by Gary Meehan
“Because it’s guided us so well this far,” said Sener, his face straight enough to give his sarcasm plausible deniability.
“We may have been guilty of . . . hasty interpretation. But God has spoken to me and shown me the way. This is a test, a trial we must overcome if we are all to know the glory of the Saviors.”
Gwyneth turned to Afreyda. “When I say ‘all,’ there are one or two exceptions of course.”
After racing across Werlavia and down the western shore of Lake Pullar, Megan and Willas took a platoon and parted from the bulk of their company. While the remaining men were to approach New Statham from the north, with orders to get the hell out of there once the witches spotted them, Megan and the others wheeled around through the forest that covered the left bank of the Rustway. The aim was to cross the river at Samsun, a hamlet a few miles south of the capital if Fordel’s map was correct, then hope they could find the entrance to Edwyn’s tunnel.
“Why do you think he helped us?” Megan asked as their horses trudged through the undergrowth.
“Who?” said Willas. “Fordel?”
“Is he still in love with you?”
Willas laughed. “That was a long time ago,” he said. “Fordel doesn’t like to play a losing hand, especially not to destruction. He’ll bide his time, wait for his opportunity. I’d be careful of him.”
“I’m hoping by the time we meet again, he’ll be somebody else’s problem.”
“You’re serious about that? Abdicating?”
“Why does everyone sound so shocked?” asked Megan. “All I want is to take Afreyda and Cate back home and lead a normal life without plots or politics or people trying to kill me.” If Afreyda is still alive. “Anyway, it’s you who has to worry. He’s going to be annoyed at your near mutiny.”
“That’s going to be somebody else’s problem too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m thinking of leaving Hil,” said Willas. “Too many memories there, too many desires that’ll never be fulfilled.”
“Vegar might drink himself into an early grave.”
“With his constitution? And even if he did, I don’t think she’d . . .” He shook his head. “Does your Realm of the people have space for one more?”
“I’m sure we can find—”
A distant boom made everyone’s heads snap round. The horses shifted nervously beneath them. “That was gunfire,” said Megan. “You don’t think . . . ?”
Willas shook his head. “Too close. Our men are on the other side of the city. Target practice, maybe?”
“They’ve had plenty of that, and why waste the ammunition?”
More booms. “That’s coming from the river,” said Willas. “Who the hell are they shooting at?”
Megan felt a sickening in her stomach as she worked out the timelines, realized who on the Rustway the witches might be firing at, who had just agreed to a treaty with the Hilites. “It’s the Sandstriders. Gwyneth’s attacking them.”
“Surely they wouldn’t have told her why they were leaving New Statham until they were safely away.”
“My sister likes to get her revenge in first.”
They trudged on in silence. Gwyneth’s actions against her former friends only emphasized how dangerous things were for New Statham, how quickly she could turn against them. And not just her: Tobrytan had been keen to destroy Eastport in revenge for the priests’ burning of Trafford’s Haven. Now he was in charge of the witches’ forces, there was no one to stop him completing his vengeance. Megan needed a way to end this war as quickly and bloodlessly as possible. She remembered talking to Damon about the witch captain, Sener. It was a shame he hadn’t taken command of the True. Given his skepticism regarding Joanne’s prophecy, Megan might have been able to reach an accord with him.
The return of a scout they’d sent on ahead interrupted her thoughts. Megan shifted anxiously in the saddle while the scout conversed in low voices and extravagant gestures with Willas, the latter’s expression becoming ever more concerned.
She could wait no longer. “What is it?”
“The bridge,” said Willas. “It isn’t.”
“What?”
“Looks like the witches blew it up. Guess they wanted to hinder any attacking army.”
Or hinder anyone trying to flee, knowing the witches. “No way of crossing the Rustway then?”
“There are a few boats . . .”
“Any big enough to take the horses?”
“Should think so,” said Willas. “One of them’s a witch warship.”
“Saviors,” muttered Megan.
She pulled out the map, looking for the next crossing point. This was the last one between them and Statham, at the mouth of the river. It looked as if they were going to have to knock up rafts or swim. On the other hand . . .
“How many men would the witches have on this ship?” she asked.
Willas translated the question and the subsequent answer. “About fifteen or twenty.”
“Not impossible odds.”
“And we do have the benefit of surprise.”
“Shall we go take a look?”
Megan and Willas dismounted and crept down to the tree line. The town of Samsun lay a hundred yards below, a smattering of houses, none occupied if the lack of chimney trails on a winter’s day was anything to go by. The bridge was reduced to two stumps on each bank. Barges bobbed on the sluggish river, making half-hearted attempts to escape their moorings. And there, docked beside the solitary pier, was the witches’ ship.
“Why’ve they stopped here?” asked Megan. “New Statham’s only a few miles upriver.”
“They’re avoiding the guns,” said Willas. He pointed to a horse and cart that was rattling down the packed-mud road. Witches moved out to meet it. “And taking on supplies.”
Not just any supplies. Megan recognized the design of the barrels in the cart: gunpowder. The witches were arming the ship, preparing for any Sandstrider vessels that broke free of Gwyneth’s bombardment. But until they got the gunpowder on the ship . . .
“Captain, how good are your archers?”
As the trio of fire arrows arced toward the cart, Megan thought they weren’t going to make it, that they’d drop short or putter out or the witches would have time to throw up their shields to protect their cargo. And even as they hit—two arrows directly thudding into barrels—she thought the witches would have time to grab the gunpowder and throw it in the river. And when the explosion ripped through Samsun with a ferocity that sent shrapnel flying all the way to the trees, she thought it would be mere moments before the witches dusted themselves down and came charging after them.
But nothing emerged from the clouds bar a couple of figures, the gray dust that engulfed them giving them the impression of walking—or, rather, staggering—statues. More-conventional arrows took them out.
The platoon tied scarves over their mouths and noses and advanced, leaving the archers behind them to cover their approach. They reached the buildings. Megan could hear the crackling of a fire: the product of a shattered lantern or a candle sent flying. She recalled blowing up the ships on the Speed, the ignition of the Smallwood Marshes, the destruction of the witches’ fleet in the Sarason Sea. No matter how much she professed to hate death and destruction, she kept on doing it. It was another reason she had to step down when all this was over, to stop herself. Because she’d always find enemies to fight if she was prepared to look.
The archers ceased their arrows. Willas sent his men into the mist. Megan crouched, knives gripped tight in her hands, waiting for any witches who might decide to make a break for it, praying none would. The clang of metal on metal sounded from within the clouds, followed by hollers. Wordless cries of confusion and terror, then barked orders as the surviving witches tried to organize themselves. Megan caught snatches of phrases: “fall back,” “the ship,” “the Savior.” Her mind whirled with fear at the last. They had Cate? How? Fordel: had he bought them off? No, she realize
d. It wasn’t her daughter they were talking about.
Flames flickered in the corner of her eye. The fire archers advancing down the hill, getting in position to fire on the ship. If they hit its gunpowder store . . .
Megan raced to intercept them. “Stop!” she shouted, waving her arms frantically.
The archers paused, looking at each other confused. Their flaming arrows licked at the air, dashes of color in the gray that smothered the environment, their heat prickling Megan’s skin.
Boots pounded behind her. “What the hell?” said Willas.
“The ship! Gwyneth’s baby’s on it!”
“Huh? How do you . . . ?” Willas looked to the river. “Even more reason to take it out. The witches would have nothing to fight for.”
“She’s my niece! An innocent baby!”
Megan couldn’t let them do this. It was impossible to think of Gwyneth’s child and not see her own. She couldn’t sacrifice her.
Willas pointed to the ship. “Target the—”
Light flashed through the clouds. A boom thundered. Everyone instinctively threw themselves to the ground and covered their head. Another boom. The ship was firing its guns.
“Hit that thing before it hits us!” yelled Willas.
One of the archers struggled back to his feet. He grabbed his dropped fire arrow and re-notched his bow, his glove smoldering as the flames licked it. He drew, aimed, released. The arrow leaped into the air and hung there, a miniature sun in the void. Then it dropped, gaining speed, heading for the ship’s position.
Its former position. It had cast off and started crawling upriver. Willas jabbed a finger at one of the other archers. “You!”
“No!” shouted Megan.
“I don’t have time to argue!”
“We need to get out of here!”
Willas spun around. The hulk of the witches’ ship was inching up the Rustway, approaching them.
“Run!”
They scattered just as the ship fired again, all of its guns this time in a single deafening volley that tore up the ground and sent everyone flying.
twenty-eight
Afreyda was stripped and marched out to Saviors’ Square where a crude cross had been erected. Two witches tied her to it, each wrist bound to an arm of the “X” with rough hemp. They left her there for hours, exposed to the world. The world preferred to look away. Citizens averted their gaze, as if making eye contact would mark them out as a sympathizer, next in line to share her fate. Afreyda bore it stoically. Perhaps this would be all she had to endure, perhaps Gwyneth would decide the humiliation was enough.
Gwyneth led Damon out to the balcony at the front of the palace, where her rather more legitimate predecessors would wave to the crowds gathered in the square in lieu of actually meeting them. Tobrytan was off debriefing Sener, leaving Damon to act as Gwyneth’s audience. He tried not to look at Afreyda down below them, but there was something about the macabre scene that drew his eye.
“People underestimate whipping,” said Gwyneth. “They think it’s like the quick licks of the belt your father used to give you for being naughty, but it’s much, much worse than that. It’ll flay the skin, reduce you to nothing more than painful meat. I’ve heard it said a hundred lashes will kill you.” There’s witch small-talk for you, thought Damon. “How many did we settle on in the end, Trymian?”
“A thousand,” said Trymian, stroking the tails of his whip. He had the kind of body that looked as if it had been stitched together from spare parts. He was the witches’ torturer, executioner and all-round last guy you wanted to see.
“A thousand. There won’t be much left of her by then. Still, it’ll make it easier to pack her up and send back to Megan.”
Damon shifted his weight to his other leg. “What good’s this going to do?” he asked.
“She betrayed me for her.”
“Shouldn’t you be above this petty jealousy? As queen, I mean. And Mother of the Savior. God is merciful, or so the rumor goes.”
“Alas, I can only aspire to God’s perfection,” said Gwyneth. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t like seeing people’s backs being flayed. I’m weird like that.”
“Perhaps you would like to take her place? You can’t see your own back being flayed.”
“Er . . .”
Gwyneth’s expression hardened. “I’m serious. I’m offering you the chance to take Afreyda’s place out there. I’ll even drop the sentence to five hundred lashes. For old times’ sake.”
Damon swallowed. He felt the overwhelming urge to run, only Trymian’s lumpy bulk preventing him. God knew he deserved Afreyda’s fate. He thought of Eleanor, out there in the icy wastes of the Kartik Mountains. Would he have accepted death if she could have lived? The situation was the same here, wasn’t it? He might not love Afreyda like he had Eleanor, but if anyone was innocent in all this, she was.
Gwyneth crooked a finger in beckoning. A servant girl hurried out on to the balcony bearing a goblet of wine. It took a moment for Damon to recognize her: Taite, Sener’s former paramour. She had dyed her hair so it was as black as Gwyneth’s and arranged it in the same style. Gwyneth had reached the everyone-must-look-like-me stage of tyranny. Ironic, considering what she’d done to the person who looked like her naturally.
Gwyneth patted the empty space on the bench next to her. Taite obediently sat down. “This brave soldier is about to sacrifice himself for a damsel in distress,” Gwyneth said to her. “Or not.”
Taite peered over the balustrade, down at the spread-eagled Afreyda. “She must be very cold.”
“Don’t worry. Trymian will soon take her mind off it. Or maybe we’ll bring her inside, sit her in front of the fire with some warm clothes and a hot tea.” Gwyneth looked up to Damon. “Your choice.”
Damon prevaricated. Sweat rolled down his brow despite the temperature. Any escape relied on him being able to get Afreyda out and not reduced to a set of extremities. But escape would be pointless if she was dead. But the thought of the lash stripping off his skin turned his insides to ice. But he owed her for saving him from the Hilites. But he couldn’t conquer his fear.
“No?” said Gwyneth. Damon didn’t react, unwilling to commit himself either way, still hoping a few seconds more would present him with an alternative. “Very well. Trymian, you may begin.”
Trymian lumbered away. Damon knew what he should do. He should run after him, rip off his tunic, offer himself up. But he remained rooted to the spot, unable to muster up even a token objection.
Down below, a detachment of witches escorted Trymian across the square to Afreyda. A crowd gathered around them: a few passers-by who stopped to watch at first, then an ever-thickening circle as the contagion of morbid curiosity spread. Trymian ran a finger down Afreyda’s naked back. She winced. He leaned in closer—was he sniffing her, trying to smell her fear? She jerked her head back, catching Trymian on what could be called his nose only by a process of elimination. He staggered back. The crowd held its breath, as they waited for his reaction. He dabbed a finger on the stream of blood trickling down his chin, grinning as he tasted it.
The whip cracked against the blameless air. A test. The crowd took a collective step backward; Afreyda’s muscles tensed as she clenched her fists. Trymian circled the whip above his head. The square was so silent Damon could make out the whoosh as it ripped through the atmosphere.
A thought suddenly came to him. The formula—he still had the copied gunpowder formula hidden in his boot. Damon had a duty to get it to Janik. The Realm needed it to defend itself from the witches, the Snow Cities and God knew who else. Even Megan would have to accept Afreyda’s sacrifice for the millions of the Faithful.
But as the leather tails sped toward Afreyda he knew it was an excuse not a reason, that he’d made his mind up long before he remembered the formula. And as the crack of the whip was obliterated by Afreyda’s scream of agony he knew he’d only ever admit it to himself.
Spitting dirt from her mou
th, Megan pushed herself up. She tapped her temple with the heel of her hand, hoping to dislodge the bells ringing in there. She succeeded only in aggravating the throbbing behind her eyes.
“Everyone all right?” she called out. Her voice sounded wrong and distant, as if she was listening to someone fifty yards away doing an impression of her.
Willas struggled to his feet and said something Megan couldn’t understand. Had the bombardment scrambled her brains? Willas repeated himself, this time in a language Megan could decipher.
“Better go check.”
The final count was one man dead, three with injuries that needed tending. In purely numerical terms a victory, but Megan couldn’t stop the guilt gnawing away at her. Were Afreyda and Damon worth the lives she was spending? Was the gunpowder formula? Why not let Fordel and his puppets rule over a unified Werlavia: couldn’t she find justification for that in the Book of Faith?
No, it would lead to resentment and dissent and rebellion and tyranny and civil war. Only freedom could ensure peace, freedom for the Realm, the Snow Cities, Andaluvia, maybe even the witches. But you could never have freedom as long as one side had the means to destroy the others with ease.
Megan picked her way through the stripped bodies of the witches. She reached the group of injured men, where Willas was stitching up a gash in a man’s arm. She stared upriver. The ship could just be made out in the haze. How long before it reached New Statham?
Willas looked up from his needlework. “We could go after it.”
“So we could kill an innocent child?”
“You’ve never thought of it?”
Megan’s instinct was to deny the accusation. She stopped herself. “I had this dream once. We were out on the Speed, Gwyneth and me. She had her baby with her and I was trying to ram her boat with mine. I thought if I could sink them, it’d be all over. I’d be safe. Cate’d be safe.”
“What happened?”
“I fell in the river, then woke up to find it was raining.” She let out a hollow laugh. “I told Eleanor we should’ve camped somewhere with better cover.”
