Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘Get out of there,’ Sorne called. He felt the build-up of power and knew he was running out of time. ‘Quick, give me the offering.’ Raising his voice, Sorne shouted over the chatter of the gathered crowd. ‘Warrior, Greatest of the Seven, I seek your guidance...’

  Sorne broke off as one of the holy-swords yelped in fright. Sorne spun around to see the man with the bowl had spilled its contents on his robe. That was not wine. That was blood; Malaunje blood, he guessed. Where had it come from?

  The holy-sword’s body jerked as he was lifted off the ground. He writhed once, twice, then went still and winked out of existence.

  ‘Quick.’ Sorne thrust his hand out to his captain. ‘Give me the offering, Aintzo!’

  The two remaining holy-swords grabbed his arms, pulling him around to face the captain.

  Aintzo picked up Sorne’s ceremonial dagger. ‘A True-man should be the Warrior’s-voice, not some tainted half-blood. Hold him.’

  Sorne gasped in pain as Aintzo drove the knife into his belly.

  ‘Now throw him to the god.’

  Sorne gasped and bent double as he felt the blood run through his fingers. Aintzo turned to face the crowd. Some looked on in horror, but many were pleased to see Sorne brought down.

  ‘Warrior, Greatest of the Seven, I seek your guidance for King Charald, High King of the Secluded Sea...’ Aintzo began, holding the bloodied knife above his head.

  Desperate, Sorne let himself become a dead weight as his captors dragged him backwards. He twisted to the right, slapping his bloodied hand in his captor’s face. The holy-sword let him go and pulled back. Darkness took him, lifting the man off his feet. He writhed in desperation, then disappeared.

  The remaining holy-sword dropped Sorne’s arm and backed away.

  Sorne smeared blood on his skin, then thrust him towards the darkness. Ignoring the man’s shrill scream, Sorne stumbled up the slope towards Aintzo and the table. Surely it had not been this steep before.

  Aintzo turned and raised the knife. But Sorne wasn’t attacking him, he wanted the T’En artefact. He snatched it before the captain could strike him. Something caught him around the waist, lifting him off his feet. The chest flew open and the arm-torcs tumbled out. They stopped tumbling in mid-air.

  Aintzo screamed as the empyrean beast snatched him, too. Sorne felt a bone-numbing chill enter his body through the belly wound. He felt himself weakening and knew the beast was feeding on his life force. The world no longer looked real; the crowd appeared as beacons of warmth. He was cold. So cold...

  He’d pushed his luck too far, Graelen was right. Graelen!

  His muscles felt sluggish as he reached up inside his robe. The moment his bare hand closed on the silver disk, warmth ran down his arm, giving him strength. He snapped the chain and threw the disk over his left shoulder towards the beast.

  It had barely left his fingers when there was a flash so bright it burned.

  Something slapped the side of his face and he was flung towards the edge of the pinnacle.

  He barely had time to think, so this is how it feels to die, before he collided with the stone and the whiteness expanded to fill his mind.

  SORNE WOKE TO weeping and wailing. The world swung above him: stars, tree branches, more stars... he was being carried on a cloak, almost at a run. The top half of a tent flashed past. He was in the camp. There was Nitzane’s new standard.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ Marantza asked, leaning over him. She searched his face, her expression anxious.

  He tried to speak, but his throat felt raw. Swallowing was agony.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ve got you,’ Nitzane said, leaning over him on the other side. They entered a tent and someone lit a lamp.

  They deposited him on a bedroll. Marantza knelt beside him and picked up a knife, and he wondered why they’d bothered to save him if they were going to cut this throat. But she began cutting his clothing off.

  ‘Get some watered wine,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘And honey and yoghurt.’

  It seemed a strange combination. He had to turn his head to see her as he tried to tell her his stomach wound was the most pressing problem. He felt cold, as if he would never get warm again.

  ‘He’s trying to speak,’ Nitzane said.

  Sorne swallowed and winced.

  Someone produced a bowl of honey. Marantza stirred it into a bowl of yoghurt, then told a servant to feed him. After the first mouthful, the pain in his throat eased.

  Sorne became aware of men shouting outside the tent.

  ‘You’ve been badly burned,’ she told him.

  ‘Cold,’ he croaked.

  She and Nitzane exchanged looks.

  ‘I’m going to sponge the burns clean and cover them with honey,’ Marantza explained. She spoke slowly and clearly, as if he was stupid.

  ‘Knife wound,’ he managed to gasp, gesturing to his stomach.

  Someone had taken his left arm. He could feel them bathing it, and turned his head to look. A livid red mark ran down the inside of his arm to the elbow.

  ‘Better check the knife wound,’ Nitzane said. ‘No point bathing the burns if he bleeds to death.’

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ Marantza snapped. ‘That’s the first thing I checked. The bleeding’s stopped. See.’ She flicked his robe back.

  Sorne heard King Charald shouting, something about the Warrior and being High King. His exact words were lost in the din.

  Marantza and Nitzane looked at his stomach wound, then up to each other, their faces carefully neutral. Before Sorne could ask what was wrong, a servant came running in.

  ‘The king’s in a rage. The barons are saying the Warrior has turned against him. Charald’s demanding the Warrior’s-voice reveal his vision.’

  They all looked to Sorne.

  ‘Help me up.’

  ‘You can’t–’ Marantza began.

  ‘He has to,’ Nitzane told her, even as he helped haul Sorne to his feet.

  The robe dropped around his waist. He couldn’t see out of his left eye. He kept a hand pressed to his belly wound, not sure if he could walk. Blood covered his breeches, which were only held up by his hand. ‘Can’t go like this.’

  ‘Strip him,’ Marantza ordered.

  He steadied himself on her shoulders as Nitzane and the servants peeled off his clothes. Lifting his feet so they could take off his boots was a challenge. Looking down he saw the white puckered skin of the belly wound, which hung open but did not bleed. He’d seen such wounds on dead men and that frightened him more than the thought of being blind in one eye.

  ‘I can’t get the torc off,’ Nitzane said. ‘The metal’s melted.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Marantza told him. ‘Find him some breeches. We–’

  ‘Here he is!’ a man-at-arms announced from the tent’s entrance. ‘I’ve found him. He’s with Baron Nitzane.’

  ‘Send him out here,’ someone called.

  ‘Send out the Warrior’s-voice!’ King Charald. ‘Send him out now.’

  ‘Why are they hiding him?’ someone demanded.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Living but a lackwit, like the captain of the holy-swords!’

  The whole tent swayed and one wall came apart as blades cut through the fabric.

  Nitzane went to protest, but Sorne stopped him. ‘Get back. Don’t put yourself in danger for me.’

  Nitzane pulled Marantza aside.

  One wall of the tent dropped away to reveal King Charald standing there with his sword drawn, blood dripping from the blade.

  A hush fell over the crowd as they saw the Warrior’s-voice standing there naked, a bloodless wound on his belly.

  Charald raised his sword and advanced on Sorne, bringing the tip to his throat. ‘They’re saying the Warrior has abandoned you and that I am no longer in his favour because of it. What do you say to that?’

  ‘The Warrior...’ Sorne’s voice cracked. He despised them. His own holy-swords had turned on him. King Charald was ready
to turn on him. Tears clouded his good eye, blurring his vision. He didn’t care what they thought. He was tired of lying. ‘The Warrior is nothing but a blood-hungry beast. It can never be satisfied. The Warrior is the beast in all of you. You are the Warrior.’

  ‘You hear that?’ Charald demanded, raising his sword over his head. ‘The Warrior is in me!’

  Sorne blinked and searched for his brother. Where was Zabier? Had he been killed on the pinnacle?

  ‘And the vision. What did the Warrior show you, that I must do?’ Charald pressed eagerly.

  ‘He showed me...’ Sorne prepared to lie, but his vision faded and he saw... a half-blood woman and children weeping... ‘Women and children laughing.’ Being loaded into a cart as they clung to each other. ‘Climbing into carts.’ Wearing rags. ‘Waving banners.’ As they were delivered to a silver-haired she-Wyrd at some kind of... ‘Ceremony. The woman vows to–’

  ‘To take the man for her husband!’ Charald finished for him. ‘It’s my wedding. You hear that, Janzten? The Warrior god blesses this union. Bring her to me now.’

  Men ran off to find Janzten’s daughter. Sorne swayed and the world went grey.

  He pitched forward, and the king only just caught him.

  ‘Get him out of here. Take him back to my tent,’ Charald ordered.

  Then Sorne was being lifted and carried, as he heard the king call for the Father’s-voice to officiate the wedding.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  IT WAS NINE days since Sorne had nearly died, and he still marvelled at his escape. He’d used up the residual gift essence in his last T’En artefact, but he felt no guilt. It was due to the artefact’s power that his burns had healed as well as they had. The skin on the left side of his face, across his forehead, eye and cheekbone, looked like it had melted and reset. He was missing that eye, a chunk of hair and most of his left ear. It was a face of nightmares.

  But it was the stomach wound that confounded everyone. It did not bleed, yet it did not heal. A part of him was dead, and he believed that he deserved it. He’d turned King Charald loose on the kingdoms of the Secluded Sea. He’d been a naive youth, who did not know the horror of war, but that was no excuse. With tens of thousands dead, he could never atone for what he’d done.

  So he accepted the constant pain as his punishment.

  Today was the first time he would leave the palace since he’d returned, half out of his mind with pain. For three days, he had been feverish from the burns. Marantza and Nitzane had stayed by his side, but they had sailed for their estate yesterday. Since then, no one had checked in on him, or even remembered to bring him food.

  The palace was in upheaval due to the king’s new queen. With the celebrations in the port still going strong, it was a good time to slip out and find Graelen, and tell him of his vision: half-bloods being herded into a cart by True-men. He didn’t understand what the T’En woman was doing in the vision; maybe Graelen could make sense of it.

  He strapped his stomach wound, dressed, then pulled his hood over his head, not because he was ashamed of being a half-blood, but because the sight of his burns was enough to scare small children.

  Someone knocked on his door.

  Six palace guards stood outside, along with Baron Janzten. He was nearly the king’s age, and had lost all his sons to the wars. Jaraile was his only surviving child. Sorne had been recuperating in the back of the king’s tent on their wedding night; he knew what she’d been through. Shame held him silent. The baron had every reason to despise him.

  ‘I bring a message from the king.’ Jantzen opened a scroll. ‘Sorne the half-blood, formerly the Warrior’s-voice, you are to take this chest’ – the baron nodded and two guards stepped forward with a heavy chest, dumping it at his feet – ‘to King Etri of Khitan, along with the king’s sincere condolences on the death of the queen’s brother, Prince Idan.’

  Sorne drew breath, but Jantzen kept speaking.

  ‘When you have done this, you are to go to King Norholtz of Maygharia and provide what assistance you can to help him quell the uprising.’ Jantzen rolled up the scroll and offered it to Sorne. ‘A ship is waiting to transport you.’

  Sorne accepted the scroll. He recognised the king’s handwriting and seal; it was all in order. Events that night on the pinnacle were still a little unclear, but he’d thought he’d saved the king from embarrassment and redeemed himself. It seemed the king remembered things differently. He didn’t mind resigning his position as the Warrior’s-voice. He didn’t mind stepping away from a god he’d never believed in. And he didn’t mind taking the chest to Khitan; this was a duty he had sworn to do. It was the service in Maygharia under Norholtz that dismayed him. The crushing of the uprising could take a year or two, and it could claim his life.

  If he had a couple of days in port, maybe he could salvage the situation. ‘Very well. Give me a couple of days to–’

  ‘We are to escort you now.’

  ‘Right now?’

  Baron Janzten nodded. He looked grim but satisfied.

  So this was his new enemy at court. The father of the queen had been poisoning Charald against him.

  Sorne’s mind raced. He was being sent to serve two of the barons who had raped, murdered and mutilated the she-Wyrd. It seemed his duty was clear.

  ‘I can barely move. I need help.’ To ensure their cooperation, Sorne flicked the hood back, revealing his face. The baron and the palace guard gasped and looked away. ‘I don’t have much to pack.’

  The palace guards strode into his chambers. There was his chest of curios, within which he had hidden the Wyrd scrolls and Oskane’s journals, and there was his clothing and personal items. It was the work of a few moments to pack these into another chest. He took the Khitite orb of power with him, on the off chance he would find a use for it, and slipped the rest of his soothing powders into his pocket.

  He rejoined Janzten at the door, pulling his hood into place. ‘There is one thing. If I may, baron, I’d like to say goodbye to the Father’s-voice. He is...’ He wanted to see Hiruna and Valendia, but no one knew of their existence.

  ‘I know what he is to you,’ Janzten said with distaste. True-men did not speak of their half-blood kin. ‘Very well.’

  They crossed the plaza under a cloudless sky. It was almost midday, and fiercely hot. While travelling through the countryside with Nitzane, Sorne had heard the people complain of a poor harvest last year. It looked like they hadn’t had the rains they needed this year either, but it would be even hotter and drier on the plains of Khitan.

  Sorne searched the crowd for Harosel or any of Graelen’s Malaunje; no luck.

  By the time he’d crossed the plaza, he’d come to a decision. Who knew what lay ahead of him? He could not take Oskane’s journals and the Wyrd scrolls with him and risk losing them.

  At the Father’s church, they left the guards to wait, while Janzten took him through to the Father’s private chamber. Sorne carried the chest, not trusting the men-at-arms with it. Zabier’s assistant was used to seeing him and waved him through, studiously avoiding his gaze.

  Sorne turned to the baron. ‘I give my word, I will return before the next prayer bell.’

  ‘You seem to think I value your word,’ Janzten said, but indicated he was to go ahead.

  The high priest’s study was empty.

  Torn between relief and disappointment, Sorne unlocked the secret door and plodded up the narrow stairs. By the time he reached the top he was trembling and had to put the chest down; he hated being so weak. The door to the balcony was open, but he could see only one person out on the terrace.

  Valendia, bent over the thumb-player.

  Remembering how he looked now, he hesitated.

  She glanced up and saw his outline in the shadow of the doorway. ‘Sorne?’

  ‘Don’t come too close.’ He stepped back. ‘Where’s Mother?’

  ‘Sleeping. The healer visited this morning.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Zabier said y
ou were hurt.’

  ‘You don’t want to see.’

  She followed him into the shadows, reaching for him, and he let her push the hood back.

  ‘Oh, Sorne,’ she whispered.

  ‘It isn’t important.’ He took her hand. ‘Listen, I know my return has not been...’ What could he say? It had been a disaster for them. ‘Now I’m being sent away again, on a mission for the king. I don’t know how long I’ll be. There’s something I need you to do.’

  ‘Anything.’

  Was he ever so young?

  He showed her his burned left hand. ‘Can you write a message for me?’

  She nodded and they went through to the kitchen, where she prepared her writing things. Sorne was reminded of teaching Zabier his letters at another kitchen table. ‘This is a message for Adept Graelen of Kyredeon’s brotherhood.’

  ‘A Wyrd?’

  Sorne nodded. ‘Give it to Zabier to deliver, and tell him it’s important.’ He dictated quickly, recounting his vision of Wyrds being herded onto the cart, and added a final line – Your gift saved my life. Then he had her seal it and address it to Graelen.

  ‘Remember his name, Valendia. If you are ever in trouble and you must escape from True-men, you can go to him. He’ll take care of you.’

  ‘But they wouldn’t accept Mother.’

  The bells began to ring.

  He took the key from his pocket and placed it in her hand, curling her fingers over it. ‘This is the key to the door at the bottom of the stairs. If you have to run away, use it and take the chest. Wear a hood and make your way down to the Wyrds at the wharves or to the Celestial City.’

  ‘What chest?’

  ‘The one by the door.’ He gestured to it. ‘It has important documents in it.’

  She held his eyes, looking years older than her age. ‘According to your vision, bad times are coming for our kind.’

  ‘It could be just one cartload of our people. It could happen in fifty years time, for all I know. I have to go now.’

  He came to his feet, already weary and all too aware of the long journey ahead of him. Would he ever find a place to call home?