CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KIARA SHARSEQUIN NUDGED her horse onward and wrapped her cloak closer against the autumn chill. The most dangerous part of the ride was now behind her, the perilous crossing through Margolan's northern reaches.
Kiara avoided taverns, preferring to sleep outside rather than chance an encounter with any of Jared's troops. But staying clear of the taverns had not kept her away from other people, since the roads were thronged with merchants and peasants alike, their horses, mules, wagons and shoulders loaded with all they possessed, seeking to escape the heavy hand of Margolan's new king.
It was impossible to keep to the road and avoid the refugees. They were farmers and traders, and most said little, moving as quickly as they could toward the northeastern border and freedom.
Others tugged livestock and a procession of dirty children, urging on stubborn mules or lugging their own loaded carts. Kiara had still not decided whether she was safer apart from the crowd or hidden in their midst, although she doubted that any among this dispossessed lot held love enough for Jared Drayke to turn in the brown-robed stranger with the gyregon.
Yet Kiara knew that when stakes were high, spies could be anywhere. So she kept to herself, coming to the supper fire only after most of the refugees slept, sleeping lightly within reach of her horse and her sword. It was not easy to avoid the stories of the refugees around her. She caught snatches of conversation as the walkers talked with each other, sharing their tales of mistreatment. If only a third of what she heard was true, then Jared Drayke had indeed managed, in his brief reign, to become one of the vilest kings in the history of the Winter Kingdoms.
She could not doubt her own eyes. They passed a village, burned to the ground, the survivors picking amid the ashes for their belongings. Burned, they said, by Margolan troops, on the order of the king who was displeased with their taxes. Once, she stopped by the side of the road to eat and, as she settled down, discovered bones sticking up from a hastily buried, shallow grave. Then, two days ago, they came upon a copse with oddly swaying branches. As they drew closer, they could see the truth: that the trees were gibbets, and that a dozen unfortunates hung in the fall breeze. Even a cursory glance confirmed
a military hand in the matter. The nooses were too regular for it to be a local lynching. It was easy to guess that Margolan troops had taken vengeance for some infraction, real or imagined.
Yesterday's encounter was the one which would stay in her mind forever. They spotted a woman cradling a baby by the side of the road, and called her to join the group. Only then did they see the madness in her eyes and realize that she cradled, not a baby, but a log wrapped in a tattered blanket. She raved wildly about the coming of soldiers, about fire and her family being put to the sword, even the children, she cried, all but her tiny one, she declared, hugging the log fiercely. As the refugees streamed past, she did not join them, but railed on in her grief and madness, stopping only to put the log lovingly to her shoulder, or, with a gentle caress, against her breast.
Kiara was not prepared for how deeply the refugees affected her, nor how her distrust of Jared Drayke could move first to revulsion, and then to white-hot anger. She was taught as heir to Isencroft's throne to rule with firmness, but with genuine caring for her subjects. Although her upbringing gave her limited time among those not of noble birth, her glimpses of peasant life provided an impression of hard work and sparse possessions, but not the wretchedness these souls experienced at Jared's hand.
Your Journey is to find a way to save Isencroft, not to save the world, she reminded herself sternly. But the longer she spent among the refugees, the more moved she was by their plight. And, trained as she was to be a fighter, a part of her longed to see Jared displaced, although she knew that Margolan's affairs were none of her business.
Always, she thought of Cam and Carina, and the frightening scrying she had seen in Isencroft. Had the vision come to pass? Had Cam and Carina survived? If they hadn't, if they weren't on the way back to Isencroft with a cure, would father live to see my Journey completed?
It was nearing sunset when she reached the rolling hills that marked Margolan's northeastern border. Just on the other side of those large stone markers, she thought to herself, and one danger will be behind me. But her relief gave way to concern as the group slowed, then came to a halt, and the refugees began to buzz with conversation. Kiara stood in her stirrups for a better look, then swore and dropped back into her saddle. Two Margolan guards blocked the roadway, extorting passage money from the refugees.
For the better part of a candlemark, the motley stream of emigres filed past the guards, able to satisfy the demands for something of value in exchange for permission to pass. Kiara readied two gold skrivven, easily a guard's wages for a week, and held them in her glove.
The guards' mood soured after an altercation with an elderly man, nearly coming to blows until the bent old trader anted up two gemstones from the hem of his ragged robe. Now, the guards appeared intent on taking out their bad moods on the next hapless family.
"Please sir," begged a farmer, "I've given you all the coin I own. For the sake of the Lady, please let us pass."
Behind him, his gaunt wife and their half-dozen ill-clad children huddled together. Unlike most of the refugees who led horses or mules laden with packs or harnessed to overloaded carts, the family looked to be traveling with only the clothes on their backs.
"Surely you didn't leave all your coins buried in your field?" one of the guards taunted, stepping closer to the ragged man. "Everyone knows that farmers hide their money. You've only given me enough to get seven people through."
"By the name of the Goddess, sir, it is all I have," the farmer pleaded. One of the guards was already walking past him, toward the huddled family.
"Since you don't have the coin, you can pay for your passage with trade," he leered, and seized the oldest daughter, a child perhaps a dozen summers old. The girl screamed in terror as the guard pressed a knife against her throat.
"I beg you sir, let her go!" The farmer threw himself to his knees and the child's mother prostrated herself at the feet of the other guard as the children began to wail.
"Turn her loose." Kiara drew her sword, and the crowd parted for her warhorse as she advanced on the guards.
The captain regarded her with a snide grin. "Well, well. A doxy on a horse with a bit of steel. Ought to mind your own business, wench. Of course," he added, "you're welcome to mind mine."
"Turn her loose," Kiara repeated. She moved forward until Wraith stood between the guards and the hapless farmer, and she knew that, despite the guard's taunts, he could not help but notice that her horse was a soldier's mount.
The guardsman drew his sword. "This is none of your business. Be gone."
"I'm making it my business," Kiara replied, hoping the girl had the good sense to run if the opportunity presented itself. "Now turn the girl loose and let us pass."
"All we're doing is making a trade," the guardsman said as he moved forward, his sword raised menacingly. "Now leave, before you get hurt."
"You want trade?" Kiara retorted, "then trade this!" Her sword glinted in the sun as she jerked back on Wraith's reins so hard the horse reared. A hand signal, sent Jae streaking through the sky as Kiara set her horse riding straight for the guards.
Jae dove at the guard holding the child, and his talons raked across the man's face, lifting eight deep streaks of blood. Cursing in pain and anger, the guard dropped his hold on the girl. She scrambled away, and caught her father's hand, running for all she was worth with her family. Kiara sidestepped her horse toward the guards, knowing how imposing Wraith could be and how obvious his training for battle would appear to a military man. The effect was not lost on the
soldiers, who stepped back a pace. From behind her, the refugees cheered and pressed forward, waving their staffs and tools in anger.
"Be gone, woman," he ordered gruffly. "This is none of your affair. Ride past, and be thankful we don't clap y
ou in irons for what your hell-spawned dragon did!"
Kiara did not move. "The way I see it, you're outnumbered," she said evenly. "I think you'd best be gone!"
Jae shrieked a warning just as Kiara caught the glint of the dagger out of the corner of her eye. She lurched to one side, deflecting the worst of the dagger's course with her sword, and bit back an oath as the dagger sliced against her shoulder.
The captain drew his sword, expecting an easy win. He was unprepared for the speed of Kiara's strike, or the power with which she wielded her sword. The unwary captain gaped as his sword flew from his hand and landed in the dust. His companion eyed Jae warily as the gyregon circled overhead, screeching menacingly and diving toward the two guards, pulling up just short of making contact with his sharp beak or long talons.
For emphasis, Kiara reared her horse once more, its hooves flailing inches from the captain's head, easily able to crush a man's skull with its heavy iron shoes. Once more, the refugees roared in anger and pressed forward, their staves and hoes no longer waving, but raised as if to strike.
"Whore take you," the captain spat, scrambling to reclaim his sword and holding it lowered in defeat as the two soldiers began to back away. "You'll pay, bitch. I promise you that."
In response, Jae dove full speed at the captain's head. With a cry, the hapless man turned and ran, following his companion. Jae kept up the pursuit, diving and shrieking, until the two soldiers were almost out of sight. Then he flapped contentedly back to Kiara and perched on her shoulder, preening with self-satisfaction.
The refugees thronged around Kiara, exclaiming their thanks and congratulations. Uncomfortably aware that she had lost all hope of traveling unnoticed, she sighed and accepted their thanks quietly, anxious to pass the border without further incident and ride on her way as quickly as possible. As the excited group began to move forward once more, a man threaded his way toward Kiara, and she recognized him as the farmer whom she had rescued.
"Begging your pardon, miss," he said, his tattered cap in hand, "but I'm grateful for what you did back there. We had nothing more to give, but I couldn't have borne to lose Tessa," he said, with a nod to the wide-eyed young girl who followed a pace behind him, looking in awe at Kiara's horse and sword.
"Are you a warrior?" the girl breathed in adulation.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Kiara found herself smiling. "Not really," she said, letting her cloak cover her scabbard once more. "Where I come from, everyone trains as a fighter, from the time we can hold a sword, so that we
never have to suffer from fools like those," she said, with a jerk of her head in the direction the guards had gone.
"We have nothing of value," the farmer said, "but my brother waits for us in the camp just over the border in Principality. Knowing you're high born and all, I've no right to ask, but perhaps you'd share a meal with us, if you be hungry. Sleep well, you could-safe with us- until you're on your way." He smiled self-consciously. "Find a healer for that cut, too," he said, looking toward Kiara's shoulder.
Kiara had almost forgotten the wound until now, but she felt at the ripped cloth, chagrined to find it soaked with blood. Still, not a bad wound, she appraised as she gingerly touched the injury. She had taken worse in practice bouts. But a healer's poultice might still take out the soreness and keep it from going bad.
Kiara smiled at the nervous farmer and his awestruck daughter. "I would be honored to eat with you," she said, and the man brightened in unbelief at his fortune. Shyly, the girl reached out to pet Wraith, shrinking back as the great black horse turned a dark eye to look at her, and then, gaining the courage to gently stroke the horse. "You were very brave back there," Kiara said quietly to the girl, who smiled gratefully and averted her eyes.
"Thank you," the girl said quietly.
"You're welcome," Kiara replied, trying not to wonder how many other young girls the soldiers had encountered, girls who did not have a protector appear out of nowhere.
Kiara worked her way slowly through the throng behind the farmer, who became something of a celebrity. For Kiara, the refugees moved aside with a reverence that made her feel self-conscious, closing behind her with whispered comments about Jae, the warhorse and her sword.
Inwardly, Kiara sighed, torn between her chagrin at making herself so conspicuous, and her knowledge that she could not have sat idle and let the girl be abused. That's what you get for taking yourself so bloody seriously, she thought. Now every bard in Principality will have a new story, and every border guard in Margolan will have a new target. Perhaps, out here, weeks from Margolan's palace, the incident would go unnoticed. Please, she silently beseeched the Goddess. The last thing I need is the Margolan guard on my trail, she thought. Neither she nor the farmer said anything else as the group moved on until they were long past the border and the fires of the refugee camp came into view.
The camp was really a collection of tumbledown lean-tos made from scraps of lumber and tents fashioned from worn blankets. More than fifty fires burned, and Kiara guessed from the bustle around her that each fire easily represented ten to fifteen refugees. The camp smelled of waste and animals, roasting meat and sharp onions. Dogs and pigs ran past her, and only the autumn cold prevented the ground from becoming a fetid pool of mud. She was glad she did not have to experience the smells of the camp in high summer, and was grateful that the steppe flies were dormant for the winter. She sighed as she looked over the makeshift camp. Unless Jared were stopped, and soon, more would experience the misery of the camps, until Jared quelled the flow of refugees or the surrounding nations were forced to close their borders.
The farmer, whose name was Lessel, guided Kiara through the crowded camp until they met his brother, a darker version of himself, who greeted them heartily and invited them to share his fire. Tethering Wraith, Kiara followed Lessel to sit by the fire, jostled by his dozen nieces and nephews who crowded around for a look at the "sword lady." To Kiara's relief, Lessel and his brother asked no questions, happy to have a way to show their gratitude.
"All these people," Kiara asked after she finished a bowl of stew, "are they from Margolan?"
Tadrie, Lessel's brother, nodded grimly. "Aye, ma'am. And until King Bricen's death, we were proud of it. But there's something evil astir in Margolan," he said, "and any that can are running, as a sane man would do."
Kiara frowned. "How could things go so wrong so fast?" she asked. As Tice often pointed out during his interminable history lessons, peasants often lived in miserable situations for generations, uncomplaining even under onerous kings. What degree of oppression must have happened, she wondered, to force so many to leave behind their lands and livelihoods?
"It's almost too big for the telling," Tadrie said. One of his children crawled up onto his lap and a dog scratched his way closer to the fire, teasing a scrap from the dirt. "Whether it be the new king or his whore-spawn mage I can't say, but no sane man can stay in Margolan and keep his life for long." He paused and stroked his daughter's hair absently. "It's not just the taxes, ma'am," Tadrie said, staring at the fire. "We're used to them. And we know that a new king always makes them higher, even if we have no more to give. And it's not just the soldiers, thieving our pigs and busting up a wagon or two to get their payment." He shook his head, but his eyes were hard in the firelight, remembering.
"Never in all the years King Bricen ruled, or his father or his grandfather, did the soldiers of Margolan carry off women from our villages for their own use," he said, his voice rough with anger. "Never once were our homes and crops burned, our animals slaughtered, our men hanged. And never did we see the Dark Things that roam about the woods now, whatever they are, Goddess take them," he said with a shudder.
"Dark Things?" Kiara asked, feeling a sudden chill. Unconsciously, her hand fell to the dagger the Sisterhood had given her. It will turn the undead, the Sister had told her. In the hand of a mage, it will destroy the soul of an Immortal.
"Aye," Tadrie replied. "I've heard them,
caught a glimpse, but no one who has seen them close has lived to tell. Once, I found a piece of one," he said with a shudder, "although I can't imagine what could kill one of those," he said, shaking his head. "Oh, the guards told us it was the vayash moru. But it's not."
"How can you be so sure?" Kiara asked, leaning forward, as Lessel's wife approached her tentatively with a steaming mug of watered ale and, with an awkward curtsey, pressed it into her hands before fleeing.
Both Lessel and Tadrie shook their heads once more. "Because in Margolan, we've never feared the vayash moru," he said, and Kiara tried not to show her amazement at how matter-of-factly the two men spoke of the undead among them. "Oh, we've heard tell of other places where they prey on folks, but in all the years my father lived, and his father and grandfather before him, never have we been harmed by them. Fact is," he said, "they seem to know who the bad 'uns are, and if they take a man, he's one about to have his neck stretched for thieving or worse. Most of the time, I guess they live from animals though, of course, we only see them rarely." He managed a half-smile. "They don't mix with our kind, unless they have to."
"You've met one?"
Tadrie nodded seriously. "Aye. They're a solitary sort. The one I met didn't give me aught to fear. Perhaps I didn't meet him when he was hungry," he chuckled, and Lessel laughed with him. Tadrie sobered. "But their kind have it worst in Margolan right now," he continued. "Being blamed for what the soldiers do. A body with any sense ought to know that it's all lies, but some as have been afraid of the vayash moru see a chance to get even, I guess. Soldiers burning them out, putting a stake through them and throwing them out in daylight-worse, too." He sighed. "The soldiers aren't particular when they're hunting, if you take my meaning. Many a regular person's been burned, just on tales folks tell." He shook his head once more. "It's bad, ma'am."
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