The Blood King (41 page)

“What about the vayash moru? Kiara asked. “Can they help?”

“Nargi hate vayash moru almost as much as they hate mages. Got magical protections set up all around their camps to keep them away. We wouldn’t get within spitting distance of the camp without bringing the Nargi down on us.”

“You can’t go alone,” Tris protested.

“I’m safer that way. You don’t speak Nargi. You don’t know the Nargi. You couldn’t pass for one even if the only Nargi you met was deaf and blind. Trust me. I can get in, find them, and be out before you know it. No problem.”

Jolie’s angry glare made her opinion clear. At the end of the table her girls said nothing, intent on their food. Nyall, too, gave no opinion, looking so determined to stay out of the discussion that he might have built a wall around himself.

“If we can’t go with you,” Tris said, “then I guess we’ll just keep watch to make sure you don’t get any unexpected company. We’ll help Nyall get the horses and packs ready.”

“We’ll be on our way in the morning,” Vahanian promised, though his voice showed more confi-dence than his eyes. “Just watch.”

By sunset, Jolie’s place was crowded once more. Jolie’s girls, like finely plumed birds, flitted through the room welcoming the guests. Gaming masters called out numbers, while a bard told bawdy stories to an appreciative audience near the tavern master’s table. In the back room, Tris and Kiara watched Vahanian make his final preparations to cross the river.

“I think that’s it,” Vahanian said, checking his weapons for the fifth time. He wore the uniform of a Nargi soldier, thanks to Jolie, who mentioned something about it having been left behind in haste by its previous owner. Hidden over his body was an assortment of daggers, and his sword hung in its scabbard. He wrapped the dark uniform headpiece expertly, finishing with a trailing piece that covered his face.

“You’re lucky the Nargi are in their winter uni-forms,” Jolie observed from where she leaned against the fireplace. “That scarf hides your face. Good thing.

You look as much like a Nargi as I do the Goddess.”

“Any other useful comments?” Vahanian asked.

“Jonmarc, take this.” In Kiara’s open palm lay a pottery chit on a leather strap, stamped with an intricate, strange rune.

Vahanian regarded it suspiciously. “What is it?”

“The Sisters gave it to me, when I left on my Journey. They said that I could use it if I ever need-ed to escape and there was no other way out. Snap it in half; it can transport a short distance. Concentrate on getting back to Tris. But you must be together, actually touching.”

“The Sisters gave you this?” Vahanian said with a hint of skepticism. “Those witch-biddies? Can they do magic like that?” For a moment he turned the chit in his fingers as if debating whether to accept the gift, then finally slipped the strap around his neck.

Sakwi appeared at the back door, slipping off his cloak. “Thank the Goddess you haven’t left yet.”

“What were you doing, talking to the owls?”

Sakwi accepted the remark without offense. “In a way, yes. When you go, I’ll call to the animals of the forest to protect your path. If they can help you, they will.

They’ll regard you as one of their pack. You need fear nothing but men.”

“That’s usually enough,” Vahanian replied. “Thank you.”

“This type of magic is very draining,” Sakwi warned. “It will take me a while to recover.”

“So if you can’t do more, and Tris shouldn’t for fear of calling Arontala to our doorstep, you’re telling me I’m really on my own,” Vahanian summed up, dropping the chit down his tunic.

“Jonmarc,” Kiara said. “Thank you. May the hand of the Lady be on you.” She made the sign of the Goddess.

“Be careful,” Tris added, fixing Vahanian’s gaze. “You’ve got a score to settle.”

“More than one.”

Jolie unlocked the back door to a path leading down to the river. She followed him outside, closing the door behind them. “You know what I think about this.”

“I can guess.”

“This healer—you love her?”

Vahanian stopped and drew a deep breath. He did not turn. “Yes.”

“And she cares for you?”

“Doesn’t matter. She saved my life. I can’t let them die.”

“I laid out Jalbet cards last night, to see what the fates said about this. The omens were dark.”

“The omens are dark without the cards. I know what I’m doing.”

“I hope so.”

“Don’t wait up for me.”

A CHILL WIND swept down the river’s course as Vahanian paddled silently across, making him glad Nargi troops dressed adequately for the weather. He had much less confidence about the prospects for success than he had admitted to Tris and Kiara. Carina and Carroway had already spent one night in Nargi hands. Unless they had been deemed use-ful, their chances of surviving many more were slim.

Worse might be the use found for them. Carina’s healing gifts would be dismissed because she was a woman, making her useless for healing men. While she might assist in childbirth, the Nargi’s penchant for multiple wives made surviving that ordeal less urgent. He closed his eyes, trying to forget what he had seen happen to other women captives.

Carroway’s lot was hardly better than Carina’s in Nargi hands. Bards were outlawed, as were the tav-erns and gaming rooms where they tended to work.

Bards also carried news, something the Nargi priests liked to control themselves. Artists, unless dedicated to the Crone cult, were viewed witn sus-picion.

Going after Carina and Carroway would be the easy part, Vahanian thought, dragging his small raft up on the bank and hiding it in the bushes. Getting back out was the challenge.

Vahanian made one quick pass up and down the bank, looking for signs of his companions. Upstream, almost across the river from where he and the others had come ashore, he found a sodden leather pouch like the ones Carina carried on her belt. There were boot prints on the muddy shore. The river plants bore signs of a recent struggle, with broken and trampled branches lying along a fresh-ly made path.

Vahanian had the sudden feeling that something was watching him, and he glanced up sharply, sword already in hand. On the path ahead of him stood a large gray wolf, a mature male, well-fed and

strong. Vahanian froze as the creature’s blue eyes fixed him with a knowing stare. To his surprise the animal made no sign of aggression, neither baring its teeth nor advancing. Instead it sat down, dog-like, and wagged its tail. Then it jumped to its feet, trotted down the path, and returned, tilting its head at a curious angle as if to ask a question.

Sakwi, Vahanian thought. Dark Lady take my soul. No wolf alive acts like that, unless it’s been sent. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. He took a hesitant step forward. The wolf seemed to approve, bounding ahead and then returning, signaling him to follow.

“I don’t know where you’re taking me, but I’m hoping it’s to the camp.” He stopped and shook his head. “Wolves. I’m talking to wolves. Too damn much time around Spook.” The wolf waited impa-tiently for him and he followed, closely watching the woods around them for danger.

Twice, the wolf laid its ears back and growled a warning, in time for Vahanian to hide himself in the thicket as Nargi soldiers passed by. Overhead the owls hooted an “all clear” when the danger passed. His guide kept its speed and choice of pathways to those Vahanian could follow with relative ease. If wolves are this smart, Vahanian thought, no won-der they’re so damn hard to shake once they’re hungry for you.

He sheathed his sword in favor of a small crossbow, which worked better than a sword in tight spaces. Vahanian and the wolf traveled for at least half a candlemark, and Vahanian noted that the wolf was leading him to high ground, taking a wide circle around a center point. Finally, after scrambling up a hillside muddy from recent downpours, the wolf led him to a protected spot on an outcropping with a view of the land below. It waited, as if inviting Vahanian to come and look.

Below them was the Nargi camp. It was only a small camp, but home to at least two or three dozen Nargi soldiers. From the permanence of its structures, the round, canvas-covered baled straw constructs the Nargi favored, Vahanian surmised that the camp was a river garrison. Probably making sure none of the

“faithful” cross over to Jolie’s place.

The wolf sprang to its feet and its ears pricked, listening intently. It moved a few paces to its right, indicating a path, then dashed back, urging Vahanian to move. Vahanian needed no additional prompting. He crouched and followed the wolf as quickly as he could without noise. A heartbeat later, two Nargi soldiers came into view, patrolling the perimeter. Vahanian waited in the shadows, watch-ing as one of the soldiers noted his tracks on the wet ground.

But before the soldier could take a step, Vahanian heard a wolf howl, and realized that his guide was no longer behind him.

The Nargi stopped abruptly, glancing around nervously. The wolf howled once more and was answered by another, summoning the pack. The lead Nargi made a brusque command and motioned the other to follow him, beating a quick retreat. Vahanian breathed a sigh of relief and looked up to see his guide wolf padding back toward him. That’s the most satisfied looking wolf I’ve ever seen.

He resisted the urge to laugh.

“Thank you,” he said in a hushed voice. The wolf cocked its head once more and then padded off,

making no invitation for Vahanian to follow. Vahanian watched his guide leave, and then turned his attention to the camp below once more, memo-rizing the layout and guessing at the purpose of each circular structure.

The horses were tethered together at one side of the encampment, while a trench at the other side marked the latrine. A cluster of structures were bar-racks; a larger, separate one was the captain’s quarters. A cook fire in front of another building indicated a kitchen. In the center was the practice ground with its quintain, hard used from many practices. Vahanian caught his breath. Next to the practice ground, just beyond the barracks, was a sturdy cage made of hewn logs. Even from this dis-tance, he could make out the two figures imprisoned inside.

Still, Vahanian thought, not impossible, as he sur-veyed the layout. If the horses didn’t scare, he might be able to approach from that side, along the bar-racks’

walls, shielded partially from view. But the cage was out in the open. Any approach would require a dive across an open area, and exposure for as long as it took to open it. Not good. Resolute, he started a cautious descent.

Fog began to roll in half way down the slope. He watched it rise from nowhere, slipping toward the camp, thicker and thicker until the fires twinkled in its haze. Sakwi, he thought. Has to be. Nothing nat-ural brews up a fog like that so fast. A little more assistance like this and I might just get to like spooks after all.

Vahanian waited more than a candlemark until the camp’s priest rang the bells for late prayer, and the guards made their devotion to the Crone. By then, Vahanian had crept close enough to hear the prayers. He took a place at the very back of the assemblage, his face hidden by the uniform’s scarf. The words of the prayer came back with eerie ease, something he had heard every night of his long captivity. His stomach knotted as he mouthed them with the others.

Finally, the devotion made, the soldiers broke formation. Vahanian slipped away, getting as close to the cage as he dared before the last of the fires were banked and the lamps in the barracks went dark.

From here, he had a clear view of the stockade. Inside it, Carina and Carroway huddled together against the cold, still in the muddied clothing they wore when they went into the river. Vahanian could glimpse no blanket or shelter to give any comfort to the captives. His anger, already white hot, grew stronger still.

His finger twitched on the trigger of his crossbow.

“You there,” said a voice behind him. “Why are you out of barracks?”

Vahanian moved the hand with the small bow down and into the folds of his cloak before he turned. “Going to the latrine, sir,” he replied in per-fect Nargi.

“I gave no such permission.”

“My abject pardon,” Vahanian replied, giving the deep bow Nargi custom required.

“What is that in your hand?” the Nargi lieutenant asked, stepping closer. His eyes widened. “That’s not a standard bow.” Vahanian stepped into his path, raising the bow against the lieutenant’s chest. The arrow discharged soundlessly, and the aston-ished lieutenant sagged against him.

“Useful for hunting vermin,” Vahanian said against his ear, supporting the dying man. He steeled himself not to turn as footsteps approached.

“Explain.”

Vahanian looked into the piercing stare of a thickset sergeant. “He’s sick, sir.

I’m helping him to the latrine.”

The sergeant nodded. “Very well. Straight back when you’re through.”

“Yes, sir.” Vahanian moved off in the direction of the trench until no one was in sight, and then dragged the lieutenant behind the cookhouse. He stashed the body behind the garbage bins. That wasn’t going to fool anyone for long, Vahanian thought, his heart racing. But the fog held, and with each moment he escaped detection, the camp became quieter.

Two guards usually kept patrol on a Nargi camp this size. Crouching, Vahanian lay in wait behind the cookhouse. Before long, his quarry came into view. A young recruit shivered against the cold. Vahanian did not wait to be intercepted. Springing from the shadows, he leapt into a perfect Eastmark kick, the heel of his boot connecting solidly with the man’s chest, knocking the wind from him and driv-ing him to the ground. In a flash, Vahanian was astride the guard, drawing his knife across the man’s throat with one seamless movement.

Vahanian dragged the body to lie beside the lieu-tenant, returning to scuff away the blood.

The second guard came around the corner. With cold precision, Vahanian notched an arrow into his bow and sent the shaft flying. Caught in the throat, the guard fell with only a gurgle. Vahanian sprinted toward the stockade, making no effort to hide the last body.

“Wake up!” Vahanian hissed urgently. He tried his knife on the lock without success, then turned his blade on the ropes binding the stockade togeth-er.