It seemed to take hours to overcome the marines, though Selwyn knew it was likely only a few grueling minutes. Once the Jandari had taken the last of the marines, they swept on to the Amber Stag. Less than thirty of Selwyn’s boarding party remained and nearly all were bleeding. After securing both ships, Selwyn reloaded the skein-bow and called to the nearest enemy boats. “Give sign of your surrender!”
After a minute’s wait, he loosed the skein-bow, aiming at the waterline of a keelboat. The sideboards shattered and the hull began to list as water flooded inside. The sailors bailed frantically, but it went under in moments. The river must have been deeper there, for no one could stand and only two made it to shore. Immediately, sailors on the remaining boats waved arms, shirts, and anything else at hand to signal defeat.
Soon after, Lord Hewland led his cavalry across the ford to aid Batuhan Switt. Once they subdued the remaining defenders, Selwyn ordered his men to assist the wounded as best they could — Jandari first and then the enemy.
Once the gruesome task of bandaging wounded and stacking dead was finished, Selwyn allowed a clark to tend his wounds. They were shallow, but could fester if left untreated.
“We’ve got the last of the prisoners gathered.” Selwyn looked up to see Reyhan, his smoke-blackened face cracked in a grin. He had a set of bluebuck skins in hand. “Those cuts are gonna scar, you know.”
He knew it was childish, but Selwyn felt a rush of pride. “My first battle scars.”
“Your father would have been proud of what you did today.”
“It’s a start, Reyhan. At least it’s a bleeding start. Those clothes for me?”
Reyhan tossed the skins over. “Didn’t think you’d fancy treating with a mercenary captain in your smallclothes.”
The rough bluebuck hide was murder on his wounds, but he pulled on the blouse and trousers. He strode out to the circle of captured enemy, Reyhan at his side. “Who among you is in command?”
“I am, my lord.” A knight with a horseshoe mustache walked to the edge of the crowd. “Captain Sacha, master of Sacha’s Swiftsteeds. The lord in charge of the convoy is dead. I ask clemency for these men.”
“All of you will be spared, providing you swear an oath to the High King of Heaven that you will take no further part in this campaign. We will strip your arms and horses but allow supplies and light weapons for the journey.” It was a new experience to win an engagement. Selwyn thought for a moment about what else needed to be said. “Belgorshan peasants and slaves will travel up the west side of the river and soldiers will keep to the east bank.”
At least that way, the common folk had some chance of staying free. “The peasants and slaves will have all the rations they can carry. If you provide me with the information I need, Captain Sacha, your men will also receive extra food and supplies.”
Sacha considered this a moment. “I’m out of the campaign now, so I see no harm in talking.”
“What is the challenge and response when you reach the Belgorshan pickets?” Selwyn watched intently as he answered.
“They will ask what you’ve brought them from home. You must tell them, ‘Everything needed for victory.’” If he was lying, it was a convincing lie.
“Very well. All of you, strip out of your armor and pile it here. The clarks will take your oaths. You fought well today and there is no shame in this defeat.”
“Your Grace,” Batuhan Switt cut in. “We must search them for Jandari. I see at least two men in darengai.
“We’re no longer meting out the traditional punishment, Lord Switt. Under the Codex, mercenaries have no nation.”
“The Codex is dead.”
“A codex cannot die, so long as it is remembered.”
“We’re to spare all prisoners? As Leax did for Lord Wicke?”
“We must be better than the enemy, or we don’t deserve victory. No more prisoners will be executed in the March. Those are my orders.” Batuhan Switt made no reply, stalking away in anger.
“Batuhan took that well,” Reyhan said drily. “Wait ‘til you tell him you want to start electing the nobility.”
Once the enemy was marching north, Jandari carried the wounded from both sides to the infirmary; others searched the convoy; and a group of swimmers fished dead bodies from the water before they could float downriver to alert Leax that his convoy was taken.
Shouts came from the river. Selwyn and Reyhan ran to the bank. Two Jandari stood at the bow of the Queen Bethany, waving their arms for attention. “Come look, Your Grace!”
Reyhan shrugged. “You know I sink like a stone. Go find out what has them excited.” Selwyn waded out into the Green Lady and swam to the galley. Men helped him over the side. “Look in the hold, Your Grace.”
Climbing down into the musty underbelly of the boat, Selwyn peered through the dimness. As his eyes adjusted, he saw stacks of wooden boxes extending the length of the hold. The nearest had its lid prised free. After looking inside, he sat down on the stairs and laughed so long and hard that the two Jandari asked if all was well.
“Well indeed, men. Well indeed. This might change everything.”
CHAPTER 46
T imble had kept a close eye on each of the household knights inside Nineacre Castle, but was still no closer to finding the traitor. Without fresh information, he had settled on Hornbill as the most likely culprit, or at least the one he most wanted to be guilty, so he was spending another night crouching behind a sand bin, watching the man for signs of betrayal.
The night passed at a crawl, with tedium and dread competing to see which could torture him more. The only time Hornbill had ever been interesting was that day in the cottage with the garrote and the flame pepper. Now he just sat and smoked, barely moving, let alone committing treason.
It left Timble with too much time to think about the trolls and knights, mercenaries and peasants, all wanting to be first over the wall to kill him. Worse, now that the dam was finished, the dweorgs had started tunneling. The thought of the evil beggars scraping underneath the walls played on the mind. They could pop up anywhere.
Timble must have dozed off, because he woke to Hornbill sending the other two watchmen away for food. Once they were gone, the knight took out a scrip of parchment and bound it to a flight arrow, gave a quick look left and right, and then nocked the arrow.
“No!” Timble called, scrambling out from his spot behind the sand bin. He tossed a goatsbane-coated dart at the startled knight. Hours of crouching had left Timble stiff, spoiling his aim, and the dart spanged harmlessly from Hornbill’s armored shoulder. The knight reflexively loosed the arrow over the wall, and then went for his sword.
Timble grabbed a sand bucket and tossed the contents at him. Hornbill pulled his weapon free just in time to get a faceful of the stuff. Sputtering, he swung the sword back and forth in a vicious arc. Timble dove into his famous roll, leap, and fart, but substituted a tackle for that last bit, using his momentum to take down the larger man.
Hornbill hit the ground hard. Timble pulled his curving dagger and went for the neck. A mailed fist took him in the jaw. Blackness and painful light flashed at the same time. Hands closed over his throat. Feebly, Timble swiped with his blade, but Hornbill kept his elbows out, blocking the dagger from reaching anything vulnerable. Damn, but he’s stronger than he looks, Timble thought wildly. Wringing me like a chicken. His chest begged for air. His eyes lost focus.
Shouts came from nearby. Running feet. A boot caught Timble in the ribs. “Get off Sir Bartram!” Hands grabbed him. “You can let go, sir, I’ve got him.” Grudgingly, the fingers pulled back from his throat.
Two guards held Timble up by the arms. He tried to stand, but his legs had forgotten how.
“Timble? Sir Bartram? What happened?”
“This man is a traitor. He ambushed me while my back was turned.”
The guards pushed Timble against the battlements. He recognized them as gambling mates, but their looks were hard. Others began arriving.
�
�Show this fool how we deal with traitors,” Sir Bartram ordered. “Cut his throat and dump him over the side.”
“Wait!” Timble rasped. “He’s the traitor! Arrow. Message for Leax.” He motioned over the wall, his voice failing.
The men looked helplessly between knight and jester. Hornbill might have authority, but Timble had friends.
“I’ll kill him myself then.” Hornbill drew a dagger and yanked Timble’s head back by the hair, exposing his throat.
“Sir Chegatay!” Timble choked out. “Get Chegatay.”
A serjeant shoved a hand between them. “He’s right. Chegatay should hear about this.”
They fetched the castellan, who calmly listened to both Timble and Hornbill, a massive paw clamped on each man’s shoulder. Hornbill lied with impressive fluency, claiming he’d shot at a sapper approaching the wall. Timble tried to explain, but his words came out in a hoarse, unconvincing whisper.
In the end, Chegatay gave each of them a companionable pat on the back. “Timble was overzealous, but he meant no harm, good Sir Bartram. Naturally, we are all worried about whomever poisoned the pilgur, and the poor fellow’s imagination ran wild.” He looked between them menacingly. “Now clasp hands as friends.”
There was no denying the hulking castellan, so Timble shook the traitor’s hand, but already his mind was working on how to kill him. Best it was done soon, before the enemy could take advantage of Hornbill’s note.
CHAPTER 47
L arissa sat in bed and watched the stars through her open window, trying to keep awake. Now that she knew Magus was a murderer, it should have been easy. The thought of sleeping in the tower, alone with Tancred and creepy old Kaan was terrifying, but despite her fear, sleep kept creeping up and tugging her eyelids. The day had been grueling, filled with useless pacts for King Randolf and constant worry that Magus would see through her friendly act.
She had to stay awake. The magus would be drained from so many pacts, and sure to go out seeking a sacrifice. When he did, she and Sir Gladwin would follow with soldiers and catch him in the act.
If King Randolf weren’t so craven, they wouldn’t have to. After Kolos’s residuum specter had told her the truth about Tancred, she’d gone to Gladwin at the first opportunity. In his thoughtful, deliberate way, Gladwin had weighed her accusations for an agonizingly long while before accepting them.
She begged him to go to the king, but he’d refused. Randolf relied too much on Tancred to believe an accusation without absolute proof. Saying anything too soon would just alert the magus that they knew. They needed evidence.
Tamping down her fears for a moment, Larissa examined her reservoir. It was terribly empty after the day’s work. If they confronted Magus, she would be little help.
Tancred always said the light faie would almost never give power unless it was for an immediate pact, which was why so many faietouched were drawn to the dark. But what if he was wrong, or lying? If trouble came tonight, she needed power.
Larissa took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Reaching for the Veil, she called upon Kirilith, her patron faie. He knew her best. When the conflux began, she consciously yielded the meeting ground to him, hoping it would show deference. As the faie reality coalesced into shifting light and sound, she did her best to simply accept things, rather than trying to impose human order upon it. A familiar essence appeared from out of what looked to her like a raging, swirling lake made of light.
Your energies seem troubled, Larissa.
Kirilith! I know you won’t speak of another pactmaker to me, but maybe I can tell you things. Tancred is a servant of Avishag. I think you know that. He’s killed and I think he’s going to kill again tonight.
Larissa thought she sensed conflict within him. Indecision. Have you come to ask for a pact? Protection?
We’re going to expose him tonight, but my reservoir is empty. Can you give me power, in case I need it?
You know that is not the way — humans are too fallible. Power comes through pacts.
Footsteps sounded in the human world. They felt a thousand miles away, and it took her a moment to recognize what they were. Kaan was long in bed, so it must be Magus, coming down from his chambers. Kirilith, please! I swear upon the High King, and my mother’s life, and my hope of resurrection that I will use this power for good. Your job is to help the servants of the High King. Magus is leaving the tower. I know he’s going to do something awful tonight. Please give me what I need to stop him.
The colors seemed to close in on themselves. Larissa gave a mental scream. Please don’t leave! I need your help! She sensed that he was not gone, merely distant, if the word even applied in the faie realm.
After long moments, Kirilith’s presence reopened. I will do this, but remember what you have sworn. The High King will remember the taking of his name.
Thank you, dear Kirilith. I won’t fail you. And tomorrow, I’ll do lots of good deeds for your cult. I promise.
If it was possible for an essence to laugh, Kirilith did. Be safe, young human.
Larissa felt a suffusing warmth as energy filled her reservoir. She opened her eyes and allowed her mind to reorient to the world of shape and touch. Quietly, she slipped on boots and belted on a knife. Below, the front door shut and a bolt locked into place. She crept to the window. Grayish Aysul was just setting over the city walls and the night was good and dark.
A survey of the square revealed no one watching, so she climbed out the window and started down the side of the tower. It was ancient, far older than the rest of the city, and cobbled together from field stones. She was glad for the craggy surface, as it gave plenty of handholds on the way down. Tancred looked back once and she froze in place, but he didn’t seem to notice anything. She prayed that was true.
By the time she reached the ground, Sir Gladwin and a man in a dark half-cloak stepped out from the shadows of a nearby shop. “This is Hajsem,” Gladwin whispered. “He helps protect the king, in less obvious ways than me.” As she approached, Larissa noticed that Hajsem had a scar in place of a nose. He gave her a ghastly smile.
They followed the magus at a distance, toward the Green Lady. “This is the same way he went before,” Larissa whispered.
“That makes sense,” Hajsem replied. “Prostitutes gather along the river strand.”
This time, however, Magus ignored the liftskirts he passed, instead heading straight for the glassblower’s shop. Larissa sighed in relief. At least he wasn’t picking up a sacrifice. They waited at the mouth of the alley as he knocked on the shop door. A man answered and motioned him inside. Once the door was closed, Larissa and the others entered the alley, which was empty except for piles of rubbish and a sleeping beggar. As they approached, the beggar abruptly sat up and turned to them. Larissa choked back a yelp. “Gladwin, you’re too late.”
“We had to wait until Tancred moved. What have we missed?”
“Th’ mistress of the house came back two hours ago with some urchin boys. I heard her promising sweets.”
Larissa felt heartsick. Whatever hope she’d had that Kolos was lying, that Timble was lying, that all her instincts were lying, suddenly turned to vapor. “We should wait out here,” she said in a broken voice. “If he has sacrifices, he’ll be powerful. We should surprise him…”
“I can’t wait, Larissa. Not if there’s a chance to save the children. You know that.”
She nodded reluctantly. Good people could be so fatheaded sometimes.
“The door is too stout to force.” The beggar-spy stood and Larissa could see he had partial armor and a blade under the rags. He pulled a hand crossbow from his filthy satchel. “We should go in through the window.”
They crossed to the shop, and the three of them jammed their daggers between the shutters and levered until the lock broke. Gladwin turned to Larissa. “Stay here.”
“Neptha’s teats I will. I’m coming with you.”
“Larissa, there’s no time to argue.” Gladwin climbed through the open window. H
e turned to say something else, when shrieking erupted inside the dark room.
Hajsem called out, “Gladwin!” and piled inside.
Larissa caught a glint of metal. They would be blind and silhouetted against the window. She closed her eyes and thought of the candles and lamps that must be in the room. “Light!”
Crossing to the now-illuminated window, she saw Hajsem bleeding from his middle and fending off the knife-wielding glassblower, whose face was stretched tight with rage. Gladwin was fighting the wife, who battered at him furiously with a hearth poker. Glass bottles and jars rocked from the shelves and shattered on the ground. With light to see by, the fight took only moments to finish, as the trained warriors parried their attackers. Hajsem cut down the husband, while Gladwin laid out the wife with a straight punch to the jaw.
The beggar-spy was climbing in the window when a horrifying sound came from the back room. Children, none older than eleven, charged at the men with knives and a hammer. She saw Hajsem stalk toward them with his dagger at the ready. He was going to kill them. “I’m such a fathead,” Larissa muttered, then extended her hands through the window. “Slumber!”
The little monsters fell flat. As did much of her reservoir. Ensorceling living, thinking, unwilling targets took more power than anything else. Bugger.
Gladwin and the two spies disappeared into the back room. Larissa crawled in the window and picked her way carefully through the broken glass, arriving to find the three men paused just inside the workshop. Beyond them, she could see furnaces and tools — and Magus. He held a dagger in one hand and the limp form of a boy in the other. Two others lay face-down nearby. Larissa ran to Gladwin’s side and gave Tancred a close look. His reservoir was filled to overflowing. “He’s full of power!”
Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1) Page 33