Sons of Plague: Tales of Kartha Book One

by Kade Derricks

  “We aren’t—I mean I haven’t—” Cagle protested. She had been in his tent often enough at night, discussing Iridia’s customs and what she knew of the country at length. He valued their time together, but it had been nothing more than that. Still, he could see how it would appear. What must the men think of their general?

  They’ll think I’ve gone native. What would Nuren think?

  Cagle swallowed, picturing her reaction. She was a capable woman with a fiery temper. Likely, she’d gut Sansaba like a fish, and then she might try the same with him. In the future, he would have to take more care. He should have Meagera there as a chaperone, or only meet with Sansaba outside his tent and in full view.

  The enemy began readying themselves to march again. Those on horseback checked their saddles and the footmen gathered their armor and weapons. Many didn’t bother putting the armor on; they just hung it around their necks or draped it over one shoulder.

  It’ll be tough to fight that way, and we won’t give them a chance to get prepared.

  Unorganized, they started out across the water.

  “Soon,” Zethul said as the enemy came closer. The dwarf took a flask from his jacket, swirled it around a few times, and then emptied the contents into his mouth. He swallowed hard and then wiped at his chin with the back of his glove. “Just a sip to calm my nerves.”

  “Ready?” Cagle asked.

  Zethul took up his long warhammer, running a loving hand over it. Runes were etched along the wooden handle from the grip up and even over the heavy head’s iron face. The back was sharpened into a blade, and it had a wicked edge. Zethul had made the thing himself. His masterpiece, he called it. The weapon wasn’t anything like one Cagle would use—he was a swordsman at heart—but he could still appreciate its craftsmanship and beauty.

  “Make sure you swing that thing in the right direction,” Cagle said.

  “Right.” The dwarf grinned.

  The enemy was close now. The horsemen came on foot, leading their mounts, trailing along behind the footmen, enjoying a casual stroll, certain the Karthans were miles away.

  Cagle waited. He glanced up and down the ditch, checking on his troops. Some said last-minute prayers. Others had little rituals for luck, crossing themselves or making adjustments to their swords or belts. Soldiers were ever a superstitious lot, willing to do anything to woo lady fortune to their side.

  They were ready.

  The leading footmen were less than two hundred yards away now. Cagle could see the sweat beading on their brows. He could hear their very breath. They were loose and relaxed, totally unprepared for the bloody violence to come. Three times the enemy had dodged around them. Three times the enemy had refused to offer battle. Their confidence was plain.

  They were close. Cagle squeezed the hilt of his sword. He whispered out his own little prayer calling for the Creator’s favor. Soldiers and their superstitions, indeed.

  The enemy was on them. Their armor rattled and banged. They laughed and joked and grumbled about the day’s march. It was time.

  “Now!” he yelled, and as one, three thousand men broke out of hiding. Cagle paused for a moment, allowing his men to form up into a great wedge. The stunned Iridin were slow to react; a few of the steadiest men scrambled for their armor, but most seemed too surprised to move.

  “Forward,” Cagle cried.

  His army charged down the slope and slammed into the Iridin with the force of a raging bull.

  Cagle’s mind raced into a frenzy. He was the tip of the spear, the killing edge.

  He fought as he never had. He moved quicker than he’d ever thought possible, flowing like water from opponent to opponent. Striking, slashing, cutting. His sword parted armor like cloth. His arm darted and stung like a viper’s kiss. Every blow brought an enemy down. Their faces blurred. To his eye, their spears and swords moved like they were trapped in amber. No weapon could touch him.

  He broke through the Iridin’s ragged line, outrunning his support. Three soldiers turned their weapons on him at once. Cagle deflected their feeble attacks without slowing. His sword stabbed the first through the neck. He spun to parry one of their spears and then ran the second man through near the navel. The last tried to run and caught Cagle’s blade through the back in reward for his cowardice.

  Alone and without an enemy nearby, Cagle bellowed a challenge and charged left into a mass of soldiers. Men fell and screamed. He barely saw them. Their blood fell like hot rain. The world turned red with rage.

  He lost sight of his men. He lost sight of everything but the next opponent and the one beyond. He heard nothing but his enemy’s screams for mercy.

  Mercy. He heard himself cackling. What an odd notion.

  On and on, he fought until the last enemy fell and there was simply no one left to kill.

  Zethul found him sitting on a log after the battle. The dwarf had picked up a shallow dent on the crown of his helm.

  “Cagle. I lost you in the collision. I thought you’d fallen. Why didn’t you stay with us? Are you hurt?” Zethul’s eyes trailed off to the long line of corpses behind the log. “By the great forge…”

  “No.” Cagle turned to look at him, his face a deathmask of blood and sweat. “I’m fine. Not so much as a scratch.”

  The dwarf’s mouth fell open in horror.

  Cagle stared at his hands. Blood stained deep into every line, front and back, all around and under his nails. It was if he’d dipped his hands in a bucket of red paint. He wasn’t even tired. He looked at the bodies scattered all around. They hadn’t laid a single blow on him. Not one.

  The violence sickened him. More than twenty men, he’d lost count, all dead by his own hand in just minutes. These weren’t the actions of a leader. He’d been a butcher cleaving through a flock of chickens.

  His sword lay beside him, chipped and dull after striking so much armor. Still, it had sliced clean through the last man he’d killed. He’d always been good with a sword, but today he’d been invincible.

  He tore at the leather bindings of his chestpiece and tossed the armor aside. He ripped open his shirt to look at the tattoo beneath. The crystal pulsed green, almost white with life. Somehow it had broken through his self-control and taken over his body. Worse yet. It seemed content. Happy, even. As if it were proud of its grisly work.

  The idea was preposterous, but he knew it to be true. Still, how could a tattoo feel? For that matter, how could a crystal melt into a tattoo? How could it make me stronger and faster? Cagle suddenly felt sick. His stomach heaved and roiled.

  Creator protect me.

  Face to face with the Shade and not knowing what else to do, Olinia lit an extra candle. She held it high to drive the shadows deeper and see what effect the light had on the creature.

  Resisting at first, the shadows surrounding the shade slowly thinned; they parted between the eyes as if they were a sheer black fabric. In moments the eyes reformed, this time near the bottom of the doorway.

  “It seems the light does hurt you, then,” she said.

  “No.”

  Olinia snatched the candle back, almost knocking over her frail circle of protection. It speaks. How can such a thing speak? She coughed, trying to gather herself.

  “You can talk?”

  “I can.” The voice was clear, underlaid with a high-pitched whine like the sharp, cringing sound from an out-of-tune violin.

  “Why are you here? I was at the summoning, the priest sent you to find Tarn’s murderer,” Olinia said.

  “I do not know. I am pulled. You are not the one.”

  “What do you mean I’m not the one?” Olinia suddenly grasped at a spider’s strand of hope. Something had the Shade confused. Likely, her shapeshifting had thrown it off somehow; if not enough to skate away clean, then enough to sow doubt. If such a thing
could doubt.

  “You don’t look. You are not she.”

  “She?” The Shade seemed to have trouble finishing its thoughts.

  “She killed Tarn. She had red hair. Eyes blue. She was new, young,” the Shade said in its odd, clipped speech. The whine changed as it spoke, rising and falling in pitch with each syllable.

  Olinia almost choked. It had perfectly described the face she’d worn when she’d killed Tarn. “How could you possibly know all of that?”

  “I see. I sought his spirit. I look his eyes,” it said after a pause. “You are not her. He wanted her. He drank her with his eyes.”

  Olinia licked her lips. She decided to try something. “You should be off chasing her, then, not bothering me. I am not the one you seek.”

  “You are not,” the Shade said. It held its place, though, waiting. “I am drawn here. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Olinia ran a hand through her dark hair. “I am certainly not a redhead, and as you said, I am no longer a young woman, nor blue-eyed, either.”

  “You are not.” The voice was flat and cold and hard enough to shatter iron. “I am drawn here,” it repeated.

  Olinia didn’t know what to do. She’d tried to persuade the thing to leave without any luck. The candlelight hadn’t driven it away. Learning that it could speak had been a surprise. Could that prove an opportunity, too?

  Maybe I can learn more about it, some way to defeat or destroy it.

  “What if the woman you seek is gone far from here?”

  “Gone?”

  “No longer in the city.”

  “Far means little. I travel far.”

  “Do you seek her in the daytime, too?”

  “I rest with the sun. I return with tribute.”

  “The sacrifice? They keep making them to bring you back each night?”

  “Each night.”

  Olinia couldn’t tell if it was agreeing with her or asking a question. “One tribute every time you come.”

  Outside, a rooster crowed and a slender beam of light shone through the slit between the shutters to split the room in two. The Shade made a high, wailing sound almost like a child screaming, and then dissolved into the shadows.

  Taking no chances, Olinia stayed within the circle of candles for a time. She lit more and made them into a narrow walkway. She crossed to the window and threw the shutters open. Light poured into the room, driving the last shadows into deep retreat.

  Despite the day’s early brightness the air in her room carried a chill, and she realized she’d been sweating. She used yesterday’s discarded shirt to dry herself. She waited another half an hour and then extinguished the candles one by one. She had to do something; she couldn’t live this way. How could she kill the thing?

  Jorle.

  Jorle might know something of how those lucky few survived for so long. The older man seemed to know far more than most in Washougle. How to get it out of him, though?

  Olinia dressed to go out. She was drowsy. Her neck was stiff and sore from sleeping in the chair. She hadn’t realized how tired she was.

  Jorle had said he hauled goods for the city. Did that mean around Washougle, or for the city to other towns? It had to be around the city. He’d been drinking at the inn every evening for a week now.

  Skipping breakfast, she passed through the inn’s first floor and slipped out into the clean daylight. Her first stop was a merchant’s shop to buy more candles. They were cheaper here, and she went ahead with a whole case.

  “Worried about the Shade, miss?” he said with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t bother. No doubt we’ve one less murderer loose now.”

  “I’ve taken work at the Farstrider’s inn over on High Canter street,” Olinia lied. “The innkeeper wanted to make sure he had candles for his guests if they wanted them. He’s got quite a few foreigners staying there. On a lark they went to the summoning and now they are all frightened.”

  “Ahh, no doubt Basil will charge them double for the extra candles. That scoundrel never misses a trick now does he?” the merchant said with a wink.

  “You know how he is,” Olinia giggled.

  She took the candles back to the Lion’s Rounds along with a spare flint and tinder and a few logs for the room’s little hearth. Satisfied with her supplies, she considered her next task.

  Where to find Jorle? She’d been thinking about it all the while, and decided the best way was to search for him around the warehouses. She might also ask a few cart drivers where the city hauled its goods to or from, or even if they knew Jorle. The man was affable. Surely someone will know him.

  She worked her way up along the busy streets, making her way to the sprawling warehouses and asking several of the cart and wagon drivers if they knew of Jorle. Noon came and went with no success. She found a street vendor selling small pieces of white and dark cooked meat along with onions and green and red peppers on short wooden skewers. She bought two skewers and a mug of cider and waited beside a stone fountain, watching the traffic. More carts wound their way along. The younger drivers cursed idling pedestrians and goaded their plodding horses. The older men had more patience. Or perhaps they’ve merely given up on getting anywhere fast.

  Olinia wiped her greasy hands on her pants. The meat had been good. She thought of Melios and Agare and Capo and Thevon and their hungry eyes. She felt guilty at having eaten so well while Melios and his little family scraped by.

  The sooner she finished her task the sooner she could help them. She decided to focus on the older drivers.

  “Aye, I know him,” said the second man Olinia asked. “Walks with a hitch. He carries a writ to haul for the city. Preferential loads from the big warehouse off Baker Street. Some gents have all the luck.”

  “Yes, they do,” Olinia said with a smile. Now all I have to do is get the information out of him.

  CHAPTER 12

  Shade’s Game

  Olinia stalked Jorle through Washougle’s bustling streets. She’d spent an hour finding Baker Street and two more watching and waiting before he finally rumbled up to one of the high docks. After a brief exchange, two warehousemen, gloved and with their shirts rolled up over thick forearms, loaded his wagon with five heavy barrels marked OLIVE OIL.

  With a half-wave, Jorle thanked them and set off to the south toward the Line and the abandoned Grind beyond. From a safe distance, Olinia followed the wagon. The pace was light; Jorle paused often to let people cross his path. The day had grown late. This was likely his last delivery. He drove his load up to a guardhouse just a few yards from the Line. This one was built into the stout outer wall that surrounded the entire city. Jorle pulled his cart alongside another stone dock, held two fingers to his lips, and whistled. Three burly guardsmen came out, each grumbling and walking slow, until they finally set about unloading the heavy oil.

  Leaning against the side of a shop nearby, Olinia watched it all. The shadows were just starting to lengthen now; she knew she should return to the safety of the Lion’s Rounds, her room, and her collection of candles. Still, she had to know more about her enemy—some way to defeat the Shade—and Jorle could hold the answers.

  Her eyes flicked across the Line toward the Grind. Smoke rose from the south, one of the gangs, probably, but she couldn’t help but think about Melios and his collection of orphans.

  When Cagle arrives, I will search for them. Living in a cellar, shut away from the light and fresh air. Children shouldn’t be in a place like that.

  She didn’t know what she’d do when she found them. Maybe they could travel with the army, or she could set them up with a caregiver on the north side of the city. Surely there was someone who would take them in. Especially if she offered a few gold to pay for their care.

  “Be back with more tomorrow, lads,” Jorle said. He skipped the reins across his hor
se’s back and the little wagon started off.

  “Take care, Jorle,” one of the men said. “Don’t let the Shade find you.”

  “You boys neither,” Jorle answered with an uneasy laugh.

  The wagon rumbled past Olinia and, as before, she followed.

  Jorle made his way up a few streets and then turned off into a little run-down stable. The hostler, an older man with a bent neck, greeted him with a smile and a slap on the back; the pair disappeared inside, and in moments Jorle reemerged alone on foot. He gave her a glance, but she’d taken yet another face, one with bulging lips and eyes and ruddy cheeks. She was ugly enough to cause men to avoid her gaze, but not remarkable enough to draw attention, either.

  Her head started to buzz with the effort of this most recent change. She rubbed at her temples. Trying to do too much, too quickly. I need to be careful I don’t outdo myself.

  Jorle turned and trudged off. Judging from his direction, he was headed back to the Lion’s Rounds for his usual end-of-the-day drink.

  Olinia set a quick pace to start closing the distance. Little time remained before dark. The sun was orange and low now, soon to be gone on its nightly journey. They would be gathering at the courtyard again, waiting to summon the Shade once more. Waiting to make another sacrifice. The streets grew deserted and an eerie silence shrouded them like a fog. Olinia quickened her steps. Jorle made the final turn toward the inn, and she jogged along after, narrowing the distance.

  Around the corner, he was just five paces ahead. She drew the dagger concealed beneath her cloak. She kept the blade flat against her forearm so it wouldn’t be seen. She needed him alive for questioning, but the threat of a blade would make him compliant. She was two paces behind now, gaining fast. Her heart raced with excitement. A quiet alleyway lay ahead, shadowed by the eaves of the tall buildings on either side. She caught him just outside the alley’s mouth and shoved the daggertip against his back.