by K.M. Weiland
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Orias stood at the edge of a gully, on a ledge that, a few days ago, had extended over dry earth. The water was recognizable from the dark sky only by its occasional translucence. It filled the night with a cold, mossy smell. The Cherazii had opened the high country dams in time. They had held back Mactalde’s invasion. For now, Mactalde was trapped on this side of the river, while the Laeler army dug themselves into the hills opposite.
He closed his eyes against the needling rain and breathed a prayer of thanks to which he had no right. After three days of hard riding from the ill-fated skirmish at the Glockamon Moors, he had arrived in Ballion with the Koraudian escorts assigned to him by Mactalde. “Escort” was Mactalde’s term. These men were his captors, and he their prisoner. He stifled the dull ache of that truth. Would that he were dead.
He did this for his people. That was the only reason he did it. But, at times, even that seemed not reason enough.
Two sets of footsteps crunched in the rocks behind him: Mactalde and Rotoss come to gloat over him again.
“Welcome back, Master Tarn.” The hoarse exhaustion of a long battle graveled Mactalde’s voice. “I hear you’ve had poor hunting.”
He didn’t respond. With all his heart, he rejoiced that Chris Redston and the Searcher had escaped Mactalde’s ambush. Likely, Mactalde already knew of his joy. Likely, he blamed Orias for their escape.
Mactalde stepped up abreast with him. “I wonder if you perhaps could elucidate the unexpected presence of this tidal wave?”
Were it not for his oath to Mactalde—and the fact that it kept his people safe—he would cast Mactalde into the rage of the water beneath without a second thought.
“What makes you think I would have any elucidation to offer?”
Mactalde laughed, but the silver of it was tarnished. “I’m afraid I haven’t the time or the patience to appreciate the scintillating depths of Cherazii conversation right now. Perhaps we could shorten this, for both our sakes, if I answered my own questions.”
Orias stared across the water. What was there left to say?
“In short,” Mactalde said, “this would seem to be the work of your esteemed brothers-in-arms, would it not? No, don’t bother to answer.” A note of sarcasm underlined the words. “I know you must be weary too.”
Orias rubbed his thumb against the old scar that wormed his biceps. Aye, he was weary. He was wearier than he would ever have thought possible.
The leather of Mactalde’s doublet creaked. “Contrary to popular opinion, wouldn’t this turn of events seem to indicate the Cherazii are rethinking their antipathy for Tireus and his allies? And don’t you think I have reason to take this apparent breach of—truce, shall we say?—rather indignantly?”
Orias stirred. “My people have no idea of my agreement with you.”
“Perhaps someone should inform them.”
He stopped the restless movement of his thumb against his arm. His people would never understand, or accept, his covenant with Mactalde. “If they discover the truth, they’ll cast aside any neutrality.”
“Well, then.” Mactalde turned to where Rotoss waited a few strides off with a lantern. “It’s time we put you to good use.”
Planting him in ambush at the Northfall River hadn’t been good use enough? His stomach turned. How much more of this would he be forced to endure? How much deeper into this pit of filth and treachery could he burrow before he could bear no more?
He followed the two men—both a hand shorter than him, both of whom he could crush without even trying—back into the glow of the camp. They threaded their way through the fires to Mactalde’s big tent.
Outside the door flaps, a beef-faced sergeant sat on a stool. He held a clay jug of cranok in one hand and the leashes of the two Rievers in the other. Raz sat cross-legged between the sergeant’s feet, his grizzled chin propped in one hand. Pitch, his leash stretched to its limit, waited in the path.
He shook his head at the expectant look in the Riever’s eyes. This had not been part of the bargain, and Mactalde had no right to treat the Rievers with contempt just to drive another stake into Orias’s heart. He choked on his own breath. At the first opportunity, he would see they were set free of this place. But at present, he could do nothing for them.
He ducked inside the tent. An abundance of candle globes quivered overhead, and the colored glass—scarlet and navy and amber—cast murky shadows against the canvas walls.
Rotoss plunked his lantern amid the rolls of maps on the desk and tugged off his gloves with his teeth. He grinned at Orias. “Enjoying fighting for a winning army for a change?”
“You haven’t won yet,” Raz muttered from the doorway.
The sergeant tugged the Rievers’ leashes and pointed out a chair. “Come on, you.”
The Rievers scrambled into the fur-covered seat and sat there, Raz sulking and Pitch glaring at Rotoss.
“You’re ugly,” he announced.
Raz jammed an elbow into Pitch’s side.
Rotoss’s smile stiffened. “I can see you’re an authority on the subject.” He clucked his tongue at Orias. “A culture as militant as yours should’ve hammered a better idea of respect into your lackeys.”
Orias fought the urge to smash the heel of his hand into Rotoss’s nose. He could snap the cartilage and drive the bone into the man’s brain without even trying. “They had no part in this deal. You’ve no reason to hold them.”
Rotoss scoffed. “You’re long past any point of bargaining. What’s done is done.”
“Precisely.” Mactalde rounded the corner of the desk and eased himself into his chair. “And I am indeed prepared to let your companions go.”
Orias held his ground. “If . . . ?”
“If you fulfill your next mission. I’m afraid I can’t send an escort with you this time. It’s a rather delicate situation. I doubt Tireus would allow our soldiers behind his lines.”
Orias cocked his head. “Behind the lines?”
“I’m sending you home . . . in a sense. I want you to find the Gifted.”
His skin tingled. “You want me to kill him.”
Pitch jumped from his chair. “No!”
The guard growled and hauled on the leash.
“You have it exactly.” Mactalde steepled his fingers. “If Lael hears another Gifted has been murdered by a Cherazim, it will save you and me the discomfort of having to inform the Cherazii of our rather unconventional pact. Couldn’t be any more perfect, don’t you agree?”
His sword arm trembled. “No, I do not. I won’t kill the Gifted. I fulfilled my part of the agreement. I delivered him into Rotoss’s hands. I fed him with lies so he’d bring you back. That was treachery enough.”
“Treachery is treachery, Master Tarn.” Beneath the flickering candlelight, Mactalde’s expression was flat and cold. “You’ve already damned your soul, so you might as well see this to the finish. You agreed to fight under me and to follow my orders. My orders are to find Chris Redston and kill him.” His hands dropped to the desk, and he leaned forward. “If you don’t, I’ll have no reason to keep my end of the deal.”
“You’ve yet to keep it. None of this was a part of the bargain I made with Rotoss.”
Rotoss perched one hip on the edge of the desk and leaned back to dig his dirty fingernails through a bowl of white heffron nuts. “The bargain you made with me and the one you made with Lord Mactalde are two different bargains. We’ve both of us kept our words. Not a single Cherazim has been killed.” He grinned. “We’ll try to keep it that way.”
Orias wanted to kill this man. He wanted it more than he wanted to live. Was any of this worth the living sacrifice of everything he’d ever believed in or cared about? What reason did he have to believe Mactalde would observe his word any longer than was convenient? Once he overran Lael and tired of his pet Cherazim, he could execute Orias at his leisure, then turn his attention to rooting the Cherazii out of the hills.
His heart pumped
battle fire, and he dropped his hand to the dirk at his side. The berserking rage climbed through him, all the way to his eyes. His vision tunneled around Mactalde. Scenarios and stratagems raced through his brain. He could take them out. If he was lucky, he could take them both out.
“I wouldn’t do that.” Mactalde’s voice held an iron edge. “I’ve left orders with all my commanders to eradicate the Cherazii at the first possible opportunity should anything happen to me.”
Hot bile welled in the back of his throat. His hand dropped from the dirk, and he spat.
Mactalde scowled. “I hope that means yes.”
“Yes,” Orias said.
“No.” Pitch scrambled from his chair fast enough to yank the leash away from the sergeant. He caught Orias’s hand. “Don’t do this. You can’t do this. I found him, remember? He belongs to me. You can’t hurt him.”
Orias pulled his hand free and addressed the sergeant, “Let them go and get my gear together. I want my lion too.”
“The Rievers won’t be going, I’m afraid,” Mactalde said.
“What?” Raz said. “Bad enough you tie us up like dogs. Now you’re going to keep us as hostages?”
“No.” Orias’s arm returned to his side, and Pitch’s hot little hands caught hold of his fingers once more. “If they don’t come with me, then I don’t go at all.”
“On the contrary.” Mactalde rose from his chair. “If you don’t return in two days’ time with Redston’s head in your saddlebags, I will kill them both.” He walked around the end of the desk to face Orias. “You’d best dispose of these newfound scruples of yours. You agree, don’t you?”
For two long seconds, Orias listened to his heartbeat. He had no choice, and he knew it. What he did now was what he had doomed himself to the moment he had first yielded to Rotoss.
“Aye,” he said.
Then he pulled his hand free of Pitch’s and walked into the cold night.