A white-haired officer strode from the group and approached the bandit. He was tall and pale, with a gaunt, ageless face and strangely full lips. He moved with a grace that suggested strength and energy. A circlet bound his hair, and he carried a rapier and a silver-capped horn on his hip.
“Tell your men to bring the rest of the children,” he said.
Fingernails cleared his throat. “Where’s the money?”
White Hair gestured toward two of his confederates, who shuffled forward, lugging an iron-bound chest between them.
“Open it,” said the bandit.
The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your tongue, dog. You count silver when I count children.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Kinora saw the bandit brush his fingers across the hilt of the dagger at his hip. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he shrugged, half-turned in the saddle, and waved for the rest of his companions to cross the meadow.
Kinora considered the tents and the pair of wagons positioned behind them. More than this handful of soldiers must be camped here, but not so many that the bandits were outnumbered. Why was her captor scared?
Fingernails sat in awkward silence, breathing with the steady, corpulent wheeze he’d used all day. After a few moments Kinora felt him lift a shoulder to wipe sweat off his forehead. White Hair just stood with his arms folded, a hint of a smile on his lips.
Eventually the full party had gathered in front of the soldiers.
“Twenty-nine,” White Hair said. With the toe of his boot, he prodded open the lid of the chest to reveal a pile of coins. He snapped it shut again. “I told you to bring thirty. And fifteen extra horses, not eleven. Can’t you count?”
“We killed one of the brats who wouldn’t stop crying,” Fingernails growled. “You’d have done the same, if you had to put up with that caterwauling. And as for the horses—well, we didn’t find as many as we expected in Noemi.”
That was a lie, Kinora knew. The bandits had selected the best horses from the raid and left them well back on the trail, in care of a trio that Fingernails called the “rear guard.” That was why so many children rode in front of the saddles of their kidnappers.
White Hair shrugged. “I need fifteen horses. The kids can’t walk. You’ll have to ride double to make up the difference.”
Several of the bandits muttered. Fingernails held up a hand to quiet them.
“Some of my men were injured. Doubling up will be uncomfortable. Eleven is the best we can do.”
“You seem to think I’m bargaining,” White Hair said. “I’m not. I’m telling you the way it’s going to be.”
“Or what?” spat one of the other bandits. “You’ll blow hot air into that shiny battle horn and teach us all a lesson?”
Several of the bandits snickered, but Kinora saw the muscles in her captor’s hands clench, and his arms began to quiver.
White Hair raised his eyebrows. “Your leader failed to mention my name, then. Is he a paragon of discretion, or just avoiding mutiny?” He raised a finger to his lips and allowed the words to hang, as if pondering an interesting question.
Eventually he shrugged. “Either way, let me cure your cockiness. Sovangu, come meet our guests.”
A tent flap behind him parted. At first Kinora couldn’t see what emerged—but the horse she was riding flinched as if it had been struck, and only vicious kicks from Fingernails kept it from bolting. Other bandits were having similar trouble.
When the plunging and rearing stopped, the horse settled into a continuous tremble. A wolf—striped gray and black, and twice the size of the largest hound she’d ever seen—was standing at White Hair’s side. An ordinary wolf would have been terrifying enough to Kinora, but this one was... wrong, somehow. It was unnaturally quiet. Its tail hung limply. No lolling tongue, no canine mannerisms. Its muzzle was bloody, but it made no move to lick itself clean. Its eyes were rimmed with blood, and they seemed too knowing, too aware of the dynamics of the moment, to be those of an animal. Kinora felt a wave of nausea when its gaze swept across her.
“Now, let’s see,” White Hair said, his fingers stroking the fur behind the animal’s ears. “A few facts. Besides the swordsmen you see here, I have allies out in the forest. Some four-footed—wolves run in packs, you know—and some of the two-footed variety. Both types are inconspicuous but quite deadly, and both have a taste for human blood. The archers you hid at the edge of the clearing will be discovering that any moment now.”
He smiled when a faint cry of alarm floated on the breeze.
“And then there’s my wizard. You don’t think a magical cripple like me bound that rakshasa all by myself, do you?”
Fingernails cleared his throat, but White Hair took no notice.
“He’s a bit of a lazy drunkard, I’m afraid. Probably sound asleep at the moment. But you’ve heard of lingers—spells housed in some specially prepared object? Even I can trigger those. I had him prepare me one for occasions just like this. Allow me to demonstrate.”
White Hair raised the horn to his lips. A note throbbed through the air, low and penetrating.
As the sound faded, Kinora heard White Hair whisper some words in a strange, harsh language, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled. Nobody else seemed to notice; the officer’s lips were obscured by the horn, and the bandits were all cowering or covering their ears.
The thug who had insulted White Hair jerked in his saddle, his eyes widening in panic. He opened his mouth to shout. Nothing emerged. His diaphragm tightened and his shoulders heaved as he tried to inhale but failed. He reached out a hand in supplication, then sprang from his saddle and stumbled to the officer, throwing himself on his knees to beg.
“What’s that?” White Hair said, feigning puzzlement. He stepped away from the wolf, leaned over and cocked an ear. “I’m having a hard time hearing. You need to speak up.”
The bandit’s eyes bulged. His arms fluttered urgently. He clutched at his throat. The muscles in his neck were rigid. His face acquired a bluish tone.
“Hmm. Nothing to say? You were so vocal a moment ago,” White Hair observed. He returned the horn to his belt, pried the dying man loose from his knees, and stepped back a few paces, turning to address the bandit leader again.
“If you like, I can eliminate a few more of your men so you won’t have to ride double...”
Fingernails shook his head. He was now breathing even more heavily than before. The suffocating outlaw sprawled in the grass, neck arched, beating the ground with his fist.
“No? Very well, then. I’m sure you’re anxious to be on your way. Back to your tent, Sovangu; I think this will be easier without you.”
The wolf nodded—the gesture chilling in its humanness—then slipped through the heather and disappeared into the tent where it had originated. White Hair snapped his fingers and gestured for men to begin leading off children and horses.
Kinora was one of the last to dismount. Her heart was beating wildly; there was no question in her mind now that she was passing into greater danger, rather than less. A soldier pulled her down, none too gently, set her on her feet, and pointed toward one of the tents.
“There’s some water and a necessary over there,” he said roughly.
Kinora was too terrified to ask for her hands to be untied, although she was in considerable pain. She took a few steps, realized that the unbreathing bandit lay in her path, and lurched sideways. She was dizzy with fatigue, hunger, and hours of unnatural sitting; the sudden stagger dropped her to her knees.
The adults ignored her.
“We’ll be taking the money, then,” Fingernails mumbled, without meeting White Hair’s gaze.
“After we discuss one other shortage. This one is more serious than a few horses.” White Hair’s voice sounded more demanding, now that the children had been separated from their original captors.
“What do you mean?” the bandit asked, his voice a strange mixture of snarl and trepidation.
“My wizard tells me
that someone survived the attack.”
“We followed your instructions. No living person inside the town walls except the children. I slit a dozen throats myself, just to make sure. Maybe someone ran away?”
White Hair was already shaking his head. “No,” he snapped. “I don’t care about a straggler or two hiding in the forest; it’s the town proper that mattered. I told you there couldn’t be a single living person inside those walls when you rode away. Simple. And you were too stupid to even get that right. My wizard tells me that one heart is still beating there. A woman’s heart, at the very center of the durga.”
Fingernails spread his palms in a gesture of embarrassed deference. “Beg pardon, my Lord. We thought we’d done as you requested. It was still a pretty bit of butchery, if I do say so myself.”
White Hair rolled his eyes. Then he walked over to their newly motionless comrade, who was contorted in the grass, and sat on the corpse, stretching his feet in satisfaction as he got comfortable.
Unease rippled through the bandits.
“I don’t care about pretty,” White Hair said. “I paid you to be thorough.” His fingers drummed the horn at his belt.
Fingernails swallowed. “Perhaps we could refund part of the purse.”
“You think I care about a few coins? My wizard needs annihilation, not just violence—a symbol to spark a specific magic. You’ve given him a fire that almost kindled. It warms nothing.”
“I’ll send some men back, then,” Fingernails offered. “By this time tomorrow it will be finished.”
“I think not,” White Hair answered, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m in a hurry, and I trust you even less than I used to. But I could still use a few of your men. Young ones, with strong blood...”
Most of the conversation had meant little to Kinora, but the spiking tension now was unmistakable. White Hair no longer looked casual, or amused, or even disgusted. He looked positively malignant.
Fingernails had reached his limit. He slapped his thigh and shouted. The meadow thundered as a semi-organized mob of horses wheeled and streaked away.
White Hair just sat on the corpse, eyes narrowed.
Kinora staggered to her feet, exhaustion yielding to new terror; right now she needed distance from this horrible officer more than a steady horizon or feeling in her legs. But almost immediately she froze again. A golden sprite like the one she’d glimpsed in the forest had somehow materialized out of the grass and was gliding toward her. This was a different person, with a much scarier face. He wore knee-length buckskin trousers stained a dappled umber, sandals trussed to mid-calf, and a swordlike weapon in a sheath that rose between his shoulders.
“You found the rear guard?” White Hair asked, turning to face the newcomer.
“Of course. And the archers.”
“And?”
The golden man reached over his shoulder to pat his weapon. “We left their guts for the vultures.”
“Good. You can do the same for most of the scum that just galloped away. But save me two or three alive, the younger the better. There’s unfinished business that needs blood magic a little earlier than we expected, and I find that I’m running short on donors.”
The small warrior snickered. He raised a hand to his lips and whistled—a shrill, bird-like warble that carried across the meadow and into the forest.
“See you soon, brother Gorumim,” he said, smiling ferociously. And he flashed into grass and wildflowers and was gone.
13
pyres ~ Toril
Blinking to clear smoke from his eyes, Toril trudged back through the warren of streets on the hillside north of the durga. He’d been carrying corpses all day, making piles and dousing them with tar, then summoning flame with his torch to consume the death. The stench was in his hair and lungs; his thighs and the small of his back ached in protest.
Was Malena awake? Would she be any better when he reached his quarters?
Rounding a corner, he saw a ruby-throated yellowtail chirping on a remnant of thatch, and paused to observe. The contrast between dull scorch and extravagant feather, mute death and birdsong, struck a chord in his heart. He felt a glimmer of hope. Even here, even now, life flew and trilled…
He whistled.
The bird cocked its head for a moment, warbled, then fluttered away.
He lowered his head and walked on.
The last building on the path back was the paoro. Part church, part school, and part town hall, it was an unpretentious building, just large enough for modest-sized gatherings. Its slate roof and walls of stone had saved it from fire, but already Toril sensed a melancholy air of abandonment about it. It was too quiet.
Per tradition, the paoro’s yard was given over to a burial garden, where ashes could be scattered, or unburned bones from a funeral pyre interred. Granite obelisks at each corner of the garden carried the names of the wealthier dead, with years engraved at irregular intervals to give context.
Toril chafed to get back to Malena’s bedside—and yet he dreaded what he might face when he arrived. Giving in to fatigue and reluctance again, he slumped on a bench and watched bees buzz along a shaggy row of honeysuckle.
Did the dead enjoy fragrance or greenery? Did they listen to the cadence and harmony of the hymns that floated over their resting place each day of worship? Would they notice the desolation that had overwhelmed this place?
Would Malena want her ashes here? She’d had little time to make the place her own...
He had heard that folk in the distant north buried their dead—not the ashes, but the entire body. The custom had always puzzled him. Fire and ash, life and death were a circle that you couldn’t divide. In the spring, farmers burned a handful of parched corn from last year’s harvest to ward away crop blight; in the fall, pollen and dried pumpkin blossoms were cast into the harvest bonfire to acknowledge bounty received. Their essence became one with the smoke that permeated the revelers’ hair and clothing and kept the gratitude alive for weeks afterward.
Now, for the first time, Toril considered the destructiveness of fire. It was hard to think of much else, given the ugliness of the razed town and the friends and acquaintances he’d consigned to flame.
The natural world renewed forest and field through fire, drawing green from black in a never-ending cycle. But it suffered to do so. Why had he never realized that before? The thought of Malena on a pyre haunted him.
“How is she?” Toril asked, as he pushed open the door of his bedchamber and slumped to a seat on the chest across from Shivi.
“No better than when you last checked,” Shivi answered, interrupting her gentle hum.
“And no worse?” Toril prompted.
Shivi hesitated. “She woke up for a while right after you left at mid-day. She wasn’t very coherent, but she complained about being cold. She’s been shivering ever since. And she’s breathing faster than I like.”
“She was cold?” repeated Toril in disbelief. Sweat was dripping off his nose; the fresh tunic he’d found was clinging to him. “Is that normal?”
“Fever outside, chills inside. Both come from a body out of balance. They go together.”
An edge in Shivi’s tone caught Toril’s attention. He raised his eyebrows.
“It’s not a good sign,” Shivi added. “I think the blood has been poisoned. The corruption is very deep, and Malena is having to fight hard.”
“I only tried to stop the bleeding with my magic,” Toril said dispiritedly. “I didn’t know words for much else.”
“Healing magic is the hardest to tame and the most difficult to kindle,” Shivi said. “I am a hand, with years of experience, and it has taken all my effort just to keep her fever down. I can’t keep this up much longer.” Her fingers, which had been stroking Malena’s forehead, stilled. Toril noticed that dark circles were forming under the older woman’s eyes.
“Even if my magic was useless, I thought the salve would have helped. I’ve seen agiruhir work wonders on livestock with worse injuri
es.”
“This is different,” Shivi said softly. “Sheep and cattle get cuts, scratches, claw marks. Those are surface wounds; even the ones that look bad are usually treatable if you find them fast enough. You wash the flesh thoroughly, no matter how much the animal bellows, and you change the salve and bandages often. If you’re careful, most of the time the animal makes a full recovery.”
“But...”
“But Malena was stabbed deep in her chest. You didn’t find her for almost a day, and you had limited medicine and no way to clean the wound properly.”
“I could have boiled some water like you did. I could have changed her bandages instead of falling asleep,” Toril mumbled. “I could have tried to find help sooner.”
Shivi touched Toril on the arm. “Second-guessing yourself won’t alter the outcome. You did your best.”
“What are you trying to say?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
“When the blood is poisoned, folk rarely survive, Toril. We can still hope, but I would not mislead you. In all likelihood it was too late when you found her.”
The sound of boots on the steps at the end of the hall stopped Toril’s desperate pacing.
“You here, Toril?” Vasari asked loudly. “It’s about sundown. Time to go.”
Hika, who’d been dozing near the fireplace, yipped softly. Toril unbolted the door and pushed it open. After a moment, the older man stepped in.
“Shivi went for more herbs a while ago,” Toril said. “She should be back soon.”
Vasari glanced at Malena, noticing her pallor and faint, irregular breathing. He put a hand on Toril’s shoulder. “I’m having my men prepare a litter that can be pulled by one of the horses.”
Toril shook his head. “Can’t move her. Too risky.”
Vasari sighed heavily. “We have to. Malena needs a real healer, not a midwife. And we have to go now. I don’t feel safe traveling at night any more than I have to. Those who did this are still out there somewhere.”
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