Furies of Calderon (49 page)

The third took his sword in hand and shot toward Bernard’s back.

Amara tried to cry out a warning, but Bernard’s fatigue, perhaps, had made him too slow. He turned and tried to dodge to one side, but snow and ice betrayed his footing, and he fell.

Gram stepped in the way. The flame-haired Count jerked the sword from the stunned Pluvus’s belt and met the oncoming Knight Aeris head-on. Steel chimed on steel, and then the attacker shot on past Gram.

“Get on your feet!” Gram roared. He spat as the snow and ice clouded his vision. “Get the girl! Get inside the walls!” Gram turned his body against the icy spray and shielded his palm against his side. Amara saw sudden fire kindle there, and Gram turned toward the second of the attackers and hurled a sudden, roaring wall of flame back against the ice and snow. The attacker screamed, a horrible sound, and the gale abruptly vanished.

Something black and heavy fell smoking into the snow before the gates, and the odor of charred meat filled the air.

Amara dashed to Bernard’s side, helping the Stead-holder to his feet. She didn’t see the man who had attacked her until it was almost too late. He rose and drew a knife from his belt, eyes focused on her. With a flick of his wrist, and a sudden pinpoint burst of air, the knife hurtled toward her, whistling with its raw speed.

Bernard saw it, too, and dragged her down, out of the path of the knife.

It hit Gram in the lower back.

Such was the force of the fury-assisted throw that Gram was hurled several paces forward into the snow. He went down at once, without so much as a cry or a gasp of pain, and lay still.

Someone on the walls cried a command, and a pair of
legionares
with bows loosed at the man at the base of the wall from almost directly above him. Arrows struck him hard, one in the thigh and one in back of the neck, its bloody tip emerging from the man’s throat. He, too, fell into the snow, blood staining a quickly growing scarlet pool around him.

“Where’s the other one?” Amara demanded. She stood and swept her eyes over the sky. She barely saw, from the corner of her eye, another flickering of light and air, but when she focused on it, it was gone. Tentatively, she sent Cirrus out toward it, but her fury found nothing, and after questing about aimlessly for a few moments, Amara gave up the effort.

“It’s no good,” she whispered. “He got away.”

Bernard grunted and rose to his feet, one leg held stiffly, his face twisted with pain. “Gram.”

They turned to see Pluvus and several
legionares
hovering over Gram’s form in the snow. The truthfinder’s face was pale. “Healer!” he screamed. “Someone get the healer! The Count is hurt, get the healer!”
Legionares
stood around him, stunned, staring.

Amara let out a hiss of frustration and grabbed the nearest soldier. “You,” she said. “Go get the healer, now.” The man gave a nod and sprinted off.

“You,” Pluvus said, his face twisted with distress, anger, and fear. “I don’t know who those men were, or what is going on, but you must be in on it. You came here to hurt the Count. This is your fault.”

“Are you mad?” Amara demanded. “Those men were the enemy! You have got to get this garrison ready to fight!”

“You cannot order me about like some kind of common slave, woman!” shouted Pluvus. “Centurion,” he snapped, eyes watering but with his voice ringing with authority. “You all saw what happened. Arrest these two and take them to the cells on charges of murder and treason against the Crown!”

Chapter 30

Despite her exhaustion, Isana could not sleep.

She spent the night holding Odiana’s head in her lap, monitoring the woman’s fever, with little else she could do for her. Pale light came through chinks in the walls of the smokehouse, when a grey, winter dawn rose over Kordholt. Isana could hear animals outside, men talking, crude laughter.

Despite the cold air drifting in from without, the interior of the smokehouse remained broiling, the ring of coals around the two women glowing with sullen heat. Her throat, parched before, began to simply ache, agonizing, and at times it felt as though she could not get enough air into her lungs, so that she swayed and had trouble sitting up.

Once, when Odiana tossed restlessly, Isana rose and went to the far side of the ring of coals. Her head spinning with heat and thirst, she gathered her skirts and made to step over the coals, a short leap to the far side—even though she knew the door would be locked and bolted, there might be a loose board in the wall, or something she could use as a weapon in order to make an attempt at escape.

Even as she lifted her foot, though, the ground on the far side of the coals stirred, and the swift, heavy form of Kord’s fury rose up from the ground, misshapen and hideous. Isana’s breath caught in her throat, and she lowered her foot again.

The malformed fury subsided and sank slowly back into the earth.

Isana clenched her fists in her skirts, frustrated, then moved back over to Odiana and took the woman’s head onto her lap again. In her sleep, the collared woman whimpered and stirred languidly, her eyes rolling beneath their lids as she dreamt. Once, she let out a pathetic cry and flinched, and her hands spasmed toward the collar. Even in the woman’s dreams, it appeared, Kord’s collar continued its assault on her senses, her will. Isana shuddered.

The light waned, shadows shifting over the floor by infinitely slow degrees. Isana let her head fall forward, her eyes closed. Her stomach turned and twisted with worry. Tavi and Bernard and Fade. Where were they? If they were alive, why hadn’t Bernard followed her here? Had the ones attacking them been too much for her brother to handle? Bernard would never allow her to remain in Kord’s hands—not while he lived.

Could he be dead? Could the boy be dead as well? Surely he had escaped ahead of the flood, surely he had evaded anyone who may have pursued him even after.

Surely.

Isana shook, and gave no voice to the sobs that racked her. No tears would fall. Her body had hoarded back all the moisture it could. She longed for the freedom to weep, at least. But she did not have it. She drifted that way, head bowed, sweltering and dizzy, and thought of Bernard, and of Tavi.

The grey of twilight was in the air when the bolt at the door rattled, and Aric entered. He held a tray in his hands, and he did not lift his face toward Isana. Instead, he walked to the circle of coals and stepped over, setting the tray down.

There were two cups on the tray. Nothing more.

Isana looked steadily up at Aric. He rose and stood there for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his eyes down. Then he said, “Snow’s starting up again. Heavier.”

Isana stared at him, and said nothing.

He swallowed and stepped back out of the ring of coals. He went to the hod of coal and began scooping out buckets again, to spread them over the smoldering ring, fresh fuel. “How is she?” he asked.

“Dying,” Isana said. “The heat is killing her.”

Aric swallowed. He dumped out a bucket of coals onto the ring, spilling some out sloppily, and went for more. “The water’s clean, at least. This time.”

Isana watched him for a moment and then reached for one of the cups. She lifted it to her mouth and tasted, though it was all she could do not to start gulping frantically. The water was cool, pure. She had to steady herself with a deep breath and hold the cup in both shaking hands. She drank, slowly, giving each sip time to go down.

Isana only allowed herself half the cup. The rest she gave to Odiana, half-hauling the woman into a sitting position and urging her to drink, slowly, which she did with a listless obedience.

She looked up to see Aric watching her, his face pale. Isana lowered the collared woman back down and brushed a few loose strands of hair back from her neck. “What is it, Aric?”

Aric pressed his lips together. “It is,” he said. “There’s only one thing left now.” Without speaking, he finished carelessly dashing coals onto the ring of fire around them.

Kord’s entrance was presaged by a low tremble in the floor of the smokehouse. Then the big Stead-holder banged open the door with one fist and stepped inside, glowering. Without a word, he cuffed Aric’s head, hard enough to stagger the younger man against the wall. “Where is that tar, boy?”

Aric left his head down, his body held in a crouch, as though expecting to be hit again. “I haven’t got it done yet, Pa.”

Kord sneered at him, placing his fists on his hips. Isana noticed the drunken sway to his balance as he did. “Then you can just get it done while the rest of us eat. And if you fall off the crows-eaten roof in the dark, that’s your own affair. Don’t go crying to me about a broken leg.”

Aric nodded. “Yes, Pa.”

Kord growled something beneath his breath and then turned to Isana. “Better get that other glass of water before my new whore figures out it’s there.”

Odiana let out a soft noise, curling in on herself. Kord watched her with a smirk on his face. Isana saw the ugly glitter in his eyes as he prepared to speak again, and interrupted him. “Kord. She’s nearly dead as it is. Leave her be.”

Kord narrowed his eyes at Isana, lips lifting away from his teeth. He took a lurching step closer to her. “Still giving orders,” he murmured. “We’ll see. Tonight, after I’m done with that one, we’ll see what it’s like. We’ll see who gives the orders and who takes them.”

Kord rounded on Aric and swept his fist at him in a clumsy swat. Aric didn’t dodge the blow, so much as he let it catch his shoulder and throw him to the floor.

“You,” Kord growled, chest heaving. “You don’t tell me. You don’t talk to me. Everything you got, you got because I gave it to you. You will not disrespect me, boy.”