garrison.
Perincar - court vizier to Prince
Al-Syn-Efandi.
Phail - a duchess in the Kingdom of
Sessalie, King Isendon's mistress since the queen's death.
Pinca - a dialect spoken in the east.
Quidjen - Name of one of the Nine demons.
Rathtet - Name of one of the Nine demons.
Sanouk - a nomad tribe from the eastern
steppes.
Scatton's Pass - the difficult,
high-altitude route over the Great Divide, that the mountaineer Scatton was
first to cross.
Scoraign Tribes - inhabitants of the wastes
to the south.
Scoraign Wastes - desert in the southern
lands. seit shan'jien - a do'aa term meaning 'the target with
teeth that bites back'. sennia - a
beverage brewed in the eastern steppes from beans of the Sogion plant.
Serphaidian - the three related languages
spoken on the eastern steppes.
Sessalie - a tiny, isolated kingdom located
in the mountains on the eastern side of the Great Divide.
Shai - a lady who is Princess Anja's maid
of honour.
Shaillon - the lord who is Seneschal of
Sessalie. short curse - a mark fashioned by a sorcerer's minion, to raise a
circle of destruction.
Sogion - a wild bean plant common to the
eastern steppes, used for medicinal purposes. sorcerer's mark - the form
inscribed of white river clay mixed with blood, urine, or spittle, that enables
a sorcerer's short curse.
Stennis - sergeant of the Lowergate
garrison.
Stone Bridge - the guarded span over the
river where the trade road leads into the Kingdom of Sessalie.
Stormfront - a black gelding.
Sushagos - Name for one of the Nine demons.
Taskin - Commander of the Royal Guard in
Sessalie.
Tavertin - a lord of Sessalie.
Timal - son of Mirag and Benj the poacher.
Tirrage - a kingdom in the southeast.
Tocoquadi - Name for one of the Nine
demons.
Trade Gate - the third entrance through the
lower wall of the citadel, where the trade road spans the lower moat.
Trakish - a dialect spoken in Kingdom of
Trake.
Trigal - fifth son of the Emperor of
Tuinvardia.
Tuinvardia - empire in the southwest, over
the Great Divide.
Vangyar - a horse thief in Sessalie. Vashni
- a grey gelding.
Vensic - breveted sergeant of the Lowergate
garrison. Vhael - a wasteland with volcanic calderas.
The hierarchy of the demonic sorcery that
preys upon the human kingdoms in this book runs as follows:
Power arises from demons, who are named,
and who rule and contend as rivals within the nether realms of the unseen. To
affect the material world, they must first snare and bind a sorcerer. This
would be a human who desired to wield power, or receive longevity, who did not
balk at paying the consequences. Such a person would have enacted a ritual to
open a portal, or make contact with the nether realm, and treat with a demon to
acquire power. Such pacts by their nature bound the human to demonic service. The
payoff would be might and immortality. In exchange, the human would enact the
will of the demon, at risk of the penalty of falling to eternal torment.
A sorcerer would be closely tied to his
portal, or source of contact with the nether realms. To expand his power base,
he would create minions, or living subjects, bound into subservience. These
would enact the work to enlarge his territory, since conquest of new ground
provided the human victims that fed the demon, augmenting its powers in the
nether realms.
A long-established sorcerer might have more
than one human realm under minion control, to provide for the demon he served.
Such sorcerers could be bred, to create more bound souls, and establish a
creche. If a creche was large enough, and the demon powerful enough, the
sorcerer's portal could be expanded, and the actual ground of the earth be
suborned into demonic service. This would create a hot contact, or permanent
portal between the nether realms and the physical world, and enable the demon
to deal directly in its quest to feed upon life. A hot contact would also allow
a source for demonic beings to incarnate in physical form, and work the bidding
of the nether realms without requiring a human sorcerer to stand in liaison.
Creches of sorcerers whose demon had claimed a hot contact could then leave
their point of origin, vastly more powerful than before.
A sorcerer's bound minion could operate
within a limited range of the sorcerer. Over distance, the spell lines that
fuelled them would break down by attrition. The power derived from the demon,
as source, and would be channelled into the physical world through the
sorcerer's works, then be passed on to the minion by a spell line, woven
through existing energy channels in the air, and the earth. A minion could
augment and direct the forces running along these spun spell lines to enact the
demon's will, within a set range. He could 'tie' on a catspaw, or work a spell
of compulsion upon an unsuspecting victim, to bind their will or otherwise move
them to act in the demon's interest. He could also create other minions;
however, this required much power, and the spell line from the initial sorcerer
could only channel so much available force at once. The power and talents of a
minion might vary widely, and cover a range of effects, as would the
characteristics of the creations, apparitions, and sendings it would spin from
the sorcerer's spell line.
A short curse, or sorcerer's mark, differs
from a spell line. This would be a pattern of geometry, laid down by demonic
intent, but powered by the minion who drew it. It would be painted with white
river clay, to draw the demon's power through the earth, then mixed with a
bodily fluid to wed its properties to the minion or sorcerer creating it. The
fluid would link it to their being, and thus activate, or raise the mark into
resonance. It would then 'burn', or fuel itself, off the minion's life force,
taking only enough to remain in a state of active readiness. Lacking that
connection, the mark could not function, since it works independently from a
spell line. A short curse requires contact with a live victim, or animal, to
'trigger' its effects. Proximity or contact would link the minion and the
victim through the geometry, with the spirit of the latter subsequently claimed
by the demon, who then can flow destructive power directly into the site where
the mark was drawn. The phenomenon would last only as long as the victim's aura
holds connection to its dying flesh. Once the living spirit is consumed, the
demon would lose connection to the site, which is why a short curse quickly
consumes itself. If a sorcerer's mark is grounded after triggering, the victim
who becomes consumed to destruction (in forfeit), would be the minion whose
connection raised the mark to resonance.
A watcher's mark would be a demonic
geometry laid into air as a passive device for listening. It would be held
active by a hair, or a nail clipping, or a bit of dead skin, left behind by the
minion who set it.
* * *
A last note: the English word 'sorcerer'
may originally have derived from the French,
sourciers, a meaning for which was used in connation with dowsers, who were
'finders of sources', and has no such evil connotation as my usage of the word
for the purpose of this work of fiction.
On
Martial Arts
The particulars of barqui'ino training, and the
do'aa, are entirely fictional, and not derived from any actual existing
discipline or school of teaching.