Sacrifice (Book 4) (7 page)

“I will not leave her!” he exclaimed, and Mirelle was impressed by the sincerity of his voice. Lord Kildan’s son was quite an actor, after all.

“Go, Dason,” Mirelle said, keeping the despair at the forefront of her voice. “You can do me no more service, now. Go help my mother. Keep her safe, and you will be rewarded.”

He bowed stiffly. “Your will.” He mounted the horse and took the other by the reins, leading them away.

Padra Nolan approached as the Eldephaere bolted her in. “If we are to avoid the vanguard of Mikkik’s host, we must leave now. We will barely make it to Echo Hold as it is.”

“Is there time for the tent?” Athan asked.

“Leave it,” Nolan replied.

Mikkik’s host?
Mirelle thought.
From where?

The small contingent they had destroyed on the canyon floor was the only body of Mikkik’s army not attacking Echo Hold that the scouts had run across.  Athan had made it seem like Mikkik’s forces were scattered and leaderless, but if the army of six thousand that had chased them south could be put to flight by whatever was coming, then something had gone wrong. Her daughter might have been safer going to Echo Hold after all. Mirelle peered out the bars as the wagon rumbled north, wanting to scream a warning to those she left behind.  But she was just as powerless to help them as she had felt holding Gen’s lifeless body to her breast. Desolate, she slumped against the sides of the carriage as the only thing left in the world she wanted to fight for disappeared beyond the horizon.

“We’ve got half a day, Lord Kildan, and then we’ll be in their power,” Maewen reported after dismounting her lathered horse. “It seems they’ve no interest in Athan’s party heading toward Echo Hold. They come for us alone, and we must press on.”

The late afternoon sun hung over the plain where they had thought to encamp for the night, the heat sucking sweat from their skin while the warm light painted their faces the color of flame. After Athan’s party had departed, Lord Kildan had ordered a more leisurely pace south to rest the horses, but Maewen smelled something on the breeze blown in from the east and returned with the poor news—an army of Mikkik’s creatures of unknown number moved across the plain, coming directly for them.

“We can’t rest,” Maewen said. “We ride south as fast as we can to the Blackwood, even if it kills the horses. The forest is dense and dark and will give us some advantage. If we’re caught out here on the plain, and if that army is the size I think it is, we will be slaughtered. If we ride through the night, we’ll make the Blackwood by dawn and have several hours to rest before they fall upon us.”

Lord Kildan swallowed hard at the news. His son Gerand stood next to him, every inch the soldier his father was.

“Father, let me take a group of a hundred of our heaviest cavalry and ride along the eastern flank some distance from the main party so we can sound the alarm if some group of the host catches us early.”

“Do it,” Kildan agreed.

“I’ll send Falael with you,” Maewen added. “He can see and sense things you cannot.”

Lord Kildan nodded. “Dason, Kimdan, and Tolbrook will stay with the Chalaine at all times and ride on the extreme western flank. If we are attacked, we will slow the advance to buy time for the Chalaine to escape.”

“I will ride with her as well,” Ethris offered, concern in his eyes.

The Chalaine could hardly speak. Something was happening to her, both in body and spirit. It felt like the undoing of everything that she was. In the hour after her mother left, her skin began to darken and dry as if held over some invisible, scorching flame that desiccated her flesh but didn’t burn. It worsened with every hour of the sweltering afternoon until chips of graying skin flecked away and fell like ash to the ground. She wore her riding gloves to hide it, but it hadn’t escaped Ethris’s notice.

But worse was a mounting despair flooding down a channel already worn away by her grief over Gen’s death and her mother’s departure. The events of the last two years had sent her soaring to the greatest heights of emotion and dashed her just as far down. But she realized now that even in dark times some anchor of hope had kept her grounded, some purpose had pushed her forward against the driving wind of resistance that always seemed to blow in her face. The anchor was gone, and a deadness just as heavy now replaced it. The sunshine around her mocked the storm that swirled in her mind. It reminded her of the demon’s poison that had pulled Gen so far into despair that it had nearly killed him. Who would come into her mind and pull her out?

“We ride!” Lord Kildan shouted, jolting the Chalaine out of her mind and into the dangerous world outside. Lord Kildan’s men took up the refrain and mounted their horses, though even the general clamor couldn’t mask the groans of weary men unready to be forced back into movement. Gerand, Volney at his side, split off and rode east with the cavalry until they were barely visible in the distance.

“Let me help you mount,” Dason said sweetly, offering his hand. She took it and then snatched it away self-consciously, feigning rearranging her improvised headdress and veil before taking the saddle and pulling herself up. Dason sidled up to her horse, making a show of adjusting the stirrup straps. His dark hair had grown wilder in the days of marching and battle, and his once-crisp uniform was rumpled and dirty. A strange glow of expectancy still filled his eyes, despite their harrowing circumstances.

“Milady, I know you have wandered through many sorrows. You have lost your husband and Gen, whom I know you esteemed as a great man of arms. I stand ready, as your ever constant friend, to succor you in these woes.” He lowered his voice. “And with the . . . obstacles . . . now removed, I might hope that the warm regard we have always shared might bloom into something more blessed than just friendship.”

The agony and deadness within her spared her from feeling the full horror of Dason’s unlooked for and unwelcome invitation. Her mind refused to even accept it as real, the social machinery meant to respond to such a forward declaration jammed and stuck fast in a mire. Esteemed Gen as a great man of arms? How could Dason be so ignorant of her feelings? She blinked to clear her head and then spurred the horse onward to join nearly two thousand men racing forward in a desperate attempt to reach the forest before an army of dark creatures overtook them.

The interminable night favored them with a clear sky, the full light of the three moons beaming down to ease their way through a light mist that clung to the grass like a gauzy veil. Horses and men fell during the night, exhausted and drained. The others rode on without them. Lord Kildan and General Harband refused to let up. The indomitable Maewen rode back and forth between the main body and Gerand’s defensive column on their eastern flank. The Chalaine never heard the reports she brought back, but by the army’s unrelenting pace, the news spurred them forward rather than invited rest.

Several times during the solemn hours of the night, threading through the wisps of mist, the Chalaine nearly fell out of her saddle from a leeching exhaustion. Everyone needed sleep, but few carried a heavier burden than hers.  More men and horses succumbed to the forced march, the wrenching cry of screaming horses and deserted men driving everyone’s sanity to the breaking point. Even the Chalaine’s leaden heart jumped to her throat when the first, barely perceptible thumping of the Uyumaak assaulted her ears, only to be followed by the frantic yells of Gerand’s men. A battle ensued, dimly heard by those in the main column, the noises of weapons and the tone of Gerand’s barked commands hinting at the ebb and flow of the fight.

The altercation was brief, and the tenor of the night air returned to the slow rumble of horses riding ever south. Maewen came back from the fight, and Ethris rode forward to listen to the report she gave to Kildan and Harband, returning the Chalaine a short while later.

“Gerand’s men skirmished with the Hunters scouting ahead,” Ethris told her. “Time is short. We are nearly to the wood and have three hours at best to prepare for the main body. How is your skin?”

The Chalaine regarded him dully. “Does it matter?”

Ethris frowned, but three horses approaching drew their attention away. Volney slumped in the saddle, riding between two of his fellow soldiers. A dark arrow protruded from his shoulder, and the other two bore deep gashes on their legs. The Chalaine cringed, knowing what they would ask.

“We need healing,” Volney said, wincing. “Damn Archer hit me out of the dark.”

They stopped the horses as the column proceeded forward around them. Hesitantly, the Chalaine removed a hand from her riding glove, surprised at the amount of flaked, ash-like skin that fell from it. Her skin appeared fully burned and black now, and Volney, even in his discomfort, drew in a startled breath.

“Mikkik’s beard!” one of the soldiers exclaimed, earning him a stern look from Ethris. The Chalaine reached forward, hand seeming like a dark claw, and grasped Volney’s arm, more skin falling away at the friction. She closed her eyes and tried, as she had a hundred times before, to sense the wound and heal it, but the power had fled. No amount of concentration or effort produced even the slightest healing effect. Tears came unbidden to her eyes. Even her gift had been stripped from her. She was truly worthless now.

“I can’t,” she said, pulling away.

“I have some skill, there,” Ethris said. “Dason, Kimdan, keep her moving.”

The Chalaine barely recognized the passing of night, wondering what sort of dark transformation was upon her. Was this punishment? Was this retribution for failing to protect the Holy baby? For loving Gen instead of the monster she had been married to? Wasn’t her regret and the world’s undoing enough punishment? Wasn’t watching Gen hammered to the earth by a wicked bolt enough torment?

“We’re there!” Dason trumpeted loudly, again bringing her from her dark reverie. The eastern horizon bore the barest hints of dawn, washing away the easternmost array of stars. Before them loomed the Black Forest they had driven for. While perhaps a trick of the darkness,
black
was an apt description. Rather than large, thick trees, the Black Forest consisted of many thin pine trees crammed together in tight spaces. The needles and branches grew only near the top, the thin trunks shooting impressively high into the air. Fallen, dead trees lay at angles, interrupting the uniformity of the dense, vertical poles. The bark of the trees was dark, like her skin, and its layers peeled away from the trunks in feathery strands.

As they neared, it became clear that riding horses through the tight spaces of the Black Wood would be impossible. Their original route would have led them farther east around the wood and then back west toward Rhugoth. Heading directly west would trap them against an impassible ravine and put them in an indefensible position. Almost as soon as they arrived, Dason and Kimdan helped her from her horse and led her into murky sylvan darkness and away from prying eyes.

Lord Kildan and General Harband formed their troops into ranks, Gerand and his men returning from the east to join the rest of the party. The orders were given for alternating shifts of sleep and work, and Gerand and a handful of his men were sent back into the plain to see if they could recover any of the recently fallen soldiers before the Uyumaak butchered them and stuffed them into cook pots. The Chalaine sat heavily against a tree trunk, a knot burrowing into her shoulder. She was too tired to care. Dason told Kimdan to get some rest. A trio of soldiers lay Cadaen’s slumbering body behind a thick tangle of a fallen trees not far from where she reclined, and the Chalaine wondered how long they could do without his sword. Even if awakened, she thought he might just try cutting through the entire Uyumaak column to get back to Mirelle.

The woods burst into activity as men hauled brush to the forest edge to create a dense wall that would slow the Uyumaak advance. For the few who had been wounded in their flight, a small camp was set up near where Cadaen was laid. Nearly half of the soldiers simply lay down in the forest and immediately fell into an exhausted sleep so profound a casual observer might have thought them dead. The Chalaine joined them shortly after, the scent of the Gen’s Ial stone rising with the heat of her body.

Ethris woke her some time later, Maewen with him, and gave her hunk of bread and apple slices. “We have a bit of good fortune. It appears the Uyumaak are as weary and hungry as we are. We’ve only seen a handful of Hunters. The rest appear to have stopped to light their cook pots.”

“Give the food to someone who will fight,” the Chalaine said glumly. “I need little to get me through sitting on the ground.”

“You will eat, child,” Ethris said firmly, penetrating eyes boring through the veil. “Either take it or I will use my magic to force you.”

The Chalaine took the proffered meal and nibbled at it. If they wanted to waste the food, she supposed she couldn’t stop them. Ethris relaxed as she ate, Maewen looking around and listening.

“I wanted Maewen to see what is happening to your skin,” Ethris said. “I will try to help it, but I have never seen anything like it before and wondered if she might have come across it in her travels.”

Placing the food in her lap, the Chalaine removed her riding glove, and Dason sucked breath through his teeth at the ghastly sight. The Chalaine was surprised herself to see just how blackened and flaking it had become. It truly appeared as if she had fallen asleep with her hand in the fire. When she clenched her fingers, chips would drift away to the ground. Maewen, face barely masking her horror at the sight, stooped down and took her hand, rolling up the sleeve a little.

“So it covers your body?”

“Yes,” the Chalaine confirmed. “It is uncomfortable. It started coming on after my mother left me.”

“I have never seen any poison or sickness that acts as this does,” Maewen said, releasing the Chalaine’s hand and standing again. “In the Mikkikian Wars, there were many afflictions, and I do not know them all, but no, Ethris, I can be of no assistance here.”

“It’s a curse for my failure,” the Chalaine mumbled.