The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  The Ploughman took Huss from Nicolas and laid him across another horse before mounting. Finally, Nicolas, still dressed in the black and green of the High Police, swung himself to the back of a grey gelding.

  “And what are we?” the Ploughman asked. “Prisoners being escorted out by two of the police?”

  “If we’re stopped, yes,” Nicolas said, gathering his horse’s reins. “But until then, we are escapees riding as fast as we can for the city harbour.”

  “The harbour?” the Ploughman asked. “We’re not going overland?”

  “It’s too easy for them to catch us overland,” Nicolas said. “Now let’s go.”

  He urged his horse forward, and together they broke out of the stables, riding for the open gates as fast as they could. A few stragglers in the courtyard saw them and shouted something in question, but they did not stop, and no one stopped them. They had broken clear of the palace altogether before Pat’s shout alerted Nicolas to mounted High Police only a dozen yards behind.

  Nicolas slapped the reins. “Faster!” he shouted.

  They charged down the streets toward the harbour. People, seeing only two sets of High Police riding down on them, cleared the way. Ships were waiting in the sunlight, their sails flashing white. The crowds around the docks were crushing, and fisher wives shrieked as the horses nearly ran them down. Nicolas pulled up sharply and dismounted, charging into the crowd. He knew the others were behind him. The High Police, he hoped, would be slowed by the confused crowds.

  A small fishing boat sat at the end of the dock, its sail not yet tied away. Two men were aboard, unloading cargo. Nicolas leaped from the dock onto the ship and shoved the first man overboard. He hit the water with a tremendous splash just as the second man turned to yell in protest. Nicolas caught him in the jaw with an uppercut and sent him reeling. As the man fought for balance, Nicolas kicked the legs out from beneath him and watched him hit the water beside his companion.

  Nicolas grabbed an oar and threw a second one to the Ploughman, who had just laid Huss down in the bottom of the boat. Maggie and Pat barely made it in before the men shoved off. “Row hard!” Nicolas said. “We’ve got to get out of the harbour so the wind can pick us up!”

  Twenty feet from the dock, he looked back to see the High Police still struggling through the crowd. For some reason, the people were not moving out of their way as quickly as they had for the escapees.

  Nicolas smiled. The wind was starting to blow in the sail. They were away.

  * * *

  In the palace of Athrom, Harutek thrust open the doors of the throne room and stalked forward, his golden armour—a gift from Cratus—gleaming. He pointed an angry finger at the general who stood bent over a council table beneath the room’s glistening chandeliers.

  “You have betrayed me!” Harutek declared.

  Cratus glanced up at him. “You’re one to speak,” he said.

  “You ordered your army to attack Pravik,” Harutek said. “Rumour has reached Athrom—and me.” He strode up to the table as though he would grab Cratus by the scruff of the neck, but Cratus withered his approach with a glare.

  “So I did,” he said. “The Seer had escaped my men and had almost certainly taken up residence there. It was you who told me how important it is to find all six of the Gifted. Was I to let her hole up there forever without any good reason? I sent my army in to take her, and a handful of soldiers to her stinking home village just in case.”

  “The safety of my people is a good reason,” Harutek answered. “We had a bargain, Cratus.”

  “They were safe,” Cratus barked. “Under my men, they would not have been harmed.” He looked away, suddenly unable to meet Harutek’s eyes.

  “What is it?” Harutek asked. “Look at me, curse you!”

  Cratus did not look up. Harutek looked wildly down at the dispatches laid across the table under Cratus’s hand—they were muddy and torn. News, and unwelcome news from the expression on Cratus’s face. The general cleared his throat. “The city has been overtaken by another.”

  Harutek searched for words to express his disbelief. “Another?”

  “The Order of the Spider,” Cratus said.

  “You said the Order was falling,” Harutek said. “To the woman Evelyn.”

  “Yes,” Cratus said. “For the last twelve months it’s been disappearing because their leader was killing off her subordinates. Stars know why. But now she’s taken Pravik from my men.”

  “One woman?” Harutek asked.

  “No,” Cratus snapped. “One woman and all her devilish powers. The same powers I need the Gifted to combat. I see her intent—she means to wrest the Empire from me. I do not mean to let her take it.”

  “Little enough means you have to stop her. You need the Gifted. You didn’t find Virginia in the city, did you?” Harutek asked. “Or in Angslie?”

  “Yet,” Cratus said. “Not yet. She may still be going to Angslie. We’ll have her then.”

  Once more the doors burst open. Three men strode in, all prison guards. The first stood at attention and bowed.

  “Speak,” Cratus said.

  “There’s been a break in the prison, my lord,” the man said.

  “A what?” Cratus asked.

  “Three prisoners have escaped.”

  Harutek knew the truth as Cratus did, even before the guard got up the nerve to voice it fully. The Ploughman, Maggie, and Jarin Huss had escaped. Cratus’s most valuable prisoners, his hope of overcoming Evelyn, and Harutek’s bargain for the safety of his own people.

  Cratus’s face darkened with anger. He dismissed his men, and Harutek smiled coldly.

  “It is justice,” he said. “Retribution on you for daring to attack the city as you promised me you would not. Your last means of resisting the Order is gone.”

  “No,” Cratus said. “Not my last means. Nor even my best.”

  He straightened and looked at Harutek, and the prince was taken aback by the look in the general’s eyes. “What I need to defeat the woman is still in my hands. She is not the only one with access to power. I would have used the Gifted—I will still. But there is one way open to me even now. I will not fear to use it.”

  * * *

  Beyond the harbour, Nicolas put his rudimentary sailing skills to work, and with Pat’s help, tried to set a course for the northern coast of Galce. Maggie had discovered a few waterproof blankets in the little boat, and she wrapped Huss in them before falling asleep in total exhaustion. Pat watched her with evident concern.

  “It will be all right,” the Ploughman said. “Just get us back to land.”

  “The journey will go quickly,” Nicolas said. “There is a good wind.”

  But the wind was not inclined to work in their favour. They had just sailed out of sight of the coast when it died.

  “Now what?” Pat asked.

  Nicolas was frowning. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

  “Yes,” Pat agreed, “the wind is gone.”

  “Not that,” Nicolas said. “It’s something in the wind.”

  As if in answer to his words, the wind suddenly began to blow again, filling the sail and carrying them hard across the water—further out to sea.

  “We’re going the wrong way!” Pat shouted.

  “I know that!” Nicolas replied, wrestling with the sail. “Help me!”

  Clouds were gathering on the horizon. The Ploughman jumped up to help Nicolas and Pat, but the motion of the boat nearly threw him off his feet. He was a warrior and a farmer—not, by any stretch of the imagination, a sailor. And his head was still swimming from the effects of drugging. Maggie looked up from her crouch over Huss but only shook her head. Her eyes betrayed her worry as she took in the clouds on the horizon, but she could say nothing.

  “Look out!” Pat shouted, and Nicolas ducked as the boom swung over his head, narrowly missing him. The wind was blowing harder, catching the sail and nearly knocking them over into the waves. “Get the sail down!” Nicolas shouted. />
  He reached for a rope, but even as he did a sickening crack met his ears. The mast was breaking. They were losing control.

  And then, sweeping over and around them, they all heard—not a voice, but an impression of a voice. An impression that said, Not that way.

  The storm ceased as suddenly as it had come. A brisk wind was still blowing, still taking them further out to sea.

  “What was that?” Pat asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nicolas answered.

  It was Maggie who gathered her voice enough to offer an answer. “It was the wind,” she said. “Llycharath.”

  Nicolas crouched in front of Maggie and looked into her eyes. “The wind is on our side,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

  She smiled weakly and nodded before laying her head down again.

  “We can’t just let the wind take us,” Pat said. “That’s foolishness.”

  Nicolas looked at her wordlessly. She nodded—she understood. They had little other choice. And anyway, everything about this escape was foolish. She huffed and sat down in the prow of the ship, staring out across the water. Clouds continued to gather overhead, and a light rain fell. But no storm threatened them again—just the wind, blowing hard, taking them where it wanted them to go.

  Maggie and the Ploughman slept. Pat drifted off shortly after, though not before ceremoniously dumping her High Police uniform in the sea. Nicolas followed suit, and as the others slept, he kept his eyes on the horizon.

  He saw it first: an island shrouded in mist, waves crashing off dark rocks. He reached down and shook the Ploughman awake. The warrior scrambled up beside him. “What is it?” he asked.

  Pat’s voice came from behind them. “I know that coast,” she said. “It’s the Green Isle. We’ve blown west of Bryllan.”

  “But why?” Nicolas said. “What’s in the Green Isle?”

  “I think we’re about to find out,” the Ploughman said.

  The rocks and waves were formidable, but a sudden wash of presence came over them once more, and once again they all sensed rather than heard the words.

  Be not afraid. I will guide you.

  The wind shifted all at once, and they found themselves sailing around the island till they saw a span of calmer water and open shores beyond it. They exchanged glances. They had escaped, perhaps, by their own wits. But something else had taken them into its purposes now.

  The boat crossed the calm water until it scraped sand thirty feet from shore. Nicolas jumped out, the water coming nearly to his waist, and the Ploughman handed Maggie down to him. He set her on her feet in the water, and she leaned on Nicolas as they headed for shore. The Ploughman carried Huss behind them, and Pat grabbed a few last supplies out of the bottom of the boat and then splashed in after the others.

  It was evening. The island before them was green as an emerald in the calm waters, its sides sweeping up into gentle mountains shrouded with mist. The shore as they reached it was soft and smooth, golden sand stretching some way in both directions. They crossed the sand and found themselves looking up a green sweep of mountain, and below it, equally green fields. A dark, narrow gorge in the mountain appeared to be the only way through. The Ploughman laid Huss gently down on a patch of soft grass. He unwrapped some of the blankets from the old man. Huss’s skin was deathly pale. “It looks bad,” Nicolas commented.

  Fingers lightly touched his arm. “Nicolas,” Pat said, her voice unnaturally calm. “Look up at that ridge.”

  A small ridge lay to the east, lined with short, sprawling trees, their outlines dim in the encroaching dusk. It took Nicolas a moment to see what Pat was talking about. When he saw it, he tensed and reached for his sword.

  Three men stood amidst the trees, weapons in their hands.

  For a moment they all stayed frozen, waiting. The Ploughman saw them too and reached for his own sword, a weapon he’d snatched from the sleeping guards in Athrom. But he did not draw it. No sense in provoking a fight.

  One of the strangers broke the silence. He stepped forward, coming out of the shadows enough to reveal straw-coloured hair and a teenager’s face. He pointed at Huss.

  “Is he sick?” he asked.

  * * *

  Chapter 12: Dark Advent

  “Throw down your swords,” came an older voice from the ridge. “To show us that you mean no harm. We can help you.”

  “You ask us to throw down our weapons while you still hold yours?” the Ploughman asked.

  The speaker stepped forward. He was a young, strong man, his face handsome and his hair dark red. “You are on our land,” he said. “We are defending our home. If you show us that you need no defending against, then we will not harm you.” His voice took on a note of urgency. “Your friend needs care quickly—and the girl too, if my eyes are not mistaken. We only ask you to trust us and prove your own good will.”

  Nicolas threw his sword down suddenly. “The wind led us here,” Nicolas said to the Ploughman. “Directly here. I’ll trust them.”

  The Ploughman nodded and dropped his sword. Pat drew a knife from her belt and did likewise. The three strangers sheathed their weapons immediately and ran down the ridge. The red-haired man reached them first. The other two were younger: the straw-haired boy who had first spoken and a freckled, wiry young man of about twenty. The freckled one began to help Maggie up with a reassuring smile. The red-haired man knelt beside Huss, turning his face away at the smell of infection.

  “Archer, run ahead,” he said. “Tell Miracle to meet us on the way. This man may not last another hour.”

  He held out a strong hand to the Ploughman. “My name is Michael O’Roarke. I am chieftain of a small clann in these hills. I’m afraid we are wary of strangers. But if you mean us no harm, you are welcome.”

  The Ploughman shook Michael’s hand, and Nicolas stepped in to do the same. He liked Michael—his manner was honest and forthright.

  “Have you skill in healing?” the Ploughman asked.

  Michael almost smiled. “You might say that,” he said. “But come. We must not linger. Archer, be off! Jack and I will lead them.”

  The teenage boy took off running over the ridge, and Michael began to lift Huss in his arms. He paused and looked first at the Ploughman, then at Nicolas. “If I may,” he said. “You are wearier than I, I think.”

  The Ploughman nodded, and for the first time since their landing, suspicion drained from his face. In its place was gratitude. “I thank you,” he said.

  Without another word, Michael lifted Huss and started off after Archer, who had already disappeared from sight. Nicolas smiled encouragingly at Pat and Maggie, who was leaning on the freckled young man called Jack. Jack smiled as well. “It is not terribly far,” he said. “Are you ill, ma’am?”

  “Exhausted,” Pat answered for Maggie. “Just exhausted.”

  Jack nodded, his face showing genuine concern. As the Ploughman had done, Pat found herself relaxing. Nicolas had been right. The wind had brought them here.

  These people were friends.

  The sky was dusky rose when they caught sight of another little band rushing to meet them across the grassy slopes. Archer was leading the way. As they approached, Nicolas caught his breath.

  Archer had a young woman by the hand, and she was without question the most beautiful creature Nicolas had ever seen.

  White-gold hair falling over her shoulders, she knelt in the grass as Michael laid Huss down and drew aside the blankets that covered him. She gasped at the sight of the wound and the infection puffing and streaking around it.

  “Can you hear me, grandfather?” she whispered. Her voice was accented, but not with the lilting accent of the Green Isle. This woman spoke like a Northerner. Michael leaned over Huss so his forehead nearly touched hers, and the Ploughman swallowed hard at the sight of their oneness and obvious love.

  Huss did not respond to the young woman’s voice. She laid her slender fingers on his neck and felt his pulse and the heat in his skin. And then, with a hand on eac
h side of his neck, she bowed her head and waited.

  Pat started to say something, but Nicolas held out his hand and silenced her. Maggie too was watching intently—she seemed more alert now than she had since they had taken ship.

  Nicolas grasped the truth before anyone else did. He looked at the young woman still kneeling with her hands pressed against Huss’s face, and he saw with the others the changes being wrought in the old man. His cheeks were filling out, his skin gaining colour. And in the exposed part of Huss’s torso, the angry streaks of infection were disappearing as the wound closed.

  At last the woman looked up. Her violet eyes smiled. She was breathtaking.

  “You are Gifted,” Nicolas said.

  She smiled as she stood and looked back down at Huss, who was beginning to stir. She held out her hand to Maggie.

  Maggie hesitated only a moment before she took the Healer’s hand. She breathed in sharply, and Nicolas watched as her eyes focused, her skin gained colour, her whole bearing changed.

  The Healer let go of Maggie’s hand. She smiled at them all. “I am called Miracle,” she said. “I am Gifted, yes. And you are welcome here.”

  “Maggie?” said Jarin Huss as he sat up slowly. “Maggie, where are we? Who—” He caught sight of Miracle, and his eyes widened. “Oh my,” he said.

  * * *

  Harutek took the torch Cratus handed him as he mounted his horse. His six men waited on horseback behind him. Cratus swung onto the back of his own black stallion and sneered back at the Darkworlders. “Come,” he said.

  Without fanfare, Cratus led them down the main thoroughfare of Athrom. Not far away, the walls of the great coliseum were dark: cold, abandoned stone looming over the city.