Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (13 page)

The locket.

Ward still had the locket. If de Cortia saw the magical aura on Ward, he was dead.

Nazarius scrambled from the grave. If he hurried, he could catch Ward before he got to the house. The grass whipped at his legs, stinging even through his pants. He raced down the hill, his blood rushing from more than the exertion. Ward’s job wasn’t done—Severin had foreseen there would be more. But visions of the future were just one possible path, no matter how strongly the Seer saw them.

A lanky figure moved on the next rise. The grass barely reached his waist, making him as tall as Nazarius. It had to be Ward. Nazarius didn’t know anyone else who was as tall and narrow in the shoulders. It looked like the necromancer was headed to the stables. Hopefully, that meant he had an escape plan for whatever it was he needed to do.

Nazarius lengthened his stride, his senses straining for dangers. Only the sighing grass and the soft thuds of his boots on the ground made any sound. His movements had silenced the crickets.

Ward stumbled, his arms whipping around to catch his balance. He lost the battle and disappeared into the grass. But instead of jumping back up, he crouched and turned. Good boy. Carlyle’s girl must be wearing off on him. Maybe Ward will get through what Severin foresaw in one piece.

Nazarius waved. Ward wasn’t a fighter, but he had enough common sense to run if need be. The necromancer straightened and stayed put. Good. The last thing Nazarius wanted was to chase him all over the estate, or worse, into the house where Ward could be seen with the locket.

“What’s wrong?” Mud streaked his face, giving him a fierce expression. Nazarius had seen that look last week on Ward. He’d had it the night he cut Pietro open and saved his life.

“You still have the locket.”

Ward’s hand shot into his pocket.

“It’s too dangerous for you to have it.” Nazarius held out his hand, and Ward dropped it into Nazarius’s palm. “You really shouldn’t stay.”

“This isn’t up for debate,” Ward said.

His expression darkened, not with fear, as Nazarius would have expected, but resignation. Nazarius knew that expression well, too. He saw it every time he looked in the mirror. He shoved the locket in his pocket. “You’re going to be late for dinner.”

“That would be bad,” Ward said.

“Everything about this place is bad.”

“You have no idea. But what else is new?”

“Maybe the future will be brighter.” Although the Seer hadn’t indicated it would be.

“Maybe,” Ward said, but he didn’t sound as if he believed that. “Hopefully, I won’t see you later.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one.”

“Wonderful.” Ward turned and headed toward the side door of the stable, but stopped as a man-sized shadow stepped around the edge of the structure.

The man moved into the moonlight. It was Tecer, a fellow Tracker.

Tecer’s eyes widened then narrowed. “Nazarius, what are you doing here?”

“Assignment, you?”

Ward shifted, drawing Tecer’s attention.

“I’m ah— I’m—” Tecer furrowed his brow. “Assignment as well. Leading the prince’s men on a manhunt. You heard about the prisoner who escaped the prince’s dungeon.”

Ward stilled, as if, like a mouse, he could avoid the hawk’s attack if he froze.

“I heard,” Nazarius said.

Tecer squinted at Ward. “Have we met?”

“I don’t think so,” Ward said, his voice soft.

“You’re a guest here?”

“Yes.”

“That’s, ‘Yes, my lord Tracker.’”

Nazarius fought the urge to clench his hands into fists. Any overt move would alert Tecer that something was wrong. If Tecer were hunting Ward, all he’d have was a description and so far Tecer hadn’t recognized him—Goddess only knew how.

“Yes, my lord Tracker,” Ward said.

“Then move along. This is Quayestri business.” Tecer dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Yes, my lord Tracker.” Ward rushed into the stables.

Tecer turned to Nazarius, his hand still on his hilt. “This is
my
assignment.”

And they were back to this. Nazarius had thought they’d gotten past the one-sided competition once they’d graduated from the Collegiate. “I’m not after the escaped prisoner.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Just passing through.”

“On assignment.” Tecer shifted, widening his stance.

Nazarius rolled his eyes. This was ridiculous. “Yes, on assignment.”

“I didn’t see your horse in the stable. I didn’t see Pietro’s, either. We arrived today…yesterday. No, we arrived today.”

“I’m on assignment for the Seer of the House of Bralmoore. I’m not after your escaped prisoner.”

“The prisoner—” Tecer squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his hands to his temple. “I… He’s mine— He—”

“Tecer?” Nazarius reached for Tecer’s elbow. “Are you all right?”

Tecer jerked back. “I’m fine. That man. The one who was right here—” Recognition flashed across his expression, and he bolted for the stable.

Shit. Nazarius raced after him. If Severin’s visions were to come true, Ward couldn’t be arrested.

Chapter Eighteen

“Hey.”

Ward froze. It sounded like the Tracker—and not Nazarius—the one supposed to be under Lyla’s thrall. Ward had just gotten into the stables and hadn’t had time to find Celia, though it didn’t look like she was here.

“Turn around,” the Tracker said.

“My lord Tracker?” Ward strained to see if the Tracker had completely broken the thrall and recognized him.

“You look—” The Tracker pressed his palm to his temple. The single lantern in the stable cast flickering shadows across his face, distorting it into a tortured mask. “You look— Let me see the back of your neck.”

Nazarius rushed into the stable, and the Tracker jerked to the side to keep both of them in sight.

“This is my assignment. You can’t take it away from me.” The Tracker yanked his sword from its sheath. “Show me your brand.”

“Tecer, he doesn’t have one,” Nazarius said.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” The muscles in Tecer’s jaw tensed. “Show. Me. Your. Brand.”

Ward inched back. Tecer was fighting the thrall and winning. Ward wanted to run, but running would only confirm his guilt in this man’s eyes. “I’m not the man you’re looking for. I’m Quirin Dagenhart.”

“Then you shouldn’t mind showing me your neck.”

“I’ve already shown you the back of my neck. Remember?”

“The prisoner wouldn’t risk staying here. He wouldn’t risk being recognized by a guest.” Nazarius stepped forward, and Tecer lurched around, pointing his sword at him.

“You’re just saying that because you want my assignment. You’ve stolen everything else that should’ve been mine.” His blade trembled, and he wrapped his other hand around the hilt to support the first.

Nazarius took another half step closer, his hands raised in submission. “Tecer—”

“No.” Tecer shook his head and panted. “This is the old road and an old waystation. No one’s supposed to be here. Why are there people here?”

The large door to the courtyard creaked open, and Tecer jerked toward it. A man with a horse stood in the entrance. In the uneven light, he looked a few years older than Ward—but given that Macerio was over 150 and only looked a little older than Ward, too, appearances were unreliable. The man’s hair was blond, worn in a courtier’s cut at his shoulders, and his narrow facial features marked him as nobility. His pale gaze darted over the scene, hesitating on Tecer’s sword.

“Is there something the master of the house should know?” the man asked.

“Quayestri business,” Tecer barked. “None of yours.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, I’d like the boy to do his duty and take care of my horse. I’ve been delayed enough.”

“The stable boy isn’t here, do it yourself,” Tecer said.

“Then who’s he?” The man jerked his chin toward Ward.

“A guest. Quirin Dagenhart,” Nazarius said, stepping even closer to Tecer.

The man crossed his arms. “I’m Quirin Dagenhart.”

Ward’s heart skipped a beat. His identity couldn’t be in doubt, not now, not when they were so close to stealing Macerio’s spell book.

Tecer groaned. His trembling increased. “Nazarius?”

“He’s lying—” Nazarius said.

“They’re all lying. You’re lying.” Tecer moaned, teetered off balance, then jerked forward and slashed at Nazarius.

Nazarius lunged close to Tecer, blocking the strike, wrist against wrist. He grabbed the front of Tecer’s doublet, but the man smashed his forehead against Nazarius’s nose.

The real Quirin’s eyes widened, and in that heartbeat, Ward knew he was going to run and alert Macerio. Ward rushed at Quirin. The man stumbled into his horse. It reared, forcing him into the stable. Ward grabbed the back of Quirin’s doublet and yanked him farther inside.

A yell broke out on the other side of the courtyard, and two large figures rushed out the front door.

Quirin twisted and threw a fist at Ward’s face. Ward stumbled back, dragging Quirin with him, and they slammed into a stall wall.

The men from the house raced into the entrance, where the lantern light caught the crest on their chests. The prince’s soldiers. One was bulky with a bald head, his appearance screaming brute force. The other wasn’t quite as bulky, but just as dangerous looking.

“Over there. He’s the one,” Tecer yelled. He rammed his shoulder into Nazarius’s chest, shoving him back.

The dangerous looking soldier drew his sword. The other grabbed for Ward, who jerked Quirin into the way. Quirin clawed at Ward’s hands, but Ward held tight. He had to restrain Quirin, subdue him, do something. The big soldier clamped a hand over Ward’s and Quirin’s and the three twisted and thrashed, Ward desperate to hang on, the others to make him let go.

Fire burned through Ward’s fingers. The big soldier rammed a fist into Ward’s ribs. The air exploded from his lungs, and his hand uncurled. Quirin and the soldier stumbled back.

Ward lunged for Quirin, but the dangerous looking soldier jabbed at him with his sword, forcing Ward back against the stall. Quirin spun on his heel and slammed into a large blond vesperitti. He had to be Celia’s friend Val. Ward hadn’t even seen him approach.

Celia stepped out of the shadows and grabbed the armed soldier’s wrist, twisting and forcing his blade from Ward. Ward scrambled from the wall, but the other, bigger soldier seized Ward’s shirt and tossed him into an empty stall. Val punched the big soldier in the head, and he stumbled back, dazed.

Free of Val, Quirin dodged a wild swing of the armed soldier’s blade intended for Celia. Ward leapt from the stall and grabbed for Quirin’s arm.

Quirin wrenched out of the way and drew the dagger at his hip. “Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter. You have to leave.”
Please just leave.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Quirin sneered. “I’ve heard about Macerio’s creativity. It’ll be a pleasure to witness what he does to liars firsthand.”

Quirin lunged at Ward. Ward scrambled back, and Quirin pressed his attack with two more lunges. The dagger sliced Ward’s side, ripping into his shirt, and Ward’s feet tangled. He grabbed Quirin’s doublet to keep his balance, yanking him forward. They both tumbled to the ground, Quirin on top, driving his weight onto Ward. Air burst from his lungs again, and he struggled to breathe.

Quirin thrust the dagger at Ward’s face. Ward bucked, and the dagger hit the hard-packed dirt floor. It flew from Quirin’s hand, skittering into the stall. He clambered off Ward and reached for it, but Ward grabbed his leg and yanked him away. With a jerk, Quirin slammed his foot into Ward’s shoulder and seized the dagger. Ward scrambled to his feet, his fingers numb, as Quirin launched himself at Ward again. The dagger came toward Ward’s chest. He staggered back, his heel catching on an uneven lip in the floor. He twisted. The dagger sliced another rent in Ward’s shirt, and he hit the back of the stall.

There was nowhere to go.

“Not much to you, is there,” Quirin said.

Ward balled his hands into fists. Celia rushed into sight. Her eyes widened, and she shouted his name. Time stuttered. Ward’s heart stopped. Quirin twisted around, keeping his blade low by his hip, but Celia’s gaze stayed high. She wasn’t going to see it. She wasn’t—

Ward snapped forward. He seized Quirin’s arm and slammed his fist into Quirin’s head. The apprentice-hopeful careened back, and his head smashed against the stall post. With a gasp, he sagged to the floor.

“Stop!” The word boomed through the stable.

Ward peered between the corner of the dark stall and Celia at the entranceway. Macerio stood there flanked by Lyla and Allette. The smaller of the soldiers lay unmoving on the ground, his sword missing. Val and the bigger one still faced each other, but the soldier’s lip was bleeding. Tecer staggered to his feet. A runnel of blood traced the chiseled line of his cheek and jaw. Nazarius was nowhere to be seen.

Macerio crossed his arms. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“The criminal. He’s here.” Tecer glanced around. Ward ducked back behind the stall wall. “I’ve seen him. He’s here.”

“He’s not here,” Val said.

“Yes, he is. I swear it.”

“He thinks Quirin is his criminal,” Lyla said, exasperation coloring her tone. “The damned Quayestri keeps breaking my thrall.”

“Well, we can’t have that, no matter how much magic he has in his soul.” Macerio’s voice grew dark.

Someone screamed. Ward could only assume it was Tecer, since he wasn’t going to look. He couldn’t be caught with Quirin, even if Quirin was unconscious at the moment.

The man screamed again. Quick, desperate, filled with pain. It boomed through the stable just as Macerio’s yell to stop the fight had. Then the keening broke off. Something heavy thudded against the ground, and the cloying reek of decay hit Ward’s nose. The silence pressed against his senses as if the whole world trembled, waiting for Macerio’s next command. Even the few horses in the stables seemed unnaturally still as if they, too, feared to draw Macerio’s attention.

“It’s a shame Rodas wasn’t here to see how it’s really done,” Macerio said. “Clean this up and send the soldiers home to tell the Grewdian Council their Tracker died in a bandit attack. And Lyla—”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Make sure your thrall holds. I don’t want anymore Quayestri showing up.”

“Yes.”

Footsteps crunched away across the gravel courtyard.

“Val,” Lyla said. “You clean up the mess.” She mumbled something, her voice soft and syrupy, then more footsteps crunched away.

Ward’s pulse pounded through him. They’d almost been caught.

Celia glanced into the stall. “Are you all right?”

“I think so.”

“Is he dead?” She jerked her chin in Quirin’s direction.

“I didn’t him
that
hard.”

“But you did hit him,” she said with a chuckle.

Maybe more things really were possible. “I did. Didn’t I?”

Her expression grew serious. “We can’t let Macerio find him.”

“But we’re not going to kill him.” He wasn’t going to kill an unconscious man in cold blood.

“He’s dangerous and evil. He’s hoping to become an Innecroestri.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be saved.” Ward prayed that was true. Habil had lost his way, but his love meant there had been a chance for him to find his way back. Even Macerio might be redeemable. Everyone had a glimmer of good, somewhere, deep down. Celia was proof of that.

“You can’t save everyone.”

“I know. But I don’t have to kill, either.”

“Fine,” she said, her tone hard.

“Fine.”

“Are you finished?” Val asked. “I might be on clean up duty, but that won’t give you an excuse for being late for Macerio’s dinner. You have less than an hour to make yourself presentable.”

Ward glanced down at Quirin.

“Val will take care of him. Your way.” Celia reached for Ward’s hand but withdrew before making contact.

His throat tightened. She didn’t want to touch him. She thought him a fool. He probably was.

“Come on,” she said.

Yes. He had to get going, had to finish the plan. He glanced back at the man whose identity he’d stolen. Nothing about Quirin Dagenhart looked evil. Nothing said he’d embraced the darkest magics and succumbed to the blood magic lure. There was no way to tell what a person was like just by looking at them.

Movement flickered by his hand.

Oh Goddess, he was waking up.