Curse Breaker: Books 1-4

by Melinda Kucsera

  Ranispara shook her head and looked away but not before Nolo saw the same regret in her eyes.

  “The Kid’s been knocked around a lot. The incident—”

  Nolo stopped. Talking about that incident raised those memories in all their gory detail. He swallowed regret, and it burned all the way down. Why did I ignore the Kid?

  Because at the time, Sarn was someone else’s problem.

  Sarn had run away four times before I even thought to investigate.

  And Hadrovel had played the part of a shocked guardian too well. No suspicion had fallen on the beast until it was too late.

  “Repeated head trauma,” Ranispara volunteered, answering Inari’s question.

  Perhaps she still saw a bandage-swathed Sarn clinging to life on that spare cot in the medic's home. No matter how many times he'd apologized, the Kid still waited to be handed over to his abuser, a man long since executed for his crimes. Movement drew Nolo’s eye to his wife, and he blinked at her as he returned to the conversation at hand.

  “The incident was five years ago. Are you telling me you’ve done nothing to help?”

  Inari’s spine firmed, and her dark eyes hardened—a sure sign of trouble. There stood the huntress who’d captured his heart more than a decade past—a heart now divided by conflicting loyalties. Every day drove that wedge deeper into the gap, widening it.

  Ranispara nudged Nolo with her hip. “You better answer her.”

  The seizure ebbed, and Sarn stilled. Nolo knelt and rolled the Kid onto his back, so he could check for signs of life.

  Inari sank down on Sarn’s other side.

  “Answer me. Isn’t there something you can do to prevent this?”

  “Yes, there is, and we’re doing it,” Jerlo said.

  No one had heard his approach. The instant he’d spoken, they’d all flinched.

  “How’s the Kid? Is he still breathing?”

  Jerlo nodded to Sarn. The commander stood behind Inari with his ink-stained hands clasped in front of him.

  “Yes, and I can guess who caused the seizure.”

  Nolo transferred his gaze to Gregori. He glared murder at his semi-conscious friend.

  “Stress definitely,” Ranispara said holding up one finger. She nudged her husband’s side with her boot. “Did you leave him with any food or water?”

  “What, no, I taught the Kid how to forage for himself. So I left him to it. There’s plenty to eat in there if you know where to look, and he does.” Gregori rubbed his head and sounded less groggy than expected. “The Kid’s got a mean left.”

  “You deserved it.”

  Nolo nodded to Ranispara in complete agreement with her. Magic might have also caused the seizure, and it would explain the light he'd seen corralling those trees, but not their striving. What the hell had gone on out there?

  “So, let’s review. We have stress, no food or water except what the Kid can rustle up if he bothered. We have an untold number of miles he ran on no sleep through a bunch of warring trees. Did I miss anything?”

  Ranispara shot her husband a glare, and it dented his ego.

  “You’re making it sound worse than it was.”

  Gregori picked at a grass stem.

  “Am I? I’m laying out the facts as I see them. You should have thought this through.”

  Ranispara shrugged.

  “Enough. This isn’t helping. And someone had better explain that warring trees comment.”

  Jerlo shot Nolo a look ordering an explanation, but all he could do was shrug. Sarn would have to explain when he woke up.

  “Shouldn’t he have come around by now?”

  Inari hovered over Sarn, almost touching him, then she let her hands drop into her lap.

  “No, he usually stays out cold for a while following one of these episodes.” Nolo rose and swung the Kid over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “We’re drawing too much attention.”

  Inari’s dark eyes questioned his actions.

  “Can you move him without harming him?”

  “It never has before.”

  Ranispara left off interrogating her husband and moved to stand by Inari. She squeezed her friend’s shoulder.

  “Where are you taking him?”

  Jerlo fell into step with Nolo.

  “Where do you think—the infirmary.”

  “He forbade that, or did you forget?” Ranispara said.

  Before Nolo could reply, the weight left his shoulders as Gregori took his burden from him.

  “Least I can do,” the man muttered.

  He carried Sarn, like a lost and broken child, draped across both arms.

  “He won’t stay in the infirmary.” Jerlo shook his head. “He’ll bolt the second he wakes.”

  “Where else can we stash him, so he’s out of sight?”

  Who can we trust with the secret of his existence? Nolo waited for an answer. When it came, it surprised him, but he couldn't find any fault with it.

  Sarn woke to dragons. They stretched their wings on one panel and torched a turret on a wall hanging. In still another, a dragon rose out of a lake trailing watery wings. On a nearby bookcase, dragon sculptures pranced, lazed and stood claws ready to rend. Paintings, murals, and tapestries competed for space on the walls. Statues fought with furniture for floor space. Every single one of them captured dragons in full color and splendor.

  Sarn levered himself up from the divan. Dragons cavorted on the carpeting and upholstered the chairs as well. Only one person was obsessed with dragons—Jerlo.

  Great, I’m in the commander’s lair at his mercy. Sarn buried his face in his hands. I have no luck, none at all.

  A door opened, and Jerlo made deliberate noises as he approached. Some Rangers claimed thoughts of the commander summoned him. Other rumors claimed the commander employed a legion of spies who had secret methods of signaling him.

  However, neither was the case here. The commander must have heard the divan creek when he’d shifted his weight on it. Likely the lacquered door Jerlo had entered by led to his office.

  The clink of glassware tempted Sarn to lower his hands. Thirst burned in his throat. A glass of water ringed the head of a dragon battling a tentacular creature on a nearby table. To avoid talking, Sarn guzzled the water, and it soothed his dry throat.

  “Now tell me everything you've done since the last time I saw you.”

  Jerlo took the wingback chair across from Sarn. It too bore dragons picked out in gold and orange. Jerlo’s collection of dragon-themed stuff just managed not to clash with itself. Arranging items with complementary colors near each other had helped.

  Where should I start? Would the commander believe any of it? I wouldn’t, and I lived it.

  Sarn set the glass down. He wanted more water, but he refused to ask for it. How can I possibly explain what had happened out there when so much of it’s inexplicable?

  “Tell everything. Leave out nothing.”

  Jerlo leaned back, and the chair swallowed him. But the commander’s personality loomed large, overshadowing Sarn.

  Sarn pushed to his feet needing the height advantage nature had given him. But Jerlo’s presence expanded until it filled the room, dwarfing him even more than before. Sarn sat. After all the running, he had no energy to pace.

  “Talk.”

  Shadows veiled Jerlo’s face. He'd had chosen a chair outside the glow of Sarn’s eyes on purpose. The commander gave nothing away.

  “You know what happened.”

  “Talk, and you can go. Refuse, and we can spend all night here.”

  Jerlo’s words struck Sarn hard.

  “It’s night already? How long was I out?”

  “Not long enough, but by the looks of you, you’ll remedy that soon if you talk.”

  “Didn’t Gregori tell you?”

  “We had a chat, yes. He won’t do that anymore. It’s over.”

  “You made the same claim three years ago.”

  Sarn shoved a hand through his hair. His head s
till felt light, but not as if it might float off his shoulders. Maybe I need to eat something. He pressed his bony elbows into his thighs again and leaned his forehead against his wrists.

  Somewhere deep inside him, a child raged against the bars of his silence. Why did you hand me over to that monster?

  Sarn fought the question as memory and reality mixed. Hadrovel gripped his bruised shoulder, and Sarn winced.

  “Take him and go,” the commander had said. “Next time keep a closer eye on your ward.”

  He flipped through the papers on his desk never once looking up from them as blood ran down Sarn’s arm and dripped onto his boot.

  “Off topic, but you’re right. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  Jerlo tapped the table recalling Sarn to the here and now.

  The memory receded leaving Sarn stunned. I couldn’t have heard that right.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I thought I’d put the fear of God in him. Now I have—”

  “Who did you do this to?”

  Jerlo slapped the table, and the glassware jumped.

  “Pay attention. You know damned well who I’m talking about—Gregori and his ill-timed ‘test,’ which won’t happen again. I’m not asking you to trust me. You don’t do trust. Fine, I get it. Let’s move on to what I want to know.”

  Jerlo speared him with those impenetrable black eyes.

  Sarn sat up straight. “Is this an apology?”

  “What did you think it was? Never mind, I don’t want to know.” Jerlo rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  But it can’t be an apology. The commander never apologizes to anyone for anything. No, he wants something. Well, so do I.

  “If I tell you what you want to know, I can go? No healers? No stops at the infirmary?”

  Jerlo almost smiled, but his facial muscles found the expression too alien to carry off. So they fell back into their customary line.

  “Got it in one, talk and you’re out of here free and clear until tomorrow night.”

  The bells of Mount Eredren rang twenty times announcing the hour.

  “When tomorrow night?” Sarn pushed.

  “Twentieth bell are you satisfied?”

  Sarn sat on the edge of his seat ready to seize the promise dangling in front of him. A full twenty-four hours he could spend catching up on sleep, safeguarding his son, doing some much-needed brotherly bonding and researching the problem pursuing him. Magic infused his voice when he spoke again.

  “You promise? If I tell you what you want to know, I’m free for twenty-four bells? Yes? No healers, no minders of any kind?”

  Jerlo nodded.

  “Swear it. Swear to what I said. Swear to it all, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Magic rang in his voice, twisting his words into one-half of a chain, and Sarn let it. He'd do anything to secure such a promise.

  Jerlo looked discomfited, but he nodded.

  “Have it your way. Tell me what I want to know, and you can go. No one will hinder you, but you must return in twenty-four bells to my office. To this, I swear.”

  The magic freed itself from the bonds of flesh and bone. Rising, it captured the commander's words and bound them by their terms. Sarn sagged in relief. I'm almost out of here.

  “Dawn came, and so did Gregori. He told me he had something for me to do. We went down to the docks, and I woke up in the middle of nowhere. I ran and ran and ran until I got back here. I struck Gregori, and I woke up here.”

  Sarn pushed to his bare feet and stopped. His boots rested against a statue of a dragon whose wings curled over a basket. A familiar checked handkerchief covered an assortment of baked goodies, and their fruity scent made his mouth water. He stumbled over to them, catching himself on bookshelves and dragon statues.

  “And the warring trees? What about them?”

  Sarn froze. So they weren’t a hallucination.

  “I don’t know what that’s about.”

  But I have a few guesses I'm not ready to share yet. The hollow feeling in his belly demanded food, so Sarn grabbed his boots and the basket and fled before Jerlo withdrew his promise. As he ran, he wondered how long he had to solve the riddle of the ghost, and the murders, before some worse than killer trees or mud men caught up with him.

  Sarn stuffed an oversized muffin oozing sweet cherry jam into his mouth. He leaned against a wall in an alcove formed by a dip in the tunnel’s wall. Rock protrusions on either side hid him from sight, but not the glow of his eyes. Jerlo’s office crouched in its corner a half mile away in a more trafficked tunnel.

  Crumbs tickled his throat making him cough. After he uncapped a flask provided with the meal, Sarn took a swig and almost spat it out. He took a cautious sip of the tea but detected no astringent aftertaste this time.

  Inari would never drug me, but Jerlo might. The tea did its job. When he quit coughing, he set the flask on the ground in case Jerlo had tampered with it. He’d just finished tying his boots when he heard footsteps. No, Jerlo promised.

  Nolo raised both hands to signal he’d come in peace while his dark eyes performed a head-to-toe scan.

  What do you see—a deer in lumir light? Why are you looking now? Why not then when I needed you to see me?

  Sarn shook off the old anger. Death’s Marksman had a unique aura—one Nolo donned at will. Which explains why my sixth sense didn't warn me he was headed this way.

  “Are you all right?” Nolo asked.

  His glance must not have reassured him. Damn.

  Sarn held up a hand palm out. “I won’t go to the infirmary.”

  “I figured. You never want to go there.”

  Nolo crossed his arms over his chest and concern painted his black face.

  Sarn gave his laces one last jerk. “Thank your wife for the muffins.”

  He handed the basket to Nolo on his way past the man. Ignoring the basket, Nolo stepped into his path and blocked the way.

  Sarn looked down at Nolo from his superior height.

  “Let me pass. Jerlo let me go for the night.”

  “Not until we talk.”

  Sarn spun on his heel and walked away. It was the wrong direction, but he ignored the arrow on his head map pointing toward his master. His internal map would reroute him in a moment.

  Nolo followed. The Ranger had a point to make, and the man would remain until he’d said his piece.

  “What Gregori did was wrong. Ranispara and I had no part in it. Neither did Jerlo.”

  “I know.”

  Sarn punched the wall. Magic sheathed his fist causing it to bounce off unharmed, so he kicked the wall instead. Magic raced over his toes encasing them in a bubble of protection. But the wall stayed solid this time, and his boot struck it hard enough to produce the desired bang.

  Nolo leaned a shoulder against the wall mere inches from where Sarn had struck it.

  “Better?”

  Sarn shook his head. “Why did he do it? Did he say what fucked up logic drove him to it?”

  “Language.”

  “I’m not on duty. I can curse if I want to.”

  Sarn folded his arms under his cloak. But he let them drop when he realized he’d adopted the same pose as Nolo.

  “Did you come here to apologize for him?”

  Nolo shook his head. “No, I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  Sarn spread his arms wide. “You’ve seen what you needed to see. Now let me go.”

  Nolo gestured back the way they’d come. Sarn left still holding the basket.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  The question stopped Sarn in his tracks. “No, he drugged me and left me.”

  “And the fighting trees? What about them?”

  “They chased me, but I got away. Can I go now?”

  Silence dropped between them pregnant with the m-word. Sarn waited, but Nolo didn’t ask if he’d used magic because the answer was obvious. What would Nolo do if I admitted it?

  “Okay, I’ll see you
tomorrow. Say hello to your brother for me.”

  “I will.”

  Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, Sarn fled. His eyes lit his way, but not the mysteries of the past twenty-four hours. They kept pace with him and so did the questions they raised.

  They're mine to solve. I just need to figure out how. But I can do that after I rest. I'm good for nothing right now.

  Each step sent pain jolting through his tired muscles, but Sarn ran through tunnels abandoned by decent folk and sneezed as his steps left clouds of dust in his wake. Covering his nose and mouth with a fold of his cloak helped. But his eyes burned until another twist sent him shooting down a staircase, leaving the dust behind. Maybe it would settle out in the right places to obscure some of his prints. He couldn't worry about that now.

  Sarn let his senses stretch out as his map rushed to the fore, and he slammed his shoulder into the wall enclosing the stairwell when he tripped. Symbols popped up, but they remained clustered in several galleries far from his position. Good, Nolo had stayed behind. Since it was no longer needed, his map faded to an overlay.

  Taking the stairs three at a time, Sarn sped down the two hundred plus steps to the third level below ground. He exited through a rough hole to a tunnel that dog-legged into the Lower Quarters. Slowing, Sarn searched for anyone on an intercept course.

  People symbols occupied the nearby tunnels, but no one appeared to be on a parallel path. Ditto for perpendicular tunnels but that situation would change. Down here dwelt an awful lot of people.

  Thoughts of this place's population switched on the part of his magic obsessed with numbers. An ache blossomed behind his left eye as a counter appeared in the bottom right corner of the map. Before Sarn cut it off, its tally had jumped to a thousand.

  Ahead, a gauntlet of broken stone waited. His cave lay at the other end. Relief energized Sarn as he cleared the last obstacle between him and his son.

  Chapter 12

  Sarn scanned the door for signs of forced entry. Finding no new dents, he pushed the door, and it opened, catching him off guard. It should still be locked.

  Ran popped through the gap. Lit by joy, he smiled and bounced up and down chanting, “You’re back!”