Reign of Ash (22 page)

Blaine poked his head out of the wagon’s doorway, holding his sword. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Safe. For now,” Zaryae replied.

Blaine jumped down from the wagon and looked around. They were outside of the wall, close enough to Riker’s Ferry that he could see the lights of town and the flare of the pub fire, but far enough that the unruly crowd was unlikely to follow. The cold wind was a relief. Steam rose from the horses, and their frames heaved as they breathed.

A moment later, Geir touched down next to them. The arsonist was limp in Geir’s grip, and when Geir let go of the man, he crumpled to the ground.

“If he’s dead, we’ll never know who sent him,” Piran complained.

“He’s not dead. He fainted when I went up in the air,” Geir replied. “He’ll come around. We’ll find out who sent him.”

“Pretty good drivin’, don’t you think?” Zaryae’s voice made them jump. The seer was still in the clothing she had worn at the show, with a worn coat and a stained scarf pulled over her outfit. “You’re lucky the warning came to me in time.”

“Warning?” Verran asked.

“Zaryae’s a seer,” Kestel explained. “She’s with the troubadours we saw in town, the ones who gave us the disk.”

“I went to the wall when you left us,” Zaryae answered. “I sought a sign. I lost consciousness, and a dream came to me. I saw flames, and danger, and a journey. It was so clear, I couldn’t wait. I shouted to the others to pack up the camp, and I took the wagon after you. Borya and Desya had just seen you to the pub, and when the explosion came, they jumped on and we rode as hard as we could.”

“We’re in your debt,” Blaine said. “Thank you.”

“What about the others?” Kestel asked.

“Illarion and Kata will leave by the back gate. We’re to meet them there. I don’t like being outside the walls at night,” Zaryae said, casting a nervous glance at the starlit sky, “but staying where you were wasn’t really an option.”

“Without our horses, we’re stranded,” Verran said.

As he spoke, they heard the sound of hoofbeats. Fearing that the mob had indeed come after them, Blaine gripped his sword and the others unsheathed their weapons.

“Look, they’re coming!” Zaryae shouted, but her tone held a note of glee.

Four horses were galloping toward them. Borya and Desya rode the rearmost horses and stood in their saddles, driving the other two horses forward with drovers’ calls and keeping them on course with the movement of their own horses. After a few minutes, they slowed, and as they neared the wagon, Borya and Desya dismounted and gathered the reins, leading the horses to where the group was standing.

“That was some good riding,” Piran said appreciatively. “You’ve herded before?”

Borya laughed and brushed his dark hair from his yellow eyes. “Desya and I grew up traveling in the Flatlands. If it’s got four legs and hooves, we’ve driven it from one side of the grasslands to the other. Your horses were much easier than a herd of goats!”

A moan drew their attention. The man lying at Geir’s feet stirred. “Let’s see what our guest has to say,” Geir said, leaning down to grab the man by his shoulder. He jostled him awake and pulled him into a sitting position. The man eyed Geir with terror and seemed only barely aware that the others were nearby.

Geir squatted down so he was on eye level with the man. “Look at me,” Geir said softly, his voice quiet, thick with compulsion. The arsonist resisted for a second, and then despite his terror, he raised his head until he was looking Geir in the eyes. No one spoke, but the arsonist’s face relaxed, his eyes heavy-lidded though open, and his body lost its tension.

“Very good,” Geir said in a voice that was firm, yet reassuring. “Now. Who sent you?”

“My commander.”

Blaine could see the irritation in Geir’s face, but the
talishte
’s voice remained smooth. “You’re a soldier?”

“Yes.”

“Did you swear your oaths to the king, or to a lord?”

“To a lord.”

Geir nodded. “Very good. To which lord are you oath-bound?”

“Lord Pollard.”

Blaine and his friends exchanged a glance. Geir moved a little closer to the arsonist, and Blaine knew that the
talishte
was strengthening the depth of his compulsion. “What was your task?” Geir asked.

“I was to track a man, note his movements, discover his contacts, and report back,” the arsonist answered, in a voice that sounded on the edge of sleep.

“Were you sent to kill him?”

“If the opportunity presented itself.”

“That’s why you started the fire tonight,” Geir responded.

“Seemed as good a chance as any,” the arsonist replied.

“What was he doing in Riker’s Ferry?” Blaine asked. “He got here before we did.”

“Answer the question,” Geir prompted.

“My commander said you didn’t seem interested in going back to Castle Reach, so Lord Pollard sent us out to the towns that remained, watching for you and asking questions.”

Blaine looked up sharply. “There are more spies?”

“Yes.”

“How many more?” Geir asked, his voice soothing.

“Don’t know. Just more.”

Behind them, Piran began to curse. “That’s just great. Now we’re being hunted.”

“Pipe down. We already knew that. This just means the hunt’s fresh,” Kestel replied with a sidelong glare at Piran.

“Why did Pollard care where we went?” Verran asked. “What’s he think we’re doing?”

“Answer him,” Geir directed.

“He doesn’t know. Commander says Lord Pollard don’t like mysteries.”

“Did your commander send spies to all locations, or just to some?” Geir pressed.

“Lots of places aren’t there no more,” the arsonist replied. “Lots more got no people livin’ there since the storms got bad. That cut down on the number some. Commander said towns known for magic might draw you, or spots with no magic. Said you might be looking for a hocus, guy with a funny name. If you found him, we were supposed to kill you for sure. If not, like I said, report in, unless the opportunity was too good to pass up.”

“You’ve done very well,” Geir said quietly. “Now, rest.” At his words, the arsonist slumped forward, motionless.

“What are we going to do with him?” Blaine asked. “Everyone in Riker’s Ferry saw you leave with him, and they know you’re with us.”

Geir nodded. “Unfortunately for him, that restricts our options. The last time Piran caught a spy, I could make him forget everything and send him on his way. There are too many witnesses to do that this time.”

Kestel nodded, and the look in her eyes was steely. “He can’t return to report.”

Zaryae looked from Geir to the arsonist. Blaine had expected her to react with horror, but her voice was matter-of-fact. “Have you fed recently?” she asked Geir. Her dark eyes betrayed no emotion.

He gave a cold smile. “No.” He grimaced. “I don’t care for the circumstances, but it’s our most expedient option.”

Blaine looked at the unconscious man. “He didn’t mind the idea of burning us to death, along with everyone else in the tavern. We can’t let him go.” He met Geir’s gaze. “He’s yours.”

Geir hefted the arsonist into his arms and walked away from the group, behind a copse of trees. When he had gone, Blaine looked to Zaryae and the twins. “
Talishte
don’t bother you.” It was a statement, not a question.

Zaryae shook her head. “We’re from the southern plains, near the border of the Lesser Kingdoms. Our people have herded on those lands from times before memory. When a wolf threatens the flock, there is no shame to the dog who kills it.”

She reached up to twist her long hair and secured it with a long brass pin at the nape of her neck. “An unfortunate analogy, but true.
Talishte
are predators. They and my people have long been able to live in accord. We understand each other. If your friend were not what he is, we would have had to handle the matter ourselves. A wolf cannot be allowed to harry the herd.”

There were stories in her dark eyes, Blaine thought, but few of them had happy endings.

“Where now?” Verran asked.

“Illarion and Kata are waiting for us,” Zaryae replied. “We join them, make camp as near the city wall as we dare, and set a watch for storms. Tomorrow, you can be on your way.”

“I agree,” Blaine said. “There’s safety in numbers. We’ll camp together tonight.”

“And tomorrow?” Kestel asked.

Blaine smiled and patted the part of his coat that held the map. “We found some pretty exciting things in a place where there isn’t any magic. Next we’ll see what we find where magic used to be strong.”

“I had a feeling you weren’t ready to head back yet,” Verran said, in a voice that indicated he clearly wished they were.

“How far?” Kestel met Blaine’s gaze.

He shrugged. “About a day due west.”

“Even before the Great Fire, towns were scarce in the foothills,” Zaryae said, her gaze following the shadows toward the dark outline of the mountains that loomed against the night sky. “You mean to go to Durantha.”

Blaine nodded. “You know the place?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Does your gift give you any hint about whether going there is a good idea?” Verran asked nervously.

Zaryae smiled. “I’ll see what the dreams say tonight. We’re outside the walls.” She turned her attention back to Blaine.

“Before the Great Fire, there was a mages’ collegium in Durantha, the Lyceum of Tobar,” Zaryae said. “Whether or not it still stands, I don’t know. But if anything survives, you may find it worth the ride.”

“All I want right now is a good night’s sleep,” Blaine replied, feeling weariness in every bone and bruise. “I’ll worry about everything else tomorrow.”

“If the storms don’t come tonight,” Verran added darkly.

“P
ut your backs into it, lads, or there’ll be no shelter the next time one of those magic storms comes around!” Niklas Theilsson shouted the order to his men and pulled the rope tight across his shoulder, one of a team of eight men pulling on stout lines to drag away the heavy stones that blocked entrance to Arengarte’s cellars.

Niklas was sweating despite the winter cold, and he had laid his coat aside a candlemark ago, trusting to exertion and his heavy wool shirt to shelter him from the elements. “Pull!” he shouted.

Grunting and sweating, they pulled the heavy rock on skids far enough away from the cellar opening to clear a space. It had taken two days to reach the bottom of the pile of tumbled rocks that were all that remained of the grand home’s main barn. With the final stone dislodged, Niklas dropped the lines and walked over to observe the opening they had uncovered.

A few years earlier, Niklas might not have been so quick to take a place alongside his soldiers for such dirty work. His superiors would have reprimanded him for acting beneath the dignity of his rank, and the farmer’s son who had won his prized commission with luck, sweat, and blood would have taken their chiding to heart and stood to the side, directing.

That Captain Theilsson belonged in a different world, a different life
, Niklas thought. He could barely remember those days, when Donderath’s army swaggered off to war certain of its supremacy, and its officers were assured of their own extraordinary abilities. One by one, those generals had fallen, while the troops that had been Donderath’s pride fell by the tens of thousands.

There had been a time, Niklas thought, when he would have been quite upset to find a smudge on his uniform or a button missing from his jacket. That was before he learned what it was like to go hungry for days, to crawl on his belly through mud and blood and entrails, pushing aside the severed limbs of dead men. It was before he had learned to be grateful for water wherever he could find it, even from brackish pools and old horse troughs, when he had thought so highly of himself that he would have thrown aside a moldy biscuit or a bit of maggoty meat instead of understanding that hunger can make the unthinkable palatable. It was before he had seen his army humbled, his men slaughtered, and his kingdom brought to ruin. Before he and the survivors, many of them maimed in mind or body, had begun their long, painful march across half a continent to find the wreckage of what they had once called home.

“Captain!” A man’s voice roused Niklas from his thoughts. To these men, for the rest of his life, his name would be “Captain,” and he knew that nothing would ever change that.

“What is it, Ayers?”

Ayers, a stout man with thinning red hair and a stubborn jaw, barely restrained himself from saluting. “The hunting parties have returned, sir. They’ve made good work of it, too. Each party brought down a deer.” He paused and looked around nervously. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but are you absolutely certain it’s legal, poaching deer?”

Niklas laughed. “If there’s no king, there’s no king’s forest, and hence, no poaching.”

Ayers looked relieved. “Not that I doubt your word, m’lord, but my mate and I got in a bit of trouble over such things, before I went to war. We went out to do a bit of hunting and got caught by one of the king’s wardens. I outran him, but my friend wasn’t so lucky.” He looked chagrined. “That had a lot to do with me joining up, if you know what I mean.”

Niklas had no doubt that Ayers’s story was common among those who had volunteered for the war. Some had joined for adventure, and others for honor, but most were running toward the war because they were running away from something else. His gaze strayed to where Carr McFadden was helping another work team lever the salvaged rocks into place to repair the holes in the stone fence.
Running away is usually easier than coming back
, he thought.
Blaine knows that. But does Carr?

“Give the teams my hearty thanks,” Niklas said, clapping Ayers on the shoulder. “Make sure the deer are dressed and save the blood, in case we have more visits from our
talishte
friends.”

Ayers grimaced. “You don’t think that’s likely, do you, Captain?”

Ayers had been one of the men dropped from the sky by the
talishte
, and he’d been one of the lucky ones to emerge with bruises but no broken bones. Niklas could not fault his caution.

“Lord Penhallow’s
talishte
are allies of Lord McFadden,” Niklas replied. “That makes them our allies as well.”

Ayers looked even more ill at ease. “There’s a rumor, Captain, and I hope it ain’t true. Some of the men are saying that you’ve sworn your fealty to Lord Penhallow. They’re not keen to be bound to a biter.”

Niklas grew sober. “I’ve pledged my fealty, but not to Lord Penhallow. Blaine McFadden is our lord now, and I am his liege man.” He had always been at Blaine’s side, from the time they were boys together, and more than once, he had bound up the wounds inflicted by the elder McFadden or talked Blaine out of running away, or worse. Old guilt stabbed at him.
Perhaps if I’d been around, I might have kept Blaine from killing Old Man McFadden. I let him down once. I won’t do it again.

Ayers looked relieved. “I’ll let the men know, sir. They were afraid to ask.”

Niklas forced his attention back to the present. “If that’s what’s being said, I’d appreciate your help in setting it right,” he said. “I’d like to put the men’s minds at ease.” He paused. “Lord Penhallow is, by all accounts, an honorable
talishte
, and a patron of Lord McFadden’s. Please let the men know they need to be mindful of how they talk.”

Ayers saluted. “Consider it done, sir.”

Niklas turned back to the work crew, who had regrouped to clean out the cellar beneath the collapsed barn. Durron, one of his lieutenants, organized the men so that whatever rubble was found in the cellar could be handed up along a human chain, passed from man to man until it could be discarded. Satisfied that the procedure no longer needed his help, Niklas retrieved his coat and was headed toward the ragged cluster of tents and lean-tos that was the camp.

“Captain Theilsson!”

Niklas looked up to see Ordel, the healer, striding toward him. The look on Ordel’s face gave Niklas to know that it was not a social call. “What’s wrong?” Niklas asked as soon as the man was close enough for conversation.

“We’ve got two men down,” Ordel said. “I don’t like the look of it. I think it’s fire frenzy.”

Niklas sighed. ‘Fire frenzy’ was one of the names given to the strange madness that had begun to appear around the time of the Great Fire. Some called it “Meroven madness,” as if Donderath’s opponent had seeded an outbreak. Still others just called it “the madness,” making no attempt to explain its origin. “Tell me,” Niklas said, falling into step beside Ordel.

“Both of the men complained of feeling poorly for the last few days,” Ordel said. “One of the men, Eidar, became confused and then collapsed while he was mending fences. The men who brought him to me said he started convulsing and grunting before he lost consciousness.”

“And the other?”

Ordel shrugged. “It came on him a little differently, but we’ve seen the like of it before. He had mentioned not feeling well, and his tent-mate said he hadn’t slept well for several nights, thrashing and calling out in his sleep.”

“If that’s the mark of madness, then we’re all madmen,” Niklas said, his tone dark. “These men have seen real nightmares and lived to tell it. Everybody’s dreams are haunted.”
Mine certainly are.

Ordel nodded. “Aye, sir. That’s true. But this morning Roderon, the second man, didn’t seem to know where he was or who he was. His friends thought he might have had too much to drink, and so they got him up and out for the work detail, but it’s as if he’s in a fog that doesn’t lift,” Ordel said. “He’s forgotten the most basic things, like how to use a saw or a hatchet or tie off knots.”

“Do you think it was an act, to get a few days in the infirmary?” Niklas asked.

Ordel barked a harsh laugh. “You mean lounge in luxury in the sick tent, where the canvas leaks and the brazier can’t keep out the chill?”

Niklas grimaced. “Some men will do just about anything to shirk a task they don’t like.”

“True enough, but in this case, I don’t think so. I gave Roderon a purgative, just in case he’d eaten something that caused the symptoms.” He chuckled. “Usually that separates the real sick men from the pretenders very quickly.”

“How is he now?”

Ordel sighed. “He collapsed, and then he started to shake and cry out. We had to restrain both men by tying them to their cots.”

“Are you certain it’s the madness?” Niklas asked. “You’ve ruled out bad whiskey, eating or smoking or brewing the wrong kind of plants, being bitten by a snake – anything?”

Ordel favored him with a forbearing smile. “Yes, Captain. No one saw them eat or drink anything that wasn’t shared by the rest of the camp. There are no bite marks of any kind.”

“Were they using witch potions?” Niklas asked, still hoping to find any explanation other than the madness.

Ordel shook his head. “We found none in their tents, nor any of it on their skin.” Niklas knew that Ordel was well acquainted with the potent mixture the men called ‘witch potions.’ Some of the men whose battle scars were more mental than physical had taken to creating dangerous mixtures of nightshade, hensbane, and other wild plants that could be made into an ointment to produce visions. Despite Niklas’s condemnation of the dangerous potions and the healers’ efforts to confiscate the substances, the plants were so plentiful and the recipes so basic that it had been impossible to completely eliminate them.

Niklas cursed. “What now?”

“We’ve given them both sedatives, and they’re quiet for now.” He turned to look at Niklas. “You’ve seen this happen as often as I have. We both know how it goes from here.”

Niklas let out a long breath. “Yes, we do.” Once seized by the madness, few men recovered. They thrashed and wailed, tormented by visions and monsters they alone could see, as if the wild magic of the storms had found a home inside their minds. Some lingered for several days or weeks, until they refused all sustenance and died of starvation. A lucky few had survived, but thus far, none of Ordel’s healers could determine what enabled these men to recover. Eight of the men who had left the Meroven battlefront with Niklas had fallen to the madness, and only two had survived. What little they knew about the madness came from the rumors and gossip they had picked up as they traveled, since it seemed to have struck in every town and village where they had journeyed.

“Have your healers learned anything more about the madness?” Niklas asked. They had reached the infirmary tent, and Ordel held open the tent flap for Niklas to enter.

“We’ve seen no link to anything they’ve consumed, and it doesn’t appear to spread from man to man like flux or fever,” Ordel said.

“Thank the gods for small favors,” Niklas replied. A plague of madness was more than he wished to contemplate.

“There they are,” Ordel said, indicating the two men with a nod of his head.

The healers’ tent was one of the largest in the camp, and while it was in no better repair than the others, it offered room for six cots as well as space enough for two healers to eat, sleep, and work among their charges. Right now, the cots were empty except for the two sick soldiers. Niklas walked between the two cots and regarded the men in silence.

Under the influence of the healers’ sedative, the men appeared to be sleeping soundly. The ropes that bound their wrists and ankles to the cots betrayed the truth, as did the fresh burns on their skin where the men had rubbed raw against their bonds. Their breathing was shallow, and their skin was ashen.

“We’ve done our best to make them comfortable,” Ordel said quietly, his voice sad.

“Naught to do now but wait,” Niklas said. “What are the men in the camp saying?”

Ordel shrugged. “You know an army camp moves on its belly and lives for gossip. I’m sure by now the rumors say that these two poor blokes turned into wolves and bayed at the moon. Let them imagine all the reasons they like. I suspect that it would terrify them more to know that we have no idea what causes or cures it.”

Niklas nodded. “I agree. Keep me posted. If anything changes with their conditions, or any others succumb, I want to hear about it.”

“Aye, sir.” Ordel sighed. “And may Esthrane favor us. Gods know, we’ve seen more than our share of bad fortune.”

“I stopped asking the gods for their favor the night Donderath fell,” Niklas said. “They didn’t deliver us then. I wonder if they were ever listening at all.”

Ordel gave a sad smile. “You’ve led a regiment of injured and heartsick men through the wreckage of their kingdom and brought them home again. I believe the gods favor you more than you know.”

“I hope so, Ordel. I hope so.”

Niklas left the healers’ tent and stepped into the cold wind. He headed up the path to what remained of Arengarte, his family home. His father had made his own way in the world, turning what began as a small bit of land into a thriving farm. Lars Theilsson had been a clever man, and he had developed arrangements with the nearby miller to gain a preferred price for his own wheat and barley. He had employed spinners, weavers, and dyers to turn the wool from his herds of sheep into sought-after yarn and cloth. The farm’s kitchen had produced jams, pies, and breads that were quite popular with the nearby town folk. Over time, the Theilsson family had prospered despite their lack of a noble title.