Jama looked stricken. He raised his hand and shouted an order to halt. The cart jolted to a stop. Annandale looked at him curiously. His face was creased in a mixture of fear, concern, and some nameless grief. He slid off his horse and went at once to the rider.
He tugged at the prone body, and the heavy form slipped out of the saddle and tumbled into his arms. She heard the quick intake of his breath.
The face of his second-in-command, Adanijah, was marred by purplish lesions that oozed a greenish yellow pus. Blood ran from the corners of his eyes like red tears, and a thin line of blood-tinged mucous spooled from one nostril.
The soldier who brought Adanijah up to the front fell back, crossing himself in a gesture. Annandale had seen the Pr’fessors make, and as she looked back, she saw fear ripple down the long line of troops behind the cart like a wave.
“The purple sickness,” Vere whispered.
Instantly she understood. Nothing was so virulent as the purple sickness among the Mutens. Humans were immune, but it could kill whole villages of Mutens within hours. It arose suddenly, silently, killing fiercely and fast. Once the contagion was sparked, there was nothing to do but to let it run its course. The entire Muten force was certain to die all around them. Jama raised a stricken face to the sky even as he slowly let Adanijah fall to the ground. Annandale peered over the edge. The Muten still lived. His chest rose and fell sporadically, and she could hear a phlegmy rattle in his throat.
Jama dropped his head and sobbed like a child, his shoulders heaving.
She looked at Vere. There was no pity on his face, only a certain grim satisfaction. The Mutens would die very quickly, she knew, and then they could escape. As her eyes met Vere’s, something spoke, deep in her mind.
Right the balance.
She gasped. Surely the Voice was mistaken. This couldn’t be—this was the chance for escape.
Right the balance.
She bowed her head, her body quivering. While part of her rebelled, another part responded instinctively, gladly. She swallowed hard. “Jama-taw,” she said, her voice as clear and firm as a bell in the stricken silence. “Let me touch him.”
Jama raised his head, meeting her eyes uncompre-hendingly. “What?”
Vere looked at her in shock. “Lady, do you know what you do?”
Annandale nodded. “I must. Don’t ask me why—I only know I must.”
“Untie her,” put in Vere. “And let her touch him, quickly before he dies.”
“Why?”
“You don’t have the time to ask these questions,” Vere spit out in Muten, the harsh syllables falling from his tongue like acid, and with a start, Annandale realized she understood what he said.
With a gesture from Jama, one of the guards untied her bonds and helped Annandale slip from the cart. She gathered her skirts and gently touched Jama on the shoulder. Immediately a wave of grief swept over and through her. He loves him like a brother, she thought. But she sank to her knees beside him, willfully ignoring his grief. She reached over him and gathered the heavy Muten in her arms.
Instantly, as their skin made contact, agony roared through her, pain unlike any she had ever felt before, ripping at every nerve and sinew. Her blood seemed to boil and she felt the horrible lesions burst forth on every surface of her skin, blood leaking from her eyes and nose. She tasted it on her tongue. She closed her eyes and moaned. Her muscles seemed to turn to jelly, her bones felt like fiery brands. This was unlike anything she had ever healed in her life.
She drew a deep quivering breath as the pain began to fade, draining out of her body. She opened her eyes. Adanijah lay in her arms, his head pillowed on her breast. His breathing was firm and steady, and the awful lesions were gone. Only a few traces of blood on his face showed that he had ever been ill.
“Lady,” breathed Jama. “By the Power—”
“A bit late to swear by that Power,” snapped Vere, in Merigan.
Annandale gently disengaged herself from the heavy body and shakily rose to her feet, gripping the wheel of the cart as she rose.
Jama was looking at her with something like awe. “What are you, lady? How—how—”
Annandale shook her head wearily. “It doesn’t matter, Jama. It doesn’t matter.”
She raised her head and looked down the road, her shoulders bowed beneath a nameless weight. Jama looked up, following her gaze. Six black-garbed soldiers were bearing down upon the company. A familiar fear constricted her throat. Despite the hot sun, they were fully uniformed in leather armor, their tunics emblazoned with an inverted triangle topped by a silver crescent. A new moon, she wondered, and then she realized that the image on their chests reminded her more than anything of an animal skull left to bleach in the merciless sun.
“By the One.” The ragged whisper seem to tear out of Alexander’s throat.
“Steady, Alex,” muttered Vere.
“You—you don’t understand.” Alexander turned to look at them both, his dark eyes shadowed by the huge shadows beneath his eyes. “That emblem—that badge— in all the dreams I’ve had of Dad, that was the badge his guards wore.”
His eyes met Annandale’s, and despite the heat an icy finger of fear traced a cold path down her spine. Her eyes locked on his. Could it be possible, after all the missing years, that Abelard was alive? The shadows around the bases of the trees seemed to congeal into pools of bottomless blackness, and the air grew more oppressive. She whispered a prayer to that nameless source for strength.
The soldiers reined their horses several yards from where the Muten party had stopped. Jama cleared his throat and addressed the center rider. “We come at the bidding of Prince Amanander.”
The horseman said nothing. Jama frowned and began again. “I am Jama-taw. I bring—”
The rider cocked his head as though listening intently, then raised his arm and pulled on the reins so that his stallion wheeled. “You are known to the Prince. Come with me.”
Adanijah struggled to sit, then rose unsteadily to his feet. He muttered something beneath his breath in the Muten tongue that Annandale did not hear, but which made Vere whip his head around to stare at him.
Jama nodded slowly.
“Vere?” whispered Annandale. “What did they say?”
Vere’s tattooed cheeks were pale, his gray eyes dark. “He said—” Vere paused as though struggling with the translation. “Un-dead—or not live. Either one—and both.”
“Undead?” Alexander muttered, his shoulders bent as an old man’s. “Not live? What does that mean?”
Annandale took a deep breath. They knew, she thought. All of them, whether they wished to deny it or not. They knew exactly what it meant.
As the cart jolted through the gates, Annandale gazed around at the frenzied activity. Men swarmed over the walls, constructing watchtowers, mortaring the walls, engaged in hundreds of tasks, scurrying like ants with some intent purpose. The courtyard teemed with activity, and yet she had never had such a sense of death in her life. It was as though she sat in the middle of a graveyard. A dark shape loomed in the doorway of the central keep and Annandale looked up as Vere hissed and Alexander moaned softly.
Her belly contracted with fear. Annandale ran her parched tongue over dry lips. This was the man who had staked everything on his ability to bend her to his will and who had tortured innocent people in the attempt to break her resistance to him. He had killed without thought, without remorse, all in his effort to force her to allow him to use her. What did he want with her now? she wondered as she stared up at him. What did he want with any of them now?
Amanander gazed down at them, his face registering no emotion whatsoever, not even surprise. It was as if, Annandale thought, they were expected. His eyes flickered over to Jama-taw. “Well?”
“The College of the Elders is no more,” Jama said, his voice low.
Annandale turned to look at him. Was that an undercurrent of shame she heard?
Amanander snapped his fingers and spoke to one of the
soldiers who hovered by his elbow. “Take the prisoners to the cells beneath the keep.” His eyes flitted over each of them in turn, not pausing, as though they had no more interest to him than cattle brought for inspection. His very detachment made Annandale shiver and wonder what Amanander intended for them. Briefly his gaze rested on Alexander. “I would bid you welcome, brother, but I don’t think any of you are glad to see me. So I will spare you all the trouble of unmeant courtesy.” He turned on his heel and paused, thoughtfully, as though considering something. “Oh, yes,” he said, with a smile which did nothing to warm the chill which went down Annandale’s spine, “you’ll find the very person you’ve been looking for, Alexander. Though I doubt he will be able to express just how glad he will be to see you all once more.”
Chapter Nineteen
Captain Barran?”
The deep voice of his lieutenant interrupted Barran’s thoughts as he struggled to put his jumbled fears into words on the parchment before him. He laid the pen down and looked up. “Yes, Rone?”
The lieutenant wet his lips. “The scouts, sir. They are reporting increasing numbers of Harleyriders gathering just to the west.”
Barran frowned. “Which direction are they traveling?”
Rone shook his head. “They aren’t. They’ve made a camp, sir, and it appears they intend to stay.”
At that Barran pushed away from his desk, biting back a curse. He strode to the window and stared out into the inner courtyard of the desert garrison. In the heat of the noon sun, the guards drowsed at their posts, and the men off duty lounged in the small pockets of shade. He could hear the low murmur of their voices, the soft rattle of the dice as they cast lots. Barran turned back to Rone. “Exactly how far west?”
“A day’s ride.”
Barran swore softly beneath his breath. “Numbers?”
“Between five or six hundred. But really, Captain—” Rone cleared his throat before continuing “—you don’t think it likely they plan to attack the garrison?”
There was the faintest trace of condescension in Rone’s voice. He was nearly twenty years older than Barran and had not at all been happy to be sent to Dlas when Barran had assumed command. He much preferred the easy life in Ahga, and made no secret of the fact that he thought his talents wasted. Barran plopped back into his chair. He was used to Rone’s attitude. “You tell me. Six hundred Harleyriders gathered to the west—just within striking distance. A kingdom messenger comes from Roderic, telling me my uncle and his cousin have likely formed an alliance with the Harleyriders, and that I am to watch any unusual movements closely and to prepare for an attack.”
Rone raised one eyebrow. “Harleys don’t attack garrisons. Not in the last twenty years.”
“That doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten how, or don’t plan to try again. I don’t intend to take any chances. Make sure the outer perimeter is secure. Double the watch. And send me a messenger. This should be reported back to Ithan at once.”
When Rone had gone, Barran rose once more and walked to the window. He didn’t like this news. Foreboding swept through him, he narrowed his eyes and watched as the guard changed. The desert garrison was a long, low structure. Only the watchtowers rose above the high walls. He had been in charge of the desert garrison for more than a year, an unusual command for one so young, but not unheard of given who his father was, and where he potentially could expect to rise.
Someday, thought Barran, someday, I will sit in Ahga at Roderic’s right hand, the captain of the King’s Guard. A grim smile did little to soften his face as he thought about Roderic, about the annoying, pesky child he’d always treated more as a brother than as a royal heir. Just old enough to be thrown together constantly, just young enough to be annoying was how he had always thought of Roderic. He had had to share his mother— Abruptly he swallowed hard and blinked back unexpected tears. His mother. His mother who had never harmed a living soul, now dead in the earthshake which had enabled Amanander to escape. The more rational part of him knew it was futile to blame Amanander for the earth-shake, that no mortal man could have caused such a thing to happen, and yet, despite all the warnings of his rational mind, Barran did just that.
He drew a deep breath and cleared his throat. His father would not allow his grief to interfere with his adherence to duty. Brand was devoted, trustworthy, utterly loyal, the best of all the soldiers in the army and the Guard. He had earned the honor of his position not by blood, but by years of hard fighting across the miles of Meriga. If he wished to someday take his father’s place, he must not let his own grief interfere.
He gripped the rough wooden windowframe, mentally ticking off the preparations he had made. The guards, the supplies, the weapons polished and ready, the rations carefully allotted, the water cisterns full to overflowing. He wondered where the promised reinforcements from Roderic were. The messenger had come nearly a month ago; he was expecting them to arrive any day, but so far there had been no signs of them.
He thought about all the stories his father had told him about his years in Arkan fighting the Harleys, when he was just an infant and Roderic was not even yet born, trying to draw on every scrap of information he could remember. Something crossed his mind, something so small and yet significant, he wondered why he hadn’t thought to ask it before.
In a few quick strides he was across the room, bounding into the outer room so suddenly that the guard at the door was surprised in mid-yawn. The soldier immediately snapped to attention.
“Find the scouts who just came in,” he barked.
“As you say, sir.” The soldier saluted and took off.
He was back in less than five minutes with a bare-chested man who clutched a tunic in one hand. Soap froth still clung to his half-shaven chin. Barran ignored the details of his appearance.
“Sir.” Both men saluted and the guard took his post.
Barran met the dark eyes of the scout. “Tell me,” he began slowly, “in the Harley camp, were there any signs of women or children?”
Without hesitation the scout shook his head. “No, sir. None.”
“Why didn’t you report this to Rone?”
“I did, sir.”
Barran turned away with a soldier’s curse. Damn the man. How could he fail to see the importance of that detail. “Put your shirt on, soldier. I think I need to speak with you myself. And you—” He looked at the guard in the doorway, standing motionless once more. “Find Lieutenant Rone and tell him I want to see him immediately.”
With another quick salute, the man was gone, trotting away in little clouds of dusty sand across the sunny yard. Barran met the eyes of the scout, who was just finishing lacing his shirt.
“It’s been more than twenty years since the Harleys attacked a garrison, Captain.”
“Indeed,” said Barran as he stalked into his office. “But do you care to wager your life on history?”
Barran fled. The sand was thick and ankle deep, the gently quivering surface giving way beneath his boots. Sweat rolled down his back, made the gritty grains cling to his skin beneath his thick leather armor and the soaked linen shirt. He bore a sword three times heavier than it should be, and all around him he heard the cries of his men, screaming in the flame-filled night for mercy. But there was no mercy, and as he turned at the sound of his own name, a dark shape bore down upon him, a Harleyrider in black leathers, shiny with blood, and chains which gleamed red in the awful light. He glimpsed crosses being erected upon the walls, his own men writhing in agony. Barran threw up his arms, his sword quivering in his trembling hands, and the Rider bore down, driving the shaggy short-legged horse across the sand.
Light flashed off the edge of the weapon, a weird unearthly light, and as the Rider threw back his head, the heavy fall of hair fell back over its shoulder, and Barran looked up into the face of Amanander.
“Uncle!” he cried, more out of surprise than fright.
Amanander laughed, low and long, and the sound made the gooseflesh rise on Barran’s arms. A s
hiver ran down his spine and his bowels loosened. Every ounce of will he had was required to stand against that awful sound, and Barran stared into the face of his kinsman, who was and somehow was not the man he remembered. “Uncle?” he whispered.
Amanander raised his hand and the scene seemed to swirl, the landscape wheeled as though on a giant revolving plate, and Barran saw the gates of the desert garrison, one gate torn off the huge hinges, the other—
A sob rose in his throat.
A figure was nailed to the great crosspiece, his face a rictus of agony, his body twisted in a final death throe. Barran stared at the dark head, the blood which streamed down the tortured cheeks, the bluish tinge which colored the hawk-nose and the grimacing lips.
“Dad,” he whispered. He raised his eyes to Amanander. “Why—how—please—”
“Open the gates,” said Amanander, his black-gloved hands caressing the leather reins like a lover. “Open the gates.”
The landscape wheeled, a crazy kaleidoscope of stone and light, blood and sand, bone and sinews stretched to the point of breaking. “Never,” whispered Barran as he stared into a face which was suddenly hideous. “Never.”
“Then so be it,” said Amanander with a smile.
The world spun once more and Barran fell to the ground, his cheek pressed against the warm, gritty sand. He struggled to cling to earth which writhed beneath his hands like a beast in its death agony.
“Captain, Captain—”
The voices seemed to come from a long way off. Barran opened his eyes. Immediately he heard the clang of metal on metal and smelled the acrid stink of burning pitch, the unmistakable sounds and smells of battle.
A young recruit stood by his bed, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, fear as plain as dawn in the desert on his face. Before the words were out of his mouth, Barran knew what he would say. “Wake up, sir, please, wake up. The garrison’s under attack.”
Chapter Twenty
Rderic paused in the doorway of the nursery. Unobserved, he watched Tavia change Rhodri’s soiled linen, while Melisande, now more than two, kept up a running commentary. Her hair and eyes were dark, reminding him of her mother, Peregrine. She had been one of the first, he thought, one of the first casualties in this war, one of the first of the women whom he had loved to die in the cause of the heir of Meriga. Now the child extended both arms over her head and pirouetted into the center of the room, humming a little tune. When she caught sight of him in the doorway, she stopped and beamed. “Dada!”
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