Lady Of Regret (Book 2)

by James A. West

  “A patron did the deed?” Rathe asked.

  “No,” Horge said bitterly. “She who called that night proved to be a thief and a murderess, hiding behind a comely face.”

  “Why would anyone steal what was freely given?”

  Horge took a deep breath, eyes faraway. “That night, our mother asked for more than potatoes and cabbages. And for the asking, the thankless handmaiden of Lady Mylene, who could have given more than all the others together without missing a copper, slashed her throat instead, and stole what she had come for.”

  “Who is Lady Mylene?” Loro asked.

  “She is no more,” Horge said distantly. “Her handmaiden failed to return to Ravenhold in time, and the plague destroyed all those living within the fortress, including Lady Mylene. In that, I believe justice was served.”

  “I have it!” Yiri said, racing back to the trio. Behind, her, Samba came bustling out of the forest, grunting as he trotted to catch up.

  “Seems your yak knew where to find you,” Loro said.

  Horge stared at the shaggy black beast. Where Rathe would have expected elation, the ratty man’s face showed confusion.

  When Yiri halted, she held up a small ivory box etched with ugly engravings.

  “That’s it?” Loro said, incredulous. “It has the look of rubbish.”

  “The worth of enchanted devices is not in their beauty, but their power.”

  “Something that small will not hold much,” Loro mused.

  Horge moved to greet Samba. The beast showed a rare display of annoyance by swishing his tail, as Horge ran his hands over his back, flanks, and legs. Before he finished checking the yak for injuries, Loro had already dropped his panniers. Despite Samba’s unusual show of displeasure, Yiri began loading the beast. Rathe guessed the beast’s previous luggage must have been lost when it fled Wyvernmoor.

  “I don’t care what the box holds, or doesn’t,” Rathe said, coming back to the matter at hand. “What’s important is that we have it, and can learn of Jathen’s third trinket.”

  “A long walk back to Skalos,” Loro said, pausing in helping Yiri and Horge arrange Samba’s growing burden. He looked east over the hazed forest and spires of gray rock. “You’d think Jathen would have had a better way to get word of our success.”

  “He does,” Horge said, turning to rustle through a pannier. Samba grunted irritably. Horge brought up a leather sack no larger than his fist, untied the drawstring, and poured a cloudy ball into his palm. It might have been glass, but Rathe guessed it was something else. He had seen the like before, something Nesaea owned. Eyes of Nami-Ja, she called them, a pair of magical devices from Giliron. Unlike hers, this sphere did not give off light.

  “A seeing glass,” Yiri said, awed. Her lips thinned into a stern line, and her brow furrowed. “Jathen should not have that.”

  “Aye,” Horge said. “But then, neither he nor his Brothers should have most of what they do.”

  Yiri shook her head in disapproval. “Mark me, the day will come when the brothers of the Way of Knowing stand unmatched. On that day, the fools who exchanged a pittance of gold for so many objects of power will learn their mistake. Worse, all the rest of us will share their remorse.”

  Horge, one of the gold-enticed fools Yiri spoke of, gave her a guilty look. “I … I’m sorry. If I’d known, I never would’ve bargained with Jathen. ‘Tis just … well, I no longer wanted to be a—”

  “What’s done is done,” Yiri interrupted. “I forgive you. Mayhap the day will come when we can rid the world of their accursed order.”

  “Do not hope that day will arise in your lifetime,” boomed Jathen’s voice.

  With a squawk, Horge leaped into the air, and sent the seeing glass flying from his hand. Rathe’s sword leaped from the scabbard, as did Loro’s. Horge cowered behind Yiri, who had raised clawed hands, as if preparing to dig out Jathen’s eyes. Or does she mean to weave dire magic? Rathe guessed no matter how powerful Horge considered his sister, she was not powerful enough to reach into a seeing glass and inflict harm upon the warrior monk.

  “I suggest more caution,” Jathen said dryly, voice now coming from a clump of thick grass. Samba sidled near, nosed about. “The worth of a seeing glass is a thousand and a thousand times that of your miserable life, Yiri. Or anyone’s life, for that matter. Now, get that damned beast away from the glass, before it tramples it into the mud.”

  “How much can he see?” Rathe whispered to Yiri, as Horge drove Samba off with a gentle shove, and bent to pick up the sphere.

  “Using the twin to that glass,” Yiri said quietly, “he can see and hear all that we do.”

  “All the time?”

  She shook her head. “No. Only for a short time can a seeing glass be used, lest you burn it out.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Yiri flashed him a feral smile reminiscent of Horge. “Why would you?”

  “She has you there,” Loro smirked.

  Horge gingerly held the orb on the tips of his fingers, as if it were blistering hot. “Better,” Jathen said. “Now, show me the Keeper’s Box.”

  Yiri moved closer and lifted the crude object. “This is what you seek. Now, reveal to us the last item, so that we might be done with you and your profane order.”

  Jathen chuckled, and Rathe could imagine the man’s blue eyes peering coldly into his own seeing glass. “Ah, little Yiri. Still hateful and misguided, I see. You are in luck, girl, as what I require next puts you on the trail of the one who killed your mother.”

  Yiri scowled so fiercely that Rathe drew back a step. “She who murdered my mother is long dead.”

  “I’m intrigued,” Jathen mused, “how one with your skills can truly believe death holds any permanence?”

  “Speak plainly,” Yiri ordered.

  “I think not,” Jathen laughed. When his mirth died, he added, “Go to Ravenhold. There you will find the amulet your mother named the Wight Stone. Five days hence, I will expect your return to Skalos with the amulet in hand.”

  “Why five days?” Rathe asked.

  “As I told you before,” the monk said, “I joined you and your sword to Horge and his quest because my brothers and I determined stealth was not enough to achieve success. You go now to a place where danger is not a question, but a certainty. If you have not retrieved the Wight Stone and returned to me in the allotted time, you never will.”

  Chapter 26

  They camped that night not far from the ruined cottage where Yiri and Horge’s mother was murdered. The evening was cool, but Rathe did not expect frost. But then, frost was the last thing on his mind.

  “Tell me of this Wight Stone,” he said, in a tone that left no room for hedging.

  “’Tis a treasure,” Yiri said reverently, then went back to nibbling the roasted leg of a hare Loro had shot with his bow. Rathe did not think she would add more, but she did. “The Wight Stone cannot fall into Jathen’s hands.”

  “By what you told before,” Rathe said, “I expect him to seal the Wight Stone in the Keeper’s Box. Doesn’t that mean it will fall into no one’s hands?”

  “The Wight Stone is our birthright,” Yiri snapped.

  “And stolen at that,” Horge added, licking grease from his fingers.

  “As I understand it,” Rathe said, “you have no choice but to give it over, unless you want Jathen hunting you the rest of your days. Something tells me those days would be short. More to the point, on my honor I swore to repay my debt to him by helping you find his trinkets. One remains, this Wight Stone. I do not mean to allow you two to go running off with it, and leave me with my promises unfulfilled.”

  Yiri considered him, dark eyes shrewd. “I can make it so you never need to worry about Jathen. I can make it seem to them that you never existed.”

  “Or, I can do as I am obliged,” Rathe said. “I have little enough honor as it is. I mean to keep what is left to me.”

  “To the Abyss with your honor,” Yiri snapped, hurling the
now fleshless bones of her dinner into the fire. “You cannot have what was promised to us by our mother, and neither will Jathen. ‘Tis ours!”

  “Perhaps we should talk about this on the morrow,” Loro interrupted, gaze roving between them.

  “Just so,” Rathe agreed, then fixed Yiri and Horge with an uncompromising stare. “Do not think to escape in the night.”

  Yiri flashed a hard smile. “If I want to flee, you cannot stop me.”

  Rathe stared at the ratty little woman, and decided he did not like her much. Best get done what needed doing in a hurry, and be free of her.

  “I’ll take first watch,” Loro said, rubbing a hand over his bald head.

  Rathe banked the fire, while Yiri and Horge took their blanket rolls off of Samba and laid them out nearby. Rathe made his bed near the warm stones of the fire ring, and lay down on his back. He fell asleep looking at the hard glint of stars through the tree branches.

  He started awake to find a woman kneeling over him, the same he had seen outside of Wyvernmoor. She leaned in close, hands cupping his cheek. He tried to move, but felt as if ice had encased his bones. Rathe struggled to speak. “Who are you?”

  She answered with question of her own. “I warned you away, yet you are here. Who sent you into this forest?”

  “A monk,” Rathe admitted, unable to contain the truth. “Brother Jathen, of Skalos.”

  Her expression became rigid as carved granite. “Once more, the fool has chosen a larger fool to do his bidding. This must end.”

  Rathe began to ask her meaning, but the sound of someone smashing through the forest cut him off.

  “Up!” Loro roared. “For your lives, up!”

  One moment the woman loomed over Rathe, the next she stood at the edge of camp. “Survive, if you are able,” she called with a doubtful smile. “If you do, then come to me at Ravenhold.”

  Rathe flailed about, throwing off his blankets and jumping clumsily to his feet. A wild rustling sounded where Yiri and Horge had bedded down. They were gone, a pair of rumpled blankets marking where they had been. Rathe glanced at Loro bashing his way through a tight weave of saplings. When Rathe looked back to the woman, she had disappeared.

  Loro stumbled into camp, the edge of his sword rippling with moonlight. He cast about. “Horge and Yiri?”

  “Fled,” Rathe said, bringing his own blade to bear. “What did you see?”

  Loro gave himself a shake. “Riders coming.”

  “Armed?”

  “Aye.”

  Rathe turned a slow circle. After all the shouting, the forest lay still. “I do not see….”

  He trailed off when a horseman came into view not twenty paces distant, a pale form against the backdrop of dark forest. His mail gleamed cold and silvery, like wet ice. A red-and-white quartered shield emblazoned his snowy tabard, upon which soared a jet raven. Thick darkness oozed through the slitted visor of his helm, surpassing even the darkness of the night.

  “I see but one rider.” Rathe said, as the warrior raised a long-bladed spear.

  “There’s another,” Loro said, pointing out a second guiding his destrier through a clutch of trees.

  Rathe waited, tense, the dreamlike quality that had plagued him falling away. Once the commander of the finest company of cavalrymen in all of Cerrikoth, he knew too well the difficulty of besting armored horsemen from the ground. It could be done, with luck and blessings. Having been woefully thin on the first of late, he offered up a fervent prayer to Ahnok.

  As if in mockery to that silent plea, a third horseman emerged from the forest. Dread filled Rathe when another rider appeared, silent as the first three. Without warning, the four riders hurled their spears with stunning force and accuracy.

  Rathe flung himself down beside Loro. Four shafts passed through the empty space they had occupied, and lanced into the ground. Rathe raised his head to find the horsemen thundering forward.

  Rathe leaped up. “Do you know what to do?” he asked, voice hard and sharp as the sword in his hands.

  Slower to his feet, Loro growled, “Aye, but that will not help us.”

  The riders closed, mounts soaring over fallen trees and bursting through hedges of bramble. Rathe tried to think of rousing words, but could find none.

  As the first horseman reached them, his great broadsword swung, a deadly silver stroke. Rathe and Loro dropped into crouches, their own swords hacking the horse’s forelegs. The destrier made no sound of pain as it streaked by.

  The last three riders charged into the camp, bowling Loro over. Rathe threw himself wide, but a line of searing cold slashed across his shoulder before he could fly clear. He hit the ground and rolled to his feet. Wet heat replaced the cold, as blood flowed down his back. He shook off the shock of pain. Feet nimble and sure, he ran at the four horsemen, stunned that the first rider sat upon an uninjured mount.

  Veering at the last instant, Rathe wrenched a spear out of the ground and hurled it at a rider. The warrior’s helmed head swung, the black of his slitted visor seeming to reach out and steal away Rathe’s breath. With a casual air, he swung his sword and splintered the haft.

  Rathe dropped his sword to catch up another spear, even as Loro did the same. Together they stood ready, no more than a handful of paces separating them from the warriors. The riders charged. Rathe rammed the butt of his spear into the ground, angled the tip upward, and the spear’s blade sank into the horse’s breast. As the beast charged past, it ripped the spear from Rathe’s hands, and knocked him sprawling.

  He came up gasping, dizzied. Stumbling, he retrieved his dropped sword. The riders wheeled. Two of the warhorses bore deep gouges, from which hung a pair of spearheads. No spot of blood marred their coats.

  “It cannot be,” Loro said. He looked to Rathe. “Fleeing is in order, methinks.”

  “This is their land,” Rathe said. “There’s nowhere to hide that they will not find us. We fight, or we die.”

  “I do not mean to die,” Loro growled.

  When the horsemen came again, Rathe feigned terror and darted away, drawing one rider from the other three. Passing a broad tree trunk, he scampered round it, and came out on the backside as the horseman galloped by. He grabbed the rider’s wide leather belt, heaved himself up behind the saddle. Teeth bared in a rictus snarl, he plunged his sword into the man’s side, ground the steel deep, popping links of mail, until the tip burst out the other side. The man did not bleed any more than his horse. Neither did he seem to feel pain.

  Keeping one hand on the reins, the warrior flapped the other one over his shoulder, trying to grasp Rathe. His first attempt failed. The second try caught Rathe by the hair, yanked him forward. Rathe’s neck gave an alarming crack, and for a moment he feared the horseman would rip his head from his shoulders.

  The rider lost his grip when the horse jumped a downed tree. Rathe reared back, struggling to fend off that seeking hand. Still gripping the sword hilt, Rathe used all his strength to lever the blade through the horseman’s midsection. Rings of mail split, one at a time, under the press of his blade. So too did the rider’s flesh tear, and his ribs snap. The rider never made a sound, never grew weaker.

  Desperate to end the fight, Rathe gripped the flailing hand before his face, yanked it back. At the same time, he jammed his feet against the back of the rider’s knees and pushed hard, while sawing his sword back and forth.

  When his steel reached the rider’s spine, Rathe wrenched the warrior to the side. Unsupported bone and gristle gave way with a dry crackle. A blast of red dust burst across Rathe’s vision, and a tangle of desiccated entrails spilled over his thighs, like old roots. With a revolted shout, Rathe chopped his sword against the last tendrils of withered meat and sinew, and the rider’s torso fell away.

  Rathe batted away the rider’s bottom half, and dropped into the saddle. He leaned far over the horse’s neck, snatched the reins, and yanked the beast around. Whether or not the horse knew its true master was dead, it responded to Rathe’s commands,
and galloped back toward camp.

  Loro came into view, surrounded by three circling riders intent on tormenting their prey. Rathe ended their silent sport with a chilling shout. As he swept into their midst, his sword ripped through the neck of one rider. Instead of a bloody shower, red dust burst from the wound. The headless rider floundered out of the saddle, as his horse galloped into the night.

  Rathe wheeled to see one of the two remaining horsemen strike Loro a blow to the head. The fat man dropped as if his bones had become water, the way a man will fall when struck dead.

  “No!” Rathe howled, charging back. His horse collided with another, and both went down. Rathe clambered free of the thrashing beasts, thrust his blade through one warrior’s visor, wrenched it free, and set out after the last rider.

  The warrior’s steed reared, hooves slashing the air before Rathe’s nose. Swinging his sword like an axe, one hoof fell away. When the horse dropped down, Rathe plunged his blade hilt-deep into the beast’s belly and laid the horse open, freeing loops of shrunken innards. A rear hoof lashed out, catching Rathe a glancing blow to the hip. He went down in a heap, numb all over. Close at hand, Loro stared with blank eyes, blood running freely from a gash on the side of his head.

  The last horseman guided his hobbling mount to stand over Rathe. Grasping his broadsword by the blade, he hoisted it high. As the rider tensed to strike, a thin bar of green fire streamed out of the shadows, engulfing both the warrior and his mount. The horseman dropped his sword as Yiri escaped the bushes, a seething sphere held between her hands, the source of green fire. She smiled like a girl with a new doll.

  Rathe scrambled up, and dragged Loro farther from the prancing horse. Burning like a torch, the rider tumbled to the ground, and there writhed soundlessly within a furious ball of consuming flame. Faring no better, the horse charged a short distance into the forest before it collapsed. In moments, the intense heat abated, the flames died, and only smoking piles of ash remained.