“If I hadn’t seen the lad’s magic with me own eyes, I might think his tale the result of one too many ales,” Kulnor said, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
“Sounds like a formidable challenge, Taren.” Aninyel regarded him with a look that might have been pride mixed with jealousy. “I had a feeling Zylka was right to look out for you. Bet she likely wouldn’t have imagined you here now, come into your talents and about to venture forth on a quest to save the entire plane of Easilon from destruction.”
Hmm… that’s not bad. I should use that line. Ferret eyed the elven Blade with newfound respect.
“‘Every journey begins with but a single step,’ as my uncle used to say,” Taren said. “And we can only deal with each challenge as it arises.”
The group was silent then, Taren watching Sianna, who appeared to still be digesting the news. After a long moment, she nodded slowly.
“This is all a bit difficult to process, I’ll admit, but I’ll not hold you back from this worthy quest. Any of you.”
“I don’t want to rush off and abandon you, Your Majesty, or the kingdom at such a critical time,” Taren added hurriedly. “I hope we have a bit of time remaining to try to eliminate the threat of Nesnys and her army. I’d feel much better about departing on this quest if we can first strike a telling blow, one that cripples Nesnys’s forces. But if circumstances change and time runs out, then I’ll have to leave at once.”
“How will you know when time grows short?” Nardual asked.
“Grandmother speaks to me and shows me things in dreams.” He looked embarrassed at the admission.
Ferret was still amazed that Taren’s grandmother was the goddess Sabyl. Ever since they had returned from Nexus, she’d pledged to not take any good fortune for granted, were her luck to finally swing back in her favor. Wouldn’t that be nice for a change? She had even thought of donating a bit of coin at any shrine to the Mistress of the Night she might come across, assuming she ever had any coin to spare.
“You have my blessing, Taren,” Sianna said. “As well as my gratitude, to all of you for all you’ve done—and mean to do—to aid the kingdom. I’m greatly heartened to have such staunch friends to turn to for aid in the times to come.” She took them all in with a radiant smile.
I see why Taren is so besotted with Sianna. In that moment, she looked beautiful and gracious, like a queen from the ballads. Her clothes might have been donated by the elves, and she might not have been wearing a crown, but Ferret had no doubt of Sianna’s royal blood.
The meeting wound down shortly after that with mostly small talk. Creel wasted no time slipping out of the tent. Ferret was tempted to join him but stuck around in case anything interesting happened. When it didn’t, she quickly grew bored.
She went to look for Creel, to get his thoughts on the matter, but curiously, he hadn’t returned to his tent when she checked.
Something is on his mind. More than just what Taren laid on him. She then remembered Brom telling them of Rada’s death during the rescue attempt to free Creel from the dungeons. I’m a bloody fool… That must be it. I’m not much use consoling someone but reckon he could use a friend right now. Mayhap if I can get him talking tomorrow…
***
By the next day, Ferret was certain Creel wasn’t quite right. He seemed distracted at the best of times, outright melancholy at the worst. He mostly either rode by himself near the rear of the column, or he went off on his own, disappearing for several hours at a time.
I know just the thing to cheer him up.
Ferret approached the elven baggage train, a series of graceful-looking wagons pulled by a team of oxen. A young elven maid, perhaps Ferret’s age, though she might have seen a hundred or more summers, considering the elves’ long life spans, was walking beside one of the wagons.
“Pardon me, but can I get some spirits from you?” Ferret asked, assuming the elf a servant. “My friend could use a stiff drink, I reckon.”
The elf stared at her wide-eyed, like a spooked doe on the verge of flight. Ferret realized her hood had fallen back again, as it was wont to do. The elf managed to recover her composure and blushed prettily, then remembered her manners and bowed her head.
“Apologies, but what do you seek?” Her Common was lilting and accented, voice soft and childlike, and she seemed embarrassed to speak.
Ferret thought she had a lovely voice and felt a moment of jealousy, imagining the elf singing the most spellbinding aria.
“Spirits… dwarven spirits. You know, the strongest rotgut you’ve got.”
“My apologies, but I have only wine to offer you.” She looked downcast.
“Ah, well, that’ll have to do.” Ferret felt slightly guilty, as though she were browbeating the poor lass. “A skin if you got it.”
The elf looked relieved. She hopped into the back of the wagon and reappeared a moment later with a full wineskin and a fetching smile.
“Appreciate it. You’re a lifesaver.” Ferret would’ve returned her smile had she been able, but the elf seemed pleased to be of help nonetheless.
She found Creel ranging a long bowshot away from the caravan. He looked up when she came running up, tromping heavily enough that only a deaf person wouldn’t have been aware of her approach.
“Ho there, lass,” he said, his face brightening slightly.
That’s a start. “Ho, yourself.” She fell in beside Creel, his horse shying away nervously from her presence, but he got it under control with minimal effort. “Thought you could use a drink. They were fresh out of dwarven spirits… Actually, I don’t think the poor girl even knew what they were, but this is the next best thing.” She tossed him the wineskin.
“Encouraging my drinking habit, eh?” A half smile cracked his melancholy façade. “Timely aid, since I did run out of my libation the past night. Too bad I’m not a lord, or I’d make you my faithful cupbearer. Say… I could speak to Sianna about that if you’re interested. Getting a position close to a monarch is sure to raise your status in the world.”
Ferret laughed. “I don’t think I’d make much of a servant. Too mouthy, or so I’ve been told.”
Creel chuckled. “Nay, reckon you aren’t the servant type.” He unstoppered the wineskin and took a long drink. “Mmm, this is tasty.”
“So, what’s eating at you?” she asked with her usual bluntness.
Creel was silent so long that she thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he sighed, face wracked with grief. “It’s Rada… She passed on.”
“Ah, Brom mentioned she fell during a rescue attempt.” She had suspected Rada’s loss was troubling him, though it had been hard to imagine the usually stoic monster hunter affected so deeply.
“Aye. Rada and Brom came to free me from the castle dungeon back in Llantry. And she wasn’t well to begin with…” His voice was steady, but unshed tears glimmered in his eyes. “They sneaked into the castle and freed me from my cell. During our escape, Rada took a crossbow bolt in the kidney and bled out.”
“Gods, I’m sorry, Dak.” She rested a hand on his forearm, comfortingly she hoped, but felt awkward doing so. “She seemed like a great woman.”
“Aye. I think you and her would’ve gotten on famously.” He patted her metal hand, squeezing the hinged fingers, though she couldn’t feel it.
Ferret thought it a good sign he was talking, but she was unsure if she should say anything more, lest she put her metal foot in her mouth. So, she simply walked quietly beside his horse, but Creel seemed to appreciate the companionship, for which she was glad. He steadily worked at the wineskin as he rode.
After a time, he finally told her the full story, beginning with when he and Sianna had gone to the castle, the mayor’s betrayal, and then the two of them being tossed in a cell. He went on to detail their desperate escape and Rada’s passing, then the pyre they built in the woods for her.
Ferret wished she could’ve been there for him. Perhaps she could have made some small difference, and Rada might have lived
. I could at least have made myself of use as a shield against those damn crossbow bolts, she thought bitterly.
“So how did you like Nexus?” he asked.
“Oh, it was exciting—so many amazing things to see!” She regaled him with details of their stay.
Creel seemed most interested learning about Nera and Taren’s relationship with his mother. But a close second was about Ferret’s own training, which she thought the most boring part.
“You’ve been learning your letters and sums?” he asked.
“Aye, started to. I’ve a good ways to go, but I figure a decent bard should know how to read… and I reckon arithmetic could be of use.”
He nodded. “Good on you, lass. I’m proud of you.”
She beamed inwardly, surprised he cared about such a mundane detail.
After a short time, Creel perked up and studied their surroundings. “Unless I miss my mark, we should be arriving in Carran soon.”
Chapter 17
Nesnys licked blood off her talons, still fresh from tearing out a man’s throat, as she made her way back to her pavilion. Soldiers wisely scrambled to give her a wide berth.
Rage simmered inside despite the death of Colonel Mazun, along with several junior officers and guardsmen she had executed for their incompetence in allowing Taren, the Atreus girl, and their companions to all escape from her camp. Her fury at losing them had been so fearsome that not even torturing and executing a dozen men had quelled her anger.
Her scouts reported the escapees were currently being sheltered by a sizable host of elves. Nesnys yearned to strike at them directly but knew such a gambit could prove foolish, for the elves were formidable opponents and were traveling in substantial numbers. If they had powerful mages and clerics among their number, they would be even more capable.
She remembered her satisfaction as Willbreaker had slid into the boy’s chest. The wound hadn’t been immediately fatal, precisely as she intended, although Taren should have bled out soon after without rest and proper treatment. What she hadn’t intended was underestimating the strength of his magic in not only providing for his own escape, but also in winning freedom for the others. Since having joined with the damnable elves, Taren had almost certainly found the healing and succor he needed.
I was so close, and yet he continues to elude me. Damn that bitch Sirath to the lowest pit of the Abyss.
Following her battle with Sirath, Nesnys had returned to the encampment the following morning disconcerted and angry, only to receive more ill tidings once she learned of the escape of all her prisoners.
Nesnys threw aside the flap and entered her pavilion in the center of the camp. The inside remained dark, as she liked it, a brazier warming the air, though the cold didn’t bother her much. She rang a bell and then seated herself at her table, reclining and propping her muddy boots on the edge. She could smell the scent of blood still clinging to herself and inhaled the delectable scent, closing her eyes for a moment. Sometimes, she thought not all the blood in Easilon would sate her.
“How may I serve, Warlord?” A young aide bowed low just inside the doorway.
“Wine and fresh meat.”
“At once, Warlord.”
She stared at the unfurled campaign map on the table before her until the servant, a strapping young lad who made her think of Elyas, reappeared a short time later with meat and drink. She made a mental note to pay her champion a visit that eve and check on his progress. The blood of the incompetents had stoked her bloodlust, and Elyas was useful for satisfying her carnal desires—the best alternative to the licentious slaughter she truly craved.
With her sharp teeth, she tore a chunk off a bloody haunch of mutton, warmed but still raw as she liked it, then washed it down with a swig of wine.
“They think to hide from me behind the walls of Carran,” she mused. “The child queen will seek to rally her ragged remnants of the Ketanian army. Yet what does this host of elves seek to accomplish?”
Scouts had put the elves’ numbers at over two thousand, quite an impressive host for the long-lived and low-fertility race, girded for battle and marching in the general direction of Carran, no less. That was a surprising development—all her knowledge of elves on the plane of Easilon made them out to be hostile toward other races and reclusive, preferring to remain within their own borders and not involving themselves in the matters of humans.
Have I underestimated the mortals? ’Twould seem they are seeking to forge an alliance against me.
She finished her meat and wine, glowering as she stared at the map, wondering what her foes were plotting. I should crush them at once, yet I prefer to bring my full strength to bear once Elyas’s force arrives. If they build up a stauncher resistance in the meantime, so much the better—I shall send more souls to my lord. The lives of her Nebaran troops were simply numbers to her, tools for a purpose, but she wasn’t a patient creature. She desired to end the matter, seize Taren and present him to Shaol, then move on to grander endeavors, including witnessing the downfall of her hated sister, Neratiri.
For the hate of Shaol, is her whelp truly that puissant? Or merely incredibly lucky?
The memory of Willbreaker sliding into Taren’s chest filled her mind again as she stared at the glowing coals in the brazier, only this time she used her blade to flense the skin from his body, carving profane runes in his flesh and eventually opening his belly to spill his entrails onto the ground. All the while, he screamed, the agony music to her ears as she drank of his blood…
“Warlord?”
Roused from her reverie, she sat up straight and swiveled in her chair, dropping her feet to the ground. One of her captains stood just inside the flap of her pavilion, and from the look on his face, he was either well aware of her foul mood or simply nervous at disturbing her.
“What is it?” She rose and stalked toward him, leveling her glare upon the man.
The captain wilted but admirably held his ground. He saluted and bowed. “Apologies, Warlord, but I called out and received no answer. We captured a sorceress, and you wished to be informed at once of the captures of any mages possibly matching the criteria. This one, she… er, well, I can’t say exactly how many years she has seen, but she managed to slay several men with her magical trickery.”
Nesnys restrained her immediate instinct to snap at the man for being a fool, for in spite of her ill humor, her curiosity was piqued. Judging from the mud spattering his boots and cloak, the captain must have just returned from patrol and not yet learned of Taren’s role in the attack on the camp. The man was simply following orders and doing a better job of it than she could say for most. She wondered if torturing this mage might improve her mood, liking the idea the moment it crossed her mind.
“Very well, lead on.”
She stepped outside and spotted across the parade ground a pair of soldiers dragging a bedraggled form between them, while four other men surrounded the prisoner with bared swords.
Nesnys and the captain drew within a few paces, and at a gesture from the officer, the men cast their prisoner down on the ground. The young woman was a pathetic sight, wearing muddied rags, her skin bruised and filthy, long hair tangled. She gazed up at Nesnys with terror in her eyes.
Nesnys lips twisted in disgust at the sight. Such a pitiful thing. Wasting time to torment this creature will prove unsatisfying.
“I already know where the mage I seek is,” she said sharply. “This sorry creature is certainly not the one I need. Strike off her wretched head and be done with it.”
“Aye, Warlord.” The captain drew his sword while one of his men snatched a handful of the woman’s matted hair, yanking her roughly down onto her back.
“Wait—show mercy, please!” The woman lay there, unresisting, but her gaze held Nesnys’s with surprising strength, all signs of her earlier cowering gone. “I can be of use to you!”
Perhaps there is steel in this one after all. Nesnys signaled the captain to stay his hand. “How ever could a wretched cr
eature like you possibly be of use to me?”
The woman brought her hands over her face as if to splash water on herself, then cast her hands dramatically downward. Her entire form shimmered, and gone was the dirty wretch—in her place a great beauty with a noble bearing, dark tresses falling in lustrous waves down her back. Her dress was pristine even though she lay undignified in the mud. The men grunted surprised oaths and gripped their weapons harder. The soldier holding onto her hair released his grasp, and the woman gracefully rose to her feet.
“Your parlor trick might bedazzle my men, but not me, illusionist,” Nesnys said. In spite of her words, however, she was impressed, for the woman’s art of illusion was remarkable for Nesnys to not see right through it. “You waste my time.”
“I can aid you in your campaign,” the woman said hurriedly. “Whatever you need… My illusions are second to none, and I can employ them to great effect against your enemies. All I ask is that you spare my life.”
Nesnys was intrigued at the possibility. After a long moment, she said, “I might yet find a use for you.” She turned to the captain. “I’ve changed my mind. Take her to Braddok and have her collared with a glyph of binding.”
“At once, Warlord.”
“I thank you for your mercy, Warlord.” The illusionist gave a respectful bow.
“I have no mercy, merely needs, so you’d best make sure you are the answer to one.” She watched as her men led the illusionist away, amused to note how they were reluctant to manhandle her as they had been so eager before.
***
Elyas rode at the head of his army. The mist-shrouded Downs of Atur were falling away behind the host as it marched north across the open heartland of Ketania. He had covered very nearly the same ground months earlier in a hasty retreat while a soldier in King Clement’s army. That march had been on lean rations amid a battered and demoralized force, and he had been plagued with fear and doubts the entire time. His earlier self, prior to dying in the arena and subsequent reforging into Nesnys’s champion, had been vulnerable to the emotional toll of war.
Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3) Page 14