As the svergelse, the Renshai name for sword figures practiced alone, progressed and Rantire’s maneuvers became more complicated, the rest of the envoy disappeared. All normal sounds of camp-building became lost in the mishmash chorus of insects and frogs. Nothing seemed real but the sword in her hand and the faith in her heart. Like prayer, she dedicated her efforts to the goddess Sif and the goddess’ son, Modi, who embodied battle wrath. The sword cut imaginary opponents, a silver blur in her fist. Her feet skimmed over the twisted weeds and grasses that survived in what little sunlight the trees permitted. Activity brought warmth to her limbs, as if the cool night air recoiled from the savagery of a Renshai’s practice. The moon struck glittering patches through the branches, shedding light between puddled shadow and creating a million targets for the Renshai’s killing strokes.
Yet, though Rantire’s concentration on svergelse stole meaning from the rattles, laughter, and shouts of her companions, her mind registered sound and movement out of place. A light flickered through the darkness, nearly lost in her peripheral vision, and dispersed as swiftly as it appeared. Alone, Rantire might have dismissed it as a gleam of moonbeam off water on the road, brought to her sight by a motion of her own. Then, unfamiliar voices touched her hearing, whispers she would have lost beneath the rattle of leaves in the wind except for their musical lilt and a language unlike any she had heard. Another flash carved trunks black against tangled masses of foliage, then a grating noise cut the normal woodland fauna to fearful silence.
Sword still drawn, Rantire raced from the clearing as a shout of alarm bounced echoes through the forest. She sprinted for the camp, battle rage like fire in her veins, and something large thrashed toward her. She gathered momentum for a strike as the beast stumbled wildly into sight; a panicked horse floundered through knotted copses, its eyes white rings of terror. She pulled her stroke. The animal charged past, at the lead of a thundering herd she did not try to stop. Let servants chase the horses. She would find and defeat the horror that spooked them. She ran on toward the camp.
A half dozen strides brought her to the scene of the carnage. The wagon lay on its side, its tapestries, silks, and gemstones spilled across the muddy ground. Something had smashed the front of the coach to splinters, and a diplomat hung upside down from the wreckage, his stillness denying life. Nearer the road, the Béarnian guards and the knights swung madly at a densely muscled horse that reared to meet their attacks with hooves and teeth already smeared scarlet. The man on its back swung a battle ax that sent an unarmored Erythanian Knight skidding across the mold, cleaved nearly in half at the waist. A servant screamed, retching in horror, and became lost to sight beneath the flailing hooves.
“Modi!” Rantire charged with all the savagery her people were known for. She had eyes for no one but the enemy, but her scrutiny of man and beast missed nothing in the half a heartbeat between observation and attack. She knew this man and horse, had seen them only an hour before as inanimate stone decorating the Road of Kings.
The horse reeled to avoid a guardsman’s sword, then lunged for its attacker with ears flat to its dappled gray head. No life looked out from empty eye sockets, and its hooves thudded to earth with all the power of the quaking stone they had once been. The guard twisted, rescuing his head from steel-shod hooves; but teeth clamped on his wrist with the sickening snap of breaking bone. The man screamed, jerking backward instinctively, wrist still clamped in the beast’s flat teeth. The rider’s ax sped toward the second knight’s neck.
Rantire dove between knight and rider. Sword slammed against ax, and the strength of the king’s likeness astounded Rantire. Impact lanced pain through her arms, wrenching tendons to the shoulder and hurling her sideways. The sword snapped, blade slamming the knight she had rescued. He gasped, staggering blindly, sword angled defensively between himself and the aberration. Again, the ax screamed toward him.
Unable to keep her balance, Rantire rolled. Agony pulsed, as yet unlocalized. “Modi!” Training resurfaced like instinct, the need to fight not despite the pain but because of it. She threw down the useless hilt that habit had forced her to cling to even through the fall and the pain. A quick glance found her another weapon near the body of a fallen Béarnide. Snatching it up as she ran, she charged back into the fray.
The knight straggled backward, breathing labored. Rantire crashed into him with her leading shoulder, sprawling him, placing herself into the path of the falling ax. This time she dodged it, not daring to parry. The blade grazed her skull, ringing agony to accompany her other wounds. Seizing the opening, she riposted. But the horse whirled on her then, foiling the opening against its rider. Hooves and teeth filled Rantire’s vision, and she met the blank stare that made the creature seem more demon than horse. She felt the knight’s leg against the back of hers and knew she had no space to jerk backward. Only one course remained, sure suicide, but she chose it with vicious complaisance. Diving between the stone-gray legs, she assessed in an instant. To kill, she needed to pierce the chest with all the strength that remained in her aching arms. Yet chance assured she would hit rib instead of flesh. Only the quick eye her torke had trained could save her and the three warriors still fighting.
One stroke. Rantire did not pause but bonded her will to the training she had embraced since birth. Gaze locked on the slight sag between ribs, she jammed her sword home. The thrust smashed pain through her injured shoulder. Then, the Renshai twists that precluded power parted muscle and lung. Blood frothed from the horse’s nostrils, but it lacked even the wind to squeal. Rantire realized, with sudden horror, that she had no space to retreat. The massive gray would surely crush her as it collapsed.
Determination sparked to action. Rantire would die in battle, but not squashed beneath an enemy’s death throes. As the animal stumbled, she flung herself against its abdomen, driving. The horse took a frantic step backward, forehooves cleaving air, then toppled rearward. As it fell, Rantire ripped out her sword and dove clear.
The statue horse crumpled, dumping its rider into an awkward heap of shouting madness. The remaining warriors charged the man-once-statue immediately. Three on one, all unmounted, Rantire had faith they could handle the battle. Ignoring the pain that throbbed through her head and shoulder, she turned her focus to other sounds.
Beneath the clang of the final battle and the moans of the dying, she believed she heard soft voices on the roadway. Then, the crash and rattle of brush seized her attention fully. Something huge rushed toward her. The tactics of these enemies and memory of the statues they had passed en route told her what this must be. Rantire turned her head back to the battle for a quick assessment. The knight and two Béarnian guards stabbed and parried the tireless attacks of the king’s statue. Judging their skill in an instant, she felt certain they would triumph eventually though not without losses. A diplomat and two servants cowered beyond the coach wreckage, utterly useless. Left alone to face this new threat, Rantire smiled. She would meet the coming bear with courage and dignity or embarrass her heritage and torke.
Though it meant leaving the sight of her companions, Rantire charged the approaching animal, hoping to catch a glimpse of the source of the earlier light. There, she surmised, she would find the forces that unleashed statues into violence crueler than vengeance. If she discovered those who worked the magic, she hoped she could end the assassinations fully and finally.
Rantire plunged through the foliage toward rustling that gained volume with every step. Then, suddenly, a gap in the brush fully revealed the road and the figures standing on it. Rantire paused, estimating fifteen in the moment it took to notice them. Her mind registered all as adolescents, the impression coming from disproportionately long arms and legs. They wore robes and cloaks of unfamiliar design that did not distinguish gender. Hair that ranged from elder-white to mahogany flew freely in the breeze. Most stood in a line with lowered heads, their faces obscured and concentration intense. One paced behind the others, step child-light despite the murder he or she sur
ely masterminded. A half dozen at the far end of the grouping carried curved swords thrust through glittering belts, gazes scanning the forest. One knelt in front of a puddle, staring into the depths and talking almost constantly. Rantire could not understand a word of a conversation that sounded more like music.
The transformed bear blustered through a nettled copse of berries, leaving Rantire an instant to decide. Without her to stop it, the bear would devastate the remainder of the party. Yet if she left the sorcerers alive, more statues turned flesh would follow until nothing remained of any of them. Placing her faith in the hope that killing users of magic would disenchant their creations, she plunged toward the people, howling a bloodcurdling cry of battle. Bears, she knew, hated loud noises. She hoped she would draw its attention as well.
The ranks broke instantly, long before she reached them. Several threw themselves backward. Nearly all their heads snapped up, revealing faces that gave an impression of youth and great age at once. Canted eyes held irises like polished gemstones of every hue, their marblelike regularity terrifyingly unnatural. Their sharp cheekbones jutted high in faces that seemed made for smiling, judging by their shape and the set of their creases.
The leader shouted commands that restored the line even before Rantire reached them. The six geared for battle charged in front of the others, meeting Rantire halfway across the moonlit road. Some chanted in a calm cadence that worried at Rantire’s courage while it seemed to charge up that of her enemies. Three swords swept for her at once. She ducked beneath the first, parried the second, and caught the third wielder a kick in the knee that sent him sprawling, sword carving a wild and harmless arc. Rantire’s blade opened his throat as he fell.
Rantire recovered instantly, flicking her blade back into position to face the others. Blood splashed, an abnormal pink-red. Yet, to her surprise, the others did not press. They retreated slightly, shock and disbelief traced vividly upon their alien faces. Seizing the opening, Rantire lunged for an unprotected abdomen.
The leader shouted. The chanting changed to a high-pitched keening that hammered Rantire’s ears. Her vision blurred, stealing accuracy. Her target scrambled aside, and dizziness crushed down on her. She fought the buzzing in her head that threatened her consciousness, deliberately concentrating on the pounding throb of the ax wound to ground herself in pain. She spun wildly, sword cutting a frantic circle of defense. Again they did not press, but Rantire felt her control slipping, as if plied with one too many drinks. She surged ponderously for an enemy and never knew whether or not that stroke fell. Her mind spiraled into empty darkness.
* * *
The hallways between the courtroom and the king’s quarters had grown tediously familiar to Baltraine who knew how little sense it made for him to consult with a king as often asleep or unintelligible as lucid. He continued the charade from necessity. Should others learn how near death the king hovered, panic would surely ensue. In the subsequent confusion Baltraine could only guess what courtiers and peasants would demand or what effect that would have on the king-chosen regent and his family. Baltraine had worked too hard to lose everything now. Soon his smooth running of the kingdom and judgments in the courts would please enough to keep any malcontents under control. Once he rid himself of the knight-captain turned nuisance, all of the grumblings about a power-hungry prime minister stalling settlements would end.
Baltraine’s routine visits to the king also gave him the opportunity to observe the patterns, cycles, and details of the king’s muddled moments. He paid close heed to the herbs the master healer gave and their effects, intended and otherwise, on the king’s various states. Books and cautious experimentation taught him more. In addition, the frequent need to interact with the sage’s five scribes as individuals allowed him to endear himself to them as well as assess their strengths and weaknesses.
Three guards tromped routinely behind Baltraine and the scribe as they paced the route they all knew too well. Their noise masked any other farther up the corridor. Kedrin would come this time, Baltraine felt certain. The Knight of Erythane had tried too hard to catch him not to meet him in the hallway when an invitation was extended. Baltraine grinned inwardly at the thought. “Invitation” poorly described his insistence that he could spare no time or his snide suggestion that Kedrin find him en route to the king as he had once before. Baltraine had taken great pains to ensure that only Kedrin heard; to the guards, it would appear that the knight-captain delayed Baltraine’s conference with the king on his own initiative.
Kedrin’s recognizable knife, stolen by the hired thief, now rested in Baltraine’s lefthand tunic pocket. The key to his coming victory, it felt heavy and warm against his thigh. Compunction prickled at Baltraine’s conscience briefly. Still, the knight had proved himself a dissenting seed that could sprout at any moment to treason. Best to dispose of him as soon as possible. Baltraine soothed his guilty nerves with rationalizations he only half believed. His bonds and loyalty to Béarn were real, and anyone who drew them into question deserved swift judgment.
As Baltraine turned the corner, he found Kedrin waiting, as he knew he would. The knight-captain wore a grave expression that brooked no further delay or nonsense. The white-blue eyes seemed as hard and dark as a tempest-racked ocean. Well-tended red locks accentuated a solid jaw and straight nose, features any woman might wish upon her own man even without the majestic bearing and the stately uniform that outlined sinews muscled for war. Such beauty, Baltraine lamented, was wasted on inferiors not of noble lineage. To him, the blue eyes seemed an unforgivable flaw, the fine, light locks a mockery of Béarn’s strong darkness. The well-defined features should belong to one of royal breeding.
Baltraine stopped cold at the sight of Kedrin, feigning surprise. “Knight-Captain. I . . . um . . . did you wish to speak with me?”
Kedrin scowled, the game wearing thin. “You know I do.”
“Yes,” Baltraine acknowledged with a hesitation that made it seem as if he humored, not agreed with, the knight. “Well, then. I suppose I have a moment, if you must.” He gestured for the scribe and guards to remain in place, as before, then headed up the hallway well within their vision. He kept his voice low so no one but Kedrin could hear. “What do you want this time?”
Baltraine’s hostility did not escape Kedrin. The knight scowled, brows creased with irritation; but his tone betrayed no anger. “Lord, I wanted to commend your quick and full response to the needs of Béarn. I appreciate how swiftly you mobilized and sent the envoy.”
The prime minister nodded in wary appreciation, uncertain whether true anticipation or only wishful thinking made him believe the other shoe had yet to fall. His hand slid to the knife secreted beneath his cloak, and his fingers massaged the hilt absently. His heart pounded a rapid cadence as understanding of trickery long-planned and -considered dominated his thoughts once more. Sweat trickled down his collar, and he realized the final moment of decision had arrived. One action on his part, whether taken or dismissed, would spark massive repercussions. The certainty with which he had designed the trap melted away now that he stood directly in his victim’s presence. Guilt whittled at his confidence. Whatever Kedrin’s faults, he had honorably dedicated his service to Béarn and had faithfully executed his duties. One more step and Baltraine would become culpable for the very treason he assigned the knight.
Kedrin cleared his throat, a sure sign he had not yet fully spoken his piece. “This seems the perfect time to call a meeting.”
“A meeting?” The suggestion caught Baltraine off guard. “We just had a meeting.”
Kedrin adjusted his tabard, though it already hung in perfect symmetry, as if clothes not man determined its position. “Now is the time to determine what we do next. Depending on the results of the expedition, we need to have contingency plans laid.”
“You want us to hash out all the possible outcomes and make plans based on each?”
“Indeed.”
The idea seemed madness to Baltraine, and all remor
se for his vengeance disappeared. “There’re endless possibilities.”
Kedrin’s ghostly eyes fixed on Baltraine’s face. “True, if details are taken to extreme.” The intimation that the prime minister tended to do so was a subtle insult that did not suit the knight’s honor and surely indicated growing impatience otherwise well-hidden. “But there’re only a few main categories.”
“Is that so?” Baltraine kept his stance light despite his own flaring irritation. The impression he left scribe and guards would fully determine the success or failure of his snare. A mistake would cost him rank, happiness, and leadership of the kingdom. And, possibly, his life.
“Certainly.” Kedrin spoke as if the whole should seem obvious. “They could not return. Santagithi could prove hostile. They could return with the heir. They could . . .”
Baltraine did not allow Kedrin to finish, hoping his rudeness would spur the knight-captain to recklessness. “I understand the possibilities, Kedrin.” He deliberately avoided the other’s title and hoped the persistent calmness that distant observers caused him to adopt provoked as much as his words. “Since when did you become a diplomat? You’re paid to guard, parade, and add pomp to ceremonies, not to think. Not ever to think.”
The nastiness of words and tone, especially without accompanying gesture or manner, momentarily struck the knight dumb, leaving Kedrin standing openmouthed. Warrior instincts drove him a menacing step forward.
Baltraine pounced on the opportunity. “By the way, I believe this is yours.” Keeping his back to the guardsmen in the hallway, he drew Kedrin’s knife and offered it, hilt first.
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