Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (2 page)

There was a weapon, a sword a little longer than those she had trained with, and a shield and armor; there was food, snares, and two bedrolls; there was even a small tent which would serve both her and Darin well.

“Sara?” She heard the soft pad of quick, light steps as Darin left the well and approached her turned back.

“It’s morning,” she said quietly. “We should leave now, while we have the chance.” Swallowing, she continued.
“Lord—Lord Darclan gave us time, but only that. The priests will probably come, if the lord was injured or—or killed.”

“Can’t we check?”

“No.” The word was quick and clear—too quick. As if realizing this, Sara added, “The ward on the grounds would make it very difficult—and we ... we can’t risk the power. Not now. Trust me, Darin. It’s best this way.”

He nodded, hearing her words clearly, and misunderstanding the shakiness with which they were delivered. He had been told, by both Gervin and Lord Darclan, that they would have to flee the castle and perhaps Mordantari itself.

Lady Sara slid quickly out of her dress, and, before Darin could blush or offer his aid, found her way into the tunic and trousers that Gervin had also seen fit to provide. They were plain, but not coarse; even though they were simple, no observer would have mistaken them for mere slave’s wear. Padding followed, as did armor. She buckled leather into place and girded herself with her weapon.

“Should I change, too?”

“Yes. But keep the clothing anyway. It’s fine, a little too fancy, and not very practical—but we may need it, in time.”

He began to change, and she, to rearrange the backpacks. When she was done, she lifted the heavier one with quiet authority and slid it onto her shoulders. It felt strange. It had been years since she’d traveled with one. Darin’s grunting drew her attention, and she turned with almost a sigh.

She walked over, held out both hands, and caught the straps of his pack before they crossed at the back. He flushed a little; it added color to his cheeks, to the fairness of his face. “Sorry, Sara,” he muttered, as he turned and held his arms out behind his back.

She was familiar with the gesture. It cut; it cut deeply. “Don’t be afraid to ask me for help.”

He would remember that, later. That, and the expression on her face.

 

Two others watched the castle from without, aware of the Swords, although they were not aware of each other. One was an older man who carried his age like a mantle of authority or a symbol of wisdom. He wore a brown robe, one simple and unadorned by any threads or embroidery that spoke of rank or
office. The hood at the back was pulled up and rested just above the line of salt-and-pepper brows; a twined rope girded his midsection and hung to his knees. A pack lay at his feet and a staff beside it—one of gnarled wood that would stretch to just past his shoulder when carried. He stood almost in plain sight, certainly more so than the Swords—but none noticed or remarked on his presence.

He was a man of many talents and many dangers—and the moment that he had been planning for, even hoping for, was about to come to pass.

Indeed, as he watched the gates he hardly seemed to breathe at all.

 

The last man waited, better hidden and more silent than any of the others. He watched the Swords, and he watched the gate; it would have been hard to say which garnered more of his attention. He was not old, but not in the first bloom of youth either; lines had been etched into the comers of his eyes, but whether it was due to smiling or frowning was impossible to divine. His face was smooth and perfectly expressionless beneath the dark, deep brown of his hair. There was a scar across his forehead, and another across his cheek—but they were faint, like the trace of an old web that’s been all but removed.

His arms were crossed; he kept his hands at his sleeves. The sword that he wore hung, sheathed, past his knee. Yet he, too, was prepared for battle.

 

“Darin,” Sara said softly, “stay behind me.”

Her voice, quiet, was nonetheless edged and cold. Darin tilted his head, as if to question her commands, and fell silent at the look on her face, although it was not directed at him. The sweep of lashes closed in a narrowed line over her eyes; those eyes flared green for a second—a fleeting echo of the previous night’s battle.

Her sword rang out in the stillness, a raw scrape of steel and light. Following her gaze, he saw four men, villagers by their dress, but far too idle for those of the Vale. They lounged by the roadside, but even at this distance it was obvious to Darin that they, too, held swords—swords that were drawn.

Without a word, he reached—fumbled, really—for Bethany.
She came to his hand, and he leaned on her for strength; he called on her for knowledge.

A thin, murky thread of light, almost invisible in the greater brilliance of sun and clear sky, streaked across the distance that separated them from the four that waited.

Before it reached them, it died, cut off abruptly.

“Malanthi,” Darin whispered.

Sara nodded quietly, her eyes a green sheen, her jaw a rigid, square line. “Swords.”

“Should we go back?” He looked over his shoulder; the road behind them was clear.

“No,” Sara said softly. “I can’t.”

“Then maybe we should get off the road?” His eyes darted to trees, but even the suggestion was made doubtfully; the Swords were close. As if his words were beacons, they began to move forward—not running, not precisely, but walking at a very quick pace.

Sara stopped, planting her feet slightly apart in the flat dirt road. Her pack hit the ground and rocked to a stop. She reached for the shield that rested atop it and shrugged her forearm through its leather straps. The handgrip was caught and held in whitening fingers. The shield’s rounded contours fell just below her hips. It had been years since she had held either sword or shield; there had been little call for either in Rennath.

Years? Centuries.

She wondered, briefly, if she would be up to the fight. There were four men, each taller and larger than she, and each was carrying a sword with a greater reach than hers. No doubt they were in practice with those weapons. At least they carried no bows. The Swords were an arrogant group of men, skilled at their arms and vicious in their service to the Church of the Dark Heart—but even they had standards. Ranged combat, the kill from a distance, was a measure of last resort. After all, what good was a kill if you couldn’t feel the death?

At twenty feet, they stopped. She held her place, aware of Darin’s presence—and Bethany’s power—at her back.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the foremost Sword said, pointing slightly with his weapon. “We’d like a few words with you, if it won’t take you out of your way.” He smiled congenially—which is to say that his teeth flashed in an even line between his parted lips. His was a square face, gentled by a long forehead,
full cheeks, and short, soft hair. But his eyes never relaxed—and they never really left Sara’s weapon.

Damn. Damn it. Sara tightened her grip, both on sword and shield. She had hoped that the Swords might somehow take her presence at face value—a common woman in the Empire didn’t really know much of the use of weapons, and even if she had one, would probably not know how to use it. Stupidity was an advantage that she wasn’t going to be offered here.

“What,” she said evenly, “did you want to know?”

“You came from the castle.” He took another step forward, and the three behind him fanned out at his back in a half circle of glinting steel. “We just want to ask you about the events of two nights past.”

“Ask, then. But stay your ground.” She pulled her sword up until the flat rested very lightly against her shoulder.

He didn’t stop; she didn’t expect him to. He had all of the advantage that numbers, size, and, to his mind, rank provided. He had no reason at all to heed her quiet request.

“Here isn’t really the best place for such a discussion; it’s very open.” Another step, slow and carefully placed. His eyes were dark brown—she could see them very clearly now; they were as sharp to her eyes as his breathing, tense and short, was to her ears.

“You know that the Lord of Mordantari doesn’t always appreciate the importance of his Church or its agents.” His smile died suddenly; his voice lost even the patina of friendliness that had, after all, soothed no one. “You’ll both come with us to the village.”

“Mordantari?” Her reply was almost dreamy, so peculiar was the tone. “Is that what he calls it now?
The peace of the dead?”

 

A frown rippled subtly down the Sword’s face, a sudden unease exposed to the light. He started forward, sword at ready, even as she raised and lowered her arms. Her free hand danced in the air more quickly than his feet against the ground; her lips moved soundlessly.

But her eyes, her eyes were the most terrible thing of all to the Sword who was several years her elder. He had never seen such an ugly, all-encompassing shade of green. And he had
never, for all of his lessons and studies prior to attaining his rank, felt the Greater Ward.

Light seared the insides of his skin. The pain was great enough that he forgot, for full seconds, the use of the counterward. He heard the shouts to his left and right as he brought his own hands up in the gesture and the call.

The fire increased; the light grew brighter. He lost the words and the rhythm of the ward as Bethany joined her power to Sara’s.

But he saw, through the haze, the quick dart of his enemy’s lunge. He brought his sword up, as a reflex, and felt it clang against hers. She swore; he smiled grimly and struggled to gain his feet before realizing that he’d never lost them.

At his back, he heard footsteps retreating. He shut them out; they were not his concern. She was. He wanted her death, more than he’d wanted anything in his life. In this Sword, of the four, the blood was still very strong.

 

Sara felt his shields flare to life; she saw the faint pink glow of the two other Swords as they also drew close. She called upon her power as Sarillorn and moved quickly and concisely. Her physical shield she thrust to the side in a low block, but her light she held out before her at the strongest of the three. Her sword, the third of her weapons, moved in a perfect harmony to her two defenses.

She felt the blood call; her body tingled with its imperative. For the first time in years, she gave in to it, joining her skill to the dance of the red and the white, the Dark and the Light.

There was no longer any reason to hold back. Belfas was dead. The Lady was dead. The line had been consumed by history; what was there to hope for now?

Her anger was her direction and her commander. Bethany’s light flared white and warm, a pillar to her right. She heard a scream start—and ended it viciously and absolutely with an instinctive thrust to the side. In the midst of white light came crimson blood.

But it had been four years since she’d wielded a weapon, and Telvar’s words and warnings returned to her too late. Never let anger guide your tactics. Curt, short, true. Her blood flowed next as the point of a sword disappeared into her left thigh. And her blood, as it flowed, was also red.

There was hardly any pain at all, the call to battle was still so strong. But the wound was a heavy warning, and a cold one. She pulled her rage in and pushed it aside, seeing her two remaining enemies clearly. She called on her healing skill to block the wound; it answered, slowing the flow of the blood, but no more.

 

She was not foolish enough to take the time to tend it. Instead, she used her power to bolster the Greater Ward. She saw the square, fair face of the Sword, made mottled and ugly by his blood’s desire, and knew that she saw a mirror of her own expression.

Here, then, was her advantage. She was quit of the call for the moment; he was not. But his remaining ally was hesitant, almost distant. She took a slow step back, brought herself to a stop against Darin, and threw out the remainder of her power until it was almost a visible aurora.

For a moment the Swords stood, suspended. Then they gathered their own, lesser, powers around them like mantles and charged forward, like any inexperienced sixth might have done, bereft of leadership.

They were almost easy to kill, and she did so as quickly as possible. She couldn’t bear to feel the call of their pain as an aftereffect of her victory.

 

Darin was ash gray and silent as the last Sword died. His fingers were wrapped around Bethany, and he leaned against her for support, as if suddenly old enough to require it.

Initiate
, she said, and her voice was cool,
this is a war, not a fable.

He heard the ghost of her sigh; it was an impatient one.
Tend your lady, then. She is injured, but alive, and may require your assistance.

Nodding, he swallowed, and stepped over the outstretched hand that curled, wet and thumbless, inches away from his feet. “Sara?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, as she turned. She had already run a tight strip of cotton across her thigh, but the blood had come clean through. “It’s been too long. I was careless.”

“Do you need any help?”

“Not yet. I can walk; I didn’t break any bones.”

“Bethany can—”

“I think you need her.” Her eyes, as they glanced briefly off his, were dark and tired. She looked very much like a warrior priest—an old one. He couldn’t argue with her, and Bethany didn’t insist on it.

“Come on, Initiate. One of the four went running somewhere, and we’d better be gone when he returns. He won’t come back alone.” She started down the road, her stride only slightly off—and not at all slowed.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Lady’s Woodhall.”

 

Erliss of Mordechai was not a comfortable priest. Nor was he particularly happy, and to make matters worse, he had no appropriate way to vent his spleen—not within the confines of the village of the Vale in the domains of Mordantari. Mordantari belonged to the near-mythical Lord of the Empire. Twice in the history of the Dark Heart’s Church, high priests had attempted to intervene in Mordantari affairs, seeking perhaps good lands and the influence owning them would bring. Neither of the two survived, and their deaths had been in no wise a private affair. Their bodies had been conveyed, by means magical and not well understood, to the center square of the High City in Malakar. Enough remained of their faces, and the fingers that bore their signatory rings, to identify them. And of course, the stories had spread.