The Dead Seekers

by Barb Hendee

The room was empty and dark.

  Some distant light outside slipped between the worn shutters of the room’s one window. He turned to run back out, in case the spirit had reversed in flight, but Mari stood in the doorway, her hands gripping both sides of its frame.

  She looked directly at him and stiffened as she took a step back, as if she saw something strange.

  His eyes. He knew she saw the white glow when he was about to dispatch or banish a spirit.

  But was there no spirit here to banish now. She would have known—seen—if it had reversed into the outer passage. The ghost had fled. Tris breathed a curse. He’d been so close, and yet he’d been too slow.

  For his failure, more deaths might come before that spirit was found again. Someone else then appeared behind Mari in the outer passage.

  What was Bródy doing here with her?

  Tris quick-stepped to the door but halted short. He thought he heard something scraping harshly on the wood. That sound pulled his eyes to Mari’s curled fingers, her nails gouging the doorframe’s wood.

  “We’re not dealing with a ruse anymore,” she said tightly.

  She was correct.

  In a final hope, Tris turned for the window, unlatched and pushed the shutters open.

  Of course, there was nothing to see, so he closed and latched the shutters, leaning his head against them.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mari didn’t sleep much, but as she and Tris hadn’t gone to bed until nearly dawn, they skipped breakfast and rested through most of the morning. Finally, giving up on the hope of real sleep, she rolled over and up on one elbow and saw Tris wasn’t asleep either. He lay on the other bed gazing blankly at the ceiling’s rafters.

  Last night, his frustration at losing that ghost made him almost manic, worse than she’d seen before. He’d questioned her and Bródy so long that she’d finally cut him off. She’d had enough for that one night and wouldn’t talk to him again.

  By the tense set of his face where he now lay on the bed, his mood hadn’t changed.

  Well, neither had hers.

  “Lunch should be set by now in the common room,” she said.

  He didn’t answer or look at her.

  Mari fought against her temper. His notion of someone playing a game to hide murder had been wrong, so what was his problem now? Wasn’t a ghost what he dealt with best?

  “Get up,” she said. “Now that you know it’s a spirit for certain, we can ask different questions and some of the men might be able to tell us more. We should go in while they are gathering to eat.”

  Not that she should care—so why did she care? Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about last night. She’d saved one girl from suffering, but other people would mostly likely die if he didn’t do something now.

  Tris finally rolled his head to look at her. Swinging his legs over the bed, he sat up.

  “This spirit chooses specific targets,” he half whispered at first. “It is not killing at random or by happenstance. If it is . . . he was . . . a refugee now seeking revenge, we need to know why and against whom. First, we must learn when he died, specifically who was on duty at the border stream when he was killed.”

  Mari felt relieved. At least he was making sense now, thinking of things she hadn’t.

  “Bródy was there,” she said, “whether he remembers or not. He said the men have orders not to act until someone reaches the stream on their own.”

  He didn’t respond, and Mari’s frustration left her feeling edgy.

  Was this the man, the one she’d hunted for so long, with power over spirits? It unsettled her that such a murderer, if he was the one, was so necessary now. Sitting up, she reached down for her boots.

  They both readied themselves for the day in silence and left the room, heading down the passage. Upon entering the common room, they found it already crowded.

  The room smelled stale in the heat from the hearth, no matter the scents of food. She studied everyone present as Tris passed her, heading for the food table, and she followed. Guardsmen Farrell and Rafferty were sitting with Sergeant Orlov, but Captain Stàsiuo was missing and so was Bródy.

  The food table was again filled with plates, mugs, and spoons along with a simple meal of tea, bread, and cheese.

  Farrell came over to dish up a plate.

  Mari elbowed Tris, who was just standing beside the food, and cocked her head toward Farrell.

  “At dinner,” she whispered, “he almost spoke out against the dead colonel. If we tell him what Bródy saw when Brianne was attacked, and what happened last night, he might—”

  A loud horn outside cut her off, so loud that she instinctively covered her ears.

  Everyone around them dropped spoons and mugs and rushed for the outer door.

  Mari grabbed Farrell’s arm before he was out of reach.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Farrell pulled out of her grip. “Refugees, out of the far forest. Stay here!”

  He ran on for the outer door. In less than three breaths, the common room emptied, and she was alone again with Tris.

  Mari looked up at him. His face was tired and his eyes dour. She was about to say something when he stepped off after the others, so she followed.

  Outside in the courtyard, men rushed into a nearby armory shed and back out, bearing long spears in addition to their swords. Maybe half wore helmets; the other half were as bareheaded as at lunch, likely not scheduled for duty. That didn’t appear to matter now. A number of bowmen were already at the gate as the others ran out.

  Mari tried to bolt after them and was jerked to a halt by her collar.

  “Do not get in their way,” Tris warned, and released her and they followed more slowly.

  Mari tried to stay out of the way but had to see what was happening. She slowed to a stop just outside the gate. Soladran soldiers were fanned out along the upslope between the stream’s near side and the outside of the city’s wall.

  “Some are coming from the trees,” a man shouted from atop the wall.

  Mari didn’t look up, for she’d spotted Bródy a dozen paces to the right in padded armor and helmet. Captain Stàsiuo stood out at the stream’s edge in his helmet, vambraces, and chain mail while holding a long spear in one hand. He didn’t look back or shout orders and kept his gaze focused out across the stream.

  All the men along the near bank stood waiting in silence. It was so quiet that Mari heard the captain’s boot toes crackle against the stream’s ice fringe when he shifted weight. She followed his gaze beyond the stream’s far-side slope and across the grassy plain beyond.

  There was nothing to see all the way to the distant trees except tall brown grass barely shifting in the still morning air. She started to shiver. It was frigid out here, and she hadn’t had time to get her cloak.

  She felt Tris hovering to her right. Then the captain half turned and spotted her.

  “Get back inside the gate!” he shouted.

  She ignored him, didn’t budge, but Farrell was coming out of the armory shed and hurried over.

  “Miss Mari,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  His gaze shifted briefly, probably to Tris, but Farrell didn’t say anything to the “noble lord.”

  “Why was the alarm sounded?” she asked. “I don’t see anything.”

  “You can’t—not from down here, not yet.”

  He glanced up, higher this time. She remembered that shout from atop the wall, but before she looked up—

  “It won’t be long,” Farrell added. “Now, please, get inside the wall.”

  Before she could say anything, someone shouted again from atop the wall.

  “Three in the grass!”

  Mari looked out across the plain.

  Something moved out there. Stalks of brown in the distance spread in one path. Someone’s
head bobbed above those, then shoulders, and Mari saw hair whipping in flight.

  It was a woman in drab clothing from what she could see.

  Two more paths in the tall grass veered to either side of the woman’s and paralleled her own flight in racing across the plain. Whoever they were, they were so small that they couldn’t be seen in the grass.

  “Children!” Mari said. “Those are children!”

  Farrell’s head whipped toward her. “Get inside—now!”

  Someone grabbed her arm.

  “Come,” Tris ordered, pulling her.

  She wrenched the other way. Though he didn’t let go, she held her ground as she looked outward again.

  Small heads appeared in those other two paths. Then more paths broke the stillness of the field behind the three. A taller boy and girl together, the latter marked with something red tied about her head. They rushed on faster than the first three. More groups of people emerged, all of them running.

  A small band of men came last. Two appeared to stop halfway across the broad plain, as perhaps even more were still coming from somewhere beyond sight.

  Then something much taller broke from the distant forest—a rider on a horse. The two stalled men turned and ran after the others. Mari’s anger rose up, pulling on her other flesh as five more riders cleared the trees, charging after their fleeing quarry.

  Mari’s hearing suddenly sharpened, and she heard the hammer of hooves and the tearing grass.

  The first rider swung something up, back, and down.

  Mari clenched at the sound of the distant impact.

  No scream came as the farthest fleeing man fell from sight. And that rider quickly gained ground on a trailing peasant woman. His mace arced down.

  Mari heard the distant crack as its iron head broke the back of the peasant’s skull. The woman pitched forward out of sight in the grass, and again, no scream, even as Mari could see the spatter of blood when the mace arced upward again.

  She ripped out of Tris’s hold and went straight to Farrell. “Do something!”

  “We can’t,” he answered. “Not until someone reaches the water.”

  Those fleeing were now close enough to see their faces. The tall boy stumbled; the girl with him slowed, almost turning back for him. The next crack of a mace came from somewhere else as the boy righted and the girl grabbed his hand as they ran on.

  Mari ran downslope.

  “No!” Farrell shouted after her. “Get back.”

  Her boots cracked ice and splashed in the frigid water as she charged at the captain.

  “Do something! Loose some arrows or . . . anything . . . before they’re slaughtered!”

  He never glanced at her. He only stared flatly at the stream’s far slope and its crest. She thought she heard his grip grinding on the long spear’s haft. He wore no gloves, and his knuckles were white.

  “Get back through that gate,” he said without looking at her.

  Mari’s attention shifted as she saw Bródy coming toward them, openly angry and panicked.

  Someone grabbed her from behind, and she thrashed while reaching for her dagger. When she twisted about, it was Tris behind her.

  He didn’t have his cloak either, but he wasn’t shivering. She couldn’t see his breath when he exhaled.

  “What are we doing out here,” she demanded of him, “if we’re doing nothing?”

  —

  Tris neither spoke nor moved in looking down into Mari’s amber eyes. She shook from cold, rage, or both, and he glanced toward the far slope’s crest. In the distance beyond there, he heard muted horses’ hooves pounding earth, and then a yell that cut short.

  Fear grew toward terror as he turned back.

  Bródy closed on both of them but spoke sharply and directly to Mari. Tris understood only a few words.

  . . . captain . . . doing duty . . . you leave!

  Mari tried to wrench from Tris’s hold to go at Bródy; she could have done so, but Bródy backstepped out of reach. Having her cut loose on a guardsman was not Tris’s worst fear, though if she turned lethal here and now, it would add to the risk of what might come. Not because of her but because of what was happening here—and what it could summon in the aftermath.

  No one but he knew what so many deaths in one place at a time might call.

  So far, Tris had watched, absorbing every detail. At a guess, the Soladran guardsmen fanned out above the stream might be a third—maybe half—of the barracks’ complement. There was no way for Stàsiuo to know ahead of time how many of the Warlands soldiers might pursue the refugees. Aside from saving the latter, the captain’s other challenge was to keep his own men from crossing the stream.

  The noise of hooves and screams and shouts beyond the stream’s slope was growing nearer.

  This time Mari tore out of Tris’s hold in his distraction. He had never seen her like this, shouting at the guardsmen to act, but her reaction gave him insight into the conflict displayed on other faces. Some stood cold and devoid of emotion, while others grew hardened, and others appeared desperate to take action.

  Even this would make everything worse, after the end.

  —

  Mari whirled away from Bródy—who was useless—and almost went at the captain again in an effort to make him listen. She heard another distant crack, but couldn’t see enough from where she was. She wanted to charge through the stream to crest the far slope, but instead she turned the other way, ran past Tris, and back up the near slope for a clearer view.

  Out on the plain, some of those fleeing had scattered, making it harder for the six riders to run down all of them at once. Four riders held a charging line while the two outer ones swung wide in trying to drive scattered prey back together.

  The riders were hunting like a pack of wild dogs and then there he was again. Mari locked eyes on Tris. He’d rushed after her when she wasn’t looking, and now shook his head.

  The captain was now ankle-deep in broken ice at the edge of the stream, his expression anguished.

  “Archers!” he shouted suddenly. “Fire between the riders and refugees. Aim for the ground!”

  Bródy strode toward the captain.

  “Sir, no! We can’t risk a war, even with those Warland sell-swords!”

  Stàsiuo ignored him.

  After so many bow thrums, a swarm of arrows arced over the stream into the field. Most disappeared into the grass between the riders and those in flight. Horses veered, staggered, or reared. One rider lost his seat and tumbled off into the grass. Others fought to rein in their mounts as their mouths and eyes gaped toward the forces before the city wall.

  People in tattered clothing kept running for the stream, but the two outside riders bore down on them from the left and right. Then three of the other four charged onward from behind. The one who’d fallen tried to regain his mount.

  —

  Tris cast his gaze wildly around, almost lost in fear of what could happen, though in his imaginings, he saw the worst outcome.

  —

  Mari lunged two steps as the first refugee rushed down the far slope. A woman with a dirt-streaked face, looking too young for the child she carried, stumbled toward the stream’s far edge.

  Two guardsmen rushed to the stream’s near side.

  “Hold!” Stàsiuo barked at them. “Not until her feet hit water!”

  “Captain,” one shouted back. “We have to cross now!”

  The young woman stumbled again and stopped to keep from dropping the child.

  Mari looked to the two guards hovering at the stream’s near side. One of them was Farrell. She didn’t know the other, but Orlov was three paces behind that pair. Two archers ran down to flank and cover them for a charge. Other men along the near slope inched forward, regardless of Stàsiuo’s order.

  One leather-armored and full-bearde
d rider crested the far slope. He held a raised spear in his free hand. His horse skidded as its hooves struck sloped ground.

  The young woman was still trying to regain a hold on the child.

  Mari couldn’t stand there any longer.

  “No!” Tris shouted from behind her.

  She ran down the slope, jerking her long dagger from its sheath, and her lead foot cleared the ice fringe to splash down in the stream.

  —

  Tris panicked as Mari plowed into the stream.

  Before she reached the midpoint, the water was up to her thighs and climbing. Her hips and waist sank and forced her to slow even more. He heard the crunch of breaking ice and saw the woman refugee with the child stagger into the stream’s far edge.

  Tris ran straight between two guards and into the stream after Mari.

  Not far in, cold water filled his boots and sucked away his breath for an instant. He barely gained midstream by the time Mari reached out for the woman and child. An enraged Warlands soldier on the far side charged his horse straight downslope at them, and the rider launched his spear.

  “Mari, down!” Tris shouted.

  Everything else stunned him into stillness.

  Someone shouted one word.

  Six arrows sprouted from the rider’s chest.

  The man toppled sideways in the saddle, unbalancing his mount.

  The horse twisted, losing its footing under the sudden shift of the rider’s weight. The spear arced for the woman’s back. The mount fell, tumbling straight downslope over the top of its rider. Mari thrashed toward the edge of the stream and reached for the woman and child right in the horse’s path.

  Tris barely lunged another step through cold water as the spear thrust into the woman’s back. She fell straight into Mari. Both went down and sank beneath the stream’s surface as the horse rolled toward the water, kicking, thrashing, and squealing.

  Woman, child, and Mari did not resurface.

  Tris could think of only one thing to do—for horses did not like him. He surged toward the animal at the stream’s far side, and still Mari did not resurface. The horse smashed ice and splashed water.

  As it struggled up, he shouted, waving his arms, and it saw him.