Crowlord (The Sword Saint Series Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  “She was just hanging there.”

  “Try not to think about it. And try not to worry. If the body is old enough to smell rotten, then whoever killed the woman—”

  “Girl. Not a woman. Only a girl. She’s hanging by her neck, and crows are eating her face. Do you think her ma and da are dead, too? I hope they didn’t see.”

  “Shh. No more of that, I mean it.” The fire was safely blazing now, and his son was disturbed enough that something should be done. To be honest, Andras was disturbed, too. “Where is she? I’ll cut her down—it’s the least I can do.”

  “All right, Da.” Ruven sounded relieved. “Can you cover her face with branches or sand or something after? It doesn’t seem right that the crows would eat her lips and nose.”

  He left his son with instructions to start the water and peas boiling and carried his knife back up in the direction where Ruven had spotted the body. A couple of dogs tried to follow, but he sent them back. As soon as he set off, his mind started working on how to extract them from this delicate situation with Miklos. The man would be gone for some time to spy on the bladedancers—he was reasonably sure of that—and in spite of the warnings, in spite of what he’d told Ruven about being tracked, he wondered if he should risk running.

  If they ran, they could surely get far enough away that the man couldn’t hunt them down quickly enough to matter. A ratter and his boy couldn’t be worth wasting that much time over, could they?

  Andras couldn’t be sure, though. All depended on how quickly Miklos returned. If only there were a way to slow the pursuit.

  He smelled the body before he found it. There were several crows on the corpse, pecking at the flesh, jabbing at each other, and squawking. He waved his arms as he approached, and they lifted off heavily. Most of the crows disappeared into the trees, now crowded with gloom in the twilight. One, however, flew past his shoulder and landed a few feet away, still tearing at a grisly piece of flesh it had ripped off with its beak.

  “Get out of here, you dumb thing. I hope you’re eaten by an owl.”

  He tried not to look at the body as he stretched to cut the rope. But he came face-to-face with the child’s vacant staring eyes as he eased the body to the ground, and what he saw was disturbing enough that he had to bend over, clutch his trousers, and breathe heavily for several seconds before he was ready to continue.

  He cut a few branches to put over the girl’s face, but that cursed crow was still sitting there, now watching with its head cocked after having finished eating the morsel. He had no doubt it would find a way to get back at the body as soon as he was gone. Nightfall and the threat of owls be damned.

  Andras put a hand to his vest pocket, where he found a small lump wrapped in a strip of cloth. It was the partially digested lump of hay and poison he’d fed Brutus. He’d gone picking through the goat’s vomit as if to find whatever had sickened the creature, but really in an attempt to find what was left of the pellet and hide it from the bladedancers. If he put the remainder of the poison over the body, maybe it would deter crows, and if not, let the cursed things suffer the consequences.

  He looked around for a couple of stones, thinking to crush the pellet between them and scatter the residue over the body. But when he’d found the stones, he hesitated, suddenly thinking of a better use for Tankred’s poison. Something a lot more important than chasing off a single crow. Instead, he hefted a stone and flung it at the crow with a shout.

  It was a careless throw, meant only to scare the bird. Andras was a poor shot; if he’d made an intentional throw, he’d have no doubt missed the bird ten times in a row. Instead, the stone somehow flew true. The crow, fat from its meal, didn’t lift off in time.

  The rock struck it in the breast. Even so, it wasn’t a hard throw, and it was to Andras’s shock that the crow burst apart as if struck with a ballista. But not into feathers and bone. Instead, it dissolved into a thousand tiny black moths, all swirling about as they lifted into the sky in a single, twisting cloud. He stared, gaping, as they fluttered about overhead.

  And then they fell, wings fluttering while they died. They landed in his hair and on his face and arms and shoulders, and he brushed and swatted, disgusted. Their bodies were hot, like little cinders, and as he touched them, they fell apart into ash. He was left with a grimy sensation not so different from when he’d been coated by the falling ash of Manet Tuzzia.

  Other crows were still cawing from nearby trees, but he couldn’t see them in the gloom. Disturbed, uncertain what to make of the strange event, he turned and hurried back to the campfire, where Ruven was stirring a little pot of peas, already coming to a boil.

  “Fetch the rabbit and the pheasant from the sohn’s bags,” he told the boy. “I’d better get them roasting before the man returns.”

  As the boy obeyed, Andras’s hand found the hard lump in his pocket.

  #

  Miklos picked at his meal in silence for a good length of time, his face barely visible in the flickering light reflecting off the small campfire.

  “What did you do to this bird?”

  “Stuffed it with cooked peas and a few herbs. Rubbed the skin with salt.”

  “The meat tastes off.”

  Andras’s mouth felt dry. He’d been eating on the opposite side of the fire, together with his son, while the dogs sniffed and whined, hoping for the rabbit and pheasant carcasses. The dogs had eaten a little bit of stale bread, a snake Notch had pounced on and given a good shake, and some of the mushy peas, but he’d need to get some real food for them by tomorrow.

  “The bird felt old to the touch,” he said. “When did you hunt it?”

  “I didn’t kill it myself, I took it from camp before I rode off. But I don’t think it’s that old based on how they were hanging it at the quartermaster’s tent.” Miklos grunted. “I did forget to take it from the bags and hang it from my saddle. Could be that was a mistake.”

  “That’s probably it,” Andras said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “There was a strong smell in the bags when I took it out. The rabbit tastes strong, too.”

  The warbrand kept picking at the carcass, infused as it was with the poisoned peas. Andras had rinsed the half-digested pellet, then dissolved it in half the peas, stuffed them into the pheasant’s body cavity, then washed the pot out and cooked fresh peas for himself and his son.

  “Your friend is stronger than I thought,” Miklos said between mouthfuls. “I never thought she’d defeat the firewalker.”

  “Did she kill him or did he surrender?”

  “Killed him. And killed most of his men, too.” A sharp note entered the man’s voice. “Does that surprise you?”

  Worried that he’d made a mistake by sounding too curious, Andras feigned indifference. “I had no idea what to expect except what you told me. Anyway, she’s no friend of mine. She threw me out and threatened to kill me if I ever came back.”

  Andras fell silent and hoped the man would keep talking, which he did.

  “A few days ago, I’d have let her go. Faced her later, when I was stronger—there’s still work to be done in the plains.” Miklos sounded like he was working things out for himself. “Damanja was mine. The rest of them would follow. But now. . .”

  The crystal feather glittered at his throat, glowing with reflected firelight, and the man rubbed it again. That movement seemed almost reflexive. Another lengthy silence ensued before Miklos continued.

  “Things are different now, but it doesn’t mean I’m free. Too much has been set in motion already. It’s not that I want to fight her. She may very well kill me, too. But what choice do I have?”

  He picked some more at the carcass. “You really are a terrible cook. It’s not just the pheasant, it’s these wretched peas, too. Got a bitter taste. If I weren’t so ravenous, I’d throw it out. Was that your plan, to cook it so badly that I’d feed it to your dogs? I’ll bet it was, wasn’t it?”

  The thought hadn’t even occurred to Andras, but now he worried th
at Miklos would do just that and inadvertently poison the animals. But the warbrand kept eating, perhaps out of pure spite. Soon, the flesh was gone, and nothing was left but bones. There wouldn’t be enough of the poison in them to harm the dogs. In any event, the man still refused to hand over the carcass.

  He didn’t talk any more, just sat brooding behind the flickering coals, only pausing occasionally to order Andras and Ruven to clean up and to smother the fire for the night. Shortly thereafter, Miklos moved off toward his bedroll without a comment. He shook out his blanket and rustled with his boots, and moments later he lay down with a grunt. Or maybe it was a groan.

  Either way, he didn’t sound like he felt well.

  Andras calmly gave instructions to his son on how to set up camp so the ratters and the dogs could sleep in peace. Mainly, he said, it was the wind that seemed to be kicking up that would make it a rough night.

  Inside, he was wondering how long to wait before they made a run for it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nightfall came, but there was no darkness on the mountainside where Katalinka had taken refuge. The caldera holding the firewalker temple had become a glowing cauldron, with molten lava beginning to drown the temple and already overflowing the caldera wall in a stream. Little remained of the firewalker shrine but its obsidian spire, which still jutted defiantly above the lava. She could see the narrow walkway through the basalt, and the gardens, as well as some lesser buildings beyond, but the spreading lava continued to engulf all.

  Demons danced and swam through the fiery lake of molten rock, and periodically one would race across the dwindling surface of blackened basalt, which melted beneath its feet. There were dozens of the creatures; their presence indicated a sustained eruption, one that if it continued unabated would fill the valley and spill down from the passes toward the sea.

  Firewalkers sat in the woods near Katalinka, staring down at the destruction of their former home. Some held each other, and one young initiate couldn’t stop his sobbing, until a sharp voice told him to shut up. Two or three had spotted the bladedancer upon entering the trees, and she’d prepared to fight her way free, but they gave her a wide berth and settled among their own kind. And so she sat and watched, unsure what to do next.

  Abelard was dead. Something had corrupted his soul, he’d attacked the firewalkers, and he’d fallen to Sarika’s sword. By now the lava had taken his body, and his swords, too. His satchel was sitting next to her, and she’d have to confront his death again as she went through it to remove food and other essential supplies before discarding his change of clothing and personal effects.

  “Katalinka,” a voice said behind her.

  It was Sarika, and Katalinka sprang to her feet, her swords in hand, before she saw that the other woman wasn’t armed. Katalinka sheathed her weapons and held out a hand, palm up, in a gesture of peace.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” the other woman said. “I thought you’d sense my sowen.”

  Sarika wore her sword strapped onto her back, as both the warbrands and the firewalkers carried their weapons, but hadn’t moved to draw them. Her dark skin caught the light of the burning cauldron of lava below them, and her eyes seemed like smoldering coals. An old man, thin and erect, but carrying himself stiffly, stood by the master sohn’s side. It was the old man who’d guided the attack in the temple.

  “I have nothing to do with this,” Katalinka said. “I hope you know that.”

  “I’ll admit to questions on the matter.” Sarika glanced at her tall, elderly companion, before returning her gaze to the bladedancer. “But as it is, I’m more concerned about your companion.”

  “Seems you settled that matter.” Katalinka couldn’t keep the bitter note from her voice. “Cut him down with your own sword, didn’t you?”

  “What choice did you give us? Anyway, you’ve done us another wrong turn.”

  “I’m sorry about the initiate. I didn’t want to kill him—I was only defending myself.”

  “He was a good boy, a promising pupil. But that’s not what I mean.” Sarika took a deep breath. “Lujza is gone.”

  “You don’t mean. . .”

  “Not dead, run off. Something got into her, all at once, in fact. I think she’s set off to the bladedancer temple to get her revenge.”

  Katalinka winced to think of the firewalker sohn falling upon the temple while the three bladedancers sohns were all gone. There were elders and fraters who would put up a fight, but nobody strong enough to defeat the woman on his or her own; people would die.

  She reached for Abelard’s satchel and rummaged through his supplies for what she could use on the return trip. There was little food left; they’d hoped to replenish their stores at the firewalker temple. “I need to stop her.”

  “Wait,” Sarika said. “We have to talk, have to figure out a way to put an end to this. And I don’t mean Lujza—not only her, anyway. This whole business.” She nodded toward the boiling lava.

  Katalinka was shaken; her sowen was in tatters after the fight, the death of her friend, and the flight from the erupting lava. But the firewalker sohn had it even worse. Sarika had lost her temple and one of her students and seen her companion taken by some madness. How was the woman even standing right now? And why was she talking to a woman she’d been trying to kill less than an hour ago, as if they were somehow allies?

  Now the older man spoke for the first time. “This isn’t your fault, bladedancer. It isn’t Lujza’s, or Abelard’s, or Tankred’s, or Volfram’s, or anyone else who has been caught up in the quest to become sword saint.”

  Katalinka studied him. “You are. . .?”

  “This is Drazul,” Sarika said. “The fifth sohn of the Blade Temple of the Elegant Sword. We have no masters in our temple, as you might know.”

  “I thought you were an elder,” Katalinka admitted. “Can you still fight?”

  “I can fight,” Drazul said. “Not so well as when I was a young man, but I’ll hold my own.”

  “It was only that in the temple. . .”

  “I fought with words of advice and the power of my sowen. There was no wisdom in picking up my sword against younger, more skilled bladedancers.”

  “Drazul knows more than any of us about the Sword Saint War,” Sarika said. “He can read the scrolls—the old language, I mean.”

  “Could read the scrolls,” Drazul said. Bitterness entered his tone, and he nodded toward the lake of fire that had been their sanctuary. Whatever knowledge they’d gained had been obliterated in the rising lava.

  Katalinka wanted to demand answers, but at that moment, the caldera began to bubble and throw plumes of lava skyward. It was overflowing the basin in earnest now, and the air was growing hotter and more noxious smelling. The ground rumbled beneath their feet.

  “I need to go,” she said. “You can follow me down the post road if you’d like, tell me what you know while I try to catch up with Lujza. Assuming you can match my pace,” she added with a significant look at the older man.

  “Wait a moment,” Drazul said. “You’ll learn something important.”

  “The air is turning to poison,” she said. “If we don’t get out of here, we’re going to choke on it.”

  “Not tonight. Not if the demigods have anything to say about the matter.”

  Katalinka didn’t know what he was talking about, but Sarika pointed to the sky. It had turned overcast, with a low, heavy cloud cover that muted the caldera light reflecting off it. A breeze stirred to the east and shook the trees. The breeze was cold considering the time of the year, and pushed back against the heat rising from the cauldron.

  When the cold air hit the air above the caldera, the demons seemed to go crazy. They dove in and out of the fire and threw balls of molten lava skyward. The lava balls hardened as they flew, cooling in the air, and shattered like glass where they struck outside the caldera. The streams of molten rock grew sluggish and hardened, even while the caldera itself continued to steam and send geysers of la
va skyward.

  Fat snowflakes swirled down from the sky as the cloud cover dropped. Most of the snow fell from above the drowning temple, but enough drifted off course that it began to coat the branches of the trees and sift through to the forest floor. The first snow melted as it hit, but it wasn’t long before it began to stick. Katalinka was no longer shocked by a freak summer snowstorm, but she was wary about what would come next. The previous time, a few flakes had quickly turned into a blizzard. As if to give voice to her worries, a sudden gust of wind whistled through the treetops and billowed their shirts and tunics.

  “Get your people together,” she told Sarika and Drazul. “Cut branches—we should make a shelter.”

  “Not a bad idea. . .under most circumstances,” Drazul said. An elder bladedancer sohn like Kozmer would have gathered in his cloak against the cold, but the older firewalker seemed unaffected by the changing weather. “But we’re not the target of this particular fight.”

  “How can you say that? Your temple was just destroyed.”

  “There are greater things afoot. Watch.”

  Katalinka was cold, and sat down with her legs crossed and her swords on her lap to gather her sowen, and thus fight off the effects of the wind knifing down from above.

  One of the clouds continued to descend from the sky until it was only a few hundred feet above the temple. It twisted back and forth and soon began to spin like a cyclone. She caught a glimpse of a glittering wingtip, then a great head covered with a bristling array of horns, like daggers made of diamonds. Katalinka’s heart kicked over in awe and fear.

  There was a dragon demigod in the cloud. No, two of them, each flying in faster and faster circles as they sent the cyclone toward the caldera. Blasts of cold air slammed into the demons, which shrieked and plummeted into the lava. A thin film began to turn black and harden across the surface of the molten lake.

  “The demigods win the first round,” Drazul said in a low, thoughtful voice. He sat on one side of her and Sarika on the other. “More easily than I thought. But I don’t expect it’s the end of the war—otherwise, why would we be called up?”