Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (42 page)

His ear had been cut off.

His shaved scalp made the mutilation obvious: a gory line of dried blood led from the ruined hole down his neck. Sara swallowed back bile.

“It’s Wettar,” she whispered to Lance. “Nir’s slave master.”

Wettar’s eyes were dead. “Go back inside the tent. If you escape, Nir promised to pull out my entrails and feed them to me.”

“Do you still have the ear?” Lance asked, no doubt planning to heal it back on.

The odd question didn’t faze Wettar; he shook his head, as incurious as a snake. “Nir fed it to the fire.”

Strange, yesterday she’d thought she’d seen Wettar clearly for the first time and judged him a coward. But now she realized that Sara-without-a-soul’s sight had been pitiless. Today, she saw a man shocked and reeling from betrayal. A man who’d begun life as a sanguon and kept serving the same master, perhaps out of habit or fear, never actually losing his slave chains.

“You’re a free man,” she told him. “You don’t have to serve Nir. You can just walk away. He’ll be too busy chasing me to spare any thought for you.”

For a moment Sara thought Wettar might do it. Nir had had no right to cut off his ear, and somewhere inside, Wettar must be angry about it. But then he shook his head. “I have no desire to see my own guts. Get back in the tent.” He uncoiled the whip. The braided leather slithered restlessly over the ground as if alive.

Lance pushed Sara behind him and lowered his voice. “Run when I say run. No arguments.” Gaze fastened on Wettar, he feinted to the left.

The whip cracked out. A line of red appeared on his forearm.

“Run!” Lance lowered his head to charge.

Sara had taken only three steps when a roar shook the camp.

She stopped. Lance stood still. Wettar’s eye widened, startled out of his abnormal calm.

The few other clerks and slaves in the vicinity dived for cover at the sight of a huge cat shandy bounding toward them. Relief flooded Sara’s veins. “Rhiain.”

“Not Rhiain,” Lance breathed. Sara quickly saw her mistake: this racha was just as large as Rhiain, but the mane was white-blond and instead of markings like dappled sunlight, the shandy’s handquarters were streaked with black, the better to hide in shadows. “It’s Edvard,” Lance said. “I’d bet money.”

Wettar shakily raised the whip. “Stay away!”

The shandy snarled, exposing rows of sharp teeth.

Wettar’s nerve broke. He ran, stumbling over his own feet.

“I’m herrre to rrrescue you!” Edvard rumbled proudly. Though much deeper, his voice was still recognizable as the boy Sara had known.

“You promised to wait a month before making the decision to turn shandy,” Lance scolded. Then he rubbed the huge shandy’s furry head. “But your rescue is greatly appreciated. Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

“That’s far enough!” Lance leaned forward around Sara, putting his face into the wind to shout at Edvard.

The cat shandy flicked a black-tufted ear back, but kept trotting through the towering trees. “Arrre you surrre?”

Under other circumstances Lance would’ve wanted to put as much distance between them and the Legion stockade as possible, but from Sara’s hunched shoulders and grimace she was having another contraction. They needed a safe, sheltered place for her to give birth, not the easiest thing to find in a forest.

He thought quickly. “Go back to that hollow log we saw earlier.” The fallen giant cedar was easily big enough to provide shelter from the wind and hide them from any legionnaires Nir sent to retrieve Sara.

Edvard quickened his pace. “I think therrre might be a hollow log overrr herrre.” He sounded uncomfortable. As if he were lying.

Suspicious, Lance looked around. He didn’t see any hollow tree trunks, but he suddenly realized he could hear the faint sounds of battle ahead: clashing metal, shouting and the screams of dying men. With his greater shandy senses, Edvard had probably been hearing the din for several minutes now.

“Stop!” He pounded the heel of his palm on Edvard’s spine, and when he felt the shandy’s muscles bunch to spring forward, Lance deliberately slid off, pulling Sara with him. He turned so his body hit the ground first, protecting her. Agony jolted through his own bruised ribs.

Sara gave a small shriek of surprise, and her elbow dug into his throat as she struggled to sit up. “Lance! Why did you do that?”

The stabbing pain in his chest stole his breath and kept him from answering.

Edvard trotted back to them. Lance glared at him, and the cat shandy ducked his head in shame. “Edvard was taking us too close to the battle,” he gritted out

“Rrrelena asked for you. We need a healerrr,” Edvard growled.

“Sara is in labour. A battlefield is no place for a baby,” Lance said sternly, covering up his guilt with anger. He could
not
give in on this. He’d made his choice already: Sara and the babe’s life came before those of the rebels. He wasn’t Kandrith; no one should expect him to choose the good of the country over the woman he loved.

Edvard flattened his ears. “But you must help! People are dying.”

Lance stood up. “I’m sorry.” It was true. Sorrow weighed on his chest. He could hear thuds and cries coming from deeper in the forest, and he knew the human suffering that accompanied those noises. He’d shared food with many of the rebels, had developed a friendship with Willem, but he couldn’t fail Sara. Not again.

“Cowarrrd!” Edvard accused. His claws dug rhythmically into the earth.

Lance turned his back, not deigning to answer. “Can you walk, Sara? The hollow log isn’t far.”

“I can walk.” But she didn’t pull herself to her feet with his offered hand. Her face was haggard with exhaustion from the long night’s labour, eyes hollow, but full of compassion. “There’s still some time between my contractions. Last time you examined me you said I was only halfway there, that it would probably be several hours yet before I give birth.”

Lance shook his head in quick denial. “Births are unpredictable. It might be several hours still, or it could be a much shorter time.” He didn’t have much experience with premature births. “Or you could start to hemorrhage.” Just the thought of it made his hands cold and knotted his stomach.

“The Goddess of Mercy will tell you if I’m in danger,” Sara said calmly. “You should go. This is what you’re here for, why Wenda sent you. Edvard will take me to the hollow log. Battles don’t last long. I’ll be fine for a short time. Go save Willem and the others.”

The Goddess would tell him. No matter how angry he might be, he trusted Her that far. He would gladly help the rebels if he could do so without endangering Sara. Still, he hesitated.

“Go,” Sara said calmly. “You’re wasting time.”

Lance knelt by Sara and kissed her hand. He couldn’t find the words to tell her how much he loved her, how proud he was of her selflessness, so he concentrated on practicalities. “Rest when you can. Breathe through the pain. Pray to Loma if anything seems wrong or you start bleeding.”

Sara touched his check. “I will. Now, go.”

Lance helped her up onto Edvard’s furry back, then hurried toward the sound of dying men.

* * *

Rhiain wished she could be in two places at once. Or maybe three—she spared a thought for Edvard and Lance.

The battle had begun a quarter hour ago. Fitch’s small force of rebels had been swiftly overwhelmed, and Fitch was, even now, leading a dangerous retreat, luring Primus Pallax’s Legions into the forest.

Rhiain burned to be part of the main fight, but Fitch had asked her to conceal herself in the unused pasture bordering the forest where the Legion cavalry waited in shining ranks, standard snapping in the breeze.

Pallax
will
keep
both
his
companies
of
cavalry
in
reserve
,
ready
to
swoop
down
and
reinforce
him
.
I
need
you
and
my
Grasslanders
to
provoke
them
into
splitting
their
forces
.

So here Rhiain was, crouched in the sweet-smelling grass. She crept as close to the mounted troops as she could get and still remain unseen. The wind took her scent to the horses. They shifted restively, snorting and pricking their ears.
Good
. If they sensed a predator, they’d be more likely to bolt in the direction she wanted them to go: forward.

Rhiain paused in her task to watch as Spring Colt rode up to the forest’s edge. Several Grasslander warriors had volunteered to “dance with Mek,” but Spring Colt had won the privilege in a wrestling match.

His roan mare wove in and out of sight behind the line of younger trees while he yelled taunts at the legionnaires. “Here be I, come get me, cowards!” He held both hands in the air, controlling his mount only with his knees.

The ranks of cavalry ignored him.

In response, Spring Colt began to do tricks, first balancing on his knees, then standing on his horse’s back as it galloped down the line of trees. He beat his hairless chest. “You right to fear me! I battle Mek and win!”

An angry mutter went through the line of legionnaires like leaves whipped by a storm.

“Ignore the fool,” a tall, thin man ordered. Two gold pins held his red cloak at the shoulders, and his helmet had large red plumes. Their commander? He stood near the standard.

Turning her back on Spring Colt’s performance, Rhiain swung wide around the rear of the massed cavalry, avoiding two scouts. She reached the right flank and crept closer to the horses. She positioned herself only fifty feet away, but the horses remained unaware of her, the wind now blowing her scent away.

Spring Colt had ridden closer, fifty feet away from the forest, though still triple that distance from the cavalry. He skirted the edge of crossbow range.

He went through the whole routine again: calling the legionniares cowards and insulting their god. Daring them to attack him.

They ignored him, sitting on their horses and chatting. The nearest horse flicked a tail, dislodging a fly.

Rhiain growled in frustration. She was only forty feet away now and still the horses hadn’t sensed her. If she’d been hunting, she could’ve take one down easily.

A sudden angry quiver went through the front ranks, half the horses taking a step forward in response to their riders’ body language.

Spring Colt had pulled down his buckskin pants and, while hanging over the side of his horse, was shaking his bare buttocks at them.

A young legionnaire lifted his crossbow, but his older officer barked, “Stand down!”

Rhiain didn’t understand why they were so angry. Did they think Spring Colt meant to piss on them? He wasn’t even facing the right way.

But that gave her an idea. Soon a more pungent scent floated in the air, and the horses nearest her snorted and crowded closer together.

That’s
right
,
be
afraid
.
A
predator
is
close
by
.

Spring Colt pulled up his pants and smoothly stood up again on his moving horse’s back. Then his eyes widened comically, and he threw out his arms, struggling to regain his balance.

Rhiain flinched when he fell.

Spring Colt quickly rolled to his feet. He stared after the vanishing rump of his horse with an exaggerated expression of dismay, took two steps backward, then turned and sprinted for the woods.

“You three. Chase him down,” the plumed commander ordered.

Three legionnaires willingly kneed their horses into a run, hefting their spears.

Three legionnaires wouldn’t be enough. Rhiain gnashed her teeth. Spring Colt’s bravery was just going to earn him an early grave. They had to break the cavalry’s discipline. Maybe she should—

A yipping war cry split the air, and Winter Grass broke out of the trees on her spotted mare. She leaned far out, catching her brother’s hand. He used her foot to boost himself onto her horse’s back, just as two spears thudded to earth in the space where he’d been.

The two Grasslanders bent low and raced for the sheltering trees. Looking back over his shoulder, Spring Colt voiced one more laughing taunt.

The three pursuing legionniares charged into the trees—and were promptly cut down by half a dozen Grasslanders who emerged from the underbrush. They savagely hacked off the legionnaires’ heads and held them up, howling and yipping in triumph.

“Barbarians.” Stiffening, the plumed cavalry commander turned to his second in command. “You stay here with the Fourth, while I show those savages the might of Temboria’s Legions.” He raised his arm. “First company charge!”

Three hundred men and horses thundered across the field. Rhiain was thankful to be on the sidelines; anything trying to stand against that beautiful massed charge would surely have been pounded to pieces. But their unity faltered as they hit the woods. Some riders were forced to pull up to let others past as they broke through the line of smaller trees.

Eagerly Rhiain kept pace alongside. Within thirty feet, the scraggly underbrush and younger trees thinned out, giving way to tall firs and cedars with plenty of space between for game and horses alike.

The Grasslanders braided in and out of the trees ahead, riding hard with only a few scattered taunts. Rhiain ran in silence, paws indenting the damp earth. A few paces more...
Now
.

The Legion entered the killing ground. Gotian archers in tree platforms loosed their arrows from above, longbows firing faster than a crossbow could. Thrum, thrum,
thrum
.

Since the legionnaires wore armour, the rebels targeted their mounts. Horses screamed and neighed and died, thrashing and rolling. Men fell, then were trampled by those running behind, red meat underfoot.

A dozen horsemen steered around the disaster, coming toward her. Rhiain reared up on her back paws and roared loud enough to shake the tree branches. The terrified horses veered away from her, back on the correct path, but she could do nothing about the ones flowing around the left side, escaping the trap.