Jasmine glanced around. There was so little she could do. All the buckets in the camp were in the room. Some held clear water, some held wet flatweed gathered from the ocean, the long broad leaves perfect for wrapping around an arm to hold sliced flesh in place, or for forming into a slow drying cast for a broken limb.
Flasks of septa stood in the corner, and clean rags were folded neatly on top of a strawbale. A tiny fire in a rock-lined pit burned in the middle of the room. She might need to cauterize some wounds. That was all she had to treat the severely wounded men and women who would soon be flooding into the clinic. That and what healing energy she possessed. But without Arvintor to back her up, Jasmine didn’t think she’d be able to heal more than a few people.
I’m going to have to ration my energy for those who can survive, not for those who are dying.
But what if it’s Indaran?
If it’s Indaran, I will deplete myself to save him.
But shouldn’t I treat everyone that way?
Stop with the ethical dilemmas, she snapped at the discordant voices in her mind. I don’t have time to argue them out.
She finished the lecture, gazing at the frightened looks on the faces of the women in front of her. “The wounded will be depending on us,” she said, both using her voice and projecting through her othersense to infuse them—and herself—with courage. “We must be strong. Calm. You must settle yourselves in preparation.” As Jasmine spoke, she took deep breaths of the straw-scented air, reaching for the calmness of her own center.
She continued her careful breathing. Her preparations were completed. Now all they could do was wait.
~ ~ ~
Indaran stood against the fence near the gate, his hand tightly gripping a pike. Battle fever rose in him, and he struggled to contain the emotions racing through his body—to channel them against his enemy.
Tempor crouched on the bale next to him. Their eyes met, and Indaran tipped his head in encouragement.
He glanced at the other people, waiting behind the wall, fear etched on their thin faces. Each had orders to remain still and silent until he gave the signal. But they weren’t a trained army. Frightened and inexperienced in fighting, they might just react wildly, instead of following his orders.
Indaran leaned forward to peer through the crack between two of the fence stakes, watching the dozen guards march toward the camp. The afternoon sun glinted off the silvery metal on the straps crossing the soldiers’ massive chests and the torcs around their thick necks. In their left hands, they carried metal-tipped pikes, only a little longer than the makeshift spears clutched in his desperate people’s hands. Swords hung in scabbards at the guards’ right hips.
Why both weapons? If they wanted to use their swords, they’d have to drop the pikes. Probably just for show, although the long lances would be better for herding people. The guards obviously didn’t expect any opposition from either the cowed people of Penutar or the slaves in the camps. The men were probably used to just showing up and getting what they wanted.
Not this time.
The tramp of their boots vibrated across the ground, setting his heart pounding to the ominous rhythm. He tightened his hold on the pike he held in one hand before taking one last quick look at his people.
Where is Mastin?
Despite their argument, Indaran wanted his friend at his side in the coming fight. His pilot was a good warrior, and he trusted that Mastin’s anger with the enemy would be greater than his anger with his king.
The guards marched forward, until he could see the cruel glint in their dark eyes. Indaran’s heart thumped against his chest like a fist banging against a shield.
The guards stomped to an abrupt halt in front of Landers who stood with his back almost against the gate. Landers had chosen that spot to draw the opposition close enough to the fence, then he could quickly whip inside.
One man stepped forward until he was within two feet of Landers. “Our God has sent us to seek a slave,” he said in a staccato tone. “She is not like the others. She has black hair and blue eyes. Do you know of her?”
Jasmine. Even though Indaran had known they were coming for his lady, hearing their demand froze his heart.
Landers nodded. “You seek the Lady Jasmine. She is a healer. I know where she usually is at this time. Guard the gate for me while I fetch her.”
Good, three of the guards have moved within stabbing distance.
Landers cracked open the gate, slipping inside. He nodded at Indaran, handed his pike over to a man armed with a fence spear, and pulled his sword out of the sheath. Then he ran toward the clinic.
Indaran made eye contact with his crew. He held up his hand, cocked his arm back, then slashed his hand forward. Grabbing the pike with both hands, he stepped up on a bale, and rose over the fence. He ignored the fence points that jabbed into the underside of his arms, and speared the leader through the stomach.
The man choked, doubling over and grasping the shaft of the pike. Blood poured over his hands.
Indaran wrenched out his pike.
At the same time, his crew stood and struck at the enemy.
Caught unprepared, the two guarding the gate went down. Then the others lunged forward, thrusting at the defenders with their pikes.
Indaran jumped off the straw bale and handed the bloody pike to someone. Then with a yell, he yanked out his sword, kicked open the gate, and raced through, barely aware of his crew following him.
The guards saw them coming and dropped their pikes, pulling out their swords.
Indaran slashed at the first guard, then swung again, slipping into the delt-tay. Immediately, he realized that his opponent was an expert swordsman. Rage and bloodlust took him over, fueling his strokes.
His crew surrounded him, engaging the guards. Shouts, grunts, and the clash of blades cut through the silence of the afternoon. Indaran concentrated on his fighter. He thrust and parried, cutting deep into the man’s side.
The man staggered back and then raised his sword again. The blade wavered.
Indaran knocked the sword aside so hard that it flew from the man’s hands, landing with a clanking thud on the hard-packed ground.
The guard sank to his knees.
Indaran kicked him in the chest, shoving him backward and out of his way. The man fell on his back and lay still. Indaran jumped over him to engage the next guard.
A tremendous roar heralded Mastin’s tardy arrival. From the corner of his eye, Indaran saw he wore Vol’s helmet.
Mastin, what have you done? You’ve put yourself in the Evil One’s power.
Indaran tore his thoughts away from Mastin. Right now, he couldn’t do anything about his pilot. Instead, he slipped into the pas-sa-ra, each move long-practiced, to force his opponent to react precisely how he wanted.
He dispatched the man, then turned for the next. But to his surprise, all the guards were down. Bodies sprawled over the blood-soaked ground.
Indaran cast a quick glance around, assessing any threat. Then he strode over to Mastin. The pilot glared at him, a wild, red gleam in his blue eyes. He waved his bloodstained sword in the air.
Indaran took a wary step back, not liking the feral light in his old friend’s eyes.
Has the helmet turned Mastin into a berserker?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Timba rushed through the doorway of the infirmary, her blond braids bouncing, and grabbed Jasmine’s hand. “King Indaran has defeated the bad men,” she caroled in a piping voice.
Jasmine’s other hand flew to cover her chest. Underneath her palm, her heart thumped in relief.
Landers sheathed his sword and grasped the child’s shoulder. “The king lives?”
“Yes.”
Thank you, God. Jasmine breathed a prayer of relief, not caring which Deity heard her prayer. “Is anyone hurt?”
“I don’t know, Lady Jasmine. I wasn’t allowed to go outside the gate.”
Not waiting to hear more, Jasmine grabbed a flask of berst a
nd ran out of the infirmary toward the gate.
“Wait, Lady Jasmine,” she heard Landers call after her.
Jasmine didn’t slow. She needed to see Indaran’s safety for herself and tend to any wounded.
She threaded through the mob of people, pushing through the canted-open gate. Halting, she absorbed the grisly scene before her. Hacked bodies sprawled on the ground in macabre contortions of death, blood seeping into the hard-packed dirt. A few men and one woman gathered up the guards’ weapons.
She quickly assessed the situation, then stooped to feel for a pulse of Seagem man whose blood-soaked chest and staring blue eyes, already told of his death. Nothing. Also nothing for the woman sprawled next to him, her blond braids coated with red gore. None of the other dead belonged to Seagem. The corpses were dressed in the scanty uniforms of the guards.
Indaran stood a few yards across from a man in a helm who yelled and waved his sword in the air. Indaran gestured sharply.
Jasmine saw blood on his slashed sleeve. He’s hurt.
Landers ran up behind her and gripped her arm. “Lady Jasmine, you are supposed to remain in your infirmary.”
Jasmine ignored her bodyguard. With a backward jab of her elbow, she shook off his hand. Stepping over a severed arm, bloody hand still clutching a sword, she hastened toward Indaran.
“You endanger us all,” Indaran shouted at the man in front of him.
Who is he arguing with? Jasmine blinked, then recognized Mastin wearing the helm of Ontarem’s priest. Oh, no. She leaped over the nearest body and ran to them. Reaching Indaran’s side, she grabbed his hand. “You’re hurt. Let me heal your wound.”
The men froze in silence.
“And you,” she snapped at Mastin. “Remove that thing from your head this instant.”
“No, Lady Jasmine. I will not.” His voice sounded hollow.
She could see the red gleam in his eyes and the harsh set to his mouth. Jasmine didn’t stop to argue; she’d deal with him after she tended to Indaran. She peeled the blood-soaked strips of clothing from the wound. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No. Just there.”
“Almost the same place as the wound yesterday.” She shot Mastin a withering glance. “I can heal it, but I suggest you avoid getting wounded in this area again. Or any other area for that matter.”
She sensed Landers taking up a protective position at her back. She poured berst over the cut, then began to send her energy into his arm.
Indaran winced, but didn’t take his intense focus off Mastin. She could feel the tenseness of his muscles under her hands and knew his body’s rigidity wasn’t just about the pain. After having healed Indaran’s arm yesterday, she was more familiar with her technique and his body. The red energy streamed through the wound, healing the torn flesh. The strain depleted the last of her power.
She looked up. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.” Indaran brushed her arm aside, not taking his eyes off Mastin. “Go back inside, Jasmine. It is not safe out here.”
“I’m not going. We,” she stressed the word, “need to deal with this situation together. Mastin,” she said, softening her voice. “You need to take off that helmet. It’s evil.”
His thin face flushed with anger. He raised his empty hand and clenched his fist. “My rage fuels my strength. I stride in triumph over the bodies of my enemies. They flee before the power of my sword. None can stand against me.”
Chills washed over her. What has happened to Mastin? It’s as if he’s been taken over by the helmet. Is he under Ontarem’s influence?
Landers grabbed Jasmine’s arm. “My lady, the rest of the army comes. We must hasten inside.”
She turned, and her heart clutched with fear. Led by a large group of men on horseback, hundreds of soldiers, swords in hand, ran toward them.
~ ~ ~
At the sight of the army, Indaran gave Jasmine a push. “Run inside!”
She obeyed, leaping over the bodies and dashing toward the compound.
Landers followed.
Beside him, Mastin let out a roar, thrusting his sword into the air.
“Everyone back inside,” Indaran yelled, waving his arm toward the camp. He made a stabbing gesture at Mastin. “Including you.” He made sure the others followed his orders, then he ran after them.
Once everyone passed the gates, he sheathed his sword, grabbed up a straw bale and threw it in front of the gate. “More.”
Eager hands joined him, stacking the bales in front of the gate. The flimsy barricade wouldn’t hold for long, but it would stop the enemy for a few minutes, allowing the defenders with pikes to take down the nearest soldiers. “Hold the bales against the gate,” he barked at several unarmed men.
He grabbed for the pike he’d left behind and jumped on a bale, peering out at the enemy. Oh, for a brace of archers.
The foremost riders were upon them, led by a man wearing a kilted-up gray robe. He guided his horse around the dead bodies, but otherwise ignored them.
At the last minute, they pulled up. The leader’s horse reared in a small dance step, and the man swayed awkwardly. The large pearl on a chain around his neck bounced against his chest.
Trine Kokam. Indaran bared his teeth in a feral grin. You’re mine.
He snorted in derision at the way Kokam handled his horse. Not the best horseman. Perhaps he’s not much of a fighter, as well. Not that it matters. He has about five hundred men at his back.
The army, clanking and stomping, thundered to a stop, surrounding the front of the compound, the first row only a few feet away from the fence—within stabbing distance.
For a few seconds, silence reigned. Although Kokam’s face remained impassive, his gaze roamed over the stockade walls.
Indaran gave the signal, and his pikemen and women rose over the fence and stabbed downward. Grunts and cries of pain clouded the air.
Men dropped. More took their places, slashing upward at the defenders.
Kokam pointed at the fence and yelled for his followers to push open the gate.
~ ~ ~
In her infirmary, Jasmine bent over an unconscious man who’d had his arm sliced off, frantically trying to stanch the flow of blood. She cursed, wishing she’d had more energy. The man’s blood seeped into the ground, and his skin grayed.
She snapped to a decision. “Bring me a brand from the fire. We’ll need to cauterize his wound. My othersense isn’t strong enough.”
One of her helpers jumped to obey.
Jasmine bent back to her patient, plunging her othersense into his wound. Maybe she should just burn her othersense against his stump.
She tried to summon up more power. Arvintor, I need Your help! On the edges of her consciousness, she was aware of the yells and shrieks of battle, but she shut her mind to them.
The pounding of hoofbeats interrupted her healing trance, and she half turned and looked through the doorway, just in time to see Landers leap at the mounted guard barreling toward them.
The man slashed down with his sword.
Landers parried and sliced into the guard’s leg, then stabbed upward into his chest.
Before he could yank back his blade, a second mounted guard was upon him, sweeping back his sword and swinging it into Lander’s side with enough force to knock him over. Blood spurted.
A death wound. I have to get to him.
But before she could move, the guard sheathed his sword, leaped from his horse, and strode two steps to the infirmary, scooping her into his arms.
She shrieked and fought him, but his arms clamped her struggles into futile wiggles.
Outside, he tossed her up into the arms of a gray-robed man, who caught her in his lap, squeezing her close. Her cheek ground into a large lump on his chest—some kind of jewelry. Evil power emanated from it, seizing her in its malevolent grip. Stunned, she ceased her physical struggles, fighting a new battle.
The man laughed and wheeled his horse around. He galloped toward the gate, uncarin
g of whom he ran down—whether his men, or the people from Seagem.
They dashed through the gates, and she saw the tide of soldiers pressing against Seagem’s beleaguered protectors.
Indaran! She tried to scream for him, but her mouth froze. Where was he?
In a minute, they’d swept through the battlefield, heading toward Ontarem’s temple.
~ ~ ~
Daria, with Khan beside her, trotted up the sloping graystone street winding up the cliff, the soldiers from Ocean’s Glory strung out behind them. A full quiver of arrows bounced on her back, and the bow strapped to her shoulder and the sword at her side grew heavier. Her legs burned, and her breath came in gasps from the steep climb, but a sense of urgency drove her onward. She didn’t dare ignore the warning from her othersense.
She glanced behind her at the stream of warriors clad in Seagem’s forest green, their hastily made uniforms a healthy splash of color again their drab surroundings. In the first row bounded five stalwart bodyguards ready to leap in front of their leaders at the first sign of trouble.
One caught her glance and frowned at her, unhappy that she and Khan weren’t allowing the guards to precede them. He didn’t like that she was putting her royal person at risk. But she was no cowardly Thaddis to wait in safety until the area was conquered.
Behind the guards marched twenty bowmen with full quivers, ten arrows apiece, and swords strapped to their sides, the best of Ocean’s Glory’s archers. Behind the bowmen tramped fifty swordsmen, all fierce warriors. A small army, but a well-skilled one. Adequate for a quick sweep into enemy territory to rescue her brother.
Below her in the olive-colored sea, her three ships rocked at the quayside, their armed crews on full alert. She could barely make out the two dots perched on the rigging—Shad and Shir, not happy about being commanded to stay behind.
She’d left orders for the ships to be ready to cast off the minute they reappeared at the top of the cliff road with Indaran. If we appear with Indaran.
No. Soon I will be reunited with my brother. She banished her doubts.
They reached the crest of the cliff. She slowed the last few feet, unwilling to run straight into possible defenders, and unsheathed her sword.
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