He stopped, noticing her fright. “You’ve gotten yourself involved with a Bloodwood and don’t know what to do, correct?”
She remained silent. Wary.
“You needn’t fear me, Tala.”
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked. “Shouldn’t you be in Purgatory?” Immediately she realized the stupidness of the question. He’d been locked in Purgatory before, after the duel with the Dayknights, and he’d escaped. Of course he could escape a second time. Blessed Mother Mia, even Glade and I wandered around in Purgatory virtually unmolested!
Of course if Hawkwood had escaped a second time, Jovan had to know it. But he had not admitted to any such thing. Nor had Leif Chaparral. But that didn’t surprise her. Individually they were both incompetent. Together, doubly so.
“What are you doing here?” she repeated.
“The secret ways are a dangerous place for a princess.” He pulled one of the swords from over his back, set it on the altar between them. His gaze met hers coldly. “You’ve clearly ventured other places under the city that few have been, Tala.”
“I go where I choose. What of it?” She would reveal nothing. “Again, answer my question. What are you doing here?”
“Perhaps I watch over you.”
“I don’t need watching over.”
“I’ve no doubt.” The corners of his mouth curled in a wry smile again. “But this game you play with the Bloodwood, you cannot win, Tala.”
“Are you the Bloodwood who plays games with me?”
“You know in both head and heart that I am not.”
Head and heart? She looked down at the sword he’d placed on the altar—the cross-shaped altar upon which Glade had murdered Sterling Prentiss. What is he trying to tell me by showing me the sword? Truth was, she didn’t know what she knew anymore. Or what she herself even wanted. She looked up at him.
But his eyes were fixed on the sword, or more on the cross-shaped altar under it. His hand reached out and caressed the stone. “I wonder who else knows this altar is here?” he murmured almost to himself. Tala watched him, utterly vexed. His hands drifted over the altar, over his sword. Then he looked up at her. “I know you are frustrated,” he said. “I’ve followed you here to help you, Tala.”
“I need no help.” Lawri needs help! All she could think of was her armless cousin in the infirmary. She felt the tears spring up in her eyes. She just wanted it all to end. Just wanted this seemingly impossible-to-win game with the Bloodwood to be over.
“Jovan cut Lawri’s arm off,” she mumbled. “Where will she ever get another?” Tala choked back the sobs she felt coming, ignored the tear she felt crawling down her cheek. “You wish to help?” she asked. “Can you regrow Lawri’s arm?”
His eyes softened. “Not even a million faithful prayers to Laijon could regrow Lawri’s arm. In that regard, the gods of each of the Five Isles are useless. As am I.”
She met his gaze unwaveringly, demanding a better answer, willing him to say something that might actually be helpful. Perhaps he had been a Bloodwood once. And perhaps he was not the current Bloodwood who plagued her. Still, she knew enough about Bloodwoods to know that he acted like one, vague and cryptic. And she’d had enough. Tala placed both her hands on the altar and leaned over it, leaned toward him. “State what you want plainly”—she swallowed hard—“or stay the fuck away from me.”
His eyes narrowed. “You are smart, Tala. Smarter even than Jondralyn.” He drew his cloak tighter around himself. “I am here to offer you the same as I offered your sister. Though I’ve no Sacrament of Souls to help teach you my craft.”
There was a moment of silence between them. The implication of what he offered was clear. His craft? But it had only been an implication. And her patience had worn thin. “I said speak plainly. You did not. Now leave me alone.”
Two languid hands rose up and pulled the hood back over his head, concealing his face again in shadow. “You will think on my offer, though?”
She stood straight, stoic. Folded her arms. Her indifference had reached a peak. “I will make my own way,” she said.
“As I thought.” He bowed to her. “But if you change your mind, just return my sword to me.” He turned to go.
“And how will I find you?”
“The Val-Sadè,” he said, and then took his leave, vanishing through the dark opening of the distant door, leaving his sword on the altar.
She breathed deep, relieved that he was gone. How can I be so inconsistently weak and strong and afraid at the same time? Emotions overwhelmed her in a warm flood. The lump in her throat grew. Tears welled up. Everything had just become more complex. Does he really want to teach me his assassin skills? Train me as a Bloodwood? Does he really think I am smart? And what is Val-Sadè? Where is Val-Sadè? Who is Val-Sadè? Blessed Mother, he couldn’t just answer me plainly!
She snatched up his sword, knowing for a fact that it was one of the ones she had taken from Glade and tossed into the river. How did he get it back?
A flash of silver light cut through the scarlet shadows and drew her attention. Her tear-streaked gaze fell upon the horrid cross-shaped altar again, and she wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her. In the center of the altar stone was a curious splash of silver—a coin-sized splatter that hadn’t been there when she’d picked up the sword. Tala wiped her eyes with the back of one hand and stepped to the altar, Hawkwood’s sword still gripped tight in her other hand.
Another drip of silver splashed down atop the first. She looked to the shadows of the arched ceiling to see a third droplet fall from the darkness, landing atop the first two, splashing, little pinprick splatters radiating out from the bigger puddle. She leaned over the altar. It was liquid—a curious silver liquid.
She reached forth her right hand, dabbed the tip of her pinky finger in the small puddle. There was a sizzle and smoke. She yanked her hand back, stunned. And when she looked at her tingling finger, the very tip of it was entirely gone.
* * *
The King of Slaves could banish evil with naught but a look.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
NAIL
23ND DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
WEST OF TEVLYDOG, GUL KANA
The two mares were tethered in front of a deserted tavern in the middle of the abandoned town, dining on naught but stale water and moss. It appeared the neglected horses had been standing in front of the same trough for weeks.
Val-Draekin wanted to see if the two raggedy beasts were tame enough to ride. One was dapple gray, the other near black. Both were still saddled and bridled, the mangy tail of the dapple gray swatting at a swarm of gnats. With his leg still splinted, the Vallè’s limp was pronounced as he stepped gingerly across the tavern’s wood-plank porch toward the scraggly, lean horses. Their gaunt eyes widened as the Vallè drew near. Nail padded silently behind.
This was the first hamlet of any significance Nail and Val-Draekin had come across since leaving the glacier behind twelve days ago. It lay in the bottom of a twisting, boulder-studded valley of harsh pine and jagged cliffs. From the safety of the trees, they had observed it most of the morning before venturing down a rocky hillside dotted with gray thistle and blue flowers and entering the town. The place was hauntingly empty, a random cluster of thatched-roof cottages with darkened windows, a two-story wooden tavern in the center. The tavern’s porch was naught but a set of rickety stairs under leaning eaves, one deadened lantern hanging useless in the lifeless air. The sky above the valley was white, roofed over by a thin layer of clouds.
Before entering the tavern, they’d searched the vacant cottages for food, finding nothing but cold stone hearths and bareness. The tavern had yielded even less, just empty cupboards and dust. Not even one piece of broken-down furniture remained in the entire town. “Likely used for burning,” Val-Draekin had surmised.
“I reckon these hills were once teeming with human
s,” the Vallè remarked as they’d conducted their search. “Miners, farmers, loggers, hunters, trappers, all used to call these woods home. Until recently. Now looks like they’ve all fled their cabins and undefended villages for the protection of the bigger towns like Deadwood Gate or Tevlydog. Hragna’Ar seems to have everyone in the north spooked. And rightly so.”
Val-Draekin surmised they were north of Deadwood Gate, possibly even closer to Tevlydog. In the twelve days since leaving the glacier, injured and tired as they were, they had not journeyed far in the Vallè’s estimation. Nail had carried his companion a good portion of the way. Val-Draekin had only started walking by himself the last two days. More of a slow, ponderous limp, really. Still, they had plodded along through the forests and hills, catching fish if they could, which would be their only nourishment beyond a few wild blueberries. The streams and lakes were sparse. They slept cold under the stars, no gear, just the same travel-worn clothes on their backs they’d come out of the glacier with, not a single weapon for defense between them. There had been days where Nail had grown so hungry, it seemed that someone was constantly squeezing down on his stomach with a tight fist. Finally having horses to ride would be a fair boon indeed.
Val-Draekin stroked the snout of the dapple gray. The mare eyed him nervously. “I haven’t any food for you, girl,” he said, his soothing voice seeming to calm the horse. “I wish I did. But I don’t. Perhaps together we can find something down the road.” The Vallè beckoned Nail with a soft wave. “Come round slow; see if she’ll let you mount up.”
Nail flicked a strand of blond hair from his eyes and stepped off the porch, drifting cautiously around the dapple gray, the palm of his hand caressing her flank tenderly. He took hold of the saddle horn and pulled to see if the saddle was secure, and to see if the horse would jump. Both stayed steady. So he heaved himself up, the horse nervously shuffling a few steps sideways. But Nail settled into the saddle and steadied the mare with a squeeze of his legs. Val-Draekin untethered the horse from the hitching post. She nickered and snorted and tossed her head almost joyfully.
The Vallè was in the midst of untethering the second mare when Nail heard the wwhhhppt! of air and the wet smack of an arrow striking horseflesh. The dapple gray under him bucked and bellowed and let loose a ghoulish scream that pierced the silence of the abandoned village. Nail was tossed out of the saddle, landing hard in the dirt with a thud that knocked the breath from his lungs.
Another wwhhhppt! and the mare jumped again as a second arrow sank into her flanks next to the first, quivering. Val-Draekin snatched hold of her tether by the bit and tried to rein her in. But the frightened arrow-shot mare bolted away, yanking the Vallè into the dirt next to Nail.
Oghuls thundered from the forest surrounding the town, dozens of them, iron-booted feet echoing off canyon cliffs, crude armor a-clatter, spears and axes gripped in large gray fists. Nail lurched to his feet as they came charging from every direction. He scrambled to help Val-Draekin stand. But they were too late to run and were instantly surrounded, rusted and ragged spearheads bristling in their faces, pointing threateningly.
“Down on your knees!” the lead oghul rumbled, a helmetless blunt-faced fellow with a large, crooked nose and tapered forehead. Thick ringlets of filthy chain mail draped his chest and shoulders and dangled down past his thick thighs. He carried no weapon but for two mighty gauntlets of iron.
“On your knees!” he barked again. The clarity of his words was startling to Nail, who had only ever heard oghuls grunt and snarl. A spear was thrust within an inch of his face. Nail dropped to his knees as ordered. Val-Draekin did likewise.
“Tie them up!” the lead oghul ordered. Rough hands grabbed Nail’s wrists, yanking them behind him, forcing his hands together palm to palm as leather cords were wrapped tight around the wrists.
Val-Draekin, also now bound, met Nail’s gaze. “If it comes to Hragna’Ar,” he said, “rest assured, Nail, I will slay you myself. You needn’t suffer that.”
“Shut up, Vallè scum!” The lead oghul clubbed Val-Draekin in the side of the head with a ponderous gauntleted backhand. Val-Draekin sagged to the dirt, unconscious, blood welling from a gash between his left eye and ear.
Strong hands hauled Nail to his feet, tearing the right side of his tattered shirtsleeve almost clean off. White-hot pain flared the length of his arm. The mark of the cross, the mark of the slave, the mark of the beast!
All the oghuls stopped and stared. The entirety of his arm was bare. The mermaid scar on his right arm and the slave brand on the underside of his wrist were red and raw, as was the cross-shaped scar on the back of his right hand. The black tattoo Stefan had given him aboard the Lady Kindly was also exposed.
“What’s this?” the lead oghul snarled, motioning to the markings. “Who are you?”
“Nobody,” Nail sputtered, wincing at the sudden stinging soreness engulfing his bare arm.
“Take him away!” the oghul growled.
“Ragn’R!” another oghul shouted.
“Ragn’R!” the throng of oghuls blared in unison.
† † † † †
The steep, winding trail led the horde of oghuls through thick pines slathered with moss and aspens and boulders roped with leafy vines. The thin sheet of clouds had vanished. Still, the chill of the evening air bit deep. Nail’s lungs were hurting from the climb. As he trudged up the path, thongs of leather binding his hands behind his back, it was hard to keep his balance. Aspen branches reached over the trail like whispering claws, knocking into him.
Nail was so hungry, he found both his mind and body could scarcely function. But onward he plodded, afraid to rest, having already felt the sting of the lead oghul’s barbed whip once. The gangly oghul clomping up the trail just ahead of him led the scraggly black mare by the bit. Val-Draekin was tied, stomach down, on the horse’s swaying back, his hands bound behind him, legs dangling from the left flank, head from the right, dark hair matted with dripping blood. Nail didn’t know the fate of the arrow-shot dapple gray. The sad fact was, out of sheer weariness and hunger, he and Val-Draekin had fallen into the oghuls’ trap: the two mares had been merely bait.
They were high above the abandoned town now. Between gaps in the trees, Nail saw grim canyon walls rising above, peaks tinged with purple and red from the sunset. He stared up at the rough cliffs through the breaks in the trees, thinking he saw something hanging up there among the cruel gray rock. He grew light-headed looking up, so he focused back down on the trail at his feet.
They eventually entered a narrow draw, craggy columns of rock rising up on either side. The oghul leading the black mare stopped, untied the unconscious Vallè, and threw him over his own shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He continued on up the path, leaving the horse behind. The trail was rugged, a ruthless set of uneven stairs chiseled straight up the rock face. The stout oghul in front of Nail seemed to manage the ponderous climb just fine, even with Val-Draekin draped over his back.
After about a half hour of tedious hiking, the bleak path emptied them atop the cliff overlooking the valley. Near the edge of the cliff were two woolly musk oxen, twelve feet tall and scraggly, one with an oghul rider. Liz Hen had been right: the dirty beasts did look like upside-down mops, clumps of hair falling from the crown of their backs clear to the ground, massive tusks sprouting from their heads.
Beyond the two musk oxen, at the edge of the cliff, were five thick wooden posts pounded deep into the ground. The three heavy iron chains trailing from the three nearest posts over the rim of the cliff were rusted and scarred. The two farthest posts were also linked to similar iron chains. But those chains were coiled in the middle and connected to the top of cages constructed of iron poles lashed together with smaller chains, rope, and leather thongs. The square iron doors of both cages were swung open.
Nail was shoved toward the nearest of the cages. It couldn’t have been more than three feet high, its crude iron poles and small door caked with filth. The cage�
��s round underside looked exactly like the lid of one of the heavy iron cauldrons Baron Jubal Bruk used to boil his grayken oil. It was also stained from long use. The cage’s circular roof was similar in shape and design to its bottom.
As the lead oghul began untying Nail’s hands, the oghul carrying Val-Draekin dumped the Vallè, his leather armor caked with dirt and blood, before the farthest cage. The beast crammed Val-Draekin’s limp body through the door of the crude pen.
Nail’s hands were untied, yet he dared not move. He could only watch as the door of his unconscious travel companion’s cage was pushed shut and then locked with a large iron lock. Val-Draekin leaned awkwardly against the iron bars of the makeshift pen, unaware of what was happening, his bleeding head listing, both arms lifeless at his side, both legs sticking straight out between the bars.
There seemed to be short whispered arguments between several of the oghuls about the scars visible on Nail’s exposed arm, then the lead oghul grasped him by the back of the head and forced his face toward the opening of his cage, trying to shove him in. Nail struggled briefly, but the oghul was too strong. He soon found himself locked in the pen just like Val-Draekin, both legs sticking between the gaps in the bars. The scum-covered contraption reeked of rot and ruin. Had there been food in his stomach, Nail would have purged it from the stink.
He watched as five oghuls grabbed the heavy chain attached to Val-Draekin’s cage, whilst five others lifted it. The Vallè’s legs dragged in the dirt as they carried the pen toward the cliff. They set it down and slid it carefully over the rim. The five oghuls guiding the chain slowly lowered Val-Draekin’s cage down the side of the cliff and out of view.
Then the oghuls marched toward Nail. He clutched the bars of his own pen tight as they lifted him toward the cliff and lowered him over the edge. The cage twisted and clattered against the lichen-covered rock face as it descended jerkily. His heart hammered against his ribs when he looked down. Two hundred feet beneath his dangling legs lay the unforgiving boulder-strewn base of the cliff. He spied the thatched-roof huts of the abandoned town hunkered in the trees far below.
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