Cursed Bones sotsi-5

by David A. Wells

  Most of the people in the room were old men, too frail to stand in battle, yet still possessed of the experience from many battles past. They regarded Anatoly with a mixture of scrutiny as if weighing his mettle were they to face him at their prime and respect for a man who still had battles left to fight.

  Anatoly ignored them, striding purposefully up to the innkeeper. “One room, two beds for the night and a hot meal for us both.”

  “Two silver crowns,” the innkeeper said, picking up a mug that was already clean and starting to wipe it down with the towel thrown over his shoulder.

  Anatoly slapped two coins onto the counter. The innkeeper raised an eyebrow at him and nodded almost skeptically before collecting the coins and calling to his errand boy to fetch a key.

  “So what’s your business here?”

  “My business is Lord Zuhl’s business and none of yours,” Anatoly said.

  “Don’t mean nothing by it, just curious is all. Most of the men are with the army. We don’t see many soldiers up here now days, let alone an officer.”

  Abigail noticed several of the men seated around the room perk up with interest. She started casually looking around, locating the exits and finding the choke points in the room where she could fight without being flanked or surrounded.

  “Who should I tell Lord Zuhl is inquiring into his business?” Anatoly asked pointedly. Before the man could stammer out an answer he continued. “What is your name?”

  “Forgive me, sir,” the innkeeper said as the errand boy approached with a key. “Please, your room is ready. I’ll have a meal sent up right away.”

  Anatoly regarded him calmly until the man started to fidget, then snatched the key from the startled boy, motioning for him to lead the way. Most of the men in the bar went back to their drinks as if the encounter had played out about like they expected it would. Abigail was relieved for that.

  The room was simple, the food was bland but plentiful, no doubt a result of Anatoly’s gruff handling of the innkeeper, and the door was stout with a heavy bar. Even though the bed was lumpy, Abigail was asleep within minutes of lying down.

  Sometime in the night she woke to the sound of pounding on the door.

  “Open up!” a muffled voice demanded.

  She schooled her breathing and tried to calm her racing heart as she slipped her feet into her boots and started lacing them up. Anatoly looked to her while lacing his own boots. She nodded for him to answer.

  “Who’s asking?” Anatoly said with an undercurrent of menace.

  “Captain Voss of Lord Zuhl’s home guard. We’re hunting a fugitive, a woman with silvery blond hair. I have a report that just such a woman is sharing your bed, so I say again, open up.”

  “Fight or flee?” Anatoly whispered.

  “Flee,” Abigail said, drawing the Thinblade and cutting open the heavy shutters covering the window.

  “Just a minute,” Anatoly growled, “let me get my pants on.” Abigail was already on the ground and Anatoly was hanging from the windowsill when he spoke. They landed in a dark alley and moved quietly into the night, sticking to the shadows skirting around the edge of the market square, heading toward the apothecary.

  “Looks like we’re going to have to steal it after all,” Anatoly said.

  “We’ll leave her some coin for the snowbell and the damage I’m going to do to her door.”

  They slipped up to the back door and Abigail slid the Thinblade along the doorjamb, cutting the bolt effortlessly. They entered quietly and cautiously, assuming that the shopkeeper was probably sleeping within the building. Anatoly motioned to the bed on the far side of the room where a woman covered in furs was lying, breathing deeply and evenly.

  Abigail motioned for him to watch her while she went in search of the snowbell. She moved slowly, with deliberate care, stopping for several moments to let her eyes adjust to the low light before continuing into the room lined with shelves behind the counter. It took several minutes before she found what she was looking for, but she managed to get the jar of snowbell without making a sound. She left five gold coins in its place, easily triple its value, and returned to Anatoly.

  The woman was still sleeping but rolled over, muttering in her sleep when Abigail stepped back into the room. She froze, waiting for the woman’s deep, even breathing to resume. When she and Anatoly thought it was safe, they slipped out into the alley and closed the door without a sound before melting into the shadows.

  “That went well,” Abigail whispered.

  “A little too well,” Anatoly said. “Makes me nervous.”

  They moved to the edge of town and made their way along the inside of the berm wall toward the road leading to the northwest but stopped when they saw a squad of soldiers waiting quietly in the shadows on either side of the road. Abigail motioned to Anatoly to backtrack. Once out of sight of the road, they climbed up the berm wall and down the other side, setting out across the snow toward the relative safety of the cave.

  “They’re going to pick up our trail,” Anatoly said.

  “I know, but there’s not much we can do about that. Besides, they probably won’t notice it until daylight. At least we’ll have time to prepare for their attack.”

  “If they come with the whole company, the dragon’s our only hope.”

  “I know,” Abigail said.

  Dawn broke over an overcast sky, heavy grey clouds floating so low that the mountain peaks in the distance were shrouded in gloom. In the rising light of dawn, the sky started spitting snow in fits and starts as if it couldn’t make up its mind. As unpleasant as it would be to travel in such weather, Abigail hoped it would snow heavily enough to cover their trail.

  By midday Abigail was entirely disappointed with the weather. The snow came in flurries driven by gusts of wind coming off the mountain, not enough to erase their tracks, but plenty enough to make their journey miserable.

  Trudging across a snow-covered plain, skirting a copse of trees, she caught motion from the corner of her eye, but a moment too late. In the next second a wolf had her by the leg, biting hard enough to draw blood, shaking his head back and forth, trying to drive her to the ground. He’d been nearly buried in the snow, all but invisible-and there were more, all coming to their feet now that the ambush had been sprung.

  Abigail stumbled back, crying out in pain and surprise at the sudden and unexpected attack, her heart pounding in her chest as she toppled into the snow. The wolf released his grip on her leg and sprang on top of her, snapping at her face and throat. She jammed her forearm into his mouth. He clamped down on her bracer, crushing it into her arm.

  Anatoly unleashed a battle cry that rivaled the howling of the wind, startling the rest of the wolves and giving them pause. He charged, driving the top spike of his war axe into the side of the wolf atop Abigail and lifted him clear, tossing his mewling body into the snow.

  Abigail scrambled to her feet, unbalanced from the wound she’d sustained but steady enough to draw the Thinblade. Five wolves were circling them, looking for an opportunity to strike. Abigail and Anatoly stood back to back, watching the predators as closely as they were being watched by them. One darted close to them, snapping at Abigail’s good leg, but she met his snout with the Thinblade, stabbing down through the top of his head and dropping him in an instant, sweeping the blade up his spine, spilling blood and entrails across the snow.

  The rest were suddenly more skittish about this prey, dancing farther away but snarling and growling just the same. Abigail sheathed the Thinblade and drew her bow, killing the nearest wolf with a single arrow through the skull. The rest turned and fled.

  She sat down heavily in the snow, blood oozing from the puncture wounds in her leg. She grimaced in pain while she gingerly pulled her pant leg up and inspected the wound. “This is going to slow me down,” she muttered.

  Anatoly went to work wrapping her leg. “I should have guessed those wolves hadn’t given up on us,” he said.

  “Didn’t occur to me eit
her.” She sucked in a quick breath, clenching her eyes in pain when Anatoly secured the bandage. “Like to make a coat out of ’em.”

  He chuckled, getting to his feet and offering her his hand. She stood, testing the strength of her leg and wincing. “We’ll be lucky if we make it back before dark.”

  “Put your arm around my shoulder, I’ll help you.”

  They set out, leaving the wolves where they lay, walking into the wind and finally arriving at the cave several hours after dark. Abigail was numb from the cold, except for her leg which burned with pain, every step a jolt of agony. She carefully sat next to the fire and began unwrapping her wound while Anatoly went to work adding wood to the fire and putting water on to boil.

  Magda came awake at the commotion, as did Ixabrax, but he only opened his eye, took in the situation and closed it again.

  “What happened?”

  “Wolves,” Abigail said, pouring some water from her waterskin onto a strip of cloth and gently cleaning the area around the wound. After she rewrapped her bandage and had a cup of hot tea and something to eat, she went to work on the snowbell vine, stripping the flowers and crushing it slightly before cooking it down into a pulp. After removing the fibers, she set it aside to let it cool and thicken.

  She applied a generous quantity to Magda’s wound first and then dabbed a smaller amount onto her leg. There was enough of the salve left for a few more applications, but she suspected Magda would need it all before her wound was fully healed. It wasn’t long before a deep tiredness came over her and she slipped into a dreamless sleep. Anatoly was still awake the following morning. He looked exhausted.

  “Did you stay up all night?”

  He nodded wearily. “I was afraid the wolves might have followed us, and we have no way of knowing if the soldiers found our trail. How’s your leg?”

  “Much better but still a bit tender. Snowbell definitely works, but nowhere near as well as Lucky’s salve. Get some sleep, I’ll keep watch.”

  He nodded, going to his bedroll without a word. Before long he was breathing as deeply and evenly as Magda. Abigail got to her feet, carefully testing her leg and, satisfied with her strength, limped over to the cave mouth. She smiled at the sight of a foot of new-fallen snow blanketing the mountainside. The sky was overcast and the air was cold, but more importantly, their trail was completely gone.

  Alexander appeared next to her without a word.

  “I was wondering when you’d show up again. Is everything all right?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but it could easily be worse. What happened to your leg?”

  “Had a disagreement with a wolf,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s nothing that won’t heal. The snowbell seems to work. Magda should be ready to travel in a few days, a week at the outside.”

  “Good, I’ll do some looking around Zuhl’s fortress and see if I can come up with a viable plan of attack.”

  Abigail nodded. “Some soldiers were snooping around town looking for me. Any chance you could see if they’re headed this way?”

  “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” he said, vanishing.

  Abigail went back to the fire and started heating water for tea. Before it came to a boil, Alexander was back.

  “Looks like they’re searching closer to town. They’ve divided up into squads and seem to be looking for any sign of your trail.”

  “I doubt they’ll find it after last night’s snowstorm.

  “Probably not. I think you’re safe for now. I’ll be back in a few days.”

  She smiled at him as he vanished.

  Chapter 33

  The first thing Isabel felt when she woke was throbbing pain in her head. It took several seconds for her to regain enough sense to be alarmed, then she sat bolt upright, looking around in near panic, pain exploding behind her eyes from the sudden movement.

  She was lying on a blanket spread out in one corner of a cozy little cottage. A fire burned in the crudely constructed hearth with a black cauldron warming over the flames. Ayela sat across from the old woman, listening to her every word with rapt attention. Hector and Horace were nowhere to be seen.

  Isabel’s weapons were gone. She rose quietly, unleashing her rage to protect herself from the pull of the firmament, but the rage didn’t come. Instead, she felt the all-too-familiar emotional numbness caused by malaise weed. She cast about, looking for anything she could use as a weapon, when the old woman turned and appraised her coolly.

  “How’s your head, dear?” she asked, knowingly.

  “Who are you? What did you do to me?”

  “My name is Hazel Karth, aunt of Severine Karth, though he doesn’t know of my existence. As for what I’ve done to you,” she patted a little pouch at her belt, “I dosed you with henbane.”

  “What’s henbane? Have you poisoned me?”

  “No … well, not in the traditional sense of the word,” Hazel said. “Henbane is a potent herb. When properly prepared, it renders a person completely obedient for a period of several hours. One under the influence of henbane will comply with almost any instruction during that period of time, then fall into a deep sleep for about an hour as the effects wear off, waking with no memory of the experience … and a powerful headache.”

  “Why?” Isabel demanded.

  “I needed to question you and I needed the truth,” Hazel said.

  “What about Hector and Horace? What have you done with them?”

  “Ah … the boys are outside chopping firewood,” Hazel said. “Aside from some sore muscles, they’ll be just fine.”

  “What did she ask me about?” Isabel said, turning to Ayela.

  “Everything,” Ayela said. “Where you came from, who your allies are, your purpose here on Karth, and where we were going. You told her everything.”

  “So what now?” Isabel asked, pointedly. “You’ve abducted us, disarmed me, and rendered my magic useless. What do you plan to do with us?”

  “First, I thought I would offer you lunch,” Hazel said, ladling stew from the cauldron into a wooden bowl and offering it to Isabel. “Sit and eat. I will explain.”

  Isabel took the bowl, still somewhat suspicious of her host, and sat down, trying to shake the fog of pain from her head and focus on the situation at hand. She reminded herself that battlefields come in all shapes and sizes.

  “By all means, explain,” Isabel said, making no move to eat the stew.

  “The House of Karth has been at the mercy of the Sin’Rath for centuries. Since the men are hopelessly charmed by the demon-spawn witches, the women of our house set out long ago to break the stranglehold they have on our family. That has proven a more difficult task than we imagined.

  “I am the last of the true witches of Karth and now my family line is perilously close to its end. I can’t allow that to happen, so I’ve called Ayela to me to become my apprentice. I didn’t expect her to bring you as well, but perhaps that’s for the best. We have common enemies, after all.”

  “Then why disarm me?” Isabel asked.

  “Caution,” Hazel said. “I’m old and frail. You are young and vibrant. In a fair fight, I wouldn’t stand a chance, so I needed to ensure that any contest between us would be decidedly unfair.”

  “So what happens next?” Isabel asked.

  “We wait until the demon-spawn and the soldiers who serve them give up looking for you and move on, then you leave and Ayela stays here.”

  “Is this what you want?” Isabel asked Ayela.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I think I could learn a lot from Aunt Hazel, but I also think the House of Karth is running out of time. Your plan may be the only hope we have for eliminating the Sin’Rath for good.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Child,” Hazel said, dismissively. “If you go to the mountain, you will die with your friends and all hope for your family line will die with you.”

  “What makes you so sure we’ll die?” Isabel said.

  “Because no one ever returns from that cursed
place,” Hazel said. “Few venture into the swamp, even fewer return, but in all my years of living in this place, I have never known anyone to return from that mountain.”

  “So others have come,” Isabel said.

  “Of course,” Hazel said. “The mountain was known to be a stronghold of Siavrax Karth, the last Wizard King. Legends have grown over the years, telling of fabulous treasures to be found there. I suspect those legends are the product of wishful thinking more than anything else.”

  “If you’ve questioned me as thoroughly as Ayela says, then you know what I’m after,” Isabel said.

  “Yes, you’re after a myth … a legend that may or may not have ever existed. And even if it did, it has long since decayed to dust. You will find only death on that mountain, and I will not permit you to lead Ayela to her untimely end.”

  “Isn’t that her choice?” Isabel asked.

  Hazel’s eyes narrowed and she sat forward. “No! She is the last woman of the Karth line, the last who could serve as my apprentice, the last hope for our family to end the influence of the Sin’Rath. She must stay here.”

  “But what if Isabel’s right?” Ayela said. “What if we could destroy the Sin’Rath? And Phane with them? Wouldn’t that be worth the risk?”

  “This one has poisoned your mind, Child,” Hazel said, gesturing toward Isabel. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, she believes what she says, believes it desperately, because she wants to believe it, needs to believe it. But reality is a funny thing, it doesn’t require your belief to be what it is. And the truth is, there’s nothing but death waiting for you on that mountain.”

  “You’re wrong,” Isabel said. “The Goiri was real, its bones are waiting for me up there.”

  “I hate to see you throw your life away, dear,” Hazel said, shaking her head sadly. “But it’s clear to me that you can’t be reasoned with, so I won’t try to stop you. You and your friends are free to leave anytime you wish, although I suggest you stay here until the Sin’Rath give up their search.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Close,” Hazel said. “They lost your trail nearby so they’re circling in an effort to find it once again.”