Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (11 page)

And she was no Farspeaker. She couldn’t tell Lance that the whole plan had crumbled to bits. If she sacrificed her voice, she would cease to be a shandy and become a true beast—

Rhiain gulped, swallowing back the panic that wanted to grip her. It wasn’t too late yet. If she just received the signal soon, everything would be fine.

In the meantime...She took hold of the dead sentry’s arm in her teeth and dragged him farther away from the Gate.

Next she loped back toward the legionnaire camp.

She’d chewed the rope around her neck off as short as she could, but it still flapped annoyingly around her face. A growl wanted to rumble out of her throat, but she suppressed it.

Hoping to sniff out Lance, Rhiain scouted the outside of the palisade, peering in through the chinks between the stakes. It amazed her anew how blind legionnaires were once the sun slept and they gathered around their fires.

A sudden neigh made her flatten her ears. She’d forgotten the horses. The cohort lacked cavalry, but she should have realized the officers would have mounts. She sniffed out six horses stabled in one corner, taking care to stand downwind.

Idiot! A mistake like that could have cost her life during the invasion. She—

“
Now
.”

Rhiain shied. The word resonated in her head as if whispered by a ghost, but, of course, it must be Hiram Farspeaking. Joy replaced unease. Disaster had been averted.

Silently promising to never forget herself so again, Rhiain circled back around to where two more sentries guarded the palisade entrance.

Instead of a proper gate, there was only a gap in the palisade wall. Two sentries stood behind a waist-high dirt wall that was mounded five feet in front of the gap, partially blocking the front approach. Two torches burned on poles. The light would make their eyes nightblind.

Rhiain bounded in from the side in a silent rush. A slash of claws took out the nearest man. The second one choked out a scream before she broke his neck, but didn’t manage to draw his sword. The battle was over in seconds.

Happy to be following the plan again, Rhiain slipped inside the camp then roared to announce her presence.

* * *

“What was that?” Mara demanded.

“That’s my friend, Rhiain,” Lance said briefly. “She’s a racha.”

From the women’s blank expressions, he realized they didn’t understand, but Lance didn’t have time to explain. Already he could hear jangling armor, neighing horses, pounding feet, a man bellowing, “To arms!” Then Lance heard another roar from deeper inside the camp. His lips stretched in a smile at Rhiain’s cleverness. She was trying to make them think there were two cat shandies about instead of one.

Breathing shallowly to spare his ribs, Lance levered himself to his feet and lifted the tent flap. The distant orange glow of four campfires and a few stars provided dim illumination. The camp churned with chaos, men running everywhere. He beckoned to the others. “Time to leave.”

Mara took a step forward then jumped back. A black horse bolted past, tail streaming, eyes wide with terror. Mara clutched her son to her chest as Rhiain bounded by in pursuit, a flash of teeth and tawny sinew.

“Rhiain won’t hurt you,” Lance said calmly. “She’s here to distract the legionniares.”

“And what if she mistakes me for one of them in the dark?” Mara retorted.

“Rhiain’s a cat. She can see in the dark. You look nothing like a legionnaire. And you’ll be with me. She knows me. Right, Hiram?”

The old man nodded and hobbled out of the tent.

His example seemed to hearten Mara. She squared her shoulders, but the older woman grabbed her arm. “Being a slave’s better than being eaten. The beast sounds hungry.”

Lance sighed. “Rhiain doesn’t eat people. She loves children—”

The older women emitted a little shriek, and Mara clutched her child tighter. The boy tucked his head against his mother’s neck so only his blond curls showed.

“To play with,” Lance said impatiently. “She’s my friend, and she’s risking her hide right now to save
you
.”

“And why should we believe you?” the older woman demanded.

Lance held up his bandaged palms in silent answer.

Her face twisted with grief. “Kandrith is a fool’s dream. A cruel trick. My brother died trying to reach it. I’m not going anywhere.” She sat on the floor.

Mara looked torn. “I can’t leave her,” she told Lance.

Lance felt sorry for her, he really did, but they were running out of time. Every minute in camp, Rhiain risked a crossbow bolt through the eye. Any other day he would have dragged the woman by main force, but he’d exhausted himself.

His eyes narrowed in sudden decision. “The two of you can throw away your own freedom, but the boy’s father died to give him this chance.” He snatched the child from Mara’s arms.

She shrieked and beat at him, but Lance ignored her blows. He ducked outside, confident the women would follow.

Whereupon the boy, who hadn’t said one word all evening, set up a howl worthy of a blue devil.

* * *

The fat man stopped moaning while the two legionnaires were still arguing about whether they should wake their captain.

Was he dead or only unconscious? Sara edged closer. The stout legionnaire tightened his grip on her arm, but didn’t look at her. Lacking hands, Sara nudged the fat man’s cheek with her toe. No response. His eyes were open, but when she rested her foot on his chest it did not rise and fall.

Dead then. That made things simpler.

The blue-eyed legionnaire noticed her. “What are you doing?”

“The fat man is dead.”

His face contorted. “Show some respect for your husband—”

A roar from outside drowned him out.

Rhiain had finally begun the distraction.

The legionnaires exchanged glances, then drew their swords. “Stay here,” the blue-eyed one ordered before they both slipped outside.

Sara put on her sandals while counting to two hundred. Outside the sleeping camp roused to life; she heard the clang of metal, men shouting, “To arms!” and hoofbeats. She started to lift the tent flap, then changed her mind. The legionnaires might try to stop her.

After wiping the blood off her belt-knife on the fat man’s tunic, she cut a small flap into the back of the leather tent. She crawled through—into darkness and chaos.

* * *

Desperate to avoid notice, Lance covered the screaming boy’s mouth with his hand. The boy promptly bit him through his bandages. Lance sucked in a breath, but grimly hung on.

The boy was heavier than he’d expected, forty pounds instead of thirty, and he twisted like an eel in Lance’s arms. Lance came close to dropping him on his head.

“Give him back!” Mara yelled.

Lance would be delighted to do so—once they were committed to leaving. He didn’t turn his head, hurrying at the fastest trot his abused ribs could bear. He’d intended to stick to the shadows, but now he changed his mind and headed straight for the palisade entrance. They’d just have to hope to remain unnoticed in the commotion.

Mara jumped on his back. Lance staggered under the sudden weight. She yanked at his hair, stinging his scalp. Then her knee jabbed his bruised rib, and his body folded under him. He barely retained enough control to keep from crushing the boy.

Mara scrambled off his back and swept up her bawling son. She glared daggers at Lance, but he refused to apologize, climbing painfully back to his feet. He pointed at the gap in the wall, now only fifty feet away. “Freedom.”

“They’ll see us,” the aunt hissed. “They’ll never let us go.”

Lance rolled his eyes. “They’ve already seen us. But they’re a little busy right now.”

It was true. A number of eyes had flicked toward them during Mara’s tackle, but the common legionnaires showed no desire to take responsibility for them. The legionnaires were tense and carried swords, but many were unarmored, obviously woken from sleep. They formed clots where they could fight back to back. Some waved torches in the apparent hope that rachas feared fire.

They let the fugitives slip past, worried about their own safety.

It couldn’t last. Twenty feet from freedom, a voice hailed them. “You there! Halt!”

Lance tensed. “Keep walking,” he murmured to Mara and her sister-in-law, then dropped back and put his hand on Hiram’s shoulder, sending him strength. “Be ready to run,” he whispered.

Only fifteen feet now...
Twang
! A crossbow bolt embedded itself in the palisade ahead of them.

“Halt!” a man bellowed.

Mara’s sister-in-law flung herself to her knees in surrender, though as far as Lance could see the crossbow had come nowhere near her.

So close. Lance looked longingly at the gap in the palisade. But it was one thing to try to outrun a man, another to try to outrun an arrow.

A bitter taste in his mouth, Lance turned to see a barrel-chested brute jog up in full armour. His red cloak was pinned with an iron sword, the duller metal signifying some rank lower than captain.

Two legionnaires with crossbows stood ready behind him. The first was swiftly recranking his bow.

Lance stepped between the officer and the others. “Yes?” He probably ought to have tacked on a “lord” or “master,” but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Who set you free?” the officer demanded.

Lance kept his head bowed and his hands turned palm down so the chain links gouged into his skin wouldn’t show.

“Never mind. Go back to your tent.”

“The women are scared,” Lance said softly. A torch burned on a nearby pole. He began to edge closer to it. If Rhiain would just roar again, distract the officer for a second...

“They’ll be safer in the tent than out here,” the officer said firmly.

A tall, skinny legionnaire dashed up, out of breath. “I can’t catch any of the horses. They’re out of their minds with terror.”

Although he was almost a foot shorter, the officer drew himself up to his full height and poked the tall legionnaire in the chest. “Then perhaps I should use
you
as bait.”

Pretending to cower from the argument, Lance took another sliding step toward the torch. Almost in reach now.

The skinny legionnaire’s pale eyes bulged. “What about one of them?” Whining, he pointed at Mara’s son. “He’d make a tempting mouthful.”

Lance didn’t wait to hear the officer’s response. He snatched up the torch and tossed it into the nearest tent. The flattened grass inside caught at once, blazing orange.

He felt an instant’s satisfaction before the edge of a sword bit his throat. He stilled.

“Smother that!” the officer snapped. “No, you idiot, pull down the tent on top of it,” he said when the tall legionnaire cautiously stamped on a bit of smoldering grass. “Atticus, help him. Rolan, keep the other slaves from escaping.”

Mara and her son had covered another five feet to the exit. Lance watched helplessly as Rolan shot her in the leg. She collapsed, falling on top of the boy, both of them screaming.

Within moments the tent was down, the flames smothered.

“Now then,” the officer said, staring at Lance down the point of his sword, “I believe we were talking about the need for some bait.”

“Take me,” Lance said quickly. He’d be perfectly safe; Rhiain would never attack him and in the morning Bertramus would reclaim him and they’d go on their way.

“I’d like nothing better,” the officer said. “But you’re too big. The beast won’t attack you. We need someone smaller, weaker.” His eyes fell on the boy. “Get—”

Before he could complete the order, Hiram pushed his way forward. He fell to his knees in front of the officer, a silent plea in his eyes.

Lance swallowed his protest. The movement pressed the sword uncomfortably against his Adam’s apple. Rhiain wouldn’t attack the Gatekeeper either, but he’d be trapped come morning.

The officer raised an eyebrow. “Offering yourself, are you? Very well. But we’ll need blood to draw the beast.” He removed his sword from Lance’s throat and made two swift cuts down Hiram’s cheeks. His eyes dared Lance to object.

Bastard. A surge of hate shook Lance like a windstorm. For an instant, he balanced on the razor’s edge. He wanted to grab the officer by the neck and choke the life out of him. The other legionnaires would cut him down, but it would be worth it.

Hiram glared at him, mutely plucking at his red vest. Red for Heart’s Blood. His lips shaped words, “My choice.”

Lance exhaled. There was more than one type of sacrifice, and Lance had no right to stand in Hiram’s way.

Disappointment flashed in the officer’s eyes, but then Rhiain roared in the distance and he got back down to business. “Atticus, take the big one back and rechain him. Everyone else with me.”

“What about the women and boy?” Atticus asked.

“The mother’s wounded. If they’re stupid enough to run off and get mauled that’s their problem.” The officer turned his back and strode away.

Mouth tightening, Atticus chivvied Lance around. “Get moving.”

Lance bided his time until they were back in the slave tent, out of sight of prying eyes. “Nir’s sword!” Atticus swore at the sight of the pulled anchor, stooping slightly to see better in the dim light.

Lance clouted him behind the ear with both fists.

The tall legionnaire dropped to one knee, and Lance looped the short chain still attached to his manacle around the other man’s neck and strangled him into unconsciousness.

He was tempted to leave the coward choking in his own blood, but he made himself touch the legionnaire’s shoulder just long enough for the Goddess to partially mend his throat. The man would now receive a trickle of air.

Lance ducked back out of the tent before the legionnaire roused. He wanted, badly, to go after Hiram, but made himself turn his feet the other way instead.

* * *

Rhiain enjoyed herself playing hide-and-seek.

A legionnaire hid in the tent on her left. A moment ago he’d dropped his shield and cursed. She quivered, muscles bunched, then sprang at the spot where the wall bulged.

Her claws ripped through the leather. The legionnaire inside yelped in terror, but stabbed at the wall with his spear. He missed, but Rhiain prudently moved on to the next tent.