Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (16 page)

“Don’t move,” she growled.

Sometimes hearing her speak made people more frantic, but his
mouth dropped open, and he stopped struggling. “You can talk!”

His shaggy white-blond hair fell over his face, obscuring his
eyes. He wore a white tunic and a plaid blanket wrapped around his waist and
then pinned over one shoulder.

Looking up, Rhiain realized Sara was still trotting down the
road. “Sarrra! Come back!”

Sara pulled the horse around in a tight loop. The stallion
picked his way through the trees, stopping ten wary feet from Rhiain.
Not
so
brainless
then
.

“Look what I found.” Rhiain patted the boy with a paw the size
of his face.

“That’s not Lance,” Sara said, face blank.

“I know,” Rhiain growled. “But he’s drrressed like the otherrr
rrrebels. He might know wherrre to find them.”

The boy shoved at her paw, struggling to get free. “I won’t
tell you!”

“Oh, yes, you will.” Rhiain flexed her claws in their sheaths
just enough so he’d feel the bite through his clothing. “I can open up your gut
with one swipe.”

He shook his head, gaze defiant. “Go ahead and kill me. I won’t
betray my brother.”

Rhiain felt a flash of admiration for his bravery, and a spurt
of shame at her own behaviour. This boy wasn’t the enemy. “I’m going to get off
you now. Don’t rrrun,” she warned him.

Once she’d removed her weight, the boy sat up warily, rubbing
his sore chest. He looked longingly at the trees, but didn’t try to escape.
“What do you want?”

“To find Lance,” Sara said, as single-minded as an arrow.

“We think he’s with the rrrebels who got ambushed back in the
swamp,” Rhiain explained.

“Then they’re not all dead?” His mouth gaped. “I wanted to join
the battle, but by the time I got there...” he trailed off.

He’d seen the slaughter and retreated, Rhiain surmised. “Lance
is a grrreat healerrr,” she said. “If the rrrebels did not pass you, do you know
wherrre they will have taken him?”

His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps. But why should I trust you?”

“We’rrre not yourrr enemeies. Do we look like legionnairrres?”
Rhiain asked impatiently.

“You don’t look like anything I’ve ever heard of,” he said.

Despite his frank words, she saw on his face none of the
revulsion her body often engendered in others, only curiosity and wariness. And
he spoke directly to her, not assuming that Sara was her master.

“But her horse is wearing legionnaire gear,” he pointed
out.

“The horse belonged to a legionnaire that Rhiain killed,” Sara
said.

He shot a wide-eyed glance at the horse. “Does it talk,
too?”

Rhiain coughed with laughter, “Hnngh, hnngh, hnngh.”

The boy flushed.

“No,” Sara told him, unamused. “It’s not a shandy.”

“What are shandies?”

“She’s a shandy.” Sara pointed at Rhiain. “Will you take us to
your camp?”

He crossed his arms. “Not unless you tell me who you are and
what your business is with us.”

A growl rumbled up Rhiain’s throat, but Sara answered simply,
“Rhiain is a warrior, Lance is a healer. They’re here to help your rebellion
succeed.”

“And yourself? You look Temborian.”

“I am Temborian.”

He turned to Rhiain. “Why do you want to help our
rebellion?”

“Because the Rrrepublic is ourrr enemy, too.”

He scratched his thatch of white-blond hair, then came to a
decision. “My name’s Edvard. I’ll take you to see my brother.”

“Who’s yourrr brotherrr?” Rhiain asked.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Chief Fitch.”

* * *

Lance was well and truly lost by the time they finally
marched into the rebel camp the next day. The thickly overcast sky and the
towering firs and cedars made it hard to discern directions.

Lance would have walked right by the archers positioned high on
platforms hugging the tree trunks. Willem must have been watching for them,
though. He whistled, and the sentries gave an answering birdcall and a wave,
allowing them to pass safely into the camp.

Lance sucked in a surprised breath. Though Bertramus had
mentioned Fitch’s part-Grasslander heritage, Lance hadn’t expected a hundred
barbarians from the plains north of the Republic to be roaming the rebel
camp.

Except in some ways it appeared more like two separate camps.
The Gotians, easily recognizable in their plaids, were spread out among the
forest giants in leantos or hammocks or even up in treehouses. The
buckskin-wearing Grasslander contingent had hacked out a clearing. Two dozen
round tents with domed roofs hunkered together as if for protection among the
stumps. The fallen logs, some two hundred feet long, had been lined up to make a
crude corral for the shaggy-maned Grasslander horses.

Lance estimated the rebels’ numbers at barely over four
hundred. Dismay gnawed at his stomach. Four hundred against the Republic’s
legions was hopeless.

He reminded himself that it hardly mattered if the rebels were
four hundred or four thousand. The Republic would inevitably win any sort of
fair fight. That was where he came in.

It
only
took
six
saints
to
make
the
Red
Mountains
. Heartened, Lance followed Willem into
camp, stopping to steady himself once against a tree. His dizziness was much
reduced from the day before, though his ear still ached.

As soon as Willem and his men appeared, the other Gotians
hailed them with glad cries and thumped them on the back.

“Welcome home!”

“Ought to have known you were too tough for the Legion to chew
up!”

A straw-haired woman flung herself at Willem and Jenas, hugging
then fiercely. Jenas slipped free after a moment, looking embarrassed, but
Willem kept his arms around her as she bawled her eyes out. Lance guessed the
wife had feared them both dead.

“Hush, Glenys,” Willem said gruffly.

After a moment she swiped her eyes and exclaimed, “You must be
starving! I’ve got some stew simmering. I’ll just add some dumplings.”

“Good idea. I’ll be along in a moment.” Willem shooed her off
before the next, harder, set of questions pelted him.

“Where’s the rest of your party? Were you separated?”

“Where’s Len?”

“Where’s Vallas?”

“Where’s One-Eye?”

Willem just shook his head. “We’re all that remains.”

Silence and grim faces.

“I need to report,” Willem said heavily. “Where’s Chief
Fitch?”

“Here,” a strong voice said. The crowd opened up, allowing
Lance his first glance at the rebel leader.

Fitch had blond hair and was clean-shaven like a legionnaire.
He was of a height with Lance, but less wide in the chest. His tunic and plaid
displayed muscular arms and legs; Lance surmised he’d be able to swing the heavy
broadsword at his side with ease. Four Grassland warriors in buckskins with
their hair drawn back into horsetails stood at his back.

“Willem, you’re back! We had begun to fear for you.” Fitch
clasped Willem’s elbow and forearm and gave him a rough pound on the back. He
looked around. “Where’s Edvard?”

“Edvard?” Willem repeated, startled. “He wasn’t with us.”

“He sneaked off. We thought he’d followed you.” Fitch
frowned.

Willem shook his head. “We haven’t seen him.”

Fitch shook himself. “Could he be with the rest of your party?
Where are they?”

“Dead,” Willem said steadily.

A beat of shock, then Fitch grabbed Willem by the collar of his
tunic, forcing the shorter man to go on his tiptoes. “And how, exactly, did you
lose half of your men?” Fitch growled. “I ordered you to raid, not get in a
toe-to-toe fight.”

“We set up an ambush at the bog bridge, as planned,” Willem
said steadily. “It worked. We shot the legionnaires working on the bridge full
of arrows from the trees. They turned and ran. We pursued. But then a troop of
cavalry happened upon us and rode us down.”

“Us?” Fitch asked derisively, dropping him. “If you’d been
ridden down by cavalry, you’d be dead. Where were you? Hiding in your precious
trees again?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Jenas cried, defending his father.

“It’s true we ought to be dead,” Willem said. Silently, he
showed Fitch the copious reddish-brown bloodstains on his trousers, and the hole
the arrow had punched in his shirt.

Jenas and the others followed their leader’s example.

The anger drained frown Fitch’s face. “By Nir’s sword, how is
this possible?”

Willem pointed one stubby finger at Lance. “Ask him.”

Chapter Eleven

Lance stepped forward, holding Fitch’s gaze. “I’m
Lance. The Kandrith, whom you would call the ruler of Slaveland, sent me to aid
your rebellion.”

Fitch smiled and his whole expression brightened. Lance could
suddenly see why men might follow him. He had charisma. “Well met, Lance of
Kandrith!” Fitch clasped Lance’s hand and elbow in a strong two-hand grip.

Lance returned the armclasp, then took a deep breath.
Best
to
get
the
worst
over
with
. “I regret to tell you that your envoy,
Bertramus, was killed during the journey.”

Fitch frowned. “What happened?”

“We encountered some legionnaires,” Lance said carefully. He
didn’t think Fitch had a Listener, but just in case he didn’t want to be caught
in a lie. “Bertramus was killed during our escape that night.” No need to
mention who had killed him.

“A shame. He was useful to the cause,” Fitch said with regret,
but showed no sign of grief for his “cousin.” “How many troops do you have with
you?” He peered around as if expecting them to materialize out of the trees. “I
hope they’re all brawny warriors of Nir like yourself.”

Sighing, Lance gently disabused Fitch of his fantasy. “Kandrith
is a small country. We have no men to send. I’m alone except for two other
members of my party that I’ve become separated from.” Should he mention Rhiain
was a cat shandy?
Later
. “I’m a healer.”

“A physicker?”

“No. I don’t use potions. The Goddess of Mercy favours me.”

“We’d all be dead except for him,” Willem said.

But Fitch wasn’t listening. His nostrils flared. “You’re a
priest. What use have I for a priest, especially one of some useless Goddess who
grants her enemies mercy?” Without another word, he strode off.

Offended, Lance let him go. He could shrug off insults to
himself, but to insult his Goddess...Lance clenched his fists, aware of a desire
to pound on Fitch. Arrogant ass. From what Lance had seen of the camp, Fitch
couldn’t afford to spurn anybody’s help, much less a healer’s.

Willem touched his sleeve. “He’s got a hot temper, does Fitch.
I’ll talk to him once he’s calmed down. Explain. In the meantime you have me and
the boys’ gratitude. I’ll get you set up in camp.”

Lance nodded stiffly and allowed himself to be drawn away.

In actuality it was Willem’s wife, she of the straw-hair and
plump body, who saw to it that Lance had a place to sleep.

Lance eyed the hammock she found for him with a certain amount
of dubiousness.

“Afraid of tipping out?” she asked, a glint of humour in her
eye. “They’re more secure then they look.”

“Perhaps,” Lance said politely. “But I suffer from dizzy
spells. Is there a spot somewhere on the ground?”

She looked amused at his admission, but secured him a pallet in
a lean-to shared by three others, and a spare blanket-and if it smelled of horse
Lance didn’t mind.

After depositing his rucksack, Lance wandered back outside, at
a loss. He itched to search for Sara and Rhiain, but doubted the archers would
allow him to leave camp.

Since he was stuck here, he should work on his mission, but he
feared Wenda’s plan was doomed. When they’d talked of setting examples, they’d
failed to realize that Fitch was a warrior, a follower of Nir, the God of War.
And Fitch had never been a slave. Lance doubted Fitch was capable of making the
kind of sacrifices used in slave magic.

But Lance hadn’t come this far to fail without trying. It
rankled his pride, but in order to convince Fitch of the value of slave magic
Lance would first have to prove his own worth.

The best way to do that was to treat the rebel camp like any
new village.

He found Glenys bent over a fire, stirring a pot of stew. When
he approached, she slopped some in an iron bowl and handed it to him.

“My thanks,” Lance said, stomach growling. He unhooked his
spoon from his belt and dug in. “Do you have sick here in camp?”

His own earache and dizziness had mostly passed. By tomorrow
he’d have a new illness, which made it important to make the rounds of the sick
now. Lance had learned long ago to accomplish as much as he could on days like
today when his body was on the mend—in case tomorrow laid him low with a fever
or worse.

For similar reasons, he started on the stew. It was more broth
than meat, and the dumplings were chewy, but it was hot and filling for all
that.

She wrinkled her brow, puzzled. “Ill, you mean? There’s lice
going around, and Alina’s little ones have the sniffles.”

Lance smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about lice.” He
took another spoonful. “So no life-threatening injuries then?”

“Only Spring Colt,” she said, off-hand. “He’s been dying for
the last week. Every morning it’s a surprise to hear the God of Death hasn’t
claimed him yet.”

Remorse sluiced through Lance. He should have asked before
eating. “Take me to him.”

“Now? But you haven’t finished your stew.” Her plump face
showed bewilderment.

Lance controlled his impatience. “Can you point me the
way?”

“See the domed tent with the antlers above the door?” She
pointed. “That’s Mek’s tent. The Grasslander barbarians put their wounded
there.”

Lance slurped down the last of the stew, then left at a
jog.

On the Gotian side of the camp-within-a-camp young warriors
practiced at archery, dressed game, mended clothes, fashioned arrows and
performed a dozen other small chores. On the Grasslander side, the young
warriors did all the same things except instead of archery they worked with
horses in the corral and cheered on two wrestlers. Fitch looked completely at
home among the Grasslanders; he had stripped to the waist to grapple with his
opponent.

Lance skirted around the edges of both camps, heading for the
antlered tent, which was both smaller than the other domed tents and stood
slightly apart, in under the towering trees.

He garnered a couple of glances, but most of the Grasslanders
disdained to notice him.

Mek, whoever he was, had mounted the skull and antlers of a
giant elk over the entrance at just the right height to poke someone’s eyes out.
Lance ducked into the opening and peered into the dimness. “Hello?”

A second later the sweetish stench of rot hit his nostrils.
Before a woman blocked his way, he glimpsed a young man with long hair sweating
and moaning on a bed of dried grass. Like the dying man, she had high
cheekbones, dark slanted eyes, and raven’s wing-black hair, though hers was
drawn up into a horsetail.

“Why have you come here? This is Mek’s tent.” She wore a split
skirt and a deerskin vest that revealed muscled forearms and two scars. A
warrior maid, then.

Lance kept it simple. “I’m looking for a man named Spring
Colt.”

“Spring Colt cannot be disturbed. He is battling Mek and has
done so for ten sunrises,” she boasted.

What? Lance squinted in confusion before he noticed the slivers
of bone piercing her earlobes. Sara had told him Grasslanders worshipped the God
of Death. Mek wasn’t the owner of the tent; Mek was the God of Death. The
Republicans had so many gods he had trouble keeping them straight.

“Your—brother?” he guessed; she nodded. “Your brother is
strong, but Mek is winning?”

“Mek always wins,” she said, stone-faced.

Lance nodded. “Yes, death always wins in the end. But Mek
needn’t take your brother today. I can heal him. Watch.” He slowly reached out
and laid a finger over a scratch on her arm.

Her other hand flashed, drawing a stone knife, but she didn’t
cut him. Her eyebrows lifted as she examined her healed arm. “You are...skilled,
but he must win this battle alone.”

Lance blinked. That was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.
Didn’t she understand that her brother was
dying
?
The smell of rot meant gangrene and a poisoning of the blood.

He dug in his heels. Not only did he need to prove himself to
Fitch, but it pained him to be forbidden to heal. “May I see him?” All he need
do was lay a hand on the man.

“No one is allowed inside.”

Lance groped for patience. “You’re inside.”

“I am his sister. It is the duty of his closest female relative
to witness his battle.” Her voice trembled, and for a moment Lance saw the
strain in her features, the hidden grief. Then her expression became stony
again. “Leave.”

“How old is your brother?”

Another flicker of grief in those dark eyes. “Nineteen.”

Lance judged her age closer to thirty. This must be her beloved
younger brother. Pity stirred, then hardened into determination. He wasn’t going
to stand by and let the boy die an unnecessary death.

Not even if the healing had to be a secret.

“Did you know that Mek has a sister?” Lance asked her.

She frowned and shook her head.

“Her name is Loma,” Lance continued, “and she is the Goddess of
Mercy. She wants to spare you grief. Will you let me enter the tent, in Her
stead?”

A slow shake of the head. “It is not permitted.”

“Perhaps you are hungry or your bladder is full?” Lance
suggested carefully. If she left, he could enter the tent and heal the boy
before she returned.

She looked tempted, but shook her head again.

Lance dared not simply move her out of the way—even if she
didn’t knife him, a single shout would rouse the camp.

“You said I’m not allowed to enter the tent. May I reach
inside?” A fingertip laid on the boy’s toe would do the trick.

“No.”

Lance blew out an exasperated breath. “Well, what is permitted?
What can you do for Spring Colt? Spoon broth in his mouth, bathe his forehead,
sing to him?”

She frowned. “Yes. All of these.”

For the first time he wished he was a physicker, able to heal
by dispensing potions. He needed touch, but, he suddenly wondered, did it have
to be direct touch? “Let’s try this—you go hold your brother’s hand, but poke
your foot outside.”

She studied him a moment longer. “You are a strange man.” A
faint smile touched her lips. “It’s not usually my foot strange men want to
touch.”

Lance blinked. Had she been flirting with him—?

Before he could decide, she vanished inside Mek’s tent. A
rustling noise a moment later directed his attention to a spot where a
moccasin-clad foot peeked out.

He had no idea if this would work, but he knelt on the forest
floor and clasped her ankle. When Loma’s warmth enveloped his hands, healing a
few scrapes, he prayed. “Goddess, I wish to heal this woman’s brother. Can you
reach through me and her to him?”

“
I
will
try
,
child
.” Power poured
into him, a river, but instead of flowing out, it began to build up and up,
until the raw force made his hair stand on end. And yet more poured in. He began
to burn from the inside and clenched his teeth on a plea for Her to stop.

Just a little more, and then surely the river would burst its
banks and flow through him and Spring Colt’s sister into the dying
barbarian.

Her ankle twitched in his grip, and he realized he’d squeezed
too hard.

The bruise healed before it fully formed, requiring only a drop
of the Goddess’s power. The rest cycled back into him. The burn built higher
until he thought he would combust.

The only other time he’d had trouble healing someone had been
Sara after her beheading. That time the Goddess’s healing power had spilled out
of him onto the floor instead of building up inside him, but he’d managed to
forge a connection by breaking his finger and offering one more sacrifice to the
Goddess.

The foot tugged in his grasp.

“Wait.” Lance tightened his grip, then smashed the little
finger of his left hand into the ground. It bent the wrong way, bone breaking.
His breath caught in a hiss as his nerves shrieked, and his eyes watered—but it
worked.

Loma’s mercy poured through them both into the dying man.

With the Goddess’s vision overlapping his own, Lance saw the
poison as a green tide creeping through blood vessels and collecting in muscle
and tissue. But now the green melted back, replaced by Heart’s Blood red.

Inside the tent, Spring Colt gasped.

“Lie back down!” his sister ordered.

“Winter Grass? What are you doing here? I dreamt I was battling
Mek...”

The Goddess flushed out the last speck of green hiding behind
Spring Colt’s liver, leaving only health behind. Done, She retreated, leaving
Lance alone in his body. Shaking, empty.

He released Winter Grass’s ankle and looked ruefully at his
broken finger. It had already swollen to almost twice its size and throbbed in
time with his pulse.

“You’ve been battling Mek for ten days,” Winter Grass told her
brother huskily.

“My arm!” he exclaimed. “You didn’t let the Bone Man take it—?”
A sigh of relief.

Lance climbed slowly to his feet and moved away. Despite the
new pain in his finger and the fact that he was no closer to his goal of
convincing Fitch, he felt much more cheerful.

He returned to Willem’s fire, hoping to persuade him to take
out a patrol to search for Sara and Rhiain.

Glenys nodded when she saw him. “Seen Spring Colt?”

“Yes, but it might be best if you don’t mention it. Where’s
your husband?”

“Off talking to Fitch. You might as well wait for him here.
He’ll be back soon.”

Since Lance had no desire to speak to Fitch, he agreed, and sat
on a flat rock. After binding his broken finger so it would heal straight, he
asked if she had any tasks for him to do. He was using a small whetstone to
sharpen one of her cooking knives when Willem returned.

The scarred man nodded to Lance and took another seat by the
fire. Lance waited until Willem had his own bowl of stew and dumplings before
opening the subject. “I’m worried for my companions. I’d like to search for
Rhiain and Sara.”