Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  She thumped him. They wrestled, laughing softly. She let her gift rise and felt the moment his responded. He sensed her sorrow.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Blame your sisterhood. I can’t risk Captain Iriane making it through the northern passage before me–’

  ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘No more than two years.’

  ‘Two years?’ She could not bear it. Not when the bonding was so fresh and intense. To make matters worse, in two years’ time, her choice-son would be seventeen, just before winter’s cusp.

  She hadn’t told Ardonyx of Egrayne’s plan to make her all-mother, hadn’t suggested he become all-father. ‘If you find the southern passage, you’ll return with so much stature you could become all-father.’

  ‘If I wanted to paint a target on my back.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, Chariode is honourable. What kind of man would I be if I swore loyalty to him, then undercut him?’

  Imoshen had to admit he was right. If he could kill to satisfy ambition, he wouldn’t be the man she loved. ‘I want to change the way we live, but I’m not talented like Rutz.’

  ‘Rutz, that silly dreamer?’ He cupped her cheek. ‘You are Imoshen the All-father-killer. You’ve already changed the way we live.’

  ‘For the worse.’ Tears stung her eyes. ‘And not by choice.’

  He kissed her. ‘I wasn’t here when the all-mothers made your sanctuary conditional on killing Rohaayel. When I came back, it was all the brotherhoods could talk of, that and the injustice of the covenant, the way it divides us.’

  ‘I bet they talked of how they hated me.’

  ‘Many did,’ he conceded. ‘But the thinkers could see the underlying problem. Four hundred years of custom had made us blind to it. The wrong had to be exposed before we could begin to devise ways to fix it.’

  ‘The day Kyredeon’s warriors killed the healer’s sacrare daughter, I was so angry, I felt the covenant was justified.’

  ‘Her death shamed us all. We should not have to live in fear, not the sisters and children, not the brothers.’

  ‘It’s been years since Rohaayel died, and we’re still divided.’

  ‘These things take time.’

  ‘You...’ Imoshen smiled and propped herself on one elbow. ‘Who would have thought? Rutz, the biting satirist, is secretly an optimist.’

  He laughed.

  ‘So, is it true?’ she asked. ‘Is Rutz more than a wordsmith, capable of crafting a clever rhyme? Can he imbue words with power?’

  Ardonyx rolled his eyes. ‘If Rutz could imbue words with power, do you think he’d be a lowly sea captain? He could rule the T’Enatuath, the world even.’

  ‘Only a madman would want that.’

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  Imoshen watched in wonder, as happiness formed a bright ball in the centre of her chest. She savoured the moment; it would have to last a long time. Tonight, when she went back to the palace, she would memory-share with her devotee, while everything was fresh in her mind. That way, it would be preserved.

  Frayvia was covering for her tonight. Egrayne did not know Imoshen was out of palace. The list of suitable T’En men for trysting had been returned with no names selected. Ardonyx hadn’t been on the list. She was glad. She didn’t want anyone suspecting they shared the deep-bonding.

  Ardonyx was an optimist, but she...

  ‘Where have you gone, Imoshen?’

  ‘I’m right here, with you.’ For tonight. ‘Student-she is going to miss student-he.’

  He took her hand, placing it over his heart and opened the link again. ‘Student-he loves student-she far more than he should.’

  She laughed and he silenced her with a kiss, but she suspected he was right.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Year 319

  SORNE CURSED. IT had taken almost a year to get to this point, but it had taken only a moment of overconfidence to undo everything.

  He’d travelled through the kingdom of Dace into Navarone, where he’d searched for news of Barons Bazajaun and Ferminzto. They’d fled Chalcedonia, when Charald returned as High King of the Secluded Sea. Taking their families and loyal men-at-arms, they’d crossed the pass into Navarone.

  When Nitzane’s brother, King Dantzel, turned down their offer to help him conquer Chalcedonia, the barons had taken to the foothills of the Navarone Mountains. Like all landless men, they’d faced a choice: serve other men or serve themselves. They’d become bandits, which meant he had to follow the trail of their raids. No one had heard of a bandit leader called Ferminzto, but Bazajaun was well known. Sorne tracked his band of men until he finally wandered into their camp, late one evening in early summer.

  There’d been sentries, but they hadn’t bothered to stop a blind, lame beggar. Eyes bandaged, back bent as he leant on his staff, Sorne picked his way through the tents. With its fierce women, quick-fingered children, scrawny goats, raucous chickens and mangy dogs, the camp was a roving village.

  After leaving Roitz’s hunting camp, Sorne had earned his way by telling futures, never staying long enough to be proven a fraud. The ploy had served him well, and he planned to use it again.

  Bazajaun the Bandit led the most successful of the fugitive barons’ bands. The locals described him as cunning, capable of executing daring raids on estates and merchant caravans. He was also described as ruthless, often using cruelty to prevent the locals from betraying his band’s whereabouts to the king’s men.

  The last time Bazajaun had seen him, Sorne had been a half-blood youth of seventeen, skin soft as a girl’s. He approached the bandit leader’s tent, confident he wouldn’t be recognised, and that his ruse would get him close to the baron. Every man was curious about his future. Time spent in Bazajaun’s company would reveal his weakness. Every man had one. He’d exploit Bazajaun’s, learn where he kept the she-Wyrd’s hair and...

  There it was. Sickened, Sorne stared at the bandit’s banner. The she-wyrd’s hair hung long and thick, glinting copper as it stirred in the breeze. His gut clenched with sorrow and anger. He could grab the hair and be off, escaping across the foothills of the Navarone Mountains. But, after seeing what Bazajaun’s men did to the last merchant caravan, Sorne had decided to kill the baron, then retrieve the trophy, before going in search of Ferminzto.

  He limped over to three men, who were sitting under the tent’s awning, deep in conversation. They were scarred, dirty and dressed in stolen finery. None of them reminded him of the baron.

  As they picked through a chicken carcass, they tried to outdo each other, telling crude jokes in Chalcedonian, laughing too loud and draining their wine. Their high spirits reminded him of naughty boys who had escaped their tutor for the day.

  ‘Tell your fortune?’ he offered as he hobbled up.

  The one with a broken nose spat at him.

  He persevered. ‘Tell the noble bandit’s fortune?’

  ‘If you value your hide, fortune teller, you’ll piss off,’ the skinny one said.

  He was about to go when someone rode up behind him, jumped down from the horse and tossed the reins to one of the children who had run to meet him. As the new arrival strode past, Sorne caught a quick glimpse of a slender youth with long golden hair and striking features.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ The youth cuffed one of the men over the head. ‘Leave no survivors.’

  ‘We left no one alive.’ The fear in the men’s faces seemed absurd, considering the pretty youth’s slight frame.

  The youth grabbed the big man’s shoulders, tilting the chair off balance. The man clung to the chair’s arms.

  ‘Then why are there fifty of the king’s men making camp in the valley below us?’ The youth shoved the chair and the man went over backwards.

  The other two exchanged looks. Broken-nose stabbed a finger at Sorne. ‘He led them here.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the skinny one said. ‘It was the seer, Bazajaun.’

  Bazajaun? This was not the baron.

  The youth
strolled over to Sorne, who was bent almost double, so that he had to look up at him. Most Chalcedonians had the kind of blond hair that turned the colour of dirty straw when they grew up. The youth’s hair was actually golden and the angles of his face were so perfect, he looked like a statue.

  ‘The seer?’ the youth asked.

  Either Baron Bazajaun had died and this was his son, or the youth was using his name and his banner. Sorne was about to go into his spiel when, quick as a cat, the youth snatched the bandage off his head.

  The moment he saw Sorne’s good eye, he caught a handful of his hair, jerking painfully. ‘A half-blood. He’s King Charald’s spy!’

  There was a fraction of a heartbeat, when Sorne could have broken his hold, dropped the youth and tried to escape, but he was in the middle of the bandits’ camp, so he played up his weakness, and pleaded innocence.

  The other three scrambled over, seeming glad their leader’s attention had been diverted.

  He should have taken the she-Wyrd’s hair when he had the chance. Now...

  They stripped him and found his orb of power, but nothing else, since he’d hidden his travelling pack in a rock crevice just off the path.

  They hadn’t been gentle and, by the time they finished, at least one of his ribs was cracked, his mouth was bleeding and his good eye was so swollen he could barely see out of it. The dead wound in his stomach ached with a cold malignancy. Sorne let his body go limp as Skinny and Broken-nose held him between them.

  The youth gestured to the tent. ‘Take him in there. And start moving the camp. We haven’t used the giant’s navel for a while. Lead the others up there.’

  ‘You don’t have time to play with him,’ Broken-nose warned. ‘We have to–’

  ‘I know what we have to do.’ The youth unhooked the lamp and led them into the tent.

  The tent had been erected around a tree that had been cut off at about head height. The youth stood, tossing the glass ball from hand to hand, as Skinny bound Sorne to the trunk. With ropes around his shoulders and chest, thighs and knees, his genitals were exposed and his hands were free from the elbow down.

  ‘Wha...’ Skinny gagged as he spotted the open wound on Sorne’s stomach.

  Even a veteran like Broken-nose was revolted. ‘That... that–’

  ‘That’s no ordinary wound. Bring that lamp closer.’ The youth used the tip of his knife to prod the dead white skin, watching for Sorne’s reaction. ‘The wound is open, but it does not heal. The skin is dead, but it does not decay. Does it hurt, half-blood? How did it happen?’

  ‘I played with power one too many times.’

  The bandits drew back, making the sign to ward off evil.

  But their leader was clearly fascinated; a sly smile lit his lovely face. ‘You can’t be all that powerful. Here you are, my prisoner!’

  A wagon trundled past, followed by barking dogs, and a voice yelled for someone to hurry up and finish packing.

  ‘You’ll have to kill him quick,’ Broken-nose said.

  The youth turned towards them. ‘Have I ever given you reason to think I’m stupid?’

  Broken-nose cleared his throat. ‘We’ll pack up camp.’

  As the two bandits left, Sorne wondered how the youth could have men twice his age terrified.

  ‘I didn’t lead the king’s men here, you know,’ Sorne said.

  ‘Of course not.’ The youth tossed the orb of power from hand to hand. ‘But you are a spy, and a Wyrd spy at that.’ He walked around Sorne. ‘A Wyrd spy with a wound that does not heal, covered in scars. This burn...’ He gestured to Sorne’s face, then tugged at the hair that grew from the right side of Sorne’s head. ‘White, not silver; you’re a half-blood.’

  ‘Where is Baron Bazajaun?’

  ‘Clearly, I am Baron Bazajaun. And just as clearly, you’re talking about my father. He was weak. We wouldn’t have survived the first winter, if I hadn’t taken over.’

  ‘How old were you when you gained the leadership?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  That made him around sixteen now. Sorne didn’t know how he’d done it.

  Young Baron Bazajaun laughed. The sound made Sorne’s skin prickle. There was something very, very wrong with him.

  ‘I know who you are,’ Bazajaun announced. ‘You’re the Warrior’s-voice!’

  Sorne tried to hide his surprise.

  ‘I’m right. I knew it,’ Bazajaun crowed, then leant closer. ‘They said you had visions. Is it true?’

  Sorne nodded slowly, mind racing. ‘I saw things. Not all of them have come true yet.’

  ‘Did you see me?’

  ‘No... but then, I never looked for you. Do you want me to?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, no. You don’t get around me that easily. You’re being boring now, like the rest of them. The longer you prove interesting, the longer I’ll keep you alive. Shall I tell you my game?’ He tossed the orb from hand to hand. ‘I ask you questions, and if I don’t like your answers, I cut off bits of you. I could take my knife and see how deep that dead wound goes.’ He watched Sorne’s face as he spoke. ‘Or I could go a little lower...’

  The youth’s gaze fell below Sorne’s waist, and Sorne felt his balls try to crawl up into his body.

  ‘Why would I care? My cock doesn’t crow. It hasn’t been able to crow since I took the stomach wound. It’s useless.’

  ‘Really?’ The youth shoved the orb inside his vest and drew his knife. He grabbed Sorne’s prick. ‘Why don’t we just cut it–’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t...’ Sorne cried in horror.

  Satisfied, the youth let him go and put the dagger away. He retrieved the orb and began to play with it again.

  ‘See,’ the youth said. ‘I’m much better at playing this game than you are. Why are you here, Warrior’s-voice?’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ Sorne hated the person who’d been the Warrior’s-voice.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not the Warrior’s-voice anymore. I’m...’ Who was he, and how could he appeal to this mad youth? ‘I’m on a sacred mission to right an old wrong. I came here tonight to retrieve something your father stole.’

  ‘Good answer.’ A smile made the youth beautiful. He tilted his head thoughtfully, then cast Sorne a triumphant glance and ducked out of the tent.

  A few moments passed. Sorne could hear shouts, thumps, horses, creaking wheels, dogs barking.

  The youth returned, with the banner, which he leaned against the wall. Taking his knife, he removed the long tail of copper hair. ‘You’re after this. Why?’

  ‘To right a wrong. She asked me to let her go, but I was arrogant. She died because of me.’

  ‘What do you mean to do with it?’

  ‘Return it to her, so she can rest in peace.’

  ‘So you can rest in peace, you mean.’

  A blush crept up Sorne’s cheeks.

  The boy saw he was right. ‘Too easy. You’re starting to bore me.’

  ‘No. You’re trying to trick me,’ Sorne said, desperate to divert him. ‘The hair’s the right length and colour. But it’s too thick for half a head. So it can’t be my she-Wyrd’s hair. Bazajaun divided her hair with Ferminzto.’

  ‘You’re right. They did divide it, but I won Ferminzto’s half from him.’

  ‘I bet you did.’ Sorne had to keep the youth talking. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was weak.’

  ‘Is everyone weak?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘You think you’re smart, don’t you?’

  ‘I know I’m smart.’ He grinned. ‘Smarter than you. You’re the one tied up with his cock and balls hanging in the breeze.’

  Sorne fought panic. If he could just work out his tormentor’s weakness... The youth was smart and focused, but had no empathy. It was like looking in a mirror at what he might have become, had Oskane succeeded in his indoctrination.

  ‘You’re interesting,’ the youth said. ‘You have a high tolerance for pain. I could make y
ou last days. But we have to move tonight, thanks to King Dantzel.’

  ‘You could just give me the hair and let me go.’

  ‘Oh, I like you. I really do.’

  He was going to kill him soon. Sorne could see the excitement glittering in the youth’s eyes. Fear made Sorne’s mind race. He glanced around the tent, looking for inspiration. No weapons, nothing within reach.

  The youth tossed the orb from hand to hand, enjoying his desperation.

  ‘You shouldn’t let it come in contact with your naked skin,’ Sorne told him. ‘It’ll make you sick.’

  ‘Sick? In what way? It’s just a glass ball. You can’t trick me with your fake visions from the gods.’

  ‘There are no gods.’

  ‘Now that’s unusual. Very few people will admit it, even if they think it.’

  ‘No gods. But the visions were real.’

  ‘Father and Ferminzto swore they saw you interact with the gods. They saw strange lights, and objects disappearing.’

  ‘The light was a byproduct of the power shed when I opened the walls between this plane and the empyrean plane. The offerings disappeared when they were taken across. But the creatures that did this were not gods. They were beasts, nothing but hungry predators.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘The Wyrds. The T’En scholars.’

  ‘Oh, I have to keep you.’ He gave Sorne a sly look. ‘Maybe I could just cut the back of your heels, and then you’d hobble for the rest of your life. You wouldn’t be able to escape.’

  ‘You don’t want me to save you from the orb? It may have tainted you already.’

  ‘You mean this piece of pretty glass?’

  ‘It’s called the orb of power.’

  His tormentor tilted the glass ball this way and that. ‘I see no power.’

  ‘Keep it next to your skin and all your golden hair will fall out.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  Sorne lifted both his hands, palm up. ‘Watch.’

  The youth placed the orb in his hands.

  It began to glow, growing in brilliance.

  ‘See?’ Sorne said, triumphantly.