Sons of Plague: Tales of Kartha Book One

by Kade Derricks

  “Are you feeling all right?” Meagera asked.

  “What?” Cagle said. He shook his head. “Sorry I just…”

  The mage leaned closer and touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “No fever. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

  Zethul, Vlan, and Reeve studied him without speaking. He could see their concern. He felt as if he could hear their very thoughts.

  “I’m fine. I’ve had a few headaches, but not in the last week. Only—”

  They struck then. Arrows screamed through the trees, falling among his troops. Many plunged into the tree trunks with heavy thuds. Cagle’s horse reared as one struck a stone between his front hooves. Another buzzed by Cagle’s ear, and his eyes traced back along its path, first to the bow and then to the man who held it.

  Sewn over his chest was the same inverted V and circle worn by the men at the wall. The symbol of the Voice of Iridia.

  “Meagera,” he hissed, pointing to the archer.

  The mage extended her hands, and immediately a glowing sphere of crackling blue zipped through the forest, striking the man. By then Cagle had found another, and then he pointed out three more. Meagera cut each down in quick succession. With his longbow, Reeve took another two.

  As sudden as it had begun, the ambush ended.

  Zethul lay on the ground, bleeding from a shallow cut near his eye. Vlan had placed his body behind Cagle and Meagera. The giant plucked out a number of arrows from his arms and chest like they were little more than thorns. They were but pinpricks to his thickened hide.

  Beyond their little group, some of the footmen were injured. None looked serious. His men were well-protected in their armor. Still, there would be casualties, a few lucky shots that had found an unprotected area or two. There always were.

  “Why?” Vlan asked. “Why do this? They can accomplish nothing of significance in such numbers.”

  “Who knows?” Cagle answered, quieting his horse with a few reassuring pats to its neck. “Maybe to keep us on our toes, maybe to keep us trudging around in armor at all times, maybe just to make the travel miserable for us.”

  Meagera was looking at Cagle with an unreadable expression on her face. “How did you see them? You seemed to know they were there before they struck.”

  “I don’t know,” Cagle said. “I just felt like something was...wrong.”

  “I’ve half a mind to go hunting those bastards,” Zethul said. The dwarf was dabbing a small cloth at his eye. “They’re making me miserable enough.”

  Through the dark woods, Cagle saw a pair of Iridin helping off one of their wounded fellows. He considered following, hunting them down. He could end these little raids with a bit of effort.

  No, that isn’t my purpose here. Washougle matters. Its granaries and warehouses matter. Some mysterious group that wants to raid us and then melt away—they don’t matter.

  Someday, he’d have the chance to finish them, and then he would. Better to let these annoyances grow overconfident and lazy until the time was ripe.

  “We won’t hunt them yet. We keep pushing on until our task is done. Then we’ll have a reckoning with the Voice of Iridia.”

  In the meantime, he had to keep his mind set on his real goal: Washougle, and enough food to support his people.

  He hoped Olinia would bring him good news.

  Olinia and the children slept through most of the day. It was late afternoon before she woke, and even then, Melios refused to leave the refuge until twilight. After saying goodbye to Agare, Capo, and Thevon, it took them an hour to retrace their steps. As predicted, her horse was long gone.

  “Told you,” Melios whispered. “Let’s go. The gangs will be out soon.”

  “I tossed a bundle of skins over this fence,” Olinia said. The slats were just wide enough to peer through, and despite the fading light, she could see a darker patch where the bundle still lay. She looked for a way over; the fence was tall.

  I might be able to grab the top and hoist myself over, but there’s an easier way.

  “I’ll put you over the fence,” she said to Melios. “Then you can throw the bundle over and climb out.”

  “What if I can’t get back?” he said.

  “There’s rope tied around the bundle. If you can’t climb back I’ll pass it over and you can pull yourself right up.”

  “How do I know you won’t just leave me?”

  “How do I know you won’t keep my bundle for yourself?”

  Melios regarded her without speaking. She couldn’t see his eyes from the lightless depths of his hood, but she knew he was deciding if he should trust her. Olinia sighed. I don’t have time for this.

  “It’s too late for indecision. You already showed me your hideout. If I was planning anything, I could easily hand all of you over to the gangs. You have to trust me,” Olinia said.

  He stared at her for a few moments more before sighing and shrugging his thin shoulders. “Fine.”

  Olinia twined her fingers together, holding them low near her knee, and Melios stepped up into them. He weighed less than he should, but he wasn’t light, either.

  “Higher,” he whispered down.

  Straining and pushing with her legs, Olinia heaved him up; his weight melted away as he scrambled over the top. He landed without a sound. In a moment, the bundle sailed over the top and landed almost soundlessly beside her.

  The fence rattled and strained, and then Melios came back down on cat’s feet.

  “What’s in there? It was heavier than I thought,” Melios said.

  “Now show me the way across the Line,” Olinia said, not addressing the boy’s question. Rope in hand, she hoisted the heavy skins over her shoulder.

  “Fine. Don’t forget our deal, though.”

  For a time they traveled back the way they’d come. Then Melios led her north up a main thoroughfare. At the far end, there were torches burning, their flickering light reflecting off the abandoned buildings. In the center of the thoroughfare was a gap in the Line, an opening in the piled rubble with a simple wooden gate. There were more guards concentrated here—two dozen at least—and a number of stakes had been driven into the ground on either side of the opening.

  A rotting head had been speared atop each of them.

  Melios moved into another empty alleyway and stopped.

  “The gate is up ahead. Just tell the guards you want to pass through.”

  “What about the heads?”

  “They belong to the last gang that tried to make a break for it. Redbirds.”

  Olinia lowered the bundle off her shoulder. Her fingers found the cord that held it together and she sliced it with her knife. She set out two of her thickest furs, one a magnificent elk hide big enough for Agare and her brothers to huddle under, the other a thick wolf skin. She rolled the two together and tied the bundle around the middle. Heavy, but he’ll find a way to get it back to the estate. It’ll keep them warmer than some dirty blankets. “For you and the others. I’ll come back and see you and bring more food.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Melios said frankly. Glimpses of torchlight reflected in his eyes. “You’ll forget all about us as soon as you pass through that gate.”

  “No, I won’t. I promise. I need you to watch something for me, though. Think of it as a deposit that I’ll come back and claim later.” She held her sword out to him, hilt-first. “You can practice with it until I return, but don’t get caught with it, and don’t cut yourself.”

  Melios’s eyes widened when he touched the hilt. He slid the blade partway from the sheath until three inches of polished steel shone bright and clean. His breath froze at the sight of it.

  “Where did you get this?” he said.

  “That doesn’t matter. Don’t get caught with it, and don’t cut yoursel
f,” Olinia repeated. “It takes years of practice and training to properly wield one of these.”

  “I won’t get caught.” His enraptured eyes never left the blade.

  “Take care of the others,” Olinia said. She put a hand on his and pushed the blade back into its sheath. He looked up at her. “I will come back when I can.”

  Melios swallowed and nodded. “I will.”

  “Get going, then.”

  Olinia watched him go, skins and sword both. When he had gone, she leaned around the corner and looked at the guards near the street’s end. Was this the right decision? It wasn’t too late. She could go back with Melios. There had to be other ways into Washougle.

  He’ll probably hurt himself playing with the sword, or worse, he’ll pick a fight with one of the gangs.

  No, the sword would be safer with him. She had her daggers, and that would be enough. It would have to be.

  After retying the now smaller bundle, she stepped out into the street. She’d already changed her face, making herself seem younger, more vulnerable. She’d known a redhead in LaBrogue whose look would work perfectly. Soldiers would be more sympathetic to a young woman alone. She slung the furs over her shoulder, walking in full view of the guards. They called out when she was a dozen paces from the Line.

  “That’s far enough,” one said.

  “I’ve a load of skins to sell,” she replied, pitching her voice high and reedy.

  “Why did you come through the Grind, girl? Merchants know to come in from the north.”

  “My first time here, sirs. I was out hunting to the west near Crow’s Bay and didn’t know. Bandits separated me from my horse and most of my furs. I’d planned on taking them to Miren Falls.” She remembered the name from Cagle’s map. It was northwest of Washougle, close enough that it seemed plausible.

  “No one crosses through the Line at night,” a guard said. This one wore better armor than the others, though it was dented and scratched over the breast. “You’ll have to wait for morning.”

  “All right if I wait here?” Olinia asked. “I’d rather not go through all that again. There are gangs everywhere.”

  “Move off by that tree.” He pointed his sword at a sad-looking elm.

  At the tree’s base, Olinia set down her bundle and, using it for a pillow, laid down. Having slept most of the day, she wasn’t tired, but there was nothing else to do. She held the dagger over her chest, out of sight in the folds of her cloak, closed her eyes, and listened to the night sounds. Sometime after midnight, she finally dozed off.

  She woke well before dawn, and when the sun rose she gathered her few possessions and then approached the gate again.

  “Well, you survived the night,” the guard with the dented plate said. He yawned into his large fist.

  He must be the one in charge.

  “How much to cross?” Olinia said.

  “For you?” He gave her an appraising look starting at her head and finishing at her tall boots. He grinned. “Half those furs, or...”

  “Or what?”

  “Or you could come with me for a time. My relief is here in an hour, and we could go back to my home. It’s close enough. I’m sure we can come up with a way for you to pay me back.”

  “Is it private?” Olinia asked playfully, cocking a hip and placing a hand on it.

  “It is.” He grinned wider. “I’ve a quiet little house.”

  “You must be important to warrant a house to yourself. Do you have a bath, Guardsman…?”

  “Tarn. Lieutenant Tarn.” His eyes shone bright at her words. “I do have a bath, and yes, I am quite important. I’m a powerful man around here.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Olinia said, repressing a snort. “Protecting the good people of Washougle is an important task. Without you, they’d be overrun by all those nasty gangs.”

  One of the nearby guards snickered and Tarn gave him a dark look. The snickering stopped, and then he faced Olinia again, beaming with pride now. “Tell Sygen that I left early. I had to escort this lovely young woman into the city,” he announced.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly take you from your post,” Olinia said. “I’m just a poor merchant here to sell a few things, and you are so important here on the Line.”

  “Nonsense,” Tarn said with a wolf’s grin. “I’m happy to do it. Your well-being is my top concern.”

  “Very well, then.” Olinia leaned to pick up her bundle, but Tarn beat her to it. She put her hand through his arm and let him lead the way into the city.

  The difference between this part of town and what she’d come through couldn’t have been more stark. Tall torchlights lined the streets and the gutters were swept clean. The rows of homes were neat and tidy. The city was alive with activity. Laundry hung drying on ropes strung between the buildings and there were people everywhere; men in ornate robes of rich purples and reds, women in low-cut blouses and floor-length dresses, servants wearing a hundred subtle shades of brown and grey, and children running, laughing, and playing. There were carts loaded with every type of food or vegetable imaginable and hawkers selling meats and cheeses and wine. Olinia’s mouth watered at the sights and smells of so much food.

  Olinia could barely believe her eyes. Compared to the other half of the city or even Crow’s Bay, these people were rich beyond belief.

  Yet I passed through no farms or fields. It was almost dark the last few miles, but I would have seen them. Where are they getting all of this from?

  Tarn’s house was indeed small, though it did stand alone against a grassy park. On older couple’s home, she would have said. It was a single story, roofed in blue tiles and the wooden exterior painted an eggshell white. Happy colors. The house showed signs of craftsmanship and care, the little fence with the swinging gate out front, the rows of planters perched beneath the windows and all along the small porch, the careful chisel work and carved patterns along the eaves.

  “Nice place,” Olinia said.

  Tarn smiled and opened the door. She ran a hand over the wooden doorframe before stepping through.

  Inside, there were more carvings of trees and animals on the wood-paneled walls. The ceiling was painted a robin’s egg blue and there was a dark wood molding along where the ceiling met the walls. Someone put a great deal of love into this place—a true craftsman who knew his work.

  “My commander gave it to me after I defended the gate against a horde of Redbirds. You saw their heads on the way in.” His chest swelled as he spoke. He stripped off his armor, tossing the heavy plate into a corner. The armor clanked and bits of mud and dirt sprayed on the rugs and walls with each piece removed. There was a pile on the floor where he’d done the same many times before.

  “The gang?”

  “Yes, almost fifty of them rushed the gap. There were twelve of us guards, armored, of course, but still only three of us made it through.”

  Olinia shook her head. A nice home such as this was wasted on the likes of Tarn. She reached out to the wall, and her fingers brushed over a carved panther. The beast lay low on a boulder, ready to pounce, forever stalking a pair of deer at a little pool carved a few feet below.

  “Now, why don’t we talk about how you can pay me back for the crossing,” Tarn said from behind her.

  She tilted her head. It would be a shame to ruin the paneling in here. He’d stripped bare to the waist. An ugly scar ran from his right shoulder down to his navel.

  “There were a lot of Redbirds,” he said, grinning.

  Olinia left Tarn’s body behind the little house under a loose pile of raked leaves. She’d been careful to clean the paneling of his blood. Maybe the next owner would appreciate it.

  He’ll likely be another guard no better than Tarn.

  He hadn’t been an unattractive man, she supposed, but she was here
for a specific task, and entertaining Tarn wasn’t part of her plan.

  She paused in an alleyway a few blocks away and took on another face, one from back home, the plain brown hair and unremarkable features of a nurse she’d befriended in Monport, a common face chosen not to draw attention. There were clothes in the little craftsman house, and she took a set of dull gray pants and a tan shirt to complete her disguise—here in the city, her hunter’s leathers would stand out like a beacon.

  She’d stuffed her old clothes along with her few remaining skins into a bag and threw it over her shoulder.

  Dressed in the manner of a servant, no one in the busy streets even seemed to see her. Like a wraith, she wove her way among the crowds. Cagle had given her only a few specifics. He wanted to know more about the Man of Iron—about the city’s food situation, of course, and also more about what had happened to these people. Why had such a great country fallen?

  Normally, Olinia wouldn’t have been interested in such things. She would rather have floated where the winds took her, sampling experiences here and there, learning always, but her people were counting on her. Her father was counting on her. She hadn’t really considered what would happen to the lowlands when winter came. It seemed impossible for her homeland to see such suffering. After all, they had survived hard times before, but seeing the Grind and meeting Melios and his little family had changed that.

  Now she could see how easily, how quickly, Monport might reach the same end.

  Tarcy, the nurse whose face she now wore, for instance. Tarcy had a pair of girls, six and twelve.

  Olinia had met the girls once, briefly. They were thin and small like one of her childhood dolls. Friendly, happy children. What would they be doing now? Would they have felt the lengthening fangs of starvation already?

  A merchant passed by and her quick dagger sliced free his coin purse. She hadn’t brought much with her—a full purse would have drawn attention—and she’d lost most of her skins. She needed a place to stay. The little house would be empty, but that was out of the question. By nightfall, when Tarn didn’t show up for his turn at the gate, they would find his body.