Winter Be My Shield (37 page)

‘Endrian?' Cam said. ‘He's been bribing the Raiders to leave his villages alone for months now. It looks as though Rasten stumbled across some of his messengers.'

‘But why would he slaughter them? If they're in Endrian's hire, then ultimately they're on the side of the king.'

‘That means nothing to Rasten,' Sierra said. ‘How many?'

‘Eight, judging from the bedding in there,' Ardamon said, jerking his head towards the tents. ‘Seven, minus the one out here. Why? What does it matter?'

Sierra felt the blood drain from her face so quickly that for a moment she swayed on her feet.

Cam grabbed her by the arm to steady her. ‘What is it, Sirri?'

‘Seven! Spirit of Storm, defend us! When he only had the men of his escort to feed on, we had a chance,' she said. ‘He's wounded, so it's harder for him to raise and hold power. He would have needed to charge in preparation for a battle. We could have harried him and pulled back over and over, and he'd've had to burn through his own men in order to keep his power up, until they mutinied or deserted, or they were all dead.' Sierra raked her hair back from her face and began to pace across the clearing. ‘But now he's got seven sacrifices to draw on. His own men
won't care what happens to them, not the way they would if it was one of their own.' She turned to Cam. ‘We can't go on. It would be suicide.'

‘What in the hells are you talking about?' Ardamon demanded. ‘You want us to break off the chase now? When we're only an hour behind?'

‘He's right,' Cam said. ‘We can't turn back. We'll never get this chance again.'

‘No!' Sierra shouted. ‘How in the Black Sun's name do you expect me to face him? He'll be full to bursting and I've got no power to fight him with!'

‘I should have known it would come to this,' Ardamon snarled, turning to Cam. ‘Your great sorcerer is nothing more than a coward.'

‘What would you have me do?' Sierra yelled at him. ‘Do you want me to choose the man to go under the knife? Will you volunteer yourself, or order one of your men to do what you're not willing to? Perhaps you can find a condemned criminal to sacrifice?'

‘Calm down, you're scaring the horses,' Cam snapped. ‘What do you need? I'll do it if that's what it takes to kill Rasten.'

She shook her head. ‘Cam —'

‘I mean it, Sirri.'

‘You don't know what you're talking about! That man  —' she pointed at the frost-rimed corpse, ‘was skinned alive, piece by piece, and then jointed like a beast for the pot. What they did to Isidro? That was gentle handling so he'd live long enough to be executed — and it still cursed near killed him. Rasten left that as a message, to show us all what to expect if this comes to a battle. I'm not prepared to do what it would take to counter him — not under any circumstances. Do you hear me? I won't.'

‘Sirri …' Cam came closer and rested his hands on her shoulders.

‘I
won't
,' she whispered. ‘If I did, you'd have to kill me. I'd be no better than them.'

‘If we let him go, Sierra, this will never be over.'

‘Killing him wouldn't change anything anyway,' she said. ‘You and Isidro will still be hunted. Kell will still move heavens and earth to get me back.' No doubt Kell would find someone else eager to take on the task of breaking her down to an empty shell.

Cam turned to Ardamon. ‘You know this land best. What's Rasten's fastest route to safety?'

Ardamon scowled, jamming his fists against his belt. ‘From here? Through Horrock's Pass. The base of it is only a few hours' ride away.'

‘Is it even open at this time of year? I'd have thought it'd be buried under snow.'

‘That doesn't matter to Rasten,' Sierra said. ‘He can blast his way through and he'll bury us if we try to stop him.'

‘Can't you do something about that?' Ardamon asked.

Sierra stared at him. ‘Just how many of your men are you planning to sacrifice? Cam, this is stupidity.'

‘Ardamon, I agree,' Mira said. ‘We have to turn back.'

Ardamon turned on her with fury in his eyes. ‘
Now
you believe her? Just days ago you were saying you'd never trust a sorcerer!'

‘Yes, I believe her, when she's telling us directly that this is a battle she can't win. Do you want your grave to be under an avalanche, or in the firepit where Kell disposes of his refuse?'

‘But this is our only chance!' Ardamon roared. ‘We'll never get another! Why in the hells did you agree to this if only to back down now?'

‘I told you in the first place that the plan was madness,' Sierra told him. ‘Rasten has ten years of training on me and he's not afraid to sacrifice every last one of his men if that's what it takes. Forgive me if I'm not the monster you hoped I was!'

‘Sierra, isn't there any way we can make this happen?' Cam said. ‘What if every man here takes a cut, or a burn?'

Sierra shook her head. ‘It won't be enough.'

‘Are you sure?'

She met his gaze. ‘No. But is that a chance you want to take?'

A thread of power brushed against her mind and Sierra closed her eyes with a silent prayer to the Black Sun.
Not now, please, not him.

Rasten chuckled within her skull.
At last, Little Crow, you're beginning to understand what it will cost you to follow this path. If you want them to live, their only hope is for you to turn yourself in.

The vision through his eyes was crisp and clear — he made no effort to conceal it from her. He was at the foot of the pass, gazing up at a switchback trail that marched up a rocky cliff face, a natural boundary marking the southern edge of the Wolf Lands. Power hummed beneath his skin, drowning out the ache of the wound in his back. In her mind's eye he glowed like a hot coal.

Come after me if you wish, Little Crow, but if you're going to end up in my hands anyway, you may as well leave those poor souls behind to eke out another year or two.

Get. Out. Of. My. Head
. She severed the contact with a wrench that left her dizzy.

‘Sirri?' Once again, Cam clapped a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

‘It's nothing,' she muttered. ‘I'm alright.'

‘Ardamon, I've made up my mind, and the order is mine to give,' Mira said. ‘Tell the men we're turning back.'

He couldn't go on like this. The pain was too much. Not just the physical pain, although that was bad enough, but the anguish of knowing he was helpless. If he'd been whole and able-bodied he might have held out hope of escape, but now? It wouldn't have mattered if they'd left him unchained, Isidro doubted he had the strength even to make it to the edge of the camp. If he merely waited passively while his captors did as they wished to him this would go on for days, weeks, or maybe for the rest of his life. Presumably the interrogations would eventually come to an end. After all, there was only so much he could tell them about Rasten and Kell, but the other mages and the strange experiment they'd performed …

Isidro shuddered at the memory, pressing his face into the crook of his arm to hide the sudden sob. He couldn't bear it, not again. While Kell had subjected him to every humiliation he could contrive, Isidro had been able to cling to the knowledge that
he'd still won
. He'd saved Cam. Nothing could change that, and it was the only thing that mattered at that point. But here he was utterly powerless. What they wanted from him they would simply take and there was nothing he could do about it. He would be subjected to that awful violation again and again, until they had all they wanted and simply threw him away.

When the day rolled around to the evening and they brought him food and drink, Isidro had made up his mind. He wouldn't — he couldn't — go on like this.

His reserves were spent and the fever that had been fought down under Jorgen's care was flaring up again, thickening his lungs and burning on his cheeks. If he was to have any chance of recovering he would need warmth and rest, good food and clean water. Well, warmth and rest had already been denied him. If he could find the strength to
refuse to eat or drink, then within another day or two he would be too far gone for even the best physician to halt his decline.

It was the mage who had led the interrogation who came to him, the one called Torren. He was accompanied by a Ricalani slave, a skinny young woman of about Sierra's age with tangled hair and old bruises on her face. She carried a tray with a pair of bowls on it and when her master gave her a shove in Isidro's direction he couldn't help but pity the girl. Her master would punish her if she failed to feed him, but Isidro was determined not to let anything pass his lips. Either way, this would go badly for her, but he couldn't afford to weaken his resolve.

She set the tray down on a trunk and cautiously approached with a bowl in her hand. Isidro gathered what strength he had and heaved himself up into a sitting position, leaning his back against a crate. The insubstantial scar hovering over his spine throbbed like a fresh burn. It felt as though it should sting at the contact but of course it passed through the rough wood as though there was nothing there.

When they'd returned him to this tent, they'd locked a manacle around the wrist of his good arm and strung the chain fastened to it through a metal ring bolted to one of the crates, before anchoring the end of it well out of his reach. There was enough slack in the chain to let him lift his hand to his mouth, but that was all — it would not have let him stand, had he the strength to do so.

The girl offered him the bowl. Isidro made no move to take it. She cast a nervous glance to her master, who gestured impatiently. ‘Get on with it,' he said in Akharian.

With a glare at him for making her life more difficult she crouched down and tried to press the bowl to his lips. It held some kind of thin and watery gruel. Isidro turned his head away.

With a curse, Torren reached into his coat and produced a Slaver's club. The sight of it made Isidro begin to sweat, but he forced down the memories and the fear. With a growl Torren jammed a knee against Isidro's chest to hold him still, laid the club against his throat, and took a handful of Isidro's hair to wrench his head around and keep him from turning away. Back when he'd been a warrior, Isidro had kept his black hair short for that reason, but since he'd been injured no one had bothered to trim it.

‘Go on, then,' Torren snapped at the girl. She tried pressing the bowl to his lips again and this time Isidro lashed out with his good hand. He
knocked the bowl from her grip, sending it flying across the narrow aisle. The gruel spilled, splattering over crates and dripping through the spruce. The bowl struck a trunk opposite and shattered and the girl jumped back with a small cry, cowering away from his fist. Cursing, Torren backhanded Isidro across the face and pressed down on the club across his throat to hold him still. Choking, Isidro clawed at the wood and at the mage's gloved fingers, but he'd spent what strength he had. His vision was turning black when Torren finally eased up and backed away, still seething and furious.

‘You want to starve yourself, you wretched dog?' he rasped. ‘Fine.' He grabbed the other bowl and tipped the water out through the spruce. ‘You'll eat when you're hungry enough.' He grabbed the slave-girl by the shoulder and shoved her towards the ground. ‘Pick those up.'

She did as he said, gathering up the larger fragments of the bowl and then scrambled along to the end of the aisle to pile them all on the tray. Still cursing, Torren strode past her and she hurried after him with her small burden, casting a dark look behind her at Isidro as she left.

Gasping for breath, Isidro watched them go. It was only once he heard them crunching away through the snow outside that he turned his attention to the scratch on the trunk where the bowl had hit and broken.

She hadn't gathered up all the fragments. He could see one pointed shard lying on the green carpet of spruce at the base of the trunk.

One small shard of pottery, half buried amid the greenery.

He couldn't reach it with his good hand. Instead, he had to squirm around quietly to take off his boots and his socks, moving cautiously in case the sound of him shuffling around and drawing sharp breaths when his battered and cramping muscles protested let someone know he was up to something.

Any small items that fell on a spruce floor could quickly work their way through the twigs and needles to be lost in the snow beneath. If anyone dropped a button or a small coin everyone in the tent had to remain still until it was found, or else the wretched thing would be lost forever — even pulling up the floor was no guarantee of finding it. If he didn't pick up the shard on his first attempt it would slip beneath the twigs and out of his reach.

Isidro reached for his prize with his bare toes and closed them over the fragment. It was cold and hard against his cooling skin. He was braced for the sting of a cut — shards from a glazed pot could be razor-sharp if
it fractured the right way — but no cut came. Holding his breath, he picked up the shard with his toes.

It fell from his grip before he could bring it within reach of his hand, but at last he could get a good look at it. There was no sharply angled edge to provide a neat cutting surface, but the shard was triangular, roughly the shape of a spear-head. A sharp edge would have helped, but no matter. It would serve.

He kicked it closer, but even by straining against the chain on his wrist Isidro could barely get his fingertips on it. Just one fraction of an inch closer — his fingertips scrabbled over the smooth glaze — and he had it in his grip.

It wasn't sharp. He knew how much force it took to pierce flesh with a weapon that was designed for the task, let alone a blunt shard. It wouldn't be easy, but strangely he felt no fear, only a kind of calm resolve.

Black Sun, I don't want to die, but I can't live like this.
It was the only power he had, the only way he could make the pain stop. The thought of Cam troubled him — Isidro was breaking his promise, but he knew Cam would understand. And Sierra … well, his chances of ever seeing her again had never been very great. She needed to keep moving to be safe and he could never have kept up with her. She would know when it happened; she would tell Cam and then he wouldn't have to worry about Isidro any more. He would no longer be burdened by the need to provide for his crippled brother, when the two of them had barely been able to provide for themselves.

Cam would forgive him.

There was no use in waiting. Isidro set the blunt point of the shard against his neck, braced the heel of his palm against the butt and thrust it in, gouging through skin and flesh as he gritted his teeth against the pain.

There was a rush of sound in his head like the roar of a waterfall and then Rasten was there.
What in the Black Sun's name are you doing?

Isidro didn't reply. He'd broken the skin and could feel the hot trickle of blood dripping down to his shoulder, but there was a lot of muscle to go through and the shard was so blunt it forced the fibres apart rather than cutting through them.

Rasten reached for the sigil carved into his back. His touch bit hard and deep and Isidro shuddered so violently his fingers slipped over the shard, now sticky with blood.

What do you think Sierra is going to do if you die?
Rasten snarled in his ear.
If she tries to take revenge on the Akharians now, they'll kill her!

Isidro faltered. He hadn't considered that.
She wouldn't …

She will! She loves you, you worthless cripple! I don't know why, but she does, and I won't let you drive her to throw her life away for your sake.
Through that insubstantial scar, Rasten had a hand buried right in the depths of him and through that grasp he flooded Isidro with power.

It roared through him like a flood of golden light, striking swifter and deeper than any drug. All his aches and fatigue were swept away by that rush and the chill in his bones vanished like smoke in the wind.

Sierra had told him about this — that rush of power buried all the cares of this world, she'd said. Under the full flood of it she hadn't cared what they'd done to her or to whichever poor soul was trapped in the chains, although by that point they were one and the same as Sierra could feel everything that was inflicted upon them. That rising tide of power had saved her sanity — otherwise she would have gone utterly mad as she experienced being tortured to death again and again. She'd tried to describe it but he had never really understood until now.

Isidro fought to keep his will and his mind together under the assault of that flood. He could
just
feel the shard in his hand and the blunt throb of the wound on his neck. The power was giving him strength to resist the pain — if he could just hold on to his awareness for a little longer, he would be able to finish the job and it would all be over — no more pain, no more fear, just peace.

Somewhere, he felt hands close around his wrist. Through the golden roar of the power, he could hear someone shouting in rage and fury. He fought against it, and the power lent him strength, but it wasn't enough. Something struck him across the head — he could see shadowy forms standing over him, but they were thin and insubstantial, mere shadows of the physical world.
NO!
Isidro howled as he felt them winning, pulling his hand away. There were too many of them and they had power — he could feel it battering against the energy Rasten had fed to him — and
they
knew how to use it. It was already leaking away from him, pouring like water from a sprung barrel. Isidro fought and struggled and howled, but his chance — his one chance to end it all here and now — was gone.

He was helpless once again.