by Jenna Rhodes
Rivergrace fell asleep, listening to her mind’s memory of Lily sitting at a loom and singing softly to herself, working on a soft yarn garment that would undoubtedly be a baby’s blanket.
She awoke to the smell of blood and death.
Chapter
Nine
GRACE MOVED SIDEWAYS, blending into the wind-twisted trees that ringed the campfire. It had sunken into banked coals, little she could do about that, but she could disappear from sight. The stiff-needled branches of the nearest tree bent around her form reluctantly, its sap scented sharp and clear. With the toe of her boot, she dragged her kit bag under cover with her and bent to grab the strap and hoist it over her shoulder. Her other hand dropped to the hilt of her blade. The smell of blood grew stronger. The blood scent came to her fresh, as though just spilled and still wet and crimson, but underneath she thought she detected a familiar dry and musty rot.
She shut her lips tight. She slipped her fingers into her bag carefully, searching for the sharpest bit of steel she could find. The curved blade bit her, slicing across her index finger lightly. She grasped the handle and drew it out, breathing as lightly as she dared, not wanting to alert the other. If it were hunting, if it were crazed by the blood it had spilled, she had no hope or reason to save its unlife and her tether would take care of its soul. Beyond that, the balance lay between life or death, and she would choose life.
Grace put her forehead against the tree trunk whose branches sheltered her and tried to look through the looming darkness. A barely lit night, the moon not bright enough to illuminate much, if at all, but the unmistakable odors reaching her told her the being moved steadily closer.
It couldn’t be hunting her. Like a gaze hound, the Undead looked for movement as well as the heat of the blood within its prey, and she stood still, still as silence and shadows. The shroud of threads she wore shifted about her, and she could feel a ping of awareness down one of the lines.
The back of her neck went chill. His awareness of her or her awareness of him? And did she even have a soul anchor on this particular Undead, for Quendius had been reaping the dying on the field of Larandaril with every step he took across the battlefield heading to the gate between the worlds. She had flung her own soul out, capturing as many as she could, but she could not possibly have caught everyone. Not all of them. So did this tingle she felt come from the approaching Undead or from within herself?
The light breeze stirred the branches around her; one brushed over the top of her head and across her brow, like the light and feathery touch of an inquisitive hand. She looked upward and then shoved her blade into her boot, put her hand up to a sturdy branch and began to hoist herself up. The tree gave way quietly, surrendering to her climb, as silent and sure as she could accomplish it, her thoughts filled with remembered climbs with Nutmeg, in the same quiet, so that their brothers could not discover them. The fitful night wind covered the occasional creak of limb or crackle of bark as she made her way higher and higher until she could travel no farther safely and settled down in the fork of her tree. She ran her hand down the shaft of her boot, ensuring that the curved blade remained nestled securely, and then looked over the canopy of trees to see what she could.
She would not have seen him at all if the faint light of the moon had not caught and reflected in his eyes.
He didn’t dare take them out, though he had no doubt he could do so. If it had been a pack of street thieves in a back alley, he would have. But these were town guards and their numbers would certainly be missed and the motives behind any attack would be keenly probed throughout the city. He rolled to his knees and froze, open hands in the air. Even though he’d made the decision not to provoke or fight, he noted his targets and how he would most efficiently attack: to his left, grab the end of the spear and throw the holder across the semicircle into the two standing to Sevryn’s farmost right. That would bring three down for a moment, in which time he could pull two men together and take one out by a kick to the face and the second by hamstringing as he went down and turned in the kick. Then he would take out one of the spear-carriers by a blow or kick to the temple, roll, get back on his feet, and face the remaining three. His actions would depend on theirs: spears, swords, knives, or fists. He hadn’t been particularly lethal yet and would go for the knees, preventing them from running after him efficiently when he took his leave. He would have a spear in his own hands and could use it to both block and sweep anyone else off their feet, as well as deliver some ringing blows to the side of the head.
But he stayed still. His lungs inflated a little with his thoughts, preparing for the attacks, and his balance shifted, ever so subtly, but he kept his eyes level on the town guardsmen.
“What’re you doing up there?”
“Watching and listening. My girl walks down thatta alley. Thought she might be meetin’ a fella.” The accented Vaelinar felt strange coming from his throat and mouth and, to his ears, he didn’t quite have the pitch of it, but they did not seem to notice.
The big guy in the middle, with a scar across his upper lip that looked like he’d taken a losing slice in a knife fight, dipped his spear point in the air. “Make a habit of crawlin’ on rooftops, do you?”
“Only when I don’t want t’be seen. My bit catches me spying on her, it’ll be a cold day for me, eh.”
“No more’n you deserve. A woman needs respect.”
“Indeed.” He sketched a slight bow. “By the Queen, no less, a woman does.”
The guards traded looks. Had he gambled on Trevilara insisting on a woman’s equality correctly? It would be no less than he expected, but backwater towns could hold backward perceptions. Someone grunted.
The big guy waved his spear. “Inta the drunk wagon with you. I think t’would do you good to sleep the night off.”
Sevryn heaved a sigh. He bowed his shoulders. “If you will.”
The spears all moved closer to him, herding. “Git along.”
They prodded him into a quick walk, along the gutters of the alley and into the main street where lanterns flickered feebly against the curtains of night. The march took him to a foul-smelling enclosed wagon hunkered down by the side of the road, four droop-headed horses waiting in the traces, and a guard sleeping on the high seat to the fore of the wagon. Sevryn did not want to enter the wagon but went anyway, with a spear end thumped into his ribs to encourage him, and sat down, breathing through his mouth against the stench of urine and alcohol vomit at his feet. His throat burned with the effort. Two huddled-up figures exchanged nods with him and a third lay curled up on the filthy floor, snoring fitfully. He braced himself with his elbows on his knees and fixed his fellow passengers not as comrades but as points of diversion and possible shields when he broke out.
The wagon gate slammed as he settled. “That’s enough for a stop at t’jail.”
A heavy fist thumped the side of the wagon, vibrating through its thin boards, and another voice called out, “Halt there. Not the jail.” A new voice. Somewhat cultured, by the accent of it. Perhaps an officer had joined the guardsmen.
“Not the jail? Why’t not?”
“The good queen is in town, standing at the Lord Mayor’s hall. She wants a look at our miscreants, see who’s up to mischief and who isn’t. For all I know, she might need a subject for one of her experiments and such.”
“She’s been sending spies out to take a look at that army gathered at th’ crossroads.” A flat declaration.
“Of course she has! Think anyone stays a queen supreme as long as she has without a lick of sense? She’s got eyes fixed on that group, studying, gathering. I heard”—and the voice dropped low enough that Sevryn had to lean forward on his elbows to take the whisper in—“that the army is most unusual. Only one man has gotten back to tell of it, and his mind so addled only she can pick the truth out of it.”
“What sort of truth?”
“I heard that the ar
my is unnatural, riddled with curses as well as magic, and the soldiers are blood drinkers.”
A collective gasp from the listeners. “No! No such thing exists.”
“It does now, if the survivor has it right. But who knows? The queen herself may have to travel out to meet this menace. Our trade routes have been blocked for days now, and she is furious over the lack of goods and revenue. She says her people suffer.”
Someone muttered something even lower than Sevryn could catch, and a scuffle followed the muttering and then a hard thump of a fist to flesh. Another thud of a body hitting the street.
“Throw him in th’ wagon until his head clears.” Big man, clearly.
The cultured voice added smoothly, “Fitting. We’ll have no dissent among the guard, for pity’s sake. She’s been our queen for three generations and shows not a day of it, but her mind has wisdom we cannot even begin to comprehend.”
The tailgate dropped long enough to roll a limp form in. The body came to a halt at Sevryn’s boot toes and he stared down, trying to decide if the man could be an advantage or not. The gate slammed shut again, and this time the horses took off with a jolt and whinnies of protest against a whip snapping against their rumps. The wagon lurched forward unsteadily before settling down into a pattern of bumps and sways. The men around him pitched back and forth, except for the loose-limbed unconscious guard on the floor and the sleeping drunk in the back, who Sevryn had come to suspect, was neither as drunk or asleep as his fellow prisoners thought. Now there was a dangerous man, and one Sevryn hoped to keep a lid on until he made his own move. He slid a boot over, quietly and slowly, until he could toe an outflung hand. A slight tension ran through the supposedly sleeping man. Then, he aimed his Voice, low and steely at him, filled with compulsion. “Don’t.”
The tension increased as did the snoring. Sevryn drew his foot away, fairly secure that the man had been warned and taken it accordingly.
Under them, the wagon wheels went from relatively smooth road to graded but much less hard dirt roads. After a space of time traveling along this corridor, the wagon turned again and ran over paved roads, although the paving seemed erratic and somewhat in need of repair. The Lord Mayor, it would seem, spent the funds of his high office on projects other than roadwork. Perhaps on an excellent wine cellar and larder? If he was entertaining the queen, that would undoubtedly be indicative. He let idle thoughts wander in and out while he kept a rough calculation on how far they traveled and knew that, when he did make a run for it, he would need a mount. Might as well get that second one for Rivergrace he’d been contemplating earlier that night.
Wagon wheels rolled onto a much smoother, harder, and consistent roadway, the horses’ hooves ringing out. Wherever it was they were, they had almost arrived. Sevryn sat up and cleared his throat, preparing to grab whatever shadows he could with his Voice and disappear into them, when the vehicle jolted to a sudden stop.
Light flared about the thin wooden sides of the wagon, light and heat. Torches? A lot of them, if the driveway were lit that crudely but lanterns could put out neither that much illumination or temperature. Had to be a veritable fiery lane of torches. Was the queen afraid of the dark and its many shadows? Did she presume that assassins hid around each and every corner to cut down her despotic self? Or was this a fetish of the Lord Mayor, to burn into the darkness a miniature sun holding forth on his grounds? Either way, it would make it difficult for Sevryn to slip away.
Very difficult.
He sat up, gathering his legs and balance under him, ready despite the circumstances. As figures came to the wagon gate to lower it, he moved to the far corner, as two of his fellow prisoners got to their feet in anticipation.
Beyond them, he could see the trailing edge of flame—orange-, red-, and blue-tipped waves—eating away at the night. In the midst of the bonfire stood a woman. She might have had copper skin or it might have been the reflection from the wall of fire that surrounded and protected her, but she had hair as black as ink cascading over her slender neck and shoulders to cup the bottom of her firm behind. Her gown, of ivory with gold filigree and needlework, hugged her figure close, revealing high mounded breasts, nipping in at a slender waist, and then falling smoothly to the floor, only hinting at the shapely legs it covered. He could not tell if the hem was clear of the flames or if its edges burned as well. He thought he might be able to smell it if the cloth had caught fire, but he couldn’t. He had no doubt, however, that he looked upon Trevilara.
“How many subjects have we?” she asked crisply.
“Four or five, Your Highness.”
“I see four.” She retreated a step, the fire’s path following her. She raised her voice, which was lush and seductive even when reciting the business of the evening. “Gentlemen, let me congratulate you on the job you are about to perform for me.” She lifted a slender arm, her long fingers grasping a vial. It gleamed in the light she cast, its fluid ruby red like a fine wine, but not like blood. It held a shimmery glisten to it that spoke of artistry, not nature, in its depths, like liquefied gems. He instinctively drew back, his nostrils flaring as if it contained all the unsavory odors of the prison wagon and more. Of evil.
“As you know, I have been on a long quest to rid my country of the plague and this elixir is the latest culmination of my hope to find the proper antidote. You shall have the privilege of testing it for me. With your help, and your names will be sung in the Halls of my palace, I shall prove its worth.”
Or not, thought Sevryn. And first, one had to be contaminated.
Trevilara put out a finely shaped ankle to kick her hem aside, so that she could pivot. When she did, her fiery wall shifting to remain with her, her movement exposed a barred cage to view, a cage filled with two Raymy, their reptilian spines up and their wattles puffed out, and their skin bursting with the nasty pustules of their disease. They hissed as she took two steps toward their pen. Its bars rattled with their agitation.
She made a motion with her hands. Her fiery enclosure opened and took the Raymy within its confines as well, and she laid her palm on the top. The Raymy hissing grew loud and shrill until she kicked a bar, and they scuttled back into a corner and cowered. They knew her, knew what she could do to them, Sevryn thought. And it wasn’t a pleasant knowledge.
As the last two men climbed reluctantly over the tailgate, Sevryn took advantage of the long shadow they cast and hit the ground as well, behind them, and then quickly peeled off to the side of the wagon where it cast its own silhouette and absorbed his.
A brace of guards rode up, one of them nearly brushing him as it passed where he stood. The horse jerked his head and flicked his ears, indicating his presence, but his rider only had eyes for the queen, it seemed, and halted to stare at her. His partner swung down, pushed his reins into the other’s hands and went to gather up the prisoners who stumbled about as if in awe, pushing them in a bunch toward the fiery queen.
He did not blame them for their sudden silence and numbness. She stood in power and beauty, spectacle and sorcery, and he was afraid to look away himself. He decided on two things. One, he could not let Quendius ally with this person. And two, to do that, he must escape her presence that night, at all costs. Then, thirdly, his most important realization sank in. She must never meet Rivergrace.
A low and powerful voice spoke at his back. “Your Grace. You mustn’t overlook this sacrifice. The shadows seem to have an affinity for him.”
A knifepoint, aimed at his kidney, poked him in the back hard enough to break skin, urging Sevryn to step forward.
From her vantage point, Grace could see the shambling half-man below her as he pushed through the twisted grasses and low-hanging branches. Wetness slicked his clothing black. Yet, if the sun had been up, she was almost certain what she saw was blood, dampening and sticking his shirt and ripped trousers to his body. She could smell it, coppery sharp and pungent. Mortal blood? She’d no way of know
ing. What she did know was that the Undead, while in her father’s grip and being herded for Quendius, had little actual need for food or drink although they liked to blood small vermin now and then. Bigger game stayed mostly on the plates of the living although Quendius would sometimes throw raw, bloody portions to his followers as a treat. She’d never seen any of the Undead bathe in blood although she’d sensed the potential.
Cerat had risen in this one. Taken over. It seemed alone, which meant that even the stranglehold Quendius had on his army had not kept this one in line. And it hunted.
She knew that because the thing had stretched up, standing tall as it must have done once in its mortality, and laid its hands on the trunk of her tree, and made a noise of satisfaction.
It had found her.
She held her breath but all that did was make its panting all the louder. It backed up a step or two, to cast its gaze up at her and said, “Want.”
It took a moment to get the word out, rolling the sound about in its throat as if it had forgotten how to speak as a mortal speaks rather than verbalize, and when it did force the word out, the sound of it shivered over her, chill and piercing.
With little thought but a lot of purpose, she took hold of her knife and let herself fall from the treetop straight down upon the thing. She hit hard, and it buckled under her weight. They hit the ground together, the Undead squalling in anger and surprise. On its back, she grabbed for greasy strands of hair and yanked its head back with one hand, and cut through its throat with the other. The curved scythe went through its flesh like a hot knife through soft cheese, decapitating him. The body continued to buck under her convulsively and stilled only when she jumped off it and threw the head aside.