The Blood King (36 page)

Behind him the wolves howled louder. The bats, nearly wingtip to wingtip in the dark sky, squealed and fluttered overhead, diving at the soldiers, too -fast and small to fear the swords. The bats took most of the idle soldiers’ attention, enabling Soterius to slip past the guard.

Soterius closed the distance to the tent, moving silently, Carroway’s pellets in one hand and the spelled chit in the other. He reached the shadows at the back of the tent and knelt. He was ready to slip beneath the back edge of the tent when he heard a crunch on the ground behind him, and the sound of a crossbow being drawn.

“Throw down your weapon and stand up.”

Soterius stiffened, and held out his sword hand as if to surrender the blade. His wrist jerked and the pellets went flying, blinding the guard with red and green fire as they struck the ground and giving Soterius enough cover to throw a small shiv that sank hilt-deep into the guard’s chest. Knowing he was about to lose his chance completely, Soterius dove beneath the tent and flung the chit at the star-tled mage, grazing his leg.

There was a clap like thunder, and then the howl of a distant storm. As the camp erupted into chaos, Soterius ran for his life toward a trench along the perimeter. He huddled in the bottom of the ditch, flattening himself against the ground with the cloak pulled over his head. In the distance he heard terri-fied screams as the hum of the Elemental grew louder. The winds battered him, pulling at his cloak with such force that he thought they might lift him from the trench and hurl him into the air. Soterius tried to make himself as small as possible, curling into a tight ball.

Above the shriek of the wind, Soterius heard screams in the darkness. He felt the power of the storm sweep over him. Even on the edge of the camp, as far away as he could get from the mage’s tent, the wind beat against his magicked cloak. He held on to its fabric until his hands cramped and his fingers bled.

Debris pelted him, and from that the cloak gave no reprieve. Soterius stifled a cry as wood and rock slammed against him; he prayed to the Lady that none of the debris would rend his cloak. Soterius closed his eyes, prepared to die.

The wind stopped, and the camp fell silent.

His heart pounding in his throat, Soterius rose slowly. Tents, set afire by scattered coals from the camp’s fires, blazed out of control. The Elemental had carved a path through the heart of the camp.

Where the mage’s tent had been, the ground was bare and burned.

Soterius ran for his life. His breath steamed in the cold air. He zigzagged his way back along the lines, using the wreckage as cover to elude the remaining soldiers who tried to round up their panicked com-rades. As Soterius hid behind a ruined wagon, waiting for two soldiers to pass, a streak of color in the mud caught his attention. Tattered by the Elemental and sullied by the campaign, the banner he pulled from the mud was still recognizable. It brought a lump to his throat and stung his eyes. Soterius held the banner of Margolan clenched in his fists.

He did not have to worry about having to scale the citadel tower to regain entry; Mikhail waited at the base of the watchtower to welcome him back. Joyous peasants spilled into the bailey. Soterius passed among them, oblivious to their glee, manag-ing a smile only when they pressed around him and hoisted him onto their shoulders, carrying him in victory.

He left as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Mikhail followed him when he made his way back up to the tower roof.

“You’re the hero,” Mikhail said. “Your party is downstairs.”

Soterius struggled with his memories. “You didn’t hear the soldiers die, when the Elemental came.”

“You’ve been to battle before, Ban. You know it for what it is.”

“They never had a chance.”

“Did the villagers in the outer bailey?” Mikhail replied. “The mage who called the Elemental didn’t mind starving us out, or driving the villagers mad with thirst.”

“It was slaughter,” Soterius said quietly. Overhead, the winter constellations burned bright-ly. He pulled the shreds of flag out of his cloak pocket, and looked out over the plain once more, the ruined soldiers’ camp just a silhouette of tum-bled tents and nearly spent fires.

“You saved those villagers down there, and the Sisters, and their citadel. That’s something to be proud of,” Mikhail said. “They’re from Margolan, too.”

“I feel as proud as if I’d knifed those soldiers in their sleep. They were Margolan troops, Mikhail.” He shook his head. “Fallon told me that the Elemental could return to the camp. She warned me it would be dangerous. But being there, hearing it… It’s hard to be proud of winning if it isn’t a fair fight.”

“The soldiers made their choice when they swore allegiance to a murdering pretender. They obeyed Jared’s orders to kill their own people. Jared’s not worthy of that flag. And the troops that do his bid-ding aren’t worthy of your pity.”

“I want to drive the bastard out,” Soterius said. “I want to go home.”

“So do I. But not until a king I trust sits on the throne. We have to put Tris there, Ban.”

Soterius looked across the plain at the burning camp. “I know. I know.”

“Come on. Give the villagers a hero to celebrate. Lady knows they’ve had little enough cause for happiness lately. And afterwards, Fallon’s got a bot-tle of Cartelesian brandy waiting for you in your room. Seems our good Sisters partake,” he said with a grin. “Then to bed with you. We’ve got a ride ahead of us tomorrow night.”

Soterius took a deep breath, knowing Mikhail was right; the villagers needed a symbol and a hero more than he needed the luxury of quiet grief. The men wound their way down the stairs toward the bailey, where the sound of revelry and music echoed throughout the ancient fortress.

Soterius attempted his best show of lighthearted gaiety, obliging the village girls who waited for a dance with the evening’s hero, embarrassedly accepting the heaping trenchers of food brought to him by village matrons, and washing them down with tankards of ale that the farmers and townsmen kept filled. It was well past mid-morning before the celebration began to wind down, and the sun hung in the afternoon sky before Soterius was free to find his bed. The morrow would come too quickly, Soterius knew. And while it would not be the first time he rode with a throbbing head; it was just as ‘well that he would have something to take his mind off his memory of the night’s work, and what it truly meant to raise steel against his own flag.

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contents

THE LAST OF the spring rains ended late in the fourth month, the Lover’s Moon. When the roads were dry enough to ride without bogging down, Tris and his companions prepared for the final campaign into Margolan.

Their departure was unheralded, with only Staden, Taru, Berry, and Royster on hand to bid them farewell. Staden made sure they were provi-sioned with excellent horses and supplies. Berry, as close to tears as Tris had ever seen the feisty young princess, hugged them all and promised prayers to the Lady for their success. Royster mentioned vague plans to return to the Library at Westmarch, although Tris privately wondered if the librarian would give up his newfound freedom easily. Gabriel had left the night before their departure to meet with his “family” in Margolan and arrange for safe houses and vayash moru escorts along their way.

He had promised to meet up with Tris and the oth-ers once they reached Margolan.

The group would make the best time on the jour-ney south traveling the river Nu, whose deep, swift course would save them a dangerous overland pas-sage.

Staden sent them with a letter to his friend Sakwi, the land mage who had helped Kiara on her journey north. The letter asked for Sakwi’s assis-tance and his help in securing a boat for both them and their horses. That letter waited safe in the breast pocket of Tris’s tunic.

Though both Staden and Kiara attested to Sakwi’s trustworthiness, Tris was worried about the river journey itself. The river was the best way to avoid a dangerous passage through Margolan’s northern mountains, but it would be wild and swift from the melted snows. The only other land route ran through Dhasson, but Tris had no rea-son to believe that Arontala’s spell to call the magicked beasts had lost its potency. They would stay close to the Margolan banks when they passed along the Dhasson stretch. The river would let them bypass the mountains to reach the south-ern plains and Shekerishet more quickly. Once they left the banks of Principality, they would be back in hostile territory, and closer than ever to Jared and Arontala.

“I hope the weather holds,” Kiara said. She lifted her face to the wind, and let it rustle back through her thick hair. She looked up, scanning the clouds. “It can change without warning on the river.”

“Here’s hoping the Lady’s with us all the way,” Tris said. “I was thinking the same thing.”

THEY REACHED THE village where Staden had said they would find Sakwi near dusk. It smelled of fish and wood smoke. It was just far enough from the banks of the river that the yearly floods would not sweep it away. The village housed only a handful of families. Nets were hung from the trees to dry and skiffs were pulled up on the banks. The streets were deserted as Tris and his friends rode up, but once they passed the first small house, Tris could feel that they were being watched.

“We seem to be leading a parade,” Carroway said from behind them, as their horses splashed down the muddy road. Tris glimpsed a silent congregation of ill-clad villagers slip from their homes to keep a watchful eye on the strangers.

When they reached the center of the small town, Vahanian stopped, and turned in his saddle to look back at the villagers who followed them. “We’re looking for a traveling mage,” he called to the group. “A land mage named Sakwi.”

A bearded man stepped forward. “What do you want?”

“We were told this mage could help us navigate the river on our journey south,”

Vahanian replied. “We have a letter of introduction from a friend.”

“I’m Sakwi.” They turned to see a thin, slightly stooped mage whose racking cough silenced him for a moment after he spoke.

“Sakwi!” Kiara called in greeting. She slid from her horse and ran to the mage.

“Please, come inside,” Sakwi said, gesturing for them to tether their horses and follow him into a small house. “If I’m to be of help, I must under-stand your journey. You’ll be safe here,” he said, with a nod to the villager who first intercepted them. The fisherman nodded in return. In the dim light, Tris caught the glint of a dagger in the man’s hand. Tris looked around at the group of villagers, noting that each was well-armed by common stan-dards. This might be the last safe haven they would have for quite some time, he thought. He would enjoy it while it lasted.

“Sakwi gave me the key to Westmarch, and intro-duced me to Grayfoot the fox,”

Kiara explained once the door was closed. Briefly, she told Sakwi of her trek northward, and of the magicked beast she encountered and Grayfoot’s sacrifice.

“I believe Grayfoot had some idea of what might befall him,” Sakwi said. “He was a bit of a mystic.”

“The fox?” Vahanian asked incredulously. Kiara glared at him.

“I’m not sure what he was, but he wasn’t your average fox,” Kiara reproved.

“Actually,” Sakwi said, “he was quite average. The fox are very intelligent… for those who know how to speak with them.” Sakwi turned his atten-tion to Tris.

“I doubt you’ve come to reminisce. How can I help you?”

Tris pulled Staden’s note from his pocket, and waited as Sakwi read it over.

“We need safe passage for ourselves and our hors-es down the river. I’m Martris Drayke, son of Bricen of Margolan. My friends and I go to unseat Jared the Usurper and his mage.” He paused. “And we would like to travel as quietly as possible.”

Sakwi looked from Tris to Kiara and back again. “King Staden is a good friend.

I’ll do as he requests. I’ve seen what is going on in Margolan, and I’ve tried to bring some relief to the refugees. Speaking of which, there is someone I’d like you to meet,” Sakwi said. He leaned outside the door and spoke a word to a boy waiting there. After a while, a bent, haggard man appeared.

“Come in, my friend,” Sakwi greeted him, usher-ing him toward a seat. The newcomer regarded Tris and the others suspiciously. “These travelers will have a great interest in your story,” Sakwi said, “I know it’s difficult for you to speak of it, but I ask you to tell your tale once more.”

The stooped man wrung his gnarled hands for a moment; the lines that etched his face seemed to deepen in the firelight. “I canna sleep,” he admit-ted, staring down at his hands. “I might as well tell the story since it won’t leave me ‘til the day I die.” Tris heard the thick accent of the Margolan farm country in the man’s rough voice.

“I worked the land my father worked, and his father before him,” the farmer said, looking not at Trfs but at the wall over Tris’s shoulder. “And until the last harvest, I cared nothing of what happened in the city, or ought what the palace folk did. Then the riders came.”

“Riders?” Tris prompted gently, leaning for-ward.

“Aye, the guardsmen of the king,” the farmer replied, still looking at the wall, as if he were replaying the scene in his mind. “At first, they wanted gold. Then, when there was no more gold to give, grain and pigs. When those were gone, they took our daughters.” His eyes were hopeless and haunted. “Like the grain and the gold, we never saw them again.”

Beside him, Tris felt Kiara stiffen. “What hap-pened then?”

“The village in the next shire refused to give up their women. We found the menfolk hanging in the forest, cut open like deer, their hands and tongues cut off.

“We had nothing left to lose,” he went on, his voice flat. “They came for our women and stayed to take our boys in chains to train for soldiers. It was too much.” He turned his haunted gaze on Tris. “Dark Lady take my soul, I know ‘tis treason to raise a sword against the king’s men. But it was too much to bear. We rose against them with whatever we had at hand, our poor hoes and axes against their swords.

“We should have known that more would come when the first never returned.”