On the third night, they found actual shelter in the form of a lodge.
It was not a large structure, but it was sound and there was a roof and a pit for fires. Lodges were scattered into every part of the Five Kingdoms, and they were considered safe places, though the perception and the reality often differed. Most looked close to identical, and all of them had the same symbol carved into the stones on the eastern facing side: a long staff crossed by two broken arrows. No one had any idea what the sign originally meant, but over the years it had come to symbolize hospitality.
Niall didn’t know which of them wept more loudly when they came upon the place.
There was no caution involved. They ran toward the stone building and entered it without checking.
Niall had never stayed in a lodge before. As often as not they were maintained by the slavers, and as a result it was best to stay well away from them. Custom said no one bothered anyone in a lodge, but slavers were not notorious for sticking to custom. At that moment in time he would have gladly allowed himself to be locked in a pen and sold into servitude if it involved being out of the rain and the cold.
They found the place blessedly abandoned.
They also found food with only a little searching. Not a great deal, but someone had left behind a satchel filled with nuts. Niall broke the shells against the edge of the fireplace and the two of them ate with all the civility of hungry sharks.
When they’d finished the small meal – which after the last few days was enough to leave them both feeling sated – the girl scooped the nutshells into the fireplace and used them as kindling to start a proper blaze. There were enough logs near the hearth to fuel the fire for a few hours.
Exhaustion won quickly when the warmth filled the room and soon enough they were both on the edge of sleep.
“What is your name?” Niall asked as he started to drift into slumber.
“Tully,” she answered.
It was not the name he would have expected, not common at all in his part of the world and hardly the sort of name he thought belonged with her features, but it suited her well enough.
In the morning, Tully was shivering violently, despite the increased heat in the lodge. The fire had done its job and warmed the hearth and well beyond that point. Both of them had stayed within range of that warmth, but the girl was far hotter than she should have been and while she moaned and shivered in the pleasant, baking heat, Niall unwrapped her feet and saw exactly what he’d feared. Her toes were swollen and red, and there were open cuts from where she’d managed to pull the bolts from her ankle manacles. The skin was raw, and seeped pus and trickles of dark blood.
The mushrooms could not be ingested without risk of killing the one who consumed them but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be useful. Niall went back out into the rains and set a cast iron pot at the closest gutter, letting the rainwater gather quickly then bringing it back to the hearth.
Within half an hour the waters were warm enough to let him steep the mushrooms Tully had planned to eat not that long ago. He did not remain idle while he cooked. A little inspection of the lodge found an old cloth that would suffice for his needs and little else that would be useful. Still, one found fortune where one looked.
He tore the cloth into strips and soaked those in the boiling waters, letting them take in the essence even as he took the pot from the fire and started the cooling process. The rags were drawn from the mushroom broth and left wet as they cooled. When the rags could be tolerated against the inside of his arm, where the skin was more sensitive, he knew her feet would also survive the coming tortures.
Tully screamed when he placed the hot rags on her feet, but there was little she could do besides that. All the fight she’d shown before was lost for now, hidden in the fever and the infection, and he took the time to settle his weight around her legs before he started.
She yelled just the same and made a few pointed remarks about his heritage in the process. Niall ignored the comments, and managed to avoid getting his manhood crushed by her thrashing knee. It was a close thing.
They spent the next day with her in a fever and him eventually leaving her just long enough to scavenge for food. The area they were in was still soaked by rains, but by the light of day he could actually see well enough to find the woods not far away and to forage properly.
Well before she was recovered enough to do much more than eat broth, he’d found a few onions, harmless mushrooms and leafy plants that could make a decent stock, and fortified it with eggs he plucked from a nest – there was no sign of the mother bird, though the eggs were still warm. He made Tully eat, despite her protests. She spent most of the time between small sips gagging and trying not to regurgitate. Sometimes she succeeded and other times she did not.
For three days he watched over the young woman who had saved his life. He cleaned her wounds, and cleaned up after her when she soiled herself or when what little she ate refused to stay down.
Three days where he managed a little sleep and three nights when he kept the fires burning and listened to the raging storms as they first approached then overtook the area, and wondered exactly how and when they would get out of the madness of the lodge that was lost in that very same storm. The walls wept precipitation and the air was cold and wet, but the fires burned well enough and eventually even the wettest logs would catch fire.
He could have run. He could have left her behind. There weren’t many who would blame him, especially if he never told anyone. But three days was not so high a price to pay to someone who’d saved his life, even if it was mostly by accident and coincidence. There was a life debt to be covered.
Life debts were the ones you had to pay if you wanted to face your own reflection in the light of day. Niall always paid his debts.
Even when they cost him in the end.
Their fourth day in the lodge started with Tully finally winning her fight against the fever. She was awake when Niall roused himself from sleep and when he looked in her direction she was sitting up and looking at her feet, the latest bandages peeled aside to allow her a proper inspection.
She looked up at him and nodded carefully, a small frown on her face. “Your doing?” She pointed to the bandages.
“Yes. They were badly infected.”
“At the very least you saved my feet.”
Niall nodded and shrugged and looked away. “Yes, well, I’d have gone over the cliff with the others if you hadn’t freed me.” He thought back to the look on Ligel’s face as the boy vanished over the edge, and his insides twisted themselves.
Tully moved her foot into the air and flexed the toes, and Niall caught himself admiring the shape of her calf, the play of muscles along the back of her thigh, before he looked away.
“How long have we been here?” Tully’s voice was soft.
“A few days. You couldn’t be moved.”
When she stood up, it was on uncertain legs. He braced in case he’d have to catch her, but she held her own.
“We should move on. They might come for us.”
He nodded. “They might. But we’ve no horses and little by way of food.” He pointed to the latest collection of fungi and moss he’d managed to gather, amused by her expression of dread. “It’s tastier than it looks.”
“I hope so.”
“Before we go anywhere we need to do something about your feet. You can’t walk on rags.” His own boots were far too large and he’d need them himself.
Without another word, the girl looked around and nodded. He settled in and tended the fire while she roamed the lodge, presumably in the hopes that she’d magically find a set of boots waiting for her.
When she came back it was without boots. He was not surprised by the lack of new footwear. He had seen nothing even remotely suitable during his many examinations of the place.
Outside the rains continued. The constant patter of water against the roof and sides of the lodge perfectly masked the sound of the wagon pulling up outside until t
hey actually heard voices approaching the door.
They only had a moment to prepare themselves before the first of the newcomers walked through the threshold and looked at them, a surprised expression on his round face. Thick white hair and a wild beard the same color surrounded blue eyes and the thickest eyebrows Niall could ever remember seeing.
“Well then,” the stranger’s voice was loud and jovial. “What a delight! We already have a fire going!” He stepped to the side and a lanky woman with hard eyes and a thin scowl entered. Her hair was short and dark, slicked to her head by the water dripping from her.
Two more people followed on, both of them younger, both just as cheerful as the man who’d come in first. They seemed far likelier related to him than to his female counterpart. Both were stout and smiling and seemed delighted by the thought of a fire.
“With your blessings, we’d join you for a while.” The white-haired man’s words were spoken with warmth but were also formal. That was the most standard greeting when a person ran across someone else at a lodge. At least according to Niall’s mother, who had traveled to several different lodges in her youth.
“You are welcome,” Niall said. “We were planning to leave soon and you will have the lodge as your own.”
The group moved in, pulling a few items with them, bedrolls and standard supplies.
Despite a dour expression on her thin face, the older woman was sharp of eye and quickly realized that Niall and Tully had virtually nothing by way of food or supplies.
She looked from one to the other and shook her head. “You’ll not go anywhere without a meal in your stomachs,” she commanded. There was no second guessing the tone.
Niall found himself nodding and Tully nodded as well.
The older man boomed laughter and shook his head. “You’ll be thinner than Doria if you don’t eat something and she’s only skinny because she never stands still.” The two younger ones laughed at the notion and the room that had seemed cold despite the fire was suddenly warm.
Sometimes you meet strangers on the road. Sometimes you meet family you never knew you had.
* * *
The town of Muaraugh was not one the women had ever seen before, but they were as prepared as they could be and they had no intention of staying long.
Night had fallen several hours earlier and the long, deep dark of early morning surrounded them.
The rains were still coming down from the skies, but this far inland they were weaker.
Myridia was tired of walking. She was tired of shivering in the nude as well, a victim of the weather’s whim. She was not alone and she knew it. Lorae, who was thinner than most of them, trembled violently from time to time as she adjusted to the cold.
They crouched near an outcropping of rocks and waited for Lyraal to return. Lorae shifted nervously, swaying from one leg to the other in her lowered position until she nearly made the older ones around her dizzy. Lyraal was scouting their way, of course, because she was the best choice.
They would fight if they had to, but their weapon selection was small and they had no armor. Most had no clothes. Perhaps that would distract an opponent, but best not to plan for it. They had little experience with the humans, aside from preparing them for sacrifice.
Their scout came back and sighed as she squatted with the rest of the group. “There are horses not far from here. There is a smithy. It is closed, but I suspect we can find weapons. We should go soon. The longer we wait, the greater chance someone will awaken.”
Instead of speaking, Myridia gestured her consent and a moment later they were moving, walking softly and quickly toward the smithy.
There were a few voices, but none of them close by. Attacks might happen in many of the larger cities but apparently no one was interested in what Muaraugh had to offer that night.
Myridia did not understand that at all. The buildings were made of wood and shingled with thatch, and the roads were even and holding up under the constant assault of the rain.
The gods did not slumber nearby and demand sacrifices. Under different circumstances she might have liked to meet the people of the town. Of course the people of the town, if they knew what she and her companions had done in the past and planned to do in the future, likely would have burned them in rage.
She made herself remember that as they moved along.
Myridia looked at the smithy and pressed her lips together. Perhaps there wasn’t much theft in the area, but the smith or his apprentices knew better than to keep the area unsecured. The door was thick oak, braced with bands of iron, and there was a lock.
“What now?” Lorae’s voice was soft, but in the silence it was almost as loud as a scream.
Myridia let the water take her. Beneath the waves their bodies were different, stronger and more resilient. She did not like changing in the air, and had it not been raining enough to keep her skin soaked it would have been harder. She shifted quickly and beside her Lyraal did the same. They moved together, battering the heavy door with their shoulders, and promptly slid backward in the watery muck that puddled at the door’s edge.
Lyraal chuckled. “So perhaps we brace ourselves better?”
They motioned a silent count, planted their feet securely, elongated toes burrowing through the mud to find better purchase, then hammered the door with their bodies. The door did not break, but the hinges holding it did.
The entire affair fell into the smithy far too quickly for them to catch it, not that either of them cared. Lorae moved past them and into the darkened interior of the shop. A faint light came from the forge, a bloody glow that made it possible to see well enough. It brought with it warmth enough to elicit sighs. The younger girl searched through the shop and gestured the others forward. There was no time to relax.
Her drying skin itched as Myridia moved into the area and looked carefully at the weapons. Several blades were there, true, but most were meant for other than combat. They were designed to reap wheat, or cut back the woodlands. Still, they would do.
And there were others. There were several good blades. Short swords of the like that were favored in the area, and one weapon that was entirely different, a much longer sword, with a straight edge and a broad blade. The weapon was sheathed in a black leather scabbard, trimmed with silver. The damnable thing was nearly as long as she was tall, and despite herself, she was drawn to it.
Without waiting to see if there would be debate, she grabbed the weapon.
No one protested.
Lyraal hissed, “We have to go, quickly. The horses,” and Myridia realized she was talking to her. The rest of them had already left the shop.
She nodded and moved, crossing the threshold with quick steps and following behind the others.
Lyraal was already well ahead of her and moving toward the largest building in the area. Around them the smaller structures were dark.
“What are you doing here?” The voice was loud and harsh and Myridia spun quickly into a crouch, facing the source of the words.
The man in front of her was heavy with muscle and flab alike, but in the important places with muscle. One look at his arms and she knew him to be the smith. Scars old and new adorned his hands and arms up to his elbows, and here and there bits of metal scarcely larger than grains of sand had fused with his flesh. His beard was short and his hair was long. His broad face wore an expression of confused anger and he took a step toward her.
“I’ll not have you stealing from me, lass.” He was not surprised by her appearance, but it was dark and the rains were falling. Perhaps he did not see her scales clearly. Perhaps naked women were common enough here. She did not know.
She spoke their languages. She understood his words. She did not have time to explain to him that they were trying to save the world, or that she and her sisters had to take from him in order to do so. He would want to debate the merits of their needs and he would demand payment that she did not have.
The sword came from the scabbard with a soft whisper. Th
e blade was as keen as she had imagined it might be and the metal itself bore a deep pattern that resembled scales. She knew from the weapons she’d trained with that those marks were simply where the metal had been shaped and forged, but it was a pattern she admired even as she swept the sword around her in an arc to feel the balance of the piece.
‘”Don’t make me take that from you girl.” He growled low in his chest as he spoke; likely she was meant to take the noise as a warning. He spread his arms wide and crouched himself, prepared, perhaps, to bat the sword aside if she should attempt to feign an assault.
So instead of feinting, she attacked. The sword was well balanced and she took advantage, spinning her body to gain momentum then bringing the great sword in a hard arc that came down between the smith’s shoulder and neck and cleaved deeply into his chest.
The edge was excellent, and despite a jarring impact she cut the man in two.
And then she very quickly followed after her kin. They had spent far too long getting to Muaraugh and they had so very far to go.
* * *
They rode as a unit from Saramond, leaving early. By the time the sun was heading for its zenith, they split apart and went their own ways. There were Five Kingdoms and most of them had homes in one place or another.
Harper, Laram, Mosely, Sallos and Brogan rode together, heading for the west and their homes. Strength in numbers meant that for the time being they continued together. After only two days of hard riding they finally outraced the storms that threatened to overtake the city before they left.
Mosely was a kinsman, however distant. Brogan was broad and well-muscled; Mosely was much the same, but tended to the fatter side of the equation. His hair was lighter in color and showed more gray though he was a few years younger than Brogan. He was also a singer. Not a good one, but what he lacked in talent he made up for with enthusiasm. They listened as he bellowed out song after song, and now and then they even joined in.
All save Brogan, who could find no reason to sing within him at the moment. Every breath reminded him that Nora and his children were dead, and every exhalation reminded him again. Not even the gold in his purse made a difference and it was a great deal of gold.
The Last Sacrifice Page 6