by Spurrier, Jo
Rasten seized her by the throat and slammed her against the door. Her pulse fluttered against his palm as he leant close, pressing himself against her. Her eyes grew wide and her hot, panicked breath caressed his skin. She was wearing some sweet perfume, now undercut with an acrid note of fear. ‘Do you take my meaning?’ he asked again, murmuring the words into her ear.
‘I do, my lord,’ she stammered. ‘I understand.’
Rasten stepped back, away from the reek of the sickly scent, but not so far that she could move away from the door. ‘You knew about the prisoner?’
Trembling violently, she nodded. ‘I worked it out on my own, my lord, from things I overheard.’
‘You never saw the prince? He took after his mother. He and the duke were very much alike.’
‘In appearance, perhaps, my lord, but my Osebian would never turn on his kin the way the cursed prince has done.’
‘The body in this chamber is that of Prince Cammarian,’ Rasten said. ‘If you were chasing rumours you must have heard tales that we held him in the cells.’
‘I d-did, my lord.’
‘A spy for the clans heard them, too. He broke in, attempting to free the prisoner. A guard heard the disturbance and came to investigate, and both men were killed in the struggle. Seeing his last chance of escape gone, the prince hanged himself in his cell.’
‘I … understand, my lord. But I would still like to see the body for myself. It would put my mind to rest. Please, Lord Rasten? I swear by all the Gods that I … that I will not give your master reason to be angry.’
Rasten reached past her to turn the handle of the door, and Cortana gasped and shrank back, then almost fell when it swung away behind her.
The room was utterly dark until Rasten followed her in, bringing his globe of flame.
The body lay beneath a sheet on a scarred and battered wooden table. It had been in full rigour when Rasten cut the noose, and the sandbags used to straighten the limbs lay discarded in a corner. The servants should be tortured to determine which of them allowed the rumours to spread, but with Sierra downstairs the risk was too great.
Cortana froze at the sight of the shrouded form. Rasten strode past her and pulled the sheet back, exposing the body to the shoulders.
If it weren’t for the other marks on the corpse, and the confession he’d wrung from Sierra, he wouldn’t have been certain himself.
Cortana sobbed at the sight, and hastily raised her hands to her mouth to suppress the sound. She took one step closer, and then she fainted dead away.
The downed horse struggled to stand, but each time it tried to heave itself out of the mud, its haunches collapsed beneath it again.
Cam could cut a switch, but he didn’t have the heart to flog the exhausted beast. Instead, he crouched in the mud beside the gelding and rubbed its neck as he fed it a bar of crumbled pemmican. Perhaps it was a waste of supplies, but the horse clearly could not go on for the moment.
Cam tied the reins around its neck and wrapped the leading-rope around his fist as he sat against a tree, with a seat of broken twigs to keep him above the mud. There was nothing for it: he had to let the horse rest. He could spare a half-hour or so.
He’d lost the first of his mounts four days earlier — as he rode it through a stream to hide his tracks, the horse had stumbled and wrenched its knee so badly that it couldn’t place the hoof on the ground. Cam had had little choice but to cut its throat. Wolves, tigers and bears all roamed the foothills, and if he’d left the beast alive it would have had no way to escape a predator. This way, by the time any pursuit found the carcass there would be little left but bones. The one good thing that came from the disaster was the meat he’d cut from the carcass and smoked when he made camp that night.
With the rope in one hand and the other on the hilt of his sword, Cam took the risk of closing his eyes. He meant to rest for just a few moments, but when he jerked them open again, the shadows around him had shifted, and the air had grown distinctly colder.
He forced himself up, so stiff and so chilled that it was hard to unclench his hands. The horse was dozing, but as Cam stood it roused with a nicker and a startled toss of its head. ‘Come on, lad, time to move,’ Cam said, but the horse didn’t even try to rise, and wouldn’t, Cam suspected, unless he kicked it to its feet. He had a better idea, but first he tucked his hands under his armpits until the meagre warmth of his body made his fingers dexterous again. He couldn’t afford to spill the precious drops within the vial. Once his hands were warm, he pulled it out and held it up to the light to measure the liquid within the dark glass. He’d used it once, and was in no hurry to repeat the experience. He only hoped the foul-tasting stuff would work as well on the horse as it had on him.
‘Sorry, old boy, but you’ve given me no choice,’ Cam said to the horse. He put a drop of the oily stuff onto his fingertip and re-corked the bottle, and then smeared the liquid on the beast’s tongue.
The horse snorted and tossed its head violently, forcing Cam to scramble back as he tucked the vial away. Twitching and chewing the bit, it struggled to its feet, stamping and lashing its tail as though tormented by a swarm of biting flies.
He’d intended to walk a while to spare its strength, but the horse was already pawing the ground and pulling on the rope. He had no chance of catching the beast if it got away from him, so Cam snatched for the reins and stirrup and hauled himself onto its back again. He turned the horse towards the northeast and let it have its head.
He was, remarkably, not too far from the area where his little party had been camped after Isidro’s rescue, and where he found Sierra freezing to death in her makeshift shelter. It was rough, broken country, belonging to the same region of hills and chasms as Horrock’s Pass, where Rasten had escaped their pursuit in the dead of winter. The range of hills formed a natural barrier between the mountainous north and the coastal plains, and it would be painfully slow to move a large number of men and horses through, even in high summer. The Akharians, heading south, would find it easier to cut east through the Wolf Lands than march the legions over hill and rope-bridge to the pass.
Cam was torn between letting the energy roused by the drug put more distance behind them and holding the gelding back to conserve its strength, but whenever he tried to rein it in the horse fought the bit, burning through the very strength Cam hoped to save. When its first surge of energy waned, Cam turned south, cutting deeper into the ranges until he reached a hillside dusted with a faint haze of green between the patches of snow that lingered in the hollows and the shady thickets.
Grass buried by snow last autumn and kept fresh through the winter was now covered with slime and mould, soaked with melt-water and fuzzy with fungus. But around and within the matted rotting carpets, new shoots were sprouting, insulated by the warmth of last year’s decaying crop. Cam left the horse to graze as he foraged for himself, searching for wood nettles and scapes, wild leek and parsnip, fiddlehead ferns, burdock and linden buds. There was danger in this — a good tracker would see what he was doing, and learn his habits to set a trap, but Cam had little choice. If he didn’t take this time, he and the horse would both starve within a few days.
As he searched Cam kept an eye out for ptarmigan, which he could fell with the sling he’d cut from the hem of the duke’s silvery-grey salmon-skin raincoat. He made sure never to stray too far from the horse, and kept watch on the gelding’s ears. The beast’s hearing was far more sensitive than a man’s, and it would warn him if danger came creeping close.
Cam had gathered a double handful of tiny, tender spring greens when he saw a brace of ptarmigan burst from a stand of bare trees to the east. Even if he hadn’t had his hands full, they were flying in the wrong direction — by the time he could have had his sling out and loaded with a stone, they were already beyond his reach, but he stared after them for a wistful moment anyway, imagining a mouthful of succulent roasted meat.
As he watched, a faint dark speck hurtled towards the birds, and one dro
pped in a puff of feathers. From the distance came a very human sound — a whoop of triumph, quickly cut short. Cam couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a barked command for silence.
Cam almost dropped his foraged greens as his hands began to shake, but caught himself before they spilled. From the corner of his eye, he saw the horse swing its head up, pricking its ears.
Cam dumped his foraged greens into the open saddlebag and gathered up the reins, leading the horse down the slope. He could just hear someone pushing through the tangled growth to retrieve his prize.
With his heart pounding in his throat, Cam assessed the surrounding cover. There were thick stands of trees on the slopes above, but they were too far away — the sounds were coming from a saddle slung between two higher hills to the east, and if he ventured up to the trees he could be spotted from that point. He could go back the way he’d come, but there was little cover there, and the valley was a rocky creek-bed — if the movement didn’t attract attention, hooves clattering over rocks surely would.
That left him with only one possible route. The slopes grew steeper towards the east, and in that direction the creek-bed became a rocky chasm, carved into the earth by countless seasons of flood and frost. From above it was dead ground, invisible unless one stood right on the lip and peered into the void below.
Of course, if someone did just that, anyone sheltering there would have only one route of escape and, until they cleared the far end of the valley, man and horse both would be vulnerable to arrows.
But it was the only refuge available. Cam led the horse into the water, praying silently that the beast would stay quiet. Once within the flow, he led the horse towards the east and the voices.
It was cold within the sheltering walls of the chasm. Little sunlight penetrated here, and thick, milky ice clung to the stone. A fine spray of mist hung in the air, thrown up by the tumbling water. The base of the ravine was wider than the top, and Cam led the horse beneath the overhang and held his breath, listening intently as he cursed the musical sound of the trickling water, which masked any small sounds that might come down from overhead.
They might not be soldiers. They could be Charzic’s men, hemmed in by the Wolf’s army on one side and the Akharian forces on the other. Or they could be simple Ricalani folk, fled into this rough country for the same reason. Cam smiled grimly to himself, wishing he could believe it. The horse tossed its head, and Cam grabbed its nose, digging his fingers into its nostrils to force its head still.
Then the voices came again, bearing accent and words that made his heart sink. ‘You thrice-cursed fool, Grallic, I ought to have you flogged for making that kind of noise, but instead I’m just going to take that wretched bird from you. Come on, hand it over.’
‘But captain, it’s mine! And it’s not as though any wretched prisoner could have come this far so quickly.’ The voice sounded young — no more than sixteen or seventeen winters, Cam thought.
‘If you don’t stop your whinging, boy, I’ll give you five stripes as well! You, Hendric, go check the next valley. Penthan, clean and gut that bird and bring it here.’
‘Yessir,’ a small chorus of voices replied.
Cam turned his eyes heavenwards and released a slow breath. He took his hand from the horse’s nose, and reached for the vial.
At first he heard little over the gurgling water, but as the soldier drew closer Cam could pick his footsteps out from the other sounds.
Cam pulled the cork from the vial, and wondered if he was a coward. What would happen to Sierra if they brought his body back to the fort? At least she would be able to tell Isidro to stop worrying.
The footsteps stopped somewhere nearby, and Cam pictured the man squinting over the hillside, peering at the shadowy thickets. Or was he just rocking on his heels as he thought of the meal awaiting him back at camp, doing nothing other than taking enough time to convince his commander that he’d carried out the task?
After a moment there came another sound, the scuff of boots on stone.
Cam glanced at the vial, then turned his face up just as a few loose stones and a shower of grit tumbled down from the overhang. His heart was pounding so fiercely that he thought it would burst.
From above came the sound of retreating feet. ‘Nothing here, captain,’ the soldier called in Mesentreian. ‘Place is quiet as a tomb.’
‘See, sir? I told you, no way the prisoner could have come this far.’
‘And that’s five stripes for you, Grallic. One of these days, lad, you’ll cursed well learn to follow orders.’
Cam didn’t move as the men mounted and rode away. He waited until he couldn’t hear anything but the laughing gurgle of the water, and only then did he try to fumble the cork back into the mouth of the vial. He sagged against the horse’s shoulder, gulping the air as though it were life itself.
Chapter 15
It took three weeks to reach the ranges. Everyone said they were making good time and, remembering how slowly the legions crawled north across the frozen hills and plains, Delphine tried to believe it. When they reached a primitive, open shrine at the northeastern edge of the ranges, Mira stopped to pour a libation at the altar-stone under the gaze of the statues of the Twin Suns, so eroded by wind and weather that their faces had worn smooth. While all the party bowed their heads in prayer, Delphine closed her eyes and offered silent thanks to the only deity she had ever thought worthwhile, the nameless Good Goddess of mercy, who offered comfort to those who suffered.
The landscape had changed as their travels took them south. The very air was different, smelling of earth and greenery and dampness. Great swathes of snow had melted, leaving bare and muddy earth mottled with the green threads of newly sprouted grass. Ice lingered in the hollows and on the north-facing slopes, but it melted in the trees to form long, glistening icicles. During the day it often grew warm enough that Delphine discarded her heavy fur and instead wore an extra jacket under her salmon-skin raincoat.
The rivers were still chocked with ice, but it was rotten, sodden stuff, too weak and brittle to be trusted. The creeks were no better, filled with a choking slurry of water and ice that from a distance looked like snow lingering on low ground. Flowing water carried the ice until it all jammed together, appearing just like solid ground, until the water rose again and the snowy channel became a stream-bed full of swirling, frigid slush.
The shallow streams could be crossed on horseback, following a soldier who tested the depth of the slurry, but the bigger flows were a different matter. At first Delphine tried to freeze more bridges of ice, but the rivers were so swollen that even with Isidro’s help, she didn’t trust the constructions to hold. Instead, the northerners broke out bundles of rope brought from the Spire and constructed a rope-bridge that hung low into the chasms and swayed alarmingly in the breeze. Delphine watched with her heart in her throat as Ardamon’s men coaxed blindfolded horses across the matted branches laid over the ropes. Delphine could only bring herself to cross because she had power enough to cushion the fall should the ropes snap or the wind hurl her off. Rather than dismantle the bridge once they were across, Isidro and Delphine detached it with threads of power and bundled it up in one piece, to be unfurled again at the next crossing.
After a few days they met a family of trappers, who traded some supplies and loaned them a pair of canoes to help in their search. At around noon on the fifth day, Ardamon called a halt and came over to peer at the map Isidro spread out against his horse’s rump.
‘I think we’re here,’ he said, pointing to the parchment as Delphine carefully dismounted and stretched her legs. ‘Here’s the last river we crossed, and here’s that ridge to the north. Cam was heading for this area, as near as I could tell from the map Sirri showed me.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Ardamon said. ‘Mira, what do you say? Is this a fair spot to set up camp?’
‘Seems fine to me,’ Mira said as she surveyed the surrounding slopes and the patch of level ground on which they’d halt
ed. ‘You can start searching right away; my women and I will see to the camp. It’d be a shame to waste the daylight.’
‘Isidro?’ Ardamon said.
He let the crackling parchment roll shut with a snap. ‘Let’s do it.’
The party divided into two groups, with a few men detailed to stay and guard the camp while some women joined the away party, Anoa among them. Mira insisted they eat first, and when the meal was served Delphine took her bowl and sought out Isidro, who was standing at the edge of the gathering, gazing out at the hills. The south-facing slopes were lush and green with spring growth, and the air was full of the roar of tumbling water. The sky was a featureless grey, with cloud obscuring the peaks of the hills. Isidro glanced Delphine’s way when she came to his side, but he said nothing.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Delphine asked. ‘I will if you like.’
‘Might be best if you stay,’ he said. ‘We’ll be moving quickly, searching for tracks and other signs —’
‘And I’m slow and have no idea what to look for,’ Delphine said.
Isidro turned to her. ‘I didn’t mean it like that —’
She laid a hand on his forearm. ‘I know you didn’t, and it’d be nice to have a rest. But if you want me to join you, just send word.’ She could feel his anxiety through that simple contact, his muscles bunched so tight they were trembling with the strain. By the Good Goddess, let him still be alive. I’m not sure either of us can last much longer.
Delphine set up her tent with only a little help from Amaya, and then set about heating many kettles of water to wash clothes that had long gone unlaundered. Delphine washed her hair as well; afterwards, sitting on a log beside the fire as she combed the knots from her hair felt like an indulgent decadence.
The fine mood didn’t last for long. The searchers returned with the very last of the light, cold, hungry and dispirited. They brought a fine harvest of tender spring greens, the first fresh food Delphine had seen since leaving the empire. Those around her greeted the baskets with dismay, and Delphine glimpsed Mira dabbing at tear-filled eyes as she oversaw their preparation for the evening meal. It was Rhia who explained the matter in quiet and sombre tones. ‘Cam only had supplies to last a week. If he were living in these hills we should see soil dug and sprouts picked, and snares set as well.’