In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1)

by Ballintyne, Ciara

  She crouched beside him, pulling the hood back up over her hair to hide her face. “Because the choice needs to be made cold, Lyram, not hot.”

  The sound of his name on her lips sent a thrill down his spine but he shoved the feeling aside. It was a hangover from the spell he’d been under... She didn’t really feel anything for him. She was an automaton of logic, an ice queen if ever he met one. “Without emotion, you mean. No feelings.”

  Her hooded features turned towards him, face shadowed and unreadable. “I feel. Do you think I do not? But making your decisions cold allows you to consider them more carefully. If you choose to start walking down the path to high treason, I’d rather you did so after cool consideration, not with hot blood.”

  He choked back laughter. She was fine with him committing treason, so long as he balanced the options?

  She continued speaking, her voice even and measured. “I understand you want revenge on Traeburhn, but is your ignominious death in the mud at what appears to be a Velenese siege of Caisteal Aingeal an Bhais what you want? Even if you escape blame for his murder, the man will be hailed as a hero for breaking an enemy siege—because why else would he be here? On top of that, the peace with Velena, the peace you fought so hard for, will be broken, and Drault will go unpunished.”

  That sobered him. He squared his jaw. “What I want is to ruin the man. I want the world to know what he did to my wife, and to me. I want justice.”

  “Ahura approves. Justice is the domain of death. Justice, without mercy.”

  Though he couldn’t see her lips, her smile was evident in her voice. Ahura was the goddess of death, justice and truth, though the lesser two aspects were often overlooked. He’d always felt more aligned with Chalon, god of life, love and mercy, but right this moment he’d dedicate his life to Ahura if it got him what he wanted.

  “Evidence.” He clenched his hands together, one curled around the other. “I need evidence of the kind I can lay before the king. I can’t hope for a conviction of Drault, not with...” He choked on the words. Had he really been on the verge of confessing the blackmail to her? He drew a deep breath. “Traeburhn is a different matter. My king is fair and I believe, presented with a compelling case, he’ll convict the chancellor, but my word will not be enough. Traeburhn has kidnapped the Earl Alamus, so if we can find him and secure his testimony—”

  “Kidnapped him?” Ellaeva’s head jerked in his direction. “A bold move, even for Traeburhn. Although I suppose if you intend to start a war with a neighbouring kingdom, what matter if you kidnap one of its nobles?”

  “Kidnap and then murder,” Lyram said. “They intend to leave his corpse here after they take the castle, as further evidence Velena is behind this.”

  “Is his death part payment to Sayella for her services, do you think?” Ellaeva asked.

  “Her own father?” Lyram looked askance at her. “That’s cold.”

  “She stands to inherit a fortune. Alamus has no lawful heir.”

  Lyram shook his head. His own family was close, so this level of cold-bloodedness was beyond comprehension. “Alamus’s testimony would prove Traeburhn is behind this siege and that he tried to destroy the peace, but it won’t incriminate him for Zaheva’s death. Evidence of that may not even exist.”

  “We won’t know until we look. This way.” She rose sinuously and beckoned him after her, wrapping her greatcloak around herself. She drifted back among the tents, headed away from Bradlin’s pavilion.

  Scrambling to his feet, he shoved the knife back in its sheath and followed. “Where are we going?” Here amidst the shadowed canvas, the camp was quiet and eerily still.

  “To the duke’s tent, of course.”

  A quick trot caught him up to her. Falling into step with her, he dropped back to a walk. “Of course. And I suppose you know where to find it?”

  The hood turned towards him. “So would you, if you’d kept listening to the duke instead of sawing holes in canvas. He’s just arrived, and he told Bradlin where his people are setting up camp so Bradlin can keep the mercenaries well clear. Our duke doesn’t want anyone to know he was here. With luck, his servants are finished setting up and we can poke around.”

  His gaze darted around the shadowed tents. There weren’t many, only a handful for Bradlin, Sayella and the officers of the mercenary company. “I don’t see any new tents.”

  She shook her head and strode onwards through the darkness. “Of course not. Traeburhn wouldn’t want any chance of being publicly associated with this siege. He arrived after dark and pitched his tent far enough away to have plausible deniability. I suspect by morning light he’ll be long gone.”

  When they stepped out into the main camp, walking boldly like they belonged, Ellaeva fell silent. Most of the mercenaries made shadowed mounds around the banked coals of fires. Rattling snores rose from more than a few cloak-wrapped sleepers, but here and there a dice game persisted late into the night, or a man huddled in his cloak or nursed a mug of something hot to ward off the chill of the night. Some few were sharpening their blades. The awake mercenaries marked their passage with disinterested gazes.

  Towards the edge of the camp, the fires and sleepers became fewer and farther between, and the shadows grew deeper. There would be a sentry line around here somewhere, but with luck only those attempting to enter the camp needed to produce the password.

  “Let me do the talking,” he said, and Ellaeva merely nodded. He was a fool. Of course she wouldn’t try and do it herself.

  Finally, the shape of the sentry emerged from the darkness. Lyram raised a friendly hand to hail the man.

  “We’re with Bradlin’s visitor,” he said, betting that Traeburhn didn’t want either his name or rank bruited about. “On our way back to camp.”

  The mercenary fell into step with Lyram. “Saw ‘im come in. Who is he?”

  Lyram lifted one side of his mouth in a sly smile. “Don’t know as I can say, ‘cept to say he’s important, and he’s the one paying your wages right now.”

  The man snorted and spat into the long grass. “I guess that’s all that matters. Will you be coming back this way tonight? I’ll let the next man know if you will, so you’ll not be bothered.”

  Lyram shook his head. “Not tonight, friend.”

  The sentry dropped off with a wave of his hand. When they were far enough past, he let out a huge sigh.

  “You’re very calm,” he said to Ellaeva, who hadn’t twitched at all during the exchange.

  The shadowed shape of the priestess merely shrugged. “It’s my job. There’ll likely be guards at the duke’s camp too, but with luck they’ll be less alert while the duke is in the Gallowglaigh camp. If our luck is really in, he’ll have taken all or most of his men with him.”

  “He will have. Traeburhn’s particular about his security, and he wouldn’t trust Sayella and her lot.”

  No real path wound through the trees, so they picked their way as quietly as possible around tree trunks and through undergrowth in the general direction of where the camp should be.

  The trees stopped suddenly at a small clearing, where more blanket-wrapped mounds dotted the ground before a huge oiled-silk pavilion. Lyram raised a cautionary hand and they backed away one step at a time until the tree fringe hid them from immediate view.

  They remained in the trees, surveilling the area. The tent, more suited for a lord’s tour than a siege, filled most of the clearing. What servants and soldiers remained appeared to be asleep. No one stirred.

  “This way.” Ellaeva tugged on his arm and led him around the edge of the clearing to within a stone’s throw of the pavilion entrance. No one guarded the front of the tent, and after a furtive glance around, Lyram gestured for her to follow him. They stole through the shadows and slipped into the tent.

  Immediately, he froze. A small cot sat inside the entrance, and its occupant grunted in his sleep and rolled over. Lyram touched Ellaeva’s wrist, indicated the man, and then stepped past and into the main pavili
on.

  The interior was partitioned in two, with a huge desk and a small sitting area dominating the front section. Lyram peeked through the curtain at the rear of the tent into the sleeping quarters. The duke was known to rarely sleep alone, even when in camp, but the bed was unoccupied. The rest of the room was empty, save for a large travelling trunk.

  “I’ll search here,” Ellaeva whispered. “You take the main tent.”

  He nodded and retreated back to the main pavilion. More than likely, anything worth finding would be here. The massive desk, a ridiculous item for travelling, was a good place to start. How many men did it take to lift the thing on to a wagon, and how many horses to pull it? All so Traeburhn could write his correspondence in accustomed comfort.

  Shaking his head, Lyram rifled through the papers on the desk’s surface. The only light came from a low-burning brazier, left to ward off the chill of the spring night, and he squinted at each page as he turned it this way and that. Traeburhn was too careful a man to write down incriminating evidence, but there might be something useful. Even just an indication of when Alamus would arrive could help.

  There wasn’t. Flinging the papers down, he turned to the drawers. More papers. Quills, inkpots. Rubbish. What correspondence he could read in the poor light was innocuous, or deliberately phrased to be innocuous. A light would help, but with the manservant asleep on the cot, he daren’t light one of the candles on the desk.

  Despite a strong desire to slam the drawer, he eased it closed instead. The next drawer down was stuck shut. Frowning, he rattled it gently. No, locked, not merely stuck. Now what? He had no knowledge of opening locks, and breaking the lock would alert Traeburhn to their presence. Then again, what matter if he knew? The duke was already trying to kill him—what more could he do? He seized the drawer handle and wrenched, twisting the drawer in its frame. The lock gave with a soft crunch.

  He glanced towards the cot to be sure the servant hadn’t stirred, then pulled the drawer out and crouched to inspect it. The wreckage of the lock tinkled into its deep recess. The snoring from the front of the tent continued unabated.

  A brandy bottle sat towards the front, and a jumble of smaller items at the back: dark-coloured spare sealing wax, a heavy purse, and a sheaf of official-looking documents, the contents of which held no interest for Lyram. Nothing to link Traeburhn to Zaheva’s death, or to the Rahmyrrim. No mention of Alamus or Sayella.

  He snatched the purse up and fumbled the ties open. The faint light of the brazier reflected red off the gold within. They were large, fat coins. Ahlleyn double crowns. His eyebrows lifted. They were the largest denomination, used only for significant transactions, and from the size of the purse, it must contain several hundred.

  His family was wealthy, yet he’d never seen so many double crowns. What was Traeburhn buying that needed this much hard currency? Transactions requiring this much gold were usually conducted in notes and converted at banks.

  He shifted the purse to tie it closed again, and a corner of paper emerged from the coins. His breath caught, and he carefully plucked it free with two fingers. The coins made an unavoidable jingle as it slipped free.

  Squinting in the dim light, he peered at the small note, attempting to decipher the script. The handwriting was familiar. Not Traeburhn’s. Possibly Drault’s, but he couldn’t attest to that in a court of law. Finally, he puzzled out the words.

  Balance of payment as agreed—three hundred gold and the ring.

  And the ring. The note drifted to the thick rugs carpeting the ground. The note Galdron found mentioned a ring too.

  He dug back into the purse, trying to feel for a ring, hunting blind.

  The rasping snores of the manservant near the entrance, just out of Lyram’s sight, died off in a grunt. Lyram froze, crouching behind the desk and listening.

  After a moment, the snoring started up again.

  He dug his fingers deeper into the sack, conscious of the soft clinking of the coins as they tumbled against each other. Even if the ring were in there, he might never find it without emptying the bag and sorting through each and every coin.

  Something small and thin pressed between his fingers. In the sudden rush of excitement, he almost let go, but instead he tightened his grasp and drew the band free.

  The ring was small to fit a woman, with a delicately wrought band set with three tiny rubies.

  Zaheva’s wedding ring.

  “And now you know the truth.”

  Lyram jerked back, slapping his hand to his sword and dropping the ring and the sack. Gold coins spilled over the rugs, carpeting the ground in a jingling flood.

  Traeburhn stood at the end of the desk, his tall, broad frame towering over Lyram.

  His field of vision narrowed until it contained only the chancellor, and he flung himself forward with a guttural roar. With no room to draw his sword, he simply struck Traeburhn around the midsection, dragging him down.

  The duke bucked and twisted, throwing Lyram off. Lyram’s back struck the bottom corner of the desk, and the stabbing pain, as if someone had slid a knife into his lower back, left him gasping for breath. Traeburhn rolled back to his feet, drawing his clan sword from his hip with a steely rasp. Lyram tried to stand. The broadsword hissed through the air. Lyram flung himself aside and onto the rugs, and the weapon bit into the timber edge of the desk, carving a chunk of wood free.

  Scrambling to his feet, Lyram seized his sword-hilt and yanked the weapon free. Anger raged within him, and his ears pounded as though someone beat a drum next to his head. Traeburhn was involved in Zaheva’s murder. Her ring was, what? Payment of some kind. For what? To whom? The necromancer?

  He lashed out at the duke, and the man danced back a few steps into the open part of the tent. Lyram followed, circling. Where was Ellaeva? And the manservant? He risked a glance at the entrance and saw her stooped over the cot, lowering the man’s head back to the pillow. Ahura, did she kill him? She looked his way and slipped outside without word or signal.

  He looked back to Traeburhn, saw the flashing sword, and recoiled—too slow. The duke’s blade bit into his left bicep as he sprang out of reach, scoring the flesh. Sharp pain bloomed in his arm. He riposted, testing. Traeburhn was no sluggard with a sword.

  “When I realised who Drault took down with that arrow,” Traeburhn said, smiling above his pointed beard. “I wondered how long before we’d need to put you down as well.” The tip of his sword waved lazily before him.

  “Why wait?” The words grated from Lyram’s throat. He stabbed out with his sword, and Traeburhn turned the attack aside in an easy clash of steel.

  Traeburhn’s grin broadened, and he shrugged sinuously. “Drault forestalled the inevitable when he baited you into punching him. It wasn’t intentional, you understand—just his highness’s usual stellar personality shining through. And I... I was in no hurry. To remove a man as popular as you, without suspicion, requires careful planning.”

  The duke’s feet flickered across the lavish rugs. Lyram gritted his teeth and followed. His breath came faster, and he fought to slow it, to regain control. Ellaeva was right; decisions should be made cold. He would not let his temper get the better of him.

  He attacked, pressing Traeburhn hard. Blades flashed and clashed, steel against steel ringing in the confines. How long before the noise woke someone? And would Ellaeva kill them—or they her? Sweat dripped into Lyram’s eyes and he wiped it away with one arm.

  Traeburhn still appeared cool and collected as they broke apart, his movements unhurried, his face uncreased by worry. “Drault took her down like a doe in flight. Didn’t know who she was, of course, only that she made better sport than deer. I’ll admit I was... displeased to learn she was your wife, but it titillated Drault all the more.”

  Displeased? The sudden red rage filming his vision almost lost him his head. He dropped, the blade passing too close for comfort, and rolled behind the desk.

  “The prince made her sing before he finally cut her throat,�
� Traeburhn whispered from somewhere behind him.

  Lyram kicked out in the direction of the voice. His foot connected with something solid, and Traeburhn grunted. Another kick, and the duke’s legs came out from under him. His sword thumped to the ground inches away, and Traeburhn came down heavily close by. Lyram lashed out with his sword. Traeburhn swore, rolled away and scrambled for his sword.

  Lyram bounded to his feet, his breathing harsh in his ears. One opening—that would be enough—and then Traeburhn would be the one singing for his life. Ahura help him, he’d put three feet of steel through the bastard’s black heart and cut the damn thing out. “Did you make her sing as well? Did you?” His shout rang loud in the small confines of the pavilion.

  A lazy smile curved Traeburhn’s lips. “The prince said your wife was a tasty morsel.”

  Lyram screamed and rushed him, his blade hacking frenetically. Traeburhn backed up, the sheen of sweat on his brow glowing in the brazier’s light as he blocked and blocked again. Then Traeburhn landed a blow square against the Aharris clan blade, and the shock numbed Lyram’s arm. In the fraction of a second it took him to recover, Traeburhn attacked and drove him back. Under the onslaught, Lyram bumped against the desk, veered right, and turned to face Traeburhn.

  His foot came down on a pile of double crowns, skidded out, and he crashed to his back in a jangle of scattering coins. The impact drove the wind from him, and he lay gasping and unable to move as Traeburhn loomed over him, a monstrous black shadow wielding a blade reflecting red from the brazier.

  “Drault made your wife beg for death, so I gave it to her.”

  Lyram screamed and kicked out, but his foot struck uselessly against the leather of Traeburhn’s thigh-high cavalry boots.

  The sword plunged home into his chest. Lyram gasped at the sudden pain and scrabbled at the blade with his hands, lacerating his palms. The shadows of the room grew deeper. He struggled to draw each breath. Traeburhn’s face appeared high above him.

  With one boot planted on his shoulder, the duke yanked the sword free in a gush of hot blood.