Besieged (70 page)

Old Nerasun raised his arms. ‘Sit down, everyone. I will speak with them. We are not at war.’

As he finished, a Mieren came up behind him and ran him through. There was utter silence for a heartbeat, then...

Women screamed, children shrieked and the Mieren men-at-arms attacked. Many of their people didn’t even make it out of their seats; they were hacked down at the table, some made it a few steps, before they were cut down.

Paravia gasped and went to run, but there was nowhere to go. The three singers clung together. Tobazim saw a little girl crawl under the table. The musicians threw down their instruments, picked up chairs and tried to defend themselves.

Learon grabbed the nearest brazier by the base and swung it as four Mieren charged them. Hot coals sprayed their attackers. Tobazim pushed the girls and the drummer boy behind him. Athlyn just stood there, stunned.

Tobazim grabbed him by the arm. ‘Protect them.’

A Mieren attacked Tobazim. He picked up a drum and brought it down on the man’s head. As the man staggered, Tobazim kicked him in the belly and tore the sword from his hands. He’d been trained to use the long-knives, and it felt strange.

Learon swung the brazier, clearing a swathe around them, but more attackers kept pouring into the courtyard. And all the while, their people fell. They were vintners, not warriors. The old, the sick, the very young. The children...

Sickened, Tobazim fought to stay alive.

Learon jerked his head towards a knot of Malaunje youths who had united not far from the kitchen corridor. ‘Over there.’

As Learon charged towards the defenders, Tobazim glanced over his shoulder and saw the singers grappling with two men-at-arms, who were trying to drag them off. He cut both men down, before grabbing the girls and shoving them in Learon’s direction. ‘Stay with Lear.’

Tobazim saw Athlyn standing unarmed between the drummer boy and a Mieren wielding a bloodied sword. Tobazim ran the Mieren through, tore the sword from his hand and gave it to Athlyn. The drummer boy took the Mieren’s knife.

‘Come with me.’ Tobazim hacked his way through the men-at-arms to join Learon and the defenders. There they fought, gradually backing up. They were holding their own, but for how long?

In the melee, he shouted to his choice-brother. ‘We have to get out. This is a massacre.’

Learon glanced behind him. ‘The passage to the kitchen looks clear. Get them out. I’ll protect your back.’

Tobazim pushed the young musicians towards the door and grabbed Athlyn. ‘Get them outside.’

The circle of defenders contracted as they poured down the passage, until only Learon, Tobazim and six youths held off the men-at-arms.

Tobazim glanced over his shoulder as he fought beside Learon. Movement in the passage had stopped; they needed him.

He ran, pushing past the others until he came out into the kitchen, where he saw blood on the tiles, a headless torso and someone’s legs protruding from under the table.

One of the singers, Tia, was weeping over the body of the old cook. Paravia had stopped to grab carving knives and choppers, and was handing them around.

Tobazim hauled Tia to her feet. ‘Out the back. Quick. Everyone out.’

He pushed Tia through the door, and the others followed. The kitchen opened onto a paved area and the walled garden. On one side was a culvert that ran down to the river. If they could just get to the river and into the boats, the current would take them.

He turned to look for Learon and the other defenders, but there was no sign of them.

Tobazim had to ensure the others got out alive. ‘Go now. Follow the culvert down to the river, where you’ll find boats. Hurry, and don’t look back.’

He sent them down, hoping they’d do what he said.

Because he was going back for Learon.

As the last Malaunje ran for the culvert, he turned and headed back into the kitchen. Half a dozen youths came running towards them.

‘Where’s Lear, Charane?’

‘He set fire to the hay bales.’

Learon charged into the kitchen, bringing the smell of smoke. He laughed to see Tobazim.

The crazy fool was enjoying himself.

Learon grabbed him and hugged him. Then they were running. Behind him, the flames took hold; he heard men-at-arms shouting.

Tobazim plunged down the culvert. Skidding on leaf litter, he landed on his backside. Learon hauled him to his feet and they kept going. He heard shouts, but didn’t know if the Mieren were coming after them.

Down by the river, he found the youths but there were no more boats.

‘We’ll have to swim,’ Learon said.

‘No. Get on the jetty.’ Tobazim used the borrowed Mieren sword to hack through the ropes that held the floating jetty.

They nearly fell in the river as the makeshift raft dipped and wobbled. Everyone dropped to their knees. Then the current took them. As it swept them around the bend Tobazim looked back to the winery, which was now well alight. If they were lucky, the Mieren wouldn’t realise they’d gotten away.

But so many hadn’t.

Behind him, he heard the youths muttering, trying to make sense of what had happened. Why they been attacked?

‘We just built a bridge for everyone,’ Charane whispered. ‘Why attack us? Why now?’

Further downstream, well out of sight of the winery, they found the boats pulled up on the bank, surrounded by those who had fled the fighting. Tobazim slid into the icy river and dragged the raft to the bank.

Once they were all ashore, Tobazim counted seventeen survivors. They stood shivering in the cold night air. Several of them were injured, and none of them understood what had happened.

Paravia pushed through the others and threw her arms around Learon, sobbing and kissing him.

‘What should we do?’ Athlyn asked. ‘Will they come after us?’

Learon set Paravia down and turned to them. ‘We have to go to the city. Have to report this to the all-father. We need justice.’

‘It’s a long way by foot,’ Tobazim said. ‘We’ll have to travel at night to avoid Mieren. First we should hide the boats, hide everyone. Tomorrow, Learon and I will return to the winery, see if there are any survivors and discover who is responsible for this outrage.’

‘Mieren.’

‘Filthy Mieren!’

‘Yes, but which Mieren?’

‘What possible reason could they have for attacking us?’ Athlyn asked. ‘We haven’t done anything.’

The others muttered in agreement.

Tobazim spotted the stable master. ‘Maric, see to the injured.’

As the Malaunje moved off, Athlyn rubbed his arms, teeth chattering. ‘I killed at least one Mieren. He’ll come after me, try to drag me with him into death’s realm. I don’t have the training to survive that kind of attack.’

Learon went very pale. ‘I must have killed a dozen.’

Tobazim felt the impact of their fear as he recalled the men he’d killed. But... ‘Violent death confuses the shades of the dead.’

‘What if they do find us?’

‘I’ll anchor you.’ Because he had to. Conviction filled him. He was not going to die, ambushed by the shades of the men he’d killed in self-defence.

Responding to his certainty, they relaxed.

And just like that, he became responsible for all their lives – T’En and Malaunje.

T
OBAZIM STOOD IN
the blackened ruins of the villa. He held Baron Nitzane’s banner in his hands. It made no sense. The winery hadn’t had any trouble with the baron. Why would he send his men to attack them? He rolled the banner up.

Nothing remained of the villa other than shattered stone walls and collapsed beams, some of which still smoked. The bodies of his people had burned, along with some of their attackers. Thankfully several of the outbuildings had survived intact.

‘Maric, take the others and check the stables.’

‘They’ll have taken the horses,’ Learon said.

‘They might have left blankets or tools. Check the outbuildings for food.’ Tobazim picked his way through the broken masonry and charred timbers. He prodded something with his boot, revealing glowing coals.

‘What are you looking for?’ Learon asked.

He had hoped to find the silver nib his choice-mother had given him, but it would be a puddle of melted metal now. It was only a symbol; you could not kill the idea.

Tobazim looked up. ‘There’s nothing here for us to bury.’

The others returned with blankets, an axe and some ropes.

‘They stripped the store rooms,’ Maric reported. ‘Took all the food. There wasn’t much left in the stables.’

‘Then we’ll have to forage as we go,’ Learon said.

‘Seventeen people, three of them injured.’ Tobazim had been thinking. ‘We’ll take the river west, then strike north for the city.’

Chapter Fifty-Six

I
MOSHEN MET THEM
at the door to the solarium. They handed her the injured spy’s travelling kit; as they carried him through, she caught a glimpse of pure white hair.

‘Did he say anything on the journey?’ she asked one of the Malaunje who’d arrived with him.

‘He was rarely lucid.’ The man lowered his voice. ‘The journey exhausted him.’

‘To be expected. I’ve sent for Healer Reoden.’ Imoshen thanked them as they left.

While the sisterhood’s herbalist bathed the injured Malaunje and checked his injuries, Imoshen opened his travelling kit, which bore their sisterhood’s symbol. There was nothing of an identifying nature in his bag, just a change of clothes and the two items of interest mentioned in the message. The stone on the silver torc was most unusual, but it was the glass ball that fascinated her. If she held it in one hand, nothing. If she cupped it in both, it glowed, pulsing. What did it mean?

Behind her, the herbalist gave a soft gasp. ‘This is bad.’

Imoshen put the travelling kit away and crossed to the wounded man. He lay on a bedroll, pale chest bare, face turned away from her. As she circled him she noticed, although his body was badly scarred, he was not elderly. Young face, white hair and burns. Could it be...?

The Warrior’s-voice had been sent south two – no, three years ago. The last she’d heard, he was dead, killed in the Maygharian uprising.

‘This stomach wound.’ The herbalist pointed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. The skin’s dead, but there’s no decay.’

Catching sight of the ugly wound, Imoshen drew back. Her sight shifted to take in the empyrean plane, and she saw the wound was slowly but surely leaching the life force from him. How had he survived this?

Her sight returned to normal. ‘Send for the gift-wright.’

The woman looked confused for a moment, and then her features sharpened with fear. She sprang to her feet, darting out of the solarium.

Imoshen was left alone with the white-haired Malaunje. She studied him.

‘Are you who I think you are?’ she whispered, as she placed her hand on his forehead and probed with his gift. As if sensing her power, he stirred, but even in this state his shields were solid. ‘What did the Mieren do to you? Why did they tell everyone you were dead?’

And what would the T’En do to him if they knew who he was? She’d gained the distinct impression the T’En did not approve of the Warrior’s-voice.

‘...never seen anything like it,’ the herbalist said, leading Reoden in. ‘We’ve sent for the gift-wright.’

The healer sank to her knees opposite Imoshen.

The herbalist left, and Imoshen watched as Reoden ran her hands over the injured man’s body, pausing over old wounds, studying how the recent wounds had healed. It seemed Reoden didn’t connect this injured Malaunje with the deceased Warrior’s-voice.

‘Can you–’

‘Heal him? Yes. But he won’t get better unless the gift-wright can heal his stomach wound.’

Imoshen had guessed as much. ‘I’ve never seen Ceriane at work. This should be interesting.’

But when the gift-wright arrived and examined him, she was not hopeful.

‘His wound is of empyrean origin so he must be someone’s devotee,’ Ceriane said. Imoshen didn’t correct her assumption, or identify him. ‘His T’En should have brought him to me when it first happened. Then, I could have healed him, by drawing on the T’En’s gift. Now...’

‘Can’t you do anything for him?’ Imoshen pressed.

Ceriane lifted her bony hands. She was a thin, angular woman, who radiated determination. ‘I’m a gift-wright. He has no innate power for me to work with.’

‘If Ceriane can’t heal his empyrean wound, then there’s no point me healing his physical wounds,’ Reoden said, her voice heavy with regret. ‘He’ll only suffer. He must have been suffering horribly as it is.’

‘I think we can heal him,’ Imoshen said.

Reoden and Ceriane sent her sympathetic looks.

‘Sometimes it is kinder–’ Reoden began.

‘No, I really do.’ It frustrated Imoshen that even these clever women could only see what they’d been told. ‘When we go to the empyrean plane, our bodies are constructs, yet if we take a bad wound on the empyrean plane, our physical body will mirror that wound. While we are on the higher plane, if we have the time and the power to spare, we can heal the wound. When we do that, our physical body heals.’

Ceriane frowned. ‘You’re saying...’

‘We take his essence to the empyrean plane and heal him there.’

The gift-wright and healer hesitated.

‘Would it work?’ Imoshen asked.

‘It might,’ Reoden admitted. ‘But it’s too dangerous.’

‘She’s right,’ Ceriane said. ‘The use of power would attract predators.’

‘I’ll defend you while you gift-work.’

‘His physical body is weak. He might not have the will to hold his essence together on the higher plane,’ Reoden warned.

‘He’s survived this long. I think his will is strong.’ Imoshen looked from Reoden to Ceriane. ‘Do you want to try it?’

The gift-wright tilted her head. ‘I admit the challenge interests me. But he could die.’

‘He’s not getting better as he is,’ Imoshen snapped.

Ceriane’s eyes widened.

‘Imoshen can be rather forthright.’ Reoden grinned. ‘Very well. If we knew who his T’En was, we could ask their permission. As it is, we’ll have to wait until he wakes.’