Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (15 page)

“We need to get off the road,” the scarred man insisted. A
disproportionate number of the soldiers had been boys or young men. The scarred
man was in his thirties, which made him the veteran of the party and the
undisputed leader. Lance wondered if he was Chief Fitch. “We can’t bury the
others. I’m sorry for it, but they would understand. We have to go now, before
the Legion sends a patrol to look for their missing cavalrymen or the scent of
blood draws predators.”

“Did you see that huge yellow cat?” Jenas asked with a
shiver.

Lance roused himself. “She’s not a beast.”

Everyone stared blankly at him. Despite his oft-repeated
explanation of being the instrument of the Goddess of Mercy, they persisted in
looking at him with awe—and some unease.

Lance tried again. “The big golden cat? Her name is Rhiain.
She’s a shandy.” Except they wouldn’t know what a shandy was. He kept it simple.
“She’s tame. Don’t shoot her.” Lance made sure to look them each in the eye.

The scarred man nodded. “We still need to go. I suggest you
come with us. If the Republicans find out you helped us, they’ll be unhappy with
you, priest of Loma or not.”

Lance hesitated, caught. If he said no, he might never find the
rebels again. But he was growing quietly frantic over Sara’s absence. Wenda
should have chosen someone else for this mission, because when it came down to
Sara’s safety versus matters of state, he would always choose her. He wasn’t
Kandrith. “Thanks for the offer, but I must find my companions. Where’s your
camp? Perhaps we could catch up to you later.”

Resounding silence met his suggestion. The faces surrounding
him became suddenly closed and unfriendly.

* * *

Sara caught the left rein first, then half a mile later,
the right one. She straightened in the saddle, signaling both with her body and
a firm hand on the reins that it was time to stop.

The stallion tossed his head, but flecks of sweat covered his
flanks, and his chest heaved. Soon his head was drooping, and he consented to
turn around.

He clopped slowly back down the road.

A half mile farther on, he suddenly stopped, ears back. He
neighed, lifting his front hooves.

Sara shifted her weight to stay on his back. After searching
for a moment, she spotted Rhiain’s yellow coat off to one side in the woods.

“Get off and I’ll take carrre of the horrrse.”

Sara started to slide one leg over the horse’s back, then
stopped. “How will you take care of it?”

“I’ll eat it.” Rhiain’s tail lashed back and forth.

The horse pawed the ground, ready to fight.

“Don’t kill it. Let it become accustomed to you,” Sara
said—then was surprised at herself. All that mattered was that the horse not be
allowed to run back to the Legion. Why did she care if Rhiain ate it?

Was it because warhorses were valuable? It would be convenient
to have a horse to ride so Rhiain wasn’t burdened and could fight more
effectively.

But Sara had said no before she thought the logic through.
She’d said no because it seemed wrong to hurt a creature whose swift gallop had
brought her pleasure.

* * *

“Show me your wrist,” the short man demanded. His scowl
of suspicion twisted his scars into an ugly mask.

Lance climbed to his feet and fought off another wave of
dizziness. In silence he showed them the bone brand on his wrist that declared
him an osseon, a first-generation slave.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Lance. Of Kandrith.”

“I’m Willem,” the scarred man said. Not Chief Fitch then.
“You’d better come with us. Fitch can decide what to do with you.”

A tall stick of a man with protruding eyes frowned. “But how do
we know he’s not a spy?”

“Minast!” Willem’s son, Jenas, reproved.

Lance thought Minast had been the trampling victim with a
cracked skull and an arm broken in three places. He stared at Minast, letting
his silence speak volumes, until the other man squirmed.

“It’s not that we don’t appreciate what you did,” Jenas spoke
up. “But the Republic has sent spies before. Slaves who supposedly escaped their
masters, but were sent to betray us, their families held hostage.”

“Jenas, you talk too much,” Willem warned.

“I just didn’t want him to think us ungrateful,” Jenas said
stubbornly. “He saved my life. It’s a miracle any of us are alive.”

“Jenas.”

“It’s true, and you all know it!” The fuzzy-bearded youth
hunched his shoulders angrily.

Not wanting to make them more suspicious, Lance didn’t repeat
his request to be left behind. Curse Bertramus. Lance couldn’t regret his
death—he’d deserved it—but there was no denying he would’ve come in useful just
about now to vouch for Lance.

For that matter, he wished Dyl was with them. He could’ve
trusted in the wolf shandy’s common sense. If Sara had been captured, Dyl would
come fetch him and not attempt to rescue her alone. Rhiain tended to act on
impulse and then rely on her formidable fighting skills to get her out of
trouble.

Offering a silent prayer to Loma, Lance took a step forward and
staggered as the earth spun.

Willem noticed his misstep. “Are you hurt?”

“I have spells of dizziness.”

“Jenas, help him,” Willem commanded.

Eyes wide with awe, Jenas walked over to Lance.

Lance suppressed a sigh. He rested his hand on the youth’s
shoulder. “Thanks, lad. I just need to steady myself.”

Willem led the way onto the narrow plankroad across the bog.
The waters on either side were a peaty brown with a scum of bright green algae.
And the smell...Lance wrinkled his nose.

He was glad to leave the bog behind, but alarm built behind his
breastbone when Willem signaled the rebels to leave the stone road and climb the
branch of a fallen forest giant. The massive tree trunk lay at an angle to the
Republican road.

Lance cursed under his breath—the wood would leave no tracks
for Rhiain—but he had no choice but to climb with the others. The bole was the
height of Lance’s head and so wide Jenas and he could still walk abreast.

From above, Lance studied the shadowy forest, hoping to spot
Rhiain or Sara hanging back, but failed.

As they clambered down off the fallen trunk, Lance contrived to
stumble onto one knee and leave a partial handprint in the damp earth.

The rebels spoke little as they passed between the towering
treetrunks, either as a precaution against unfriendly ears or from grief and
gloom over the lost battle and their fallen comrades. Lance wished he’d been
able to heal more of them.

It didn’t occur to him that the men were also silent because of
his own presence until close to dark when Willem dropped back to replace Jenas
as Lance’s crutch. “Go on, Jenas, you must be tired out by now.”

“I feel fine,” Jenas said in surprise. “I could walk for
hours.”

From Willem’s snort he took his son’s words as youthful
bravado. Lance knew the truth; his hand on Jenas’s shoulder would have healed
him of fatigue as they hiked along. But since Lance wanted to speak to Willem
anyhow, he didn’t protest the switch.

“Where’d you say you were from again?” Willem asked abruptly,
after they’d walked in silence for a few moments.

“Kandrith.”

“Freedom? I’ve never heard of a town by that name.” Now there
was definite suspicion in Willem’s voice.

“It’s not a town. It’s a small country far from here,
surrounded by mountains. The Republicans call it Slaveland.” Lance glanced at
his guide to see if this jogged his memory, but Willem’s brow remained furrowed.
“It was founded by a group of escaped slaves.”

“If it’s so far away, what are you doing out here?” Willem’s
thick eyebrows beetled together.

Lance told the truth. “The Kandrith—our leader—sent me to
contact Chief Fitch.” Since Willem seemed ignorant of Fitch’s plan, Lance didn’t
mention Bertramus. “You are his men, I hope?” Lance asked mildly.

Willem grunted instead of answering, and Lance didn’t press the
matter. There was no more conversation until they camped that night.

“No fire,” Willem decreed.

The men grumbled but didn’t argue, hunching their shoulders
against a light drizzle.

Lance cleared his throat. “Couldn’t we take shelter in the
hollow tree back there?” He pointed to a giant cedar whose heartwood had rotted
away, leaving a partly enclosed space as cozy as many a house he’d spent the
night in. Bizarrely, the top three-quarters of the tree still flourished.

Coarse laughter greeted his suggestion.

“Not even if I were freezing to death.”

“You first!”

Apparently, he’d said something stupid. Lance looked
inquiringly at Jenas.

“It’s an Undying,” the young man explained. “Never go inside an
Undying that Hana’s judged, especially if you have even the smallest cut. Blood
wakes them.”

Lance blinked, not sure how a tree could wake.

“It’s true,” Jenas insisted, mistaking Lance’s expression for
disbelief. “My uncle was camping one night and kept hearing tapping, real faint
but it kept him awake. Come morning he took an axe to the nearest Undying and
cut a window. He found a legionnaire trapped inside, almost dead of thirst. The
fool had slept inside three nights before, and by morning the tree had grown
over the opening.”

“Did your uncle get him out?” Lance asked, curious.

Jenas blinked. “No. Weren’t you listening? It was a
legionnaire. He left him for the Undying to eat.”

A harsh fate, but asking a man to rescue his enemies was a bit
much.

“What are the Undying?” Lance asked.

While the rebels shared dried bits of meat and biscuit for an
unsatisfying and damp supper, Lance received the tale in bits and pieces.

Centuries ago, Vez in his malice had offered some men
immortality. They accepted, but found the gift wasn’t what they’d expected. They
died and woke craving blood. Worse, all they drank from died and rose again the
next night, also undying.

Whole villages fell to the curse and the undying became a
plague across the land. The other gods banded together to stop them. Nir raised
an army to dismember them, but Loma had pity on the children and those turned
against their will. She transformed them into cedar trees.

The men who’d bargained with Vez for immortality cried out that
Vez had tricked them, that they hadn’t known the price. She transformed them,
too, but Hana, the God of Justice, decreed they must be punished for their part
in the tragedy so their heartwood rotted away.

The Undying sounded a little like Kandrith’s Grandfather
trees.

“You’ve convinced me,” Lance said when the tale ended. “I won’t
take shelter in any hollow trees.” Fortunately, the rain had stopped.

“Enough tale-telling,” Willem said quietly. The full moon’s
silvery light filtered down, illuminating his scarred face. “We need to rest.”
He lay down, bundling his plaid around him. Except for the sentries, everyone
else followed his example.

Lance took a long time to fall asleep, listening for Sara and
Rhiain in every rustling branch or sigh of the wind. More and more he feared
that ill had befallen them.

Sara would never willingly spend a night apart from him.

* * *

The putrid, rotting scent of the swamp clogged Rhiain’s
nostrils. She swiped at her nose in frustration. She’d spent the last several
hours sniffing around both the battlefield and the bog. People had travelled
across the plank bridge, but she couldn’t tell if one of them was Lance because
the smell of wet, green, decaying vegetation overpowered everything else. Soon
the sun would go down.

“This is useless,” Rhiain growled, stalking back to the
road.

Sara, who’d been watching her all afternoon with the endless
patience of a predator, frowned. “You can’t stop looking. You haven’t found
Lance yet.”

“The trrrail’s cold, and I’m hungrrry.” Belly rumbling, she
cast one eye on the stallion Sara had adopted. It flattened its ears at her and
pawed at the ground. Brainless horse. Didn’t it realize she could break its neck
anytime she wanted?

“We have to find Lance,” Sara repeated.

“I know that.” Rhiain strove for patience. Sara’s obstinacy
made her want to chew rocks. “In the morrrning we can follow the rrroad and I’ll
trrry to pick up a trrrail.”

“No.” Sara jerked the stallion’s head around and rode onto the
bridge. The horse’s hooves clattered on the planks.

Almost, almost, Rhiain let them go. Her stomach ached with
hunger. But when she found Lance again, it would be embarrassing enough to admit
she’d lost
his
trail; she didn’t want to tell him
she’d lost Sara, too.

Not wanting to spend any more time exposed on the bridge than
possible, she waited until Sara was three-quarters of the way across then took
it at a lope, fastidiously avoiding the muddy bits.

Her head lifted once the road emerged out of the swamp. Her
conscience twinged. They ought to be riding parallel to the road, not straight
down it, where anyone could happen upon them. On the other hand, her paws itched
for a fight.
If
she
brought
down
another
horse
,
she
could
eat
it
.

A cooling breeze moved through the forest, bringing with it the
pleasant scent of cedar and—

She stopped and sniffed. Not Lance, but human scent, very
fresh. Swinging her head from side to side, she spotted her prey. There.

Tucked back under the glossy dark green leaves of some kind of
bush, huddled a youth. He’d drawn his knees up to his chest and held his hand
over his mouth to muffle his breath, but his terrified brown eyes met hers
before he scrambled out of cover, running headlong.

Instinct took over. Rhiain gave chase. She hardly had time to
notice the boy limped badly before her front paws hit his shoulders and knocked
him down. He squirmed on the muddy forest floor. She allowed him to turn onto
his back before pinning him with one heavy paw on his chest.