He couldn’t even be nice for the briefest moment.
“You’re dangerous because you are weak and unpredictable,” she fired. “You’re weak and you know it. Naught but a coward and a bully to cover your lack.”
A moment passed as they stared at each other. Then he straightened, no longer looking frightened by her words. “You are just like Mother. I actually admire the tenacity in both you and Jondralyn.”
“No, you don’t,” she shot back. “You hate us for it. You stifle our opinions. You control how we dress. You cannot lie to me. You want Jondralyn to die.”
“The man you should blame for your sister’s injuries is in the dungeons of Purgatory: the Sør Sevier knight, Gault Aulbrek.” A smile played over his features. “Of course, in your rage you already very nearly scratched his face off.”
That was something Tala both regretted and was proud of at the same time. When she had attacked Gault, she had lost her composure in the wake of emotion. She would not let it happen again.
“Do not feel guilty,” Jovan said, mistaking the contemplative look on her face. “With Gault, you can’t have done other than you did.”
“Gault is only in Amadon because you did nothing to stop Aeros’ army,” she said. “Why did you retreat from Wyn Darrè after Father died?”
“So you are a battle strategist now?”
“I only want to know why you did not fight as Father did. Your retreat seems to be that one singular cowardly act that has led us to this place, with the White Prince finally invading Gul Kana.”
“I did say we could talk frankly about anything,” Jovan said. “So I will indulge you this impertinence.” He grabbed Ansel by the shoulders again, pulling the boy close to him. “I withdrew Father’s armies from Wyn Darrè after his death on the promises of Grand Vicar Denarius that all would work out according to Laijon’s plan. And what is Laijon’s plan, you may ask? Fiery Absolution draws near and I needed to retreat and let Aeros Raijael take Wyn Darrè so the final prophesied battle would be fought in Amadon as The Way and Truth of Laijon has foretold.” He knelt behind Ansel and hugged his younger brother from behind. Ansel seemed to revel in the attention given him. “You see, Tala, according to the vicar and quorum of five, according to The Way and Truth of Laijon, I have been chosen to usher in the return of Laijon. Fiery Absolution is upon us. It has come to us, in our time. All that I do is to glorify the great One and Only.”
Tala was taken aback by her older brother’s candor. Now it was she who was thrown off guard. Her mind spun. Her brother spoke of Fiery Absolution, the prophesied event both feared and anticipated by all in Gul Kana who adhered to the tenets of the Church of Laijon. She had given Absolution scant thought over her lifetime. But now, in light of all he had just admitted, the notion of Fiery Absolution seemed completely absurd to her. A man like her brother certainly could not be part of any arcane scriptural prophecy. It was a gut feeling she couldn’t explain. She spoke what logically came to her mind next. “What if Denarius is wrong? What if all those lives in Wyn Darrè were lost for nothing because of some writings in some book? You could have saved so many more lives by fighting—”
“You sound exactly like Jondralyn.” He cut her off. “Has she been feeding your head with this blasphemy?”
“I can reason things out myself.”
“Reason is for the weak-minded. You need to learn how to feel the spirit and truth of the vicar’s words for yourself, Tala. I can feel the truth of things in my heart when Denarius speaks. He is Laijon’s holy mouthpiece and cannot lead us astray.”
“He is a vile man.”
“I thought we agreed to not talk of these things.”
“You brought it up.” She could see the frustration growing on his face.
“You do not try hard enough to see the good within Denarius,” Jovan said. He hugged Ansel tight, then stood again, hands on the boy’s shoulders. “You are too skeptical, Tala, rebellious, mischief making. This business with Sterling Prentiss, accusing him in public of the same things you’ve accused the vicar to me in private. The trouble you have caused this kingdom—no, the harm you’ve caused this kingdom. And it never ends with you. Convincing Glade and Lindholf into going down into Purgatory, and then you and Glade getting lost down there. You defiled the sanctity of Purgatory. Why?”
“Didn’t Hawkwood already defile the sanctity of Purgatory moons ago?”
“Leif put the guards to death because they lost track of you and Glade. We couldn’t risk word getting out that the dungeon is now so easily breached.”
“Leif put them to death!” Horror crawled up her spine. A wave of smothering guilt nearly folded her to her knees. “Why?”
“Such gross negligence cannot go unpunished.” Jovan’s every word sliced into her heart. “And if Leif is to be captain of the Dayknights, he needs to exert his duty and authority before the others.”
“But to kill men who had nothing to do with Glade and me . . .”
“Don’t forget Lindholf.”
“Lindholf had nothing to do with it. You cannot blame him—”
“Lindholf is not so innocent.” Jovan forestalled her words with a wave of his hand. “It is the three of you combined, always embroiled in some type of trouble.”
“It was all Glade Chaparral.” Tala lied on purpose. “After we talked with Gault, Glade wished to look for Hawkwood’s cell. Lindholf had nothing to do with it. He left soon after Leif did.”
“Search for Hawkwood’s cell?” Jovan’s eyes tightened. “What do you mean? He was in the cage next to Gault, was he not?”
“Leif told us Hawkwood was being kept in a separate part of the dungeon. Once Leif and Lindholf had left, Glade insisted we go find where Hawkwood was being kept.” Her lies kept growing. “Lindholf was no part of it.”
Tala could see the hurt in her brother’s eyes. But there was something more lurking within him, some deep betrayal she herself wasn’t even privy to. He raised his head and spoke. “You and Lindholf and Glade are nothing but trouble together. As for Glade himself, I am no longer considering a betrothal between the two of you.” Hearing that was actually a relief to her. “I’ve another suitor in mind for you,” he continued. “A most holy union that will change the very history of Gul Kana.”
At her brother’s pronouncement, a deep foreboding clutched Tala’s stomach. Her panicked mind flew to the moment just after she’d fed Lawri the green potion culled from Sterling Prentiss’ gut.
Her heart twisted as she recalled her cousin’s words upon awakening. I had a dream about you. You were married to Grand Vicar Denarius. . . . I attended your wedding.
* * *
To satisfy the law, a bishop anointed of Laijon can stand in proxy for the one being executed, if he believes that person to be innocent, and justice shall be served. The bishop’s life shall be made sacrifice in the stead of the accused.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
STEFAN WAYLAND
4TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
GLACIER RANGE, GUL KANA
Seita took Stefan by the hand and led him down the boulder-studded hill toward the rushing stream at the bottom of the canyon just below. Liz Hen was two steps behind. Beer Mug bounded along with them. As they picked their way cautiously down the ruined stone trail, Liz Hen grumbled about the task Roguemoore had set them to—that of gathering fresh water. All three of them carried leather water pouches that needed filling. The crisp waters gurgling at the bottom of the gorge cut through a thicket of tall pine and birch. The trail was rough but navigable, until patches of melting snow, growths of spiky high-mountain sage, and tufts of tundra overtook their path. The going became slow, and Liz Hen’s carping increased.
The others of the Company of Nine remained in the ruins of the stone fort tucked in the rocky alcove of the sloping mountainside above, preparing for the night. The fort was an old wreck, crumbling walls choked with vine. Thick and snarled trunks of lofty p
ine forced gaping cracks and crags in the stone walls. Still, it was well hidden and the perfect spot to set up camp. Stefan looked forward to the nightly sword training with Culpa Barra and Val-Draekin. It was clear that Nail, Dokie, and Liz Hen enjoyed the training too. Seita usually just watched and cheered them on in their competitions.
It had been three days since they had left Stanclyffe. They’d blazed their own trail through the Glacier Range, getting ever closer to Sky Lochs, trudging over cold high passes and snow-swept dales, across many rocky rivers and wild mountain streams, all whilst bundled tight in the heavy gray cloaks. They had seen no evidence of oghuls prowling the untamed terrain. Nonetheless, they were ever on the lookout.
As Stefan and Seita trundled hand in hand down the slope toward the tree-shrouded creek, Stefan’s quiver full of arrows bounced on his back. His ash-wood bow was strapped around his shoulder. The cool kiss of air wove through trees heavy with the fresh scents of pine, aspen, and moss. The crunch of pine needles and twigs sounded underfoot, accompanying the rustling of the aspen leaves above. A colorful wash of budding plants and golden sunlight rose up amidst the melting patches of snow. On the rough mountain ravines even higher above were trees of green, contrasting with the dark gray rock and cliffs. Stefan especially enjoyed the mountains when spring powered things to life, the air was thick with the perfume of damp soil and new growth and rushing waters.
Also, at nearly ten thousand feet high, the air they breathed was thin. Through breaks in the clouds, the company would catch glimpses of the mighty D’Nahk lè in the far northeast. The massive mountain rose to a breathtaking twenty-five thousand feet, many times higher than the range around it. At times, when the sky cleared and the mountain came into full view, Stefan could do naught but stare in awe. Godwyn claimed D’Nahk lè was an oghul term meaning the Great and Only One.
Stefan, Seita, and Liz Hen reached the bottom of the canyon and found an opening in the pine, aspen, and scrub. The creek cut through the foliage, creating a small, empty grove. The gurgling clear stream, about ten feet wide and two feet deep, looked inviting to Stefan’s thirst.
Dirt crumbled under Seita’s boots and tumbled into the creek as she bent to fill the leather water pouches she carried. The Vallè maiden had left her gray cloak and fox-fur-lined cape in camp. She wore her dark leather pants and black doublet, the ball-and-chain mace dangling from the belt at her waist. Her silk-colored hair sparkled magically in the sun. Just looking at her, Stefan could sense it. She hid something. A deep sorrow of some kind. They talked together often at night, sitting at the campfire when the others had retired. In those quiet conversations he’d witnessed her pain. It was not in anything she said, but rather in those pensive moments when her eyes seemed so full of tragedy. Full of such a broken tenderness he felt his heart would never cease its heavy beating for her.
Or perhaps I just project my own issues onto her.
As Stefan watched her fill the water skin, he fell into somber thought, imagining Gisela’s innocent face, wondering if he was betraying her memory with the newfound feelings for Seita. Everything around the Vallè maiden indeed seemed magical; the mirror-smooth water, the aspens and golden sunlight above. All of it appeared to be touched with her essence. She was such an elegant, peerless creation. And all he had to remind him of Gisela was her name so crudely carved into the stock of his bow.
Liz Hen waddled into view and began filling her water skin too, the Sør Sevier longsword at her hip dragging in the dirt and twigs. Beer Mug lapped at the cool stream next to her, completely content.
Once Seita’s pouch was filled, she stood and pulled forth a curious-looking tubelike shard of what looked to be pure black glass from a pocket of her leather doublet. The small black object was no bigger than her pinky finger. She set it to her lips and blew into it like a whistle. But there was no sound.
Beer Mug turned from the stream and looked at the Vallè, ears alert.
“What is that?” Liz Hen asked, annoyed.
“A musical whistle,” Seita answered. “Silent to human ears, music to the Vallè.”
“Oh,” Liz Hen grunted. “I thought maybe you were practicing your blowing technique for Stefan’s noodle. Thing in your hand looks about the right size anyway.”
Seita shot the big girl a dark look, the stream murmuring hollowly beside her.
Liz Hen shrugged nonchalantly. “But I reckon such an innocent little Vallè flower like you wouldn’t even know what a noodle looked like.”
“And you would?” Seita tucked the black shard of glass back into her doublet.
Beer Mug’s posture went stiff as he sensed the tension between the two girls. He then barked at the brush thicket across the stream just behind Liz Hen, ears alert. A crow fluttered from the trees, followed by the rustle of twigs and rocks. A white Dall sheep burst from the brush and bounded up the side of the ravine. It was a curly-horned ram, kicking up a spray of dirt and pebbles and snowy slush that tumbled down the slope. But neither Seita nor Liz Hen noticed the crow or ram as they glared at each other.
“Frail Vallè flower.” Liz Hen pointed her finger at Seita. “I ought to box your fragile Vallè face right into the dirt.”
“Shush,” Seita hissed, her gaze now fixed on the brush just beyond Liz Hen.
“Or what, you’ll brain me in the head with your useless little chain mace—”
“Just shut up.” Seita’s round Vallè eyes had narrowed to slits. Her hand reached into the folds of her black doublet. “You never let up, do you? Ever since we set sail from Lord’s Point it’s been nonstop flapping and yammering.”
“So what?”
Seita pulled a dagger from her doublet and threw it straight at Liz Hen’s face.
The dagger clipped a long red lock of the big girl’s hair as it spun into the dense brush thicket and pine beyond. Liz Hen’s eyes grew wide. “Murderous harlot!”
There was a throaty grunt and a blunt-faced oghul staggered from the parting brush across the stream behind Liz Hen, massive war hammer clutched in one meaty hand, Seita’s black dagger buried hilt-deep in his eye. The beast toppled forward, landing face-first in the gurgling stream with a stupendous splash. Crystal waters streamed over the oghul’s leather-armored back.
Beer Mug lunged across the stream as six more oghuls burst gape-mouthed and drooling from the trees, the hollows of their fierce gray eyes livid with rage, brutal gray faces pinched and stretched in anger, their clawed hands clutching gruesome, crude swords and axes. Their guttural war cries thundered off both sides of the rock-studded canyon walls.
Stefan stumbled back, hand reaching for the bow and the arrows in his quiver.
Seita’s ball-and-chain mace was awhirl as she leaped toward the first oghul across the stream, spinning metal ball punching into the monster’s broad face with a loud crack, sending the oghul reeling. Blood and slaver spewed from the beast’s destroyed mouth. Beer Mug launched himself straight up at the face of the next oghul, his daggerlike teeth sinking into the creature’s neck as both fell back into the water.
Stefan braced his feet, nocked an arrow, and aimed for the third beast that was heading straight for Liz Hen, a yowling brute about to split her head open with an upraised maul. His arrow caught the oghul right in the gaping maw. It fell dead as Liz Hen stumbled forward, eyes panicked as she went down hard on her knees, scrambling to pull the Sør Sevier sword from her own belt.
Seita hurled her chain-mace at the fourth oghul. The monster knocked the whirling Vallè weapon into the trees with a flick of its serrated longsword and came at her, howling. Stefan took aim with his second arrow. With the thwack of his bowstring, the charging beast stumbled to its knees, Stefan’s arrow jutting from its rusted chest plate. Seita vaulted over him straight toward the fifth oghul, who had just tackled Liz Hen. The big girl struggled with the fat-eared brute. He had an iron cooking pot for a helm. The last oghul stood over the two combatants, ax raised to split Liz Hen’s head.
Seita snatched the sword from the b
elt at the big girl’s hip, rolled, countered the plunging blow of the ax-wielding oghul, and then leaped to her feet. The oghul with the cooking-pot helm had gained advantage over Liz Hen and now had his meaty hands around her throat. Seita spun about and swung the sword low, chopping straight through the two hands clutching Liz Hen’s neck. The oghul flopped face-forward onto the girl, blood spouting from the stumps of its arms, cooking-pot helm tumbling from its head.
Liz Hen, her face awash in oghul blood, struggled to crawl free of the twitching corpse.
Seita’s attention was instantly on the ax-wielding oghul. Sword flashing in the sun, her blade bit deep, splitting the last oghul’s leather-armored chest and abdomen. She was splashed with blood as slithering guts spilled from the slit in the monster’s belly. The oghul wobbled sideways, tripped over its own entrails, and went down. Dead.
It had all happened so fast, Stefan hadn’t yet even fired his third arrow.
All seven oghuls lay in gruesome heaps. Beer Mug was ripping the throat and face completely off the twitching oghul in the stream, his muzzle red.
Blood dripped from some of the surrounding gray boulders and soaked down into the loamy soil. The ground was slippery underfoot as Stefan helped Liz Hen from under the oghul with no hands. The traumatized girl scrambled from under the beast and then half ran, half stumbled away from the creek-side carnage. The handless oghul was still alive and started howling. Seita effortlessly silenced the brute. One swift thrust of Liz Hen’s sword right into the beast’s spine and it was over.
Every oghul was now dead and quiet.
The Vallè maiden walked casually up to Liz Hen and gave her back the sword.
Liz Hen gazed at the bloody weapon returned to her hand. “Well, bugger me blind,” she muttered, doing the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over her heart with her other hand. She looked up at Seita. “You done kilt ’em all.”
Culpa Barra entered the grove, panting in exhaustion, his huge black Dayknight sword drawn and ready. Val-Draekin was there right behind him. Nail, too, face also red from exertion, sword drawn. “What happened?” Culpa’s darting eyes surveyed the scene. Seven dead oghuls. Seita, face and hair savaged in blood. Liz Hen, also drenched in scarlet, standing there with a stained sword and a stupid look. Beer Mug’s muzzle was a mop of sopping red. The reek of oghul blood and guts was ripe.
The Blackest Heart Page 35