Path of Blood

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  The battering on her mind redoubled. Reisil sobbed and fell to the ground.

  Sudden fury erupted in her mind. A tearing beak and slashing talons. Saljane. The goshawk ripped at Sodur’s hold on Reisil’s mind. He gave a high-pitched yelp and reeled backward. Lume crouched, a growl sounding loud in his throat. Into the battlefield of Reisil’s mind bounded his animal presence. He howled and launched himself at Saljane, following Reisil’s mental tie to the goshawk. But Reisil had defeated a harder foe in Baku. Freed of Sodur’s onslaught, she snatched Lume and flung him forty paces to crash against the thick bole of an ancient hemlock.

  There was a crackling sound like bones snapping, but Reisil couldn’t care. He vanished from her mind. Breathing heavily, she quickly reconstructed the blockade protecting her mind, holding fast to Saljane’s fierce strength.

  Lume lay in a limp heap at the base of the tree. Sodur had not moved, had not made a sound. He might as well have been made of stone. Reisil could not read the expression on his face. And she would not open her mind again to hear his words.

  When he continued motionless, watching her, she gritted her teeth and strode over to Lume, driven by her healer nature and the memory of the lynx. As she neared, the great beast’s skin began to wriggle and twitch. Knobby shapes thrust angularly outward, distorting the silvery expanse of his hide. Reisil halted, fear curling through her. It looked as if something inside was trying to escape. Then as abruptly as they began, the movements ceased. Long moments trickled past, marked only by the sough of the wind and the drip of the rain.

  Suddenly Lume gave a loud chuff and rolled lightly to his feet, his brilliant silver eyes hard, his head ducked low. Reisil lunged away, her magic balled ready in her hands. But faster than a thought, Sodur rushed between, one taloned claw splayed over his companion’s face, the other held up curved and ready as he watched Reisil.

  Reisil and Sodur stared at each other, held in place by threat and—Memories of Sodur skipped across Reisil’s mind. His kindness when she’d refused the bond with Saljane, his strength when she struggled to find out who she was, his guidance when she felt so lost. It hadn’t been all lies.

  “You were wrong before and you’re wrong now. If you want to help, convince your new friends to stay out of my way. You, too.”

  Sodur’s head tilted, but he remained a menacing statue. He would stay frozen, she realized slowly. Until he could speak to her again. She clung more tightly to Saljane.

  ~Speak.

  ~I can no longer resist them. They will have all I know.

  Reisil didn’t answer for a long moment, realization dawning. A slight sigh escaped her.

  ~You want me to kill you, to keep them from taking you. They have enough of you to keep you from doing it yourself.

  ~Yes.

  There was a desperate wealth of hope in the word. Reisil could see the logic. Sodur knew so much about the ahalad-kaaslane, about her, and about Kodu Riik. That knowledge could only help the nokulas. She shook her head, pulling her magic in and sending it back to where it belonged. She sagged as it drained away.

  ~No.

  He snarled. Reisil found herself smiling at his fury, her cheeks feeling cramped and stiff.

  ~They already have other ahalad-kaaslane—who knows how many? They have the Iisand—I’m assuming he’s already gone to them, right? Reisil nodded at Sodur’s faint affirmative. And you have said they can read your mind. Likely the real damage is done. But there’s a chance you’ll still be able to help me. I don’t think they can make you or any other ahalad-kaaslane forget your vows to the Lady and this land.

  She squared her shoulders.

  “It’s a chance. You have to take it. I know—I know—the Lady wants me to save Mysane Kosk. And the nokulas. Tell them that. Tell them if the spell the wizards cast to create the nokulas isn’t stopped, it will destroy Kodu Riik. It will destroy the entire world. Maybe if they know that, they’ll give me time to find a way. But no matter what, it’s time you stopped sabotaging me and do something helpful.”

  ~They will not risk letting you go free. You are too dangerous. Again pressure rose in her mind, hammering at her. Go!

  She slammed her mental walls shut for the last time. She shook her head. “I’m going to Mysane Kosk. You do what you have to do.”

  With that she turned and strode away in measured steps. Not running, though every minute she half expected to be knocked to the ground. Her mouth was dry and she felt cold. She slipped through the mist between the trees. When she thought she was out of sight, she glanced over her shoulder and then jeered at herself. They could be right beside her for all she knew. She couldn’t see them unless they wanted to her to.

  Could she?

  Her steps faltered. Reisil stopped, turning. She refocused her eyes, looking about her with spellsight. The world glowed in muted pastel shades of life—the foundation of magic. But nothing else. So either they remained behind, or they were invisible still.

  Reisil spun around and hurried through the darkness. She and Yohuac had to leave now. And they’d not stop again until they reached Mysane Kosk.

  ~Saljane! Take Baku. Go to Mysane Kosk. Go now, fast as you can. Warn the others. I’m coming and bringing the wizards and nokulas with me.

  For a moment Reisil thought of Tapit and smiled. Her blood roared and her hands trembled. But it wasn’t fear. She felt more like a mother bear protecting her cubs. And she was done running.

  Chapter 3

  The morning dawned cold and wet over Mysane Kosk and the stockade settlement that Metyein, Kebonsat, and Juhrnus had named Honor. Mist filled the valley like a bowl of milk. Eight hulking shapes humped out of the ghostly gloom. A cacaphony sounded from its blanketing depths: whacking hammers and axes, grating saws, creaking wagons, barking dogs, and anxious shouts.

  Kebonsat stood in the unnamed seventh stockade, which consisted of hardly more than palisade walls. There weren’t even gates yet. He frowned at the eighth, which looked like it had been eaten away by maggots, leaving only skeletal timbers poking up through the mist. Eight stockades, only six of them completed. And there were plans for more, as time allowed. If time allowed. It still wasn’t going to be enough. Wooden walls and earthworks weren’t going to slow the Regent’s army much. Without weapons, the defenders were toothless.

  “Will it all get done in time?”

  Kebonsat started, glancing over at Metyein, who had climbed up to stand beside him. His hair was damp and curling. Beneath his cloak, he wore serviceable clothing made of blue wool and leather. Kebonsat’s eyes narrowed. Metyein was not wearing his newly-minted pin of office marking him as Lord Marshal of Honor.

  “In time for what, exactly? The Regent to come calling? The plague? Mysane Kosk to swallow us?” he asked sardonically. He pulled up his hood as the rain began again, tangled in a bitterness that never let go. “When the plague hits here, we’ll have more room than we want.”

  Metyein said nothing, his face pulled into sharp lines of worry.

  “We should think about a quarantine station—a way to protect ourselves from infected newcomers,” Kebonsat said. It wasn’t the first time he’d made the argument, and already Metyein was shaking his head.

  “We can’t. Everyone is welcome here. And we can’t afford to split our defenses.”

  “The people aren’t going to be so generous when their families start getting sick. We’ll likely have a revolt. It’s going to get very ugly.”

  “We can’t protect something that far away from our center. Even if we had enough weapons.”

  There was no good argument for that, and so Kebonsat remained silent. He brooded down at the thinning mist, beginning to see the scuttling shapes of working men like beatles exploding from a nest.

  “At least we have shelter and crops in the ground,” Metyein said in the voice of someone trying to look at the bright side of things.

  Kebonsat relented. They had done a lot. More than he’d expected. Metyein had turned out to be a decisive and organized lead
er. Thanks to him, they had walls, planted fields, firewood, and hunters bringing in meat. “With Dannen Relvi’s shipments, I imagine we’ll not starve,” he said, meaning it to be a compliment. But it sounded more like an accusation. The never-resolved fears of how to defend against Aare’s army nagged at him. “But you know as well as I that it won’t mean a thing unless we can make some weapons. Something better than cudgels and arrows. We won’t hold a siege long with those.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Metyein snapped. “Every bit of metal we find has to go to protecting our people and stock. Otherwise there won’t even be a siege, just a bloodbath.” He grimaced. “My horse has given his shoes to the cause. There’s not a metal fork or spoon to be had, and the miners have been sleeping with their shovels.”

  Kebonsat sighed, admitting defeat. For now. Metyein was right. They both were. Priorities.

  “How are the tunnels coming?” he asked briskly, forcibly turning his mind from his worries about weapons and plague.

  “We had several collapses last night. Right now, the only two with a through drift are Lion and Eagle. How we can have so much rain here and the rest of Kodu Riik be so dry, I cannot understand. Once we get some decent weather, we’ll be able to shore up the tunnels easily enough.” He paused. “I wish—” He broke off, flicking a glance at Kebonsat.

  “You wish Reisil would get here and we’d know what we were going to do,” Kebonsat finished.

  “Yes, but—” Metyein paced away restlessly.

  “But what?”

  “What happens when Reisiltark gets here? What happens if she wants to destroy Mysane Kosk? All our preparations are designed to protect the place. What do we do?”

  “We follow Reisil,” Kebonsat said firmly.

  “How can you be sure her way is right? Everyone is looking to us to make the right choices.” He shook his head, his lips pinching together. “How can we be sure?”

  “I am sure of Reisil. No one can match her honor or sense of duty.”

  “They said that about Upsakes.”

  Kebonsat scowled, opening his mouth to make a cutting reply.

  Metyein held up a restraining hand. “I’m sorry. That is not what I believe. Reisiltark saved my life. I trust her completely. But I cannot help but fear—what if Yohuac was right? What if the wizards killed Saljane, and Reisiltark went mad?”

  “Reisil will not fail us. She doesn’t know how.” Kebonsat gazed heavily at Metyein. He liked what he saw. The younger man had a good mind, and despite a history of dilettantish dueling, he was steady under pressure. “And the Regent won’t find us easy prey.”

  When the network of tunnels was completed, they’d have multiple access points between the stockades, allowing them to share food, water, and fighters. It would also allow for evacuation should a stockade fall. Kebonsat and Metyein had situated the stockades to maximize the killing fields between them, required that there be a well dug inside each, and made sure all the interior buildings were masked entirely with nonflammable mud and sod. They’d also planned a series of escape routes into the mountains. If things got dire, they’d get the children, Emelovi, and the other women out. Kebonsat was well satisfied with their defensive plan, but it would serve them little if they couldn’t fight back. They needed metal for weapons. And Reisil. She was the only one who could fight off the Scallacians. Even the witch Nurema admitted as much.

  “Reisil will not fail us,” Kebonsat repeated. “But we need to help her. Dannen Relvi has been nothing short of miraculous in getting us food and supplies, but I wish he’d send weapons.”

  “Or metal. We’ve got more blacksmiths than we can use right now.” Metyein gave a little shrug. “But metal is scarce in Kodu Riik. Most of it the crown took for the war. And since then, with the plague and nokulas, most mines haven’t been producing much.”

  “If only we could get into Patverseme . . .”

  “Don’t even think about it. It would be suicide, with the blockade. And I need you. I can’t train or lead an army alone.”

  “What army? We don’t even have pitchforks. Men with sticks,” Kebonsat said in bitter frustration, pounding his fist against his thigh.

  Metyein sighed, looking troubled. “There is one possibility. . . .”

  “Where?”

  Metyein rubbed a hand over his mouth. At last he spoke. “Bro-heyek. A lot of rich mines up there. My father often complained that the Thevul was witholding his metal harvests, though there was never time or men to go clear up there to force the issue. Thevul Bro-heyek was never fond of the Iisand; he’s got reason to care even less for Aare. He might help.”

  There was something queer about Metyein’s voice, as if he’d eaten something he wasn’t sure he liked.

  “What else?”

  “The Thevul is Soka’s father.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  The small hope that had begun to flicker with Metyein’s first words curled up like burnt paper. No man should betray his son as Soka’s father had. As a boy, Soka had been made a hostage to the Kodu Riikian court to keep the marauding Thevul leashed, and keep his noble neighbors safe. When the Thevul ignored the threats to his son and continued his raids, the Iisand had ordered Soka’s eye put out, sending it as a warning to the Thevul. A map of the Bro-heyek lands had been scarred onto Soka’s empty eyelid as a warning to other nobles who wanted to challenge the Iisand’s authority.

  “Will he go?” Kebonsat asked. And if he did, would he negotiate for them? Or take the opportunity to get retribution?

  Metyein’s lips pulled into a humorless grin. “A year ago I would have said no. But since Aare captured him . . . He was never a coward, but now he’s . . . reckless. I think he would definitely . . . like . . . to see his father again. If only to get his eye back.”

  “Which may get us nothing.” Kebonsat didn’t know what he’d feel in Soka’s position. He liked the other man, though reckless didn’t begin to address Soka’s recent behavior. He was acerbic and rude. His honesty was tactless, and applied with the force of an assassin’s dagger. He was quick to offer violence to insult, and he’d become formidable with a sword since Metyein had begun instructing him. Yet despite his faults, Soka’s loyalty to Metyein and Emelovi was absolutely undiluted. “It’s worth a try. He should leave right away.”

  “I know. But don’t bet your sister’s virtue he’ll succeed. The Thevul is known to be inflexible, and Soka has never been diplomatic.”

  “And for what do I need diplomacy?”

  The subject of their conversation climbed up the ladder behind them and leaped gracefully onto the platform. His long hair clung to his head. His features were dagger-fine. He sported a close-cropped beard, and his single eye was a brilliant blue topaz. The other was covered by a scarlet eye patch. A detailed map of the Bro-heyek lands was picked out in gold threads on its surface—a gesture of insolence. He was dressed similarly to Metyein, though he was splashed liberally with mud. There was a weal along his right cheekbone. Blood seeped down to stain his collar.

  “What happened?” Metyein asked, pointing to the wound.

  Soka touched his fingers to his face and looked at the blood on his fingers. He shrugged. “Tree branch probably.”

  “You were in a hurry,” Kebonsat said, his voice questioning.

  Soka slapped his shoulder and grinned. “I wasn’t running from some pretty woman’s husband. Not this time, at any rate. Merely a race for a small wager, which I won. The two of you look sorry as half-drowned cats. What can I do?”

  Kebonsat met Metyein’s gaze fleetingly. “We want you to go home.”

  The smile froze on Soka’s face. “Home?”

  Kebonsat nodded. “Bro-heyek may have the metal we need for weapons.”

  Soka was still a moment. Then his lips parted in a hungry smile that chilled Kebonsat to the marrow. “I’ll go. It’s getting boring here anyhow.”

  Metyein exchanged a worried glance with Kebonsat, and then wrapped his arm around Soka’s shoulder. In a falsely jov
ial voice, he said, “You do your house credit. You should leave tomorrow or the day after. You can’t go empty-handed. . . .”

  Kebonsat followed the other two men down the ladder, jumping the last couple of feet, his boots squelching in the mud. All around them boiled stern-faced people. They were soaked to the skin, going about their business with grim concentration—hammering together the two-story row of buildings nestled against the interior of the stockade, swinging quarterstaves in preparation for war, fletching headless arrows, fixing carts, digging a well. Others were fetching and carrying, trundling dirt from the tunnels, hauling wood for the buildings. There wasn’t a lazy soul in sight. Everyone knew what was coming: the plague, winter, and the Regent. Not necessarily in that order. There was little time to prepare for any of them. If the plague comes first, we won’t have to worry about winter or the Regent. Kebonsat quashed the thought and followed after Metyein and Soka. At least there was a hope for metal to make weapons. As thin a chance as it was, it was more than they’d had an hour ago.

  “So put plague victims in Fox and move Emelovi and the regular hospital to Hawk?” Kebonsat repeated thoughtfully, running his fingers over the map before raking his hand through his hair and kicking out his feet to the fire. Across the table, Metyein dabbed a pen into an inkwell and scratched some additions to an already long list. “Puts the plague at our heart—that’s a big risk.”

  Metyein reached for more ink. “It puts the least stress on our defenses, while giving us something of a quarantine space. And it’ll help keep up morale when it comes down to it. People are going to want to know their families are cared for. It tells everyone that we’re not walking away from the weak and the helpless, the way Aare’s done in Koduteel.”

  “There’s a good chance we won’t be able to evacuate Fox when the blight circle expands,” Kebonsat warned.

  “If it keeps going at its current rate, we won’t have to worry about it for a year and a half.” Metyein set aside the pen and reached for his mug of kohv. “By then I doubt it will matter much. We’ll either have won or lost and we won’t be needing the stockades any longer.”