The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) (7 page)

Nearby, one of the soldiers snored loudly. Another grunted in his sleep. At the far end of the camp, a lone sentry paced back and forth in front of the tent. But other than that, all remained quiet and still.

Morgin whispered, “What danger?”

An old one, Your Majesty. Come, we’ll show you.

Still wrapped in shadow, Morgin pulled on his boots, gripped his sheathed sword and stood carefully. None of the soldiers sleeping nearby sat up to challenge him, and the sentry near the tent continued pacing back and forth. He quickly counted the sleeping forms on the ground, accounting for Rafaellen and all his soldiers, so the captain hadn’t posted any perimeter guards. No real need to do so in friendly territory.

He left his blanket behind and stepped carefully between two sleeping forms. He had observed these men through the day. They were experienced soldiers, so even the slightest of sounds might alert them. He used all of his Benesh’ere forest skills to move quietly to the edge of the camp and slip into the forest beyond.

Dozens of shadowwraiths awaited him. He considered getting Mortiss, but he couldn’t saddle her and ride out without alerting the entire camp. So he buckled on his sword and followed the shadowwraiths on foot into the forest.

The shadowwraiths flitted through the branches of the trees in a simple, straight, easterly direction, as if they had no substance that could be hindered by mundane materials like wood and earth. The undergrowth of the forest was thin enough that he could have tromped through it, but it was easier to keep to small game trails, which forced him to zigzag back and forth. With his shadow sight he had no trouble following the wraiths in the dark.

They led him to the remnants of a well-organized camp, now abandoned. Situated near a small stream, it had the look and feel of an efficient encampment carefully laid out by a group of disciplined soldiers. He counted six fire pits, long since cold, and by that and other signs he guessed there must have been three twelves of them.

“Who are they?” he asked Soann’Daeth’Daeye.

We know not, my king. We can sense only their spoor, and we fear they are a danger to the Living Forest.

He recalled the way the forest had closed in about Rhiannead and her escort. “A danger? So why does the forest allow them to travel without hindrance?”

There is some enchantment about them, some power that masks their presence from the forest’s awareness . . . and from ours. It is an old and deadly power.

Morgin searched further until he found the latrine pit. It had been carefully covered over with dirt, standard procedure for a troop of disciplined soldiers. But that did not mask the odor.

Dogs
, one of the wraiths said.

“No,” Morgin said, shaking his head. From an ancient memory he knew these foreign soldiers were not mere dogs. “No . . . jackals.”

7
The Forest’s Desire

The sun had just begun to lighten the sky as Morgin approached Rafaellen’s encampment, but he heard the captain’s voice raised in anger long before he got there.

“How did he slip away without you seeing?”

“I don’t know, Captain. I’m sorry.”

Another voice said, “He left his blanket behind.”

Another added, “He left his horse too. So he’s probably coming back.”

Morgin approached the camp cautiously wrapped in shadow and stopped at the edge of the clearing near the tent. Rafaellen, Kenna and the soldiers stood over his abandoned blanket at the far end of the camp, arguing heatedly. Just a few paces away Rhiannead stood near the tent watching them, her back to Morgin.

Rafaellen’s distrust of Morgin spilled out of every word as he berated the sentry. His misgivings might prove to be a serious problem, so Morgin considered slipping back into the deep forest and hiding among its shadows. He could follow them at a distance and retrieve Mortiss when opportunity presented him with a convenient moment. But they needed to be warned about the danger of the jackal warriors.

He checked his shadows carefully, then stepped out of the forest near the tent just behind Rhiannead. The overhanging branches of the trees threw shadows all about the tent, so he stepped partially behind it and dropped his shadows. He whispered, “They’re angry with me, eh?”

She started and turned quickly to face him, but the fear on her face disappeared when she recognized him. She stepped quickly toward him, joined him behind the tent, and standing there no more than a pace away, he forgot everything and wanted nothing more than to touch her. Again, he sensed the forest’s influence acting upon them both.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

“To do a little scouting. There is an old danger in the forest and Rafaellen must be warned.”

“I know,” she said. “The jackals. She wanted me to warn you.”

She wanted me to warn you.
That had been an odd way of putting it. And how had she known of the jackals? “Who is
she
?” he asked, but he made the mistake of looking into her eyes, and then he cared nothing for her answer.

“It’s doing it again,” she said. “The forest.”

She raised a hand toward his face, extended a finger and traced the line of his jaw. And as before, when she touched him, a cascade of shared memories flooded through him. They danced together at a ball where they’d met, and later she hurt him, a wound of the heart, and he had returned the injury in kind. He recalled the kiss in the stables—but then he remembered that it hadn’t been Rhiannead he had kissed.

She gasped, lowered her hand and shook herself. Her eyes narrowed and she spoke as if angry with him, spoke in a voice that sounded as if she were Rhianne. “I promised myself I would do this.”

She reached out, grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him toward her and kissed him with passion and heat and desire. He wrapped his arms around her waist as she pressed her body against him. She showed no restraint as their tongues danced together hungrily.

The kiss lasted an eternity, and yet it ended in the blink of an eye. Their lips parted, but she remained in his arms, her lips brushing against his cheek. She whispered, “We shouldn’t do this.”

He said, “It’s the damn forest.” He didn’t add that he was glad the forest kept throwing her into his arms, though he knew he shouldn’t betray Rhianne this way.

She said, “And I don’t understand that. It is said the god-queen and the Unnamed King cannot truly come into their power until they are wed. I—”

“Ahhh!”

Kenna’s shout startled them both, and they jumped apart like two children caught playing kissing games. Again, the forest sighed its disappointment.

Kenna marched up to them shaking with anger. “What are you doing?”

Rafaellen and his soldiers quickly surrounded them.

“It’s the forest,” Rhiannead pleaded. “It keeps driving us into each other’s arms.”

Kenna stepped between Morgin and Rhiannead as if she needed to protect her. “Impossible, you foolish girl. The forest would not press you to betray its master? You were raised from birth for one thing, and one thing only.”

“That’s not important,” Morgin said, turning to Rafaellen. “There is danger in the forest, and we must be ready to defend ourselves.”

Kenna swung out and slapped Morgin across the face so hard he staggered back a step. Two soldiers grabbed him and twisted his arms painfully behind his back.

Rafaellen drew his sword and leveled the tip beneath Morgin’s chin. “What danger are you talking about?”

“He’s lying,” Kenna said. “He’s making up a story so we won’t punish him for touching the betrothed of the Unnamed King.”

Rafaellen’s eyes narrowed and he considered Morgin carefully. “We’ll let the Unnamed King decide his fate.”

Kenna hesitated, clearly unhappy at the thought of not killing Morgin right then and there. But then her eyes widened with calculation. “Yes. We’ll take him before the Unnamed King for a proper trial, then hang him.”

Still holding his sword tip beneath Morgin’s chin, Rafaellen demanded, “And what is this danger you speak of?”

Morgin struggled in the grip of the two soldiers. “Jackal warriors,” he said.

Rafaellen frowned with skepticism. “Dogs?”

“No,” Morgin said. “Jackals, and they are warriors to be feared. They’re an abomination that walks on two legs like men, and they carry weapons.”

“I tell you he’s lying,” Kenna said.

Rafaellen looked at Morgin silently for a moment, then spoke to the soldiers holding him, “Bind him, then let’s break camp and get out of here.”

While three of Rafaellen’s soldiers bound Morgin’s arms behind his back, another unbuckled his sword and handed it to Rafaellen. The captain looked at it curiously, gripped the sheath in one hand, the hilt in the other, and exposed half its length. Examining it carefully, he said, “Not much of a blade. A poor man’s sticker, at best. Not even worth keeping.”

He slammed the blade back into the sheath, then tossed the sheathed sword into the undergrowth at the edge of the camp.

Morgin flinched. He hated that blade, but he also feared it being free and not under his control.

Rafaellen turned to two of his men and said, “I don’t believe him. He’s probably just making it all up, as Mistress Kenna says. But let’s not take any chances. While you’re scouting, be alert to any danger.”

The two men mounted up, spurred their horses into a gallop and disappeared up the trail. Morgin sat on a log with his arms bound behind his back while the rest of them broke camp. When they were ready to go two soldiers boosted Morgin up into Mortiss saddle while one held her reins.

Rafaellen spurred his horse forward and led the way out of the camp. The soldier holding Mortiss’ reins handed them to Rafaellen’s sergeant. The man spurred his horse forward and they followed the captain.

••••

After they had gone, and silence settled over the small clearing, something moved in the brush where Rafaellen had tossed the sword. A harsh grunt broke the silence, the kind of sound a wild animal might make. Then the brush parted, and a small, filthy, feral child emerged, wearing dirty rags and dragging the sword behind him.

••••

NickoLot didn’t normally enjoy riding, but JohnEngine had picked out a gentle mare for her, and the scenery was wonderful. After two days on horseback they and their escort of two twelves of armsmen were nearing the Lake of Sorrows. And while the day had turned out to be a bit hotter than she preferred, pacing the horses at an easy canter put a comfortable breeze in her face that kept her cool.

She reached into her blouse and patted the hilt of Rat’s crude little knife, just to confirm she hadn’t lost it. Roland had helped her fashion a sheath for it so she needn’t fear cutting herself. She now carried it with her everywhere and didn’t let it out of her sight. Her instincts told her it held some importance she couldn’t define, and yet the way she feared losing it bordered on the irrational.

She and AnnaRail had tried a number of spells in an attempt to locate Rhianne, but such invocations were notoriously unreliable, especially if someone with any power chose to block them. After repeated failures they concluded that Rhianne still wanted to remain hidden. So they agreed that someone must make the trip to Norlakton to bring her back, or at least learn of her whereabouts. Nicki had been determined from the start that she would go, but the leader of such an expedition would have to be a male member of the family. So they brought JohnEngine in on the secret of Rhianne’s clandestine life as a hedge witch. He had been absolutely livid that she’d kept such a secret from him, and to show his anger he placed her in the middle of the column surrounded by armsmen, with him at its head. He refused to even speak with her for the entire trip, always communicating through one of the armsmen.
Tell the Lady NickoLot something or other,
he’d say, with her standing right next to him.
Ask her this, and tell her that.
Well, he’d just have to get over it. She’d had her reasons for keeping such a secret, and upon reexamination, they were still sound.

Up ahead, JohnEngine pulled his horse off the road and disappeared from sight. Moments later Nicki and her armsmen reached that same point and turned onto a cart track, nothing as wide and open as the Gods Road, but still well-traveled and wide enough for them to ride two abreast.

When she and Jinella had made the trip in the spring, they’d ridden in the comfort of a carriage and traveled at a much more leisurely pace, with Brandon leading the expedition on horseback. They’d both been glued to the carriage windows, trying to take in every sight they could. But most were just fleeting glimpses, and when one of them saw something of interest on her side and called out to the other, by the time they switched places it was usually too late. This time, however, riding in the breeches of a young boy, on horseback, in good weather, Nicki found everything of interest, especially the Benesh’ere camp.

JohnEngine chose a path that kept them out of the camp itself, but they passed rather close to it. Nicki saw hundreds of whitefaces walking about in their dune-colored robes, their white-skinned faces framed by coal-black hair. And then they passed the camp and headed for the north end of the lake.

It had only been a few moons since she’d last come to Norlakton, so as expected nothing had really changed. She was looking forward to seeing Rhianne again, and AnnaRail had told her to insist that Rhianne return with them, so she was also looking forward to the ride back. At the edge of town JohnEngine reined his horse to a stop, and as the column bunched up he turned to one of the armsmen riding beside Nicki and said, “Ask the Lady NickoLot, which way to this hut?”

Nicki had had enough. “Stop being such a child. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but Rhianne swore me to secrecy.”

JohnEngine didn’t relent. To the armsman he said, “Ask the—”

“Oh shut up,” she snapped. “Just follow me.”

She dug her heels into her horse’s ribs, and taking them by surprise she left them all behind. She rode through the center of the small town and headed straight for the hut at the far end. But as she rode up to it her excitement at the prospect of seeing Rhianne again collapsed into despair. She stopped outside the hut and a moment later JohnEngine caught up with her. “Damn,” he said.

The door to the hut stood partially open, attached by only one leather hinge and askew at an off angle. One of the shutters to the hut’s single window had long since disappeared, and the other remained ajar, with cobwebs filling the corners of the window.

Nicki dismounted, her heart pounding with fear. As she started toward the door JohnEngine caught her wrist. “Wait.”

“No. I have to see.”

JohnEngine held her wrist in a vice-like grip and said to the armsmen, “Check it out. Make sure it’s safe.”

The armsmen swarmed in and around the hut, and a few moments later their sergeant stepped out of it and declared, “No danger, my lord. But something bad happened here a while back.”

As Nicki entered the hut, from what she recalled of her previous visit, she saw that most of the hut’s possessions had been stripped. One of the few items that remained was the small, wobbly table in the middle of the room. It had a large, dark, brown stain on it, with an even larger stain on the floor beneath it.

“That’s old blood, my lord,” the sergeant said. “A lot of it. Someone died here. That much blood, probably a slit throat.”

It took great effort to hold back her tears as she said, “Let’s check with the innkeeper.”

They found Fat John standing outside his inn, wiping his hands on a grimy towel. A nobleman riding into town accompanied by a troop of armsmen would have caught everyone’s attention.

“The witch,” JohnEngine said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “The one that lived in the hut. Where is she?”

Fat John’s eyes widened at the question. “I don’t know, Your Lordship. She disappeared one night, a little less than a moon ago.”

Nicki did the math, and turned to JohnEngine. “That would have been shortly before Morgin died.”

JohnEngine ignored her and said to the innkeeper, “And the blood?”

“Her servant, Your Lordship. Braunye was her name, murdered the same night Mistress Syllith disappeared.”

JohnEngine and Nicki took rooms in the inn, while the armsmen set up camp at the edge of town. That night, as Nicki lay in her blankets trying to find sleep, she found some solace in the fact that it hadn’t been Rhianne’s blood. She fell asleep clutching Rat’s little knife to her breast.

••••

Chrisainne straightened her petticoats as BlakeDown walked away. She regretted ever letting him stand her up against a wall. That seemed to be the only way he wanted to make love now. Well,
make love
was probably not the right phrase for what they did.

It had not been difficult to meet Theandrin’s schedule. The man’s sexual proclivities made him easy to control. Interestingly enough, it was easier to manipulate him when in the presence of others. She’d wear a gown that exposed her ample cleavage, then flash a little ankle when only he was looking her way, and pass her tongue seductively over her lips. If she did that when they were alone, he’d just bend her over some piece of furniture and take her then and there, in an almost bored and detached way. But a few gambits like that when in the presence of others drove him insane, as if the need to wait fanned the flames of his lust until he almost trembled with the effort to control himself. When she did that, she could count on him to hunt her down as soon as he got away. And in that brief time before she let him have her, he would tell her anything she wanted, or accept almost anything she proposed.