by Jenna Rhodes
Blood splattered Sevryn’s mouth and eyes, burning and salty. Daravan fell aside with a cry, dropping his sword and clasping his hands across his visage. With a growl, Sevryn knocked aside his hands and put his own over the gaping wound, fingers that burned as if they were on fire and Cerat exulted at the feel of the blood, but the Demon made a brand out of Sevryn, and at his touch, the wound sealed. Not entirely cleanly and not without much pain, for Daravan let out a howl of anguish, but without more loss of blood. Daravan fell to his side, curled on the ground as Cerat tasted his life and soul, and Sevryn pulled back in panting effort.
With his Voice, he whispered Home to Aymaran and set the horse free. He sheathed his sword and dagger and pitched headlong into the dark mouth of the waiting cave. The Demon light in his eyes gave him sight.
Chapter Forty-Seven
NUTMEG KNEW TREES and branches intimately. She’d spent most of her life climbing them and leaping from one to another with an abandon that made her father yell in frustration and her brothers nudge one another in admiration at the skill they’d taught her. So when she saw the low-hanging branch coming at her as her horse galloped headlong toward it, she knew it would sweep her from her saddle if she didn’t duck. She ducked.
The fool tashya horse swerved in blind panic to the right instead, dumping her unceremoniously, head over rear, onto the ground. Her breath left her with a whoosh, and hurt filled her at the same time as she stared skyward. The branch in question waved languidly over her as if in a mocking salute. Like a fish out of water, she whooped for air and glared at the tree. She didn’t think anything on her body could have hurt worse than her legs with which she’d gripped the horse for dear life while he ran, but now her head thumped, her rear must have apple-sized bruises on it from some rock she’d landed on, and she was undoubtedly losing her wits with every breath she could not take! Not to mention that the ground was freezing cold under her. The horse came trotting back and whuffed at her questioningly, his exhalation a misty cloud over her. When she finally got a breath, she rolled to her knees, shaking her fist at the beast.
“For a withered apple core, I’d eat you and walk after Grace.”
“Horse chew good, but what carry you then, little one?” rasped a growly voice behind her.
Nutmeg scrambled to her feet, spinning about with another gasp or two for breath out of necessity and surprise, brushing her unruly hair from her face to see a gnarled Bolger hunkered over watching her. She knew the rough visage well although she’d never thought to see him again. “R . . . Rufus? Rufus!”
He grinned, a frightening grimace considering his weathered face and tusks, but she knew that grin! Nutmeg bounced toward him with a fierce cry of her own to hug him. “We thought you were dead! But you’re not! You’re here!”
“Much hurt,” he grunted as he patted her back awkwardly with one great hand. “Gods have thing for me to do. I not journey for a while. Now I travel again.”
Nutmeg held onto him for another long moment, enveloped by his strong odor and warmth and muscle-knotted strength. She stepped back. “What do they want you to do?”
He shrugged. “Not know yet.”
“Help me find Rivergrace!”
He jerked a thumb over the yellow-green and browning hills toward the jagged peaks. “Gone.”
“You know? Which way? Come with me!” Nutmeg tugged on his hand. He rose to his full height.
“I know. Even in nasty caves, she smell like flower. She pass this way.” And the Bolger jerked his head this time, toward the rugged stone.
“You can smell her that well?”
“Aye. You smell. Dweller. Apple and spice that bites.” A light twinkled in Rufus’ eyes.
“And with every moment the two of you chatter, that scent has to grow fainter so that soon even you won’t be able to track her.”
Nutmeg had to crank her neck to look up at the two Galdarkans who emerged from the shade of a nearby evergreen, their leather battle armor and weaponry muffled by colorful scarves wrapped about them, the familiar haughty expressions on their wide-planed faces. She had never had much trade with Galdarkans until their uprooted family had come to the big city of Calcort, but she had never met one who was not arrogant and thought his worth far more than that of whoever he met. What was Rufus doing with the enemy Queen Lariel feared? She chewed on her tongue before spitting out words she might regret. The speaker tilted his head to one side rather than lower his chin to speak to her.
“I take it you know this Rivergrace?”
“She’s my sister.”
His gaze swept her from head to toe in mild disbelief. Nutmeg shifted from one boot sole to the other, her body aching. A few pine needles drifted from her hair and blouse as she did. “I am Tiforan, third-in-command to Lord Diort. This is my scribe, Lyat. You seem to know our smith and tracker already. If that suffices, I suggest we move and quickly before the queen decides to strengthen the wards on her borders.”
Rufus put his great, rough hands about Nutmeg’s waist and carried her to her horse, tossing her aboard with no more difficulty than if she were a small sack of grain. She snatched at the saddle to keep her balance. “Follow, ” he ordered her as he turned to lead all of them on the trail he alone seemed to know, his wide-slit nostrils flared as he moved uphill, his bowed legs carrying him with greater speed than appeared as the horses moved out with long strides to catch up.
Rufus took them unerringly to the mountains. Tiforan caught up, his face creased unhappily as he reined to a stop. “Old fool, you’ve taken us back to the way we came in. We’ve lost the girl now and whatever advantage Abayan wanted us to take.”
The Bolger did not even blink. He made a curt gesture toward the tumble of boulders.
She heard Tiforan’s complaint with uncertainy. She did not believe for a moment that Rivergrace had offered a marriage alliance to his warlord, but something was afoot here that she had no idea about . . . yet. She trusted Rufus far more than she could throw either Tiforan or Lyat. Standing in the stirrups, she rubbed one throbbing cheek ruefully. Big apple-sized bruises, she thought.
Tiforan spat to the ground, not far from both of them. “Turn back. We need to find the trail.”
Rufus stayed unmoving. He jerked a thumb toward the rock, granite and shadows behind him. He pulled a torch from his saddle pack and crouched down, flint and stone in his hand, striking them until it took a few sparks and lit.
“It’s a fool who has a guide and ignores him.” Nutmeg settled back down and tried not to wince. She slid off her horse, landing with a solid thump as she did and nodded to Rufus. “I’ll follow.”
The Bolger’s eyes flashed in triumph as he turned, leading his horse after him, picking a way through the debris so as not to lame his beast, and Nutmeg came after. She could hear a sound of disdain behind her, then the noise of two more riders on their tail. She was undoubtedly the only one who did not have to duck as a rough stone arch loomed before them, leading into the mountain’s depths. Here it seemed narrow and crowding and she felt choked a bit as smoke hung low.
They walked for a good candlemark or two. Dank air hung close about them, smelling of their sweat and rock under mountain that had never seen light, and strange things grew and lived there. They went skittering, chittering about as she kicked loose stone and broken tile for someone, or something, had laid tile down here, as if she walked a very old court’s road and for the most part, the tunnels had become very smooth, as if chiseled like some artisan’s sculpture. She did not see how Rufus could smell anything down here other than the suffocating smells which cloaked them, but he must, for his head swung about now and then, and he took them down a different branch of the looping tunnels they traveled. Then they reached a dead end blocked by a fall of rock.
Tiforan shouldered his way to them. “Well done,” he muttered. “I suppose your keen senses can tell she is on the other side of that.”
“Taken that way. Double back, catch up.”
Tiforan craned his head
. He looked back toward a branch of tunnels, the one they’d just come down, and another Rufus wanted followed. Pathway marks shone in the glow of the torch over the caves they had traversed but none the way the Bolger wanted to lead them. He had no liking for the darkness or the pathways and knew it to be cowardice on his part, but he could not fail Abayan Diort. Not if he wished to stay high in his warlord’s estimation. He would not stray from the high and low places marked by the Mageborn. He swallowed with a dry mouth.
“Follow the markings if we’re to find her.”
“We go.” Rufus made a vague motion to the other tunnel.
“There are no tracks that way.”
“This cut off. Other way not.”
“You can’t know that. It’s not marked. We’re underneath a cursed pile of rock.” Tiforan jabbed a forefinger at the signs painted eye-height to his frame. “We go this way unless you think you can track across polished stone.”
“Work mines. Know mines. No like.”
“These aren’t mines. You’re on the Pathways of the Guardians,” Tiforan snapped irritably.
The gold-and-black eyes of the Bolger fixed on his face for a moment. “Kill all the same,” Rufus replied. Flashing his tusks, he turned away.
Tiforan bit down on the corner of his lip. He had no liking for Bolgers of any sort, but this one had been handpicked by Diort to ride with him, therefore he had to deal with it. It had to be a test of his ability to control his men, a test of his ability to command, Tiforan could see no other reason for it. Rufus spat upon the cave floor, and he reached out to the Bolger’s shoulder and spun him around.
“This is sacred ground. I will have respect shown, if not to Lord Diort, then to our ancestors!”
Rufus dropped into a crouch, his lips curling back from his massive ivory teeth. He balanced himself with one hand knuckled to the dirt before he straightened. His eyes flashed in the semidarkness. “You think Magessss made these tunnels? These here before you crawled. We know what made these. We hunted it. It hunted us. In our first home and here.” He thumped his chest with the hand holding his torch, and sparks flew about him like maddened fireflies. When he spoke again, his breath cut through the smoky cloud with scorn. “A great beasssst. Its mouth drips, and its juice cuts stone. It eats and then sleeps under mountain. We hunt. It eats its way through rock. Great snake but not snake. These tunnels loop back and forth as it wandered. We hunt for many years of fathers. It kill all it hunt but Bolgers. We too ssssmart for it. It kill us but not all. It turned south. Came to great bay of the ghosts. Went into the seas for food and something there ate it. Your Magesss may put magic into the rocks, but never did they make these places at the beginning.” Rufus waved his torch, the flame roaring up as he did.
“We own them now.” Tiforan’s words fell as if dripped in the same acid-venom the Bolger had just described.
Nutmeg’s hand curled tighter about her own torch. “What do you think?” she charged the thin air. “I think he is right. I follow Rufus.”
“This is not a vote!”
“You may be right. But you’ll look pretty silly walking around in the dark all by yourself. We have the torch.” Putting her chin up, Nutmeg led her horse over to stand by Rufus, the Bolger overshadowing her.
Acknowledging her only with a benevolent grunt, Rufus pointed across the cave. Nutmeg obediently trotted toward it, and disappeared into its shadowy maw. Rufus followed.
Tiforan stood for a bare moment longer as darkness descended around him and then, tugging on his horse’s reins, he went after the two of them, his jaw tight and his gut hurting. He had already lost the prize Diort had sent him after; what difference did losing his dignity make now? Just inside the stony arch, Nutmeg waited for him. He found himself absurdly happy to see her in a circle of illumination, surrounded by rock that did appear as if it had, indeed, been chewed through. They traded looks. “What,” said Tiforan. “No pithy Dweller saying to encourage me with, like “Many feet make a short trail”?”
“That,” Nutmeg told him, “is a given.” She presented him with a picture of her back as she led her mount away.
Tressandre deftly wove Jeredon’s hair into a war plait, pulling hard with her comb to untangle it before she did, his scalp stinging as she yanked. Jeredon fought to sit still and stay silent, a task not difficult as his thoughts wandered. Her hands quieted suddenly. “You’re thinking of the Dweller.”
His head jerked even though she had not pulled on him then. “I’m thinking of war,” he denied.
She ignored him, returning, “Keep her, then, as a pet.”
A bitterness rose in his throat at her words. “She is not a pet.”
“You may be right there. Our hounds live longer than she might.” Tressandre’s fingers began to move again, even harsher than before. Her voice softened a bit. “It is not uncommon to have a bond with those who nurse us. Lariel should recognize that. You’re a man of good heart, and she should know better than any of us. Your fondness for Nutmeg is not a flaw. I understand.”
He could not see her face to weigh her words, but even if he could, he doubted he would be able to judge Tressandre. The ild Fallyn kept their true thoughts and machinations as veiled as any he had ever met. He knew that even as she now shared his bed it wasn’t for him alone. She had her eye, as she’d always had, on the throne of Warrior Queen. She pleased him more in lovemaking than he pleased her, of that he had no illusions, for she liked it far rougher than he could manage, her taste for pain both in giving and taking something he could not meet. He lay with her only because she knew how to make her touch seduce him, and his thoughts of Nutmeg created an ache that he could not forget in any other way. And today, it seemed, even that no longer worked. He tightened his jaw as Tressandre finished his braid and let it drop along his back.
“It is best she stayed behind,” Tressandre murmured, her hand stroking his shoulder. “She won’t understand your warrior side as I do. Your returning triumphant to her will mean that much more. She will see you, and understand what all three of us share.” Her words lingered meaningfully, stopping his comment in his teeth.
He did not trust her. He wasn’t as blind as she thought he was, nor was she, he realized. She lifted him to his feet as he stood, her power bringing strength. His own strength increased every day, but he would not spend it just yet. He used her even as she hoped to use him.
“I will be with Lord Bistel.”
Tressandre gave a little half smile, a gracious curve to her beautiful face. “Of course.”
He found Bistel easily, his shock of white hair standing out, as the warlord sat upon high ground, watching his troops. Bistel smiled, a genuine smile, that creased his face and warmed his shockingly blue within blue eyes.
“Sit with me a moment.”
Jeredon maneuvered as close as he dared, but the old war hound Alfra lifted her head and curled her lip at him in warning as the warlord stretched out one leg and his aryn wood staff. Bistel put his hand on her head. “Steady,” he told her. He scratched the flap of her ear gently. “She’s an old bitch,” he said to Jeredon, “and one of my favorites. She’s a brave one. Faced a pack of Ravers with me, took two of them down all by herself. She hates the very scent of them now. I’d hoped to get one last litter from her, but she’s gone barren these last few seasons according to the packmaster. They shouldn’t have brought her. She deserves to rest at home, but she wouldn’t be left behind. And now she snaps at everyone. I can’t have that or her pretending she’s too deaf to hear orders.”
Jeredon put his hand out and let the dog sniff him. She settled against Bistel’s leg with a grumble. Jeredon ran his hand along her muscular frame with his hunter’s senses, feeling her bone structure and the lines of her body, a hound bred to course battlefields instead of green fields and forests, his palm pausing for a moment on her flank; and then a curious and warm smile came over his face, and a light into his eyes. “Thrash your packmaster for not knowing his bitches,” he told Bistel. “She’s car
rying a litter and a nice-sized one, too, I sense. She’s about halfway along.”
“What?” Bistel looked at him down his sharp, aquiline nose.
Jeredon took his hand away with a shrug. “It’s just one of the things I do. I’m told I knew my mother was carrying Lara days before she knew.”
“Great news then!” Bistel thumped old Alfra in delight.
“I’d put her with the supply wagons on guard,” Jeredon offered. “She’ll have shelter there. She’s snappish only to protect herself and you.”
“That I’ll do.” Bistel settled back with a pleased look. He let his free hand down and scratched Alfra’s head now and again.
“What do we do here, sir?” asked Jeredon. “Besides waiting.”
“I’m letting him decide when to make his move. I know Lara wants him broken, and quickly, but I see no advantage to our rushing it. There’s a trap here, and I’ll draw him into it if he decides to open an attack upon us. If he does not, I’m sure we’ve enough diplomats tented here to come to terms.” He gestured. “Ashenbrook,” said Bistel carefully, “is the river that ran red with blood and where Kanako fell. But it wasn’t Ashenbrook that killed him. It was the Revela.” And he pointed with his aryn wood staff at the other river, a knife of a river, keen and cutting across the landscape, its bones showing because what water remained in it was no more than a trickle.
“How so?”
“It was a wet year that year. A lot of rainfall. Clever brutes, the Bolgers. They knew their land better than we did although, in our arrogance, we didn’t think so. But the Revela was high and so was the Ashenbrook. We’d come in through the southern pass and they cut it off. We thought to wade down the Ashenbrook if we had to retreat, but we weren’t worried. We should have been. The Bolger clans came sweeping down over the Revela, which ran too swift for any crossing on foot. They had pontoons over it and crossed their infantry at a run and then their horse guards. Most of them made it.”