Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Half the night had gone when he discovered an empty tunnel, four levels down, that reeked of the gift. There were two bolts embedded in the wall, both a little loose, and a burned-out candle stub in a wall niche. But it was the residue of gift power that made his heart race.

  The power was male and reminded him of Graelen. But the gift-warrior was the only T’En man he had ever been near; perhaps all male T’En power felt like this.

  All he knew for certain was that a T’En man had performed some powerful gift-working here.

  What had he been doing beneath the Father’s church, and where had they taken him?

  But his concern was for Valendia now. He searched the passages linking to the crypts of the other churches. He found the caverns where ancient people had painted images of themselves and their animals, and remembered Zabier talking about it.

  The thought of Valendia, alone and frightened in this maze of tunnels, kept him searching until the oil in his lamp ran low. Frustrated, he returned to the surface.

  Low clouds hung over the city as he emerged, and the sky was an odd colour. He smelled burning. Out on the streets, he heard the occasional shout, a scream and splintering wood.

  Rather than leave the safety of the church, he scaled the nearest building and made his way to a rooftop where he could look down on the port city.

  Sorne had witnessed cities under siege before, but he had never seen anything quite like this. Angry crowds surged through the streets. At least four pillars of smoke added to the pall over the port. He saw a mob smashing shop windows and surging inside to steal goods. They were sharing out the loot when another mob came along, and battle ensued over bolts of cloth and barrels of oil.

  A madness had seized the city.

  It was easily two days since he had last eaten, and hunger gnawed at him. He broke into the apartment where Hiruna and Valendia had lived. There he used the bathing chamber, before curling up to sleep on the floor of the main room. He could not help thinking of them living here, year after year, waiting for him to come, and now Hiruna was dead and Valendia was missing...

  What a fool he had been to spend so much time chasing power and prestige. What had it gotten him, but the envy and resentment of other ambitious men?

  In the middle of the night, he woke in a cold sweat.

  What if the sisterhood messenger hadn’t gotten out of the city? What if Imoshen hadn’t called an all-council to warn the leaders of the brotherhoods and sisterhoods?

  Climbing out onto the rooftop, Sorne saw that the clouds had cleared and the large, lazy moon had not yet set. To the east, a faint glow told him it was not long until dawn. At this time of day, only bakers and carters would be about. He decided to go to the west gate and wait for it to open.

  Dropping down to the street, he found the mobs were not on the loose, but neither were the bakers and carters. Businesses were either shuttered, or their shutters had been ripped off and they’d been looted.

  When he rounded a corner and found the sisterhood messenger hanging from a shop sign, he knew he wouldn’t get out the port gate alive. He backed away in horror, and made his way down to the docks.

  He felt like a coward for avoiding the Wyrd warehouses, but he knew what he would find. He thought of Graelen and wondered if he had made it out of the city. And he thought of Lysania, the Malaunje woman Graelen had used to lure him into the wine cellar. He hoped she had escaped with her little girl.

  He searched the wharfs until he found a little dinghy with the oars still in it, and he did not hesitate to steal it and make his way across the bay.

  Chapter Sixty

  DRIVEN BY THE need to warn Imoshen, Sorne left the boat and stole a horse. He alternated between walking and riding to pace the horse. It was three days’ fast ride west from the port to the Wyrd city, but he had to avoid the main road. Both the moons were nearly full; it would soon be winter’s cusp.

  The farm folk went about their business, preparing for the winter. Herds had to be culled, the best saved for breeding next year. Fields lay fallow or had been harvested, leaving them bristled like a man with a two-day beard. No one looked too closely at Sorne as he passed, and he got the impression they did not want to know why a lone rider was pushing his horse through their land.

  Sorne came to a fork in the road. If he went north, he would come to a place called the Old Stones. If he went south, he would run across Baron Aingeru’s estate and the king’s tourney. If he went west, he could warn the city.

  But he hesitated, because he knew the king would want a vision.

  Riding had given Sorne time to think. The words overheard through the kitchen window of the Father’s church preyed on his mind. He remembered Graelen trying to confirm rumours of Malaunje sacrifice, and he knew a T’En had been held captive in the father’s crypts. He suspected that the silverhead was being taken to the Old Stones to be sacrificed.

  If he went west, he would be able to warn the city. But that meant a T’En man would die, and he would be responsible for that death. It was he who had planted the idea that unclean places were holy sites.

  The clouds hung low and dark. A storm was coming.

  As he sat astride his horse in a copse of pine trees, debating his course of action, Sorne saw a closed wagon, drawn by four oxen, come trundling down the road. Three men in priestly robes sat on the seat, and another five or six rode behind. One of them reminded him of Zabier from a distance.

  As the wagon turned north, the wind blew the canvas against the side of the wagon, and he saw the impression of bars. The captive T’En man would be in that wagon, and this was the Father’s-voice going to meet the king to conduct the ceremony.

  There was time to prevent the sacrifice and still warn the city. His decision made, Sorne followed the cart at a safe distance.

  Lightning flickered within the lowering clouds and he hoped the storm would hold off until evening. Meanwhile, the wagon made its ponderous way through undulating hills occasionally broken by limestone crags. Sheep grazed, lifting their heads to watch them pass by.

  At last he crested a rise and saw the Old Stones.

  He led the horse back and left it tied to a tree, then climbed up to the crest of the hill and lay in the grass.

  The standing stones had been erected on the highest hill as far as the eye could see. He’d expected them to be made of the local white stone he’d seen used in houses and fences, but they were tall and dark against the blue-black clouds.

  To the left of the stones was a flat field, and it was here the king had set up camp. Sorne counted twelve banners, aside from the king’s. Each baron would bring a man or two. With so many True-men, Sorne would need luck, the storm, and stealth to free the T’En and escape. More than luck, if they had the captive chained, rather than bound by ropes.

  The setting sun’s rays broke through the clouds, making the dark stones shine like black glass.

  Sorne’s stomach dropped as he relived the pinnacle offering that had gone so horribly wrong all those years ago. The memory of the night his holy-swords turned on him was burned so deeply, he flinched in pain.

  But he was not turning back now.

  The wagon had just arrived on the knoll beside the Old Stones. Between him and the camp was nothing but grass, cropped short by sheep.

  No cover. He didn’t like it.

  The sun went behind the clouds, and the intensity of the colours faded. Now, it was a grey evening, under heavy storm clouds.

  He would have to wait for night. As he waited, lightning flickered and the clouds seemed to come lower still. Rain would help hide him. But no rain fell.

  Finally, he could delay no longer. He headed down the slope. The wind chose that moment to pick up, tearing at the cloud cover, revealing the rising moons. Lightning flashed, turning night into day, every detail clear. Thunder rumbled, growing louder as the storm drew closer. This would please Charald. The Warrior was said to throw lightning bolts.

  Sorne hid from the camp, approaching from behind
the bulk of the wagon. The wind rose in sudden gusts. It lashed the grass, driving the clouds faster across the sky.

  No one sounded the alarm. He reached the wagon, and lifted the canvas to peer inside. In the darkness, he sensed male gift. It felt familiar.

  A flash of lightning revealed the empty cage.

  Heart pounding with disappointment, he crept to the far end of the wagon. Another flash illuminated the rise beyond the tents and the Old Stones on the hill top. A crowd of True-men made their way up the slope, forming a circle around their captive.

  He’d left it too late.

  Lightning struck the Old Stones, sending up a shower of sparks. The True-men shouted and cheered.

  Cursing, Sorne skirted the camp, trying to get around to the far side of the hill. Between the wind, the racing clouds and the intermittent lightning, the night was full of movement.

  As he reached the crest of the hill, a patch of moonlight illuminated the area. This close, the stones were enormous, each standing twice as tall as him; in the centre, he saw a crude stone table. Chains had been wound around it.

  They were going to chain the warrior to the altar then spill his blood.

  Trusting to the confusion created by the storm, Sorne crept to the corner of a standing stone and pressed his back to the black rock, watching the far side of the circle. He was just in time to see the first True-men enter the area.

  Lightning flashed and thunder rolled over their heads. The men ducked. Sorne felt the stones reverberate with the low, angry roll of thunder.

  More True-men followed the first few, moving towards the stone table. Short of dashing forward after a lightning strike, when the True-men were blinded, he did not see how he could reach the captive. And if he reached him, he did not see how they could both get away.

  He should leave now and warn the city.

  Lightning forked across the sky, revealing Graelen’s pale silver hair.

  He’d been right. It had been Graelen’s gift he sensed in the crypt.

  The T’En was bleeding from the nose, and one eye was nearly closed.

  Sorne was not leaving Graelen to die.

  Thunder hammered the Old Stones; they seemed to attract the lightning strikes. True-men ducked and cowered. Before they’d straightened up, lighting hit the stones again, sending sparks showering over them.

  Some of the men dropped to the ground. Sorne could see nothing but the after-image of the lightning strike for several heartbeats.

  The Warrior was in fine form tonight.

  In that instant, Sorne made the connection with the man he’d seen in Imoshen’s mirror after they had healed him. He had become the white-haired, one-eyed man of his first vision, the man Oskane had identified as the Warrior.

  And just like that, he knew how to save Graelen.

  He tore off his beggar’s robes, and dropped the knife. Now he stood naked, his back pressed to the slick black stone. He waited, heart thundering, for the next lightning strike.

  So far, the Warrior god had taken the ceremonial offerings in a flash of light. This time the god was going to give something back.

  Almost as if the storm had been waiting for him to make this decision, a bolt of light streaked down and hit the stone to his right. Brilliant sparks flew into the air. The smell of scorched stone filled the night.

  Blinded, he felt his way around the stone and took his place in front of it.

  Thunder shook the skies, making the very earth tremble.

  As Sorne’s sight gradually returned, the after-image of the lightning repeated every time he blinked. He knew the True-men would suffer the same effect. They would see him pale and naked against the black stone, between each blink. The barons shouted and pointed to where he stood.

  Only King Charald did not stumble back in shock. In the confusion, Graelen could have escaped, but he seemed stunned.

  Sorne ran and jumped onto the stone altar, lifting his arms.

  Graelen’s eyes widened.

  ‘Is it really you, Sorne?’ The king had to shout to be heard above the elements.

  ‘Sorne is dead. I was Sorne in my old life. The Warrior has returned me to this world.’ And he dropped into a crouch, so that the True-men could see the smooth skin where his missing eye had been. ‘See! He has healed me, but I bear His mark.’

  Many came closer. But others, including Zabier, hung back. The man who’d been raised as his brother stared in horrified fascination.

  Lightning flashed, laying his face bare. The True-men pulled back with awestruck cries.

  ‘Your skin, the burns are all healed...’ Charald was almost speechless.

  ‘I’ve been reborn!’

  ‘See,’ King Charald roared. ‘The Warrior supports my holy war. He’s given me back my half-blood visionary!’

  The barons and their men raised a tentative cheer, which was torn away by the wind.

  Lightning struck the stones again, showering them with sparks. Too soon for Sorne’s plan.

  Momentarily blinded, he had to wait for his sight to return, then he pointed to Graelen. ‘Bring the sacrifice here.’

  They drove the male at spear point. He stumbled, and Sorne realised his arms were bound behind his back. Sorne reached down and caught the adept by the shoulders, felt the intensity of his gift. This was his one chance to speak privately.

  Graelen beat him to it. ‘They’re going to attack the city.’

  ‘I know. Warn them. When the next lightning strike hits the stones, drop off the table. Behind the tall stone at my back is a knife. My horse is over the hill.’

  Sorne caught Graelen by the hair and pulled him to his feet. The way Graelen’s gift beat on his skin, Sorne feared it would trigger a breach between the planes.

  Lightning flickered through the clouds above them, as Sorne kept one hand on Graelen’s hair and pointed to a man-at-arms. ‘Give me your knife.’

  The man obliged and Sorne held the knife high, praying lightning did not strike it. ‘We seek your guidance, Warrior.’

  ‘Praise the Warrior!’ King Charald roared.

  Sorne took his time lowering the knife. The moment he spilled Graelen’s blood, the empyrean beasts would sense it and break the wall, coming for them both. He looked around, knife at the ready, waiting for the next lightning strike to hit the stones.

  ‘We are your weapons, Warrior,’ Sorne yelled, playing for time. Where was that lightning? He kept the knife poised. ‘We need a sign.’ We need a lightning strike.

  The barons’ men crowded close.

  Lightning struck the hillside just beyond the camp.

  ‘A sign!’ King Charald cried. ‘Make the sacrifice.’

  Sorne looked up, praying for lightning to strike the stones, praying that the overflow of Graelen’s gift wouldn’t kill them both.

  ‘Kill him!’

  ‘Sacrifice him!’

  ‘Cut him. Spill his tainted blood,’ King Charald bellowed. Lightning forked in the clouds, but it was too far away to be useful.

  ‘You tried,’ Graelen said. ‘I won’t endanger you.’

  ‘No.’ If Graelen went to the empyrean plane, he’d die. Sorne felt the adept gather his gift.

  Lightning flashed in the sky above but did not hit the stones.

  ‘Let go.’ Graelen met Sorne’s eyes. ‘Then pretend to cut me.’

  He did. He had no choice.

  Graelen disappeared. Even though Sorne had let go, he felt the wavering of reality as he was nearly dragged through to the empyrean plane.

  The king cheered, the barons shouted and roared. No one seemed to notice that Graelen’s clothes and the binding ropes had fallen to the stone.

  Lightning hit the stones, showering them with sparks.

  Sorne could have wept.

  Instead, he dropped to the stone table and sprawled as if unconscious.

  The True-men cheered. Charald ordered them to bring him down to the camp. They rolled him onto a cloak and carried him between them.

  He’d failed twice
over. He’d failed to save Graelen, and gotten himself trapped in the process. And he’d failed to warn Imoshen. He’d have to escape after he gave the king the vision he wanted and they’d fallen asleep tonight.

  He would steal a horse, ride for the city.

  ZABIER WAITED UNTIL Sorne had finished revealing his fake vision – the king’s heir, whole and undamaged, sitting on the throne of Chalcedonia – and the king had left them alone so he could share a toast with his barons before breaking camp.

  One of Zabier’s holy-warriors had found Sorne the breeches, vest and thigh-length shirt of a priest. He sat on a chest and sipped a restorative wine that Zabier had asked another of his holy-warriors to bring. Now Zabier dismissed the two priests. ‘Wait outside. We’ll pack up the tent in a moment.’

  Sorne looked up. ‘You’re not camping here tonight?’

  Anger welled up in Zabier. He stalked over.

  Sorne went to rise, but Zabier shoved him down. He did not doubt that the half-blood could best him in a fight, but right now Sorne was playing innocent.

  ‘I know what you did.’

  Sorne looked confused.

  ‘I saw you two conferring. You didn’t sacrifice that Wyrd. He went willingly to his death.’

  Shadows haunted Sorne’s face.

  Zabier had to concede, he really was very good at appearing noble and troubled. But... ‘I’ve read Oskane’s journals. You and that Wyrd are up to something.’

  ‘The gods took him.’

  ‘There are no gods.’

  Sorne looked up, surprised.

  ‘You thought I believed? I’ve felt their claws on me. I know we summon beasts, and I know you just played the king for a fool.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you speak up?’

  ‘And break the king’s illusion?’ Zabier shook his head. ‘The only thing I can’t figure out is why the Wyrd would go to his death without taking half a dozen True-men with him.’

  Sorne looked away.

  ‘You think you’re so clever, but you’ve outsmarted yourself this time. Yes, you’ve got the king swallowing your visions again, but this time you’re going to be working for me!’