“You’re going to what?” the captain bellowed.
“Drop the wards! This is killing Reisiltark!”
That took the captain aback. He waited for Juhrnus to continue.
“I sent Baku—the coal-drake—for help from the other stockades! Get your men ready!”
The captain thought a moment, and then nodded, dropping Juhrnus’s arm.
“Tell the men!” He pointed back the way Juhrnus had come, and the ahalad-kaaslane nodded before retracing his steps, pausing to update each soldier. The captain moved off in the other direction.
At last Juhrnus returned to Nurema. He was out of breath. The air was thickening and becoming harder to breathe.
Nurema’s face was pallid, even in the darkness, and her lip was bleeding where she’d bitten through it. She didn’t falter in her unceasing chant, her mouth closing firmly around the words as she bit each off sharply.
Juhrnus approached her warily, settling one hand on her shoulder. Her body was rigid, and she flinched from his touch. He bent close. From her neckline, a tiny green snake rose up, its yellow eyes glittering as it opened its mouth to expose long needle teeth. Juhrnus drew back slightly. The copicatl was a pet of Yohuac’s gods.
“Drop the wards, Nurema! Reisil’s in trouble. We’re ready!”
For a moment, he didn’t think she’d heard him. She kept chanting, her gaze fixed on the colored dance of light beyond the palisade. Then suddenly . . . she stopped. Juhrnus caught her around the waist as she slumped. He held her firmly, chest tight as he watched the wardlights fail. Lady, let this be the right choice.
The flickering lights grew more feeble. They sputtered and faded. Suddenly, between one second and the next, Juhrnus could hear: the scuff of a boot, the heavy gasps rasping between Nurema’s lips, the pounding of his own heart. The rest of the world was as quiet as an indrawn breath.
“Here they come!” someone shouted, and the twang of arrows filled the night.
Chapter 9
Kebonsat’s horse skidded and slipped. The saddle canted steeply to one side as the animal’s left hind leg sank deeply into the ground. There was an ominous snap and the mare shrieked. Kebonsat swore and jumped from the saddle, landing ankle-deep in soupy mud. The mare’s left rear leg dangled, useless.
There was no time for mercy. He abandoned the animal. Wolf stood the farthest east of the completed stockades. By horseback, it was ten minutes from Lion. On foot, in this mire . . . Kebonsat refused to think about the distance. Instead he tucked his chin to his chest and focused on not falling.
Soon his lungs burned and his sodden cloak pulled heavily on his shoulders. He peeled it off and dropped it, tripping and catching himself with his right hand. He fumbled across the road, his boots making sucking sounds in the mud. He slogged across the field of barley, the young stalks swishing around his ankles. He had no sense of how much time had passed since he’d ridden out of Lion. He strained to hear the noise of horses on the march, of a battle begun. But his own harsh breathing drowned all other sounds. Faintly he thought he heard a roar like men shouting. But it could have easily been the sound of blood pounding in his head.
An animal sound ripped from his chest, and he forced his legs to churn faster.
When he came to the wall, his stomach heaved, and sweat made his clothing cling to his sides and back. He bent, bracing against the wall. His chest felt as if a pitchfork had been driven into it; his thighs were on fire. He dropped his head, sweat dripping down his nose, sucking in deep, sobbing breaths.
“Who’s there, now?” came a deep voice from above. “I kin hear ye, so answer while I’ve a mind to listen!”
Kebonsat tried to answer, but was swept by a fit of coughing.
“No games now! Give yer name or I’ll sieve your hide with arrows!”
Kebonsat dragged a breath into his lungs and then another. In a choked voice, he called, “To arms! Honor’s Lord Marshal summons Wolf to arms!”
His rasped words were met with silence. Kebonsat banged his hand against the barked timber wall. “Do you hear? Raven is under attack! The Lord Marshal summons Wolf to arms!”
He heard shouting and the quick stamp of feet as soldiers collected above. Minutes ticked past. Kebonsat began wading around the wall toward the gatehouse. The rains had turned the newly built earthworks to bogs. He sank to his thighs and had to drag himself back up onto firmer ground. He’d hardly gone a few yards when an implacable voice called down from above.
“Name yourself, ganyik, or surely you’ll not get much farther.”
“Kebonsat cas Vadonis,” he answered, holding on to his temper with both hands. “Raven is under attack by nokulas.” He hesitated. Then, “Reisiltark has come.”
There was a pause. “Why didn’t the Lord Marshal send a rider?” The man’s voice was filled with a wealth of suspicion. Kebonsat was Patversemese. That was reason enough to doubt him.
“He did. Horse busted a leg. Now, by the grace of the Lady, get your lazy asses moving, or I swear by the Demonlord’s ganyik mother that I will carve your heart out myself if Raven is taken!”
The man above did not answer, but suddenly Kebonsat heard boots pounding and more shouting. There was the telltale booming thumps of the gate bars being dropped and then the sounds of horses. Kebonsat began struggling again through the mire, rounding the curve of the wall to find himself face-to-face with a young man, hardly more than a boy, leading a chestnut mare.
“Sir! Sergeant says you want a horse.”
Kebonsat didn’t bother trying to speak, conserving his energy for the coming battle. He reached for the reins, taking a moment to check the mare’s cinch and stirrups before dragging himself into the saddle. His legs were trembling and so weighted with sticky mud that he almost didn’t make it. The boy grabbed his doublet and yanked him up.
“Thanks,” Kebonsat said gruffly as the mare touched his boot with her nose and snorted disparagingly.
“Sergeant says he wants you w’ him.” The boy’s voice cracked, and he made a gulping noise as he rejoined the ranks of horsemen. They were fifty strong, riding four by four, all carrying spears and bows. Kebonsat urged the mare into a trot, aiming for the head of the column.
This sergeant was whipcord lean, with a seamed face and close-trimmed yellow beard. He wore a leather helm with green stripping and the sergeant’s green stripping and yellow spot on his shoulders. His expression was sour. When he saw Kebonsat, his face darkened and his lip curled. He spat.
“Nokulas, you say?” He sounded dubious. More than that. He sounded insolent and hostile.
“That’s right,” Kebonsat said, gritting his teeth and ignoring the insult. “Where’s your captain?”
“Feeling poorly,” was the curt reply. Something made the hairs on Kebonsat’s neck stand on end. Too poorly to fight?
“Oh? What’s the matter with him?” he asked diffidently.
The sergeant spat again. “Be ye a tark too? Clever man, you are. ’Twill please the cap’n no end to have you at his bedside. Got himself a fever and some chills. Flux. Why don’t ye go empty his slop bucket, then?”
Kebonsat hardly heard the last words shouted after him as he reined in the mare and spun her around. Fear made his mouth dry as he galloped past the ranks of soldiers. He urged his mount faster, unmindful of the treacherous footing. Mud splattered his face and chest as he swung the mare out around a clustered group of riders at the end of the column.
Then he was alone on the muddy road. They were swinging the gates closed, but he shoved inside.
“The captain! Where is he?”
“Barracks,” said one guard, cowed by Kebonsat’s imperious tone. “Over there.” He pointed. “First door past the racks.”
Kebonsat turned the mare and galloped the short space across the bailey. He swung down and pushed inside. He strode down the long common room, past the rows of bunked rope beds. At the opposite end was a set of doors leading to individual rooms and suites.
He found the captain’
s room just where the guard had indicated. He rapped on the planked door sharply, and then strode in without waiting for an answer.
The captain was sitting on the edge of his bed, drawing on his boots. He was pale and clammy, his hair damp with sweat. He wobbled from side to side as he eyed Kebonsat blearily.
“What do you want?”
Kebonsat hesitated. From the moment he heard the sergeant describe the symptoms, he knew—he knew—that this was Honor’s first case of the plague. It was a miracle that it hadn’t come sooner.
Kebonsat had nightmares about its arrival, of its devastation. Everywhere it had been, the plague had swept through like a harvesting scythe. No one who got it survived. And here, in Honor, in such close quarters—it would save Aare the bother of coming after them. He found himself scrutinizing every face, listening to every complaint of pain or fever, looking for symptoms. And now Honor’s first plague victim was staring him in the face.
“Well? I don’t have time for chatter, so state your piece or git out of the way.” The captain rose, but his knees buckled and he fell heavily back to the bed, the air going out of him with an oomph. “Demonballs,” he muttered, rolling back upright. “Weak as a kitten.”
Kebonsat made no effort to step closer.
“You’re weak because you’ve got plague,” he said bluntly. “You’ve got to get into quarantine. Now.”
The captain’s eyes widened and then narrowed. He stared at Kebonsat, a red flush flagging his cheeks.
“What do you know, Pease scum?” he said, using the soldier-patois reference for Patverseme. “I got a touch of fever, is all. And a fight going on out there I’m late for. That’s where I’m going. So git outta my way.”
This time he kept his feet as he stood, but Kebonsat could see that he trembled and he gripped the bedpost for support. “Chodha,” the captain murmured softly.
“It might not be the plague,” Kebonsat conceded, sympathy softening his voice.
“And I might be a goat,” the other man returned. He looked at Kebonsat, his weathered face pocked and scarred, his nose broad and unformed. His blue eyes were shrewd. “All right. Where are we going?”
“Fox.”
The captain frowned in surprise. “Fox is quarantine? That’s maggot-headed. There ought to be a place up in the mountains, away from healthy folks.”
Kebonsat shrugged. “We can’t protect any holdings outside the valley. And we’ll not abandon our own.”
The captain snorted. “Ain’t yer own, is it?” He shook his head. “That whelp of Lord Marshal Vare is a sharp one, but he’s too soft. This is war. You ought to give me a blanket and some food and send me off to fend for myself. Nothing but trouble keeping the plague in Fox.”
“I’ll tell the Lord Marshal,” Kebonsat said. “Now let’s move.”
He reached out a hand to steady the captain, who glared at the proferred aid.
“And if I touch you, you git sick too? I don’t much like you, Pease, but I’m not gonna be the one who kills you. Lord Marshal says he needs you. So I’ll manage on my own.”
Slowly the captain gathered his bedroll and stuffed his pack with a few sparse belongings. Kebonsat waited for the other man to leave the room before marking the door with a charred stick from the fire. He drew a large black X. No one would mistake the message.
He followed after the captain as the man hobbled along, bracing himself against the walls and then the long row of bunks. By the time he reached the door, his face was slick with sweat and the skin of his head gleamed through his thining hair. He slumped onto a bottom bunk, his breath shallow and sharp.
“Better get a cart. Not goin’ to make it much further on my own.”
Without a word, Kebonsat went looking. He found a half dozen two-wheeled barrow carts upended against the horse barns. Their interiors were crusted with mud, straw, and manure. The barns were empty but for a swaybacked, spavined mule and six donkeys. Kebonsat manhandled one of the carts down on its tongue and hitched a brace of donkeys to it. He led them around to the barracks door, and the captain pulled himself inside. Kebonsat handed him a skin of water he’d taken from the stables. The captain took it with a grimace.
“Yer not so bad, for a Pease.”
“And you’re a pain in the ass,” Kebonsat said, tying his mare to the wagon and leading the donkeys to the gate. The guards opened the gates slowly, worry evident in their dour expressions.
“That’s a fact, boy. What do you think is going on over there?” The captain jerked his chin toward Raven.
Kebonsat stared across the valley at the torch glow emanating from Raven. He could hear the sounds of clashing arms, shouting, horses neighing, and other, nonhuman, shrieks of fury and pain. He was needed there. He swallowed, pulling the donkeys along. If the captain really had the plague, then Kebonsat was needed here. One more sword at Raven wouldn’t make much difference. But isolating the plague before it could take root—it could save every soul in Honor. He only hoped that Metyein could save Reisil.
Chapter 10
“Where is Wolf?” Metyein winced inwardly at the strain thinning his voice. He took a steadying breath, trying to slow his rushing heart.
The sergeant shook his head. “Dunno, sir.” He was a seasoned soldier, one who’d abandoned Koduteel and the regular army when Aare began sweeping up the ahalad-kaaslane. Green stitching zigzagging along the collar of his vest testified to his loyalties. He stared expectantly at Metyein.
The young Lord Marshal of Honor scanned the columns of cavalry and foot soldiers. There were about three hundred men, with a hundred and twenty-five mounted. All seventy-five of the missing troops from Wolf were also mounted. They would be sorely missed. Men on horse were always better than foot soldiers, especially against opponents the likes of the nokulas. And the folk of Honor needed all the advantage they could get. But Raven could not wait.
“Let’s move out,” he ordered. The sergeant from Fox nodded and touched his fist to the red fox patch centered on a green triangle sewn over his heart. “Yessir.” He jogged off at a sharp clip, relaying orders to the captains.
Metyein mounted his horse. He settled his buckler over his arm. Its leather surface was small protection against nokula claws, but it was better than nothing. His own helm was plain steel with a crossbar over the nose. He wore a mail shirt beneath his tunic, and steel greaves with steel-plated gauntlets. His plate armor had gone to the crucible for building the stockades.
He settled into his saddle and signaled for a roll call. When each company had sounded off, he waved his fist in a circle and clicked his mount forward. The stallion snorted and set off at a springy walk. Not prancing—that would be unmannerly and unrefined for a seasoned warhorse, one of a treasured handful in all of Honor. But the stallion’s neck arched and his tail swished as he swaggered out, rattling his bit in his teeth.
Behind came the ranks of cavalry from Lion and Hawk followed by the regiments of foot soldiers from Fox and Eagle. Some of the men had fought in the Patverseme war. Many of those were missing bits of themselves, but could still wield a sword or a spear with skill. Not that most had swords. Already they felt the pinch of too little metal. He thought of Kebonsat. Where was he? Where was Wolf?
Raven was less than a quarter of a league from Lion. It would take a matter of two or three minutes for a man to gallop there on horseback, but the infantry and the mud slowed their pace considerably. They were little more than halfway when a runner came galloping from the rear.
The rider was a corporal. On his chest he wore a green triangle with the blue silhouette of a howling wolf. He was splattered with mud, his leather helm askew. He pulled up beside Metyein.
“Lord Marshal! Wolf’s compliments, sir,” he said breathlessly as he saluted.
“Well met at last, Corporal. What kept you?” Metyein glanced over his shoulder. “Where is Kaj Kebonsat?”
The corporal shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Kaj Kebonsat’s horse busted a leg, so we was delayed getting your orders. A
s for Kaj Kebonsat, he left. Gone back to Wolf.”
Metyein stared. “What in the three hells for?”
The corporal swallowed hard, his throat jerking. “Dunno, sir.”
Foreboding prickled like icy pine needles across Metyein’s skin. Something else was happening this night. Something important enough to pull Kebonsat from saving Reisiltark. “Dear Lady, help us,” Metyein muttered.
“Sir?”
“Return to Wolf, Corporal. Tell your captain to split east at my command. Take twenty-five riders from Lion and half the complement of infantry. Distribute yourselves with archers in the fore, then cavalry, then footspears. We’ll come round the northwest and close our noose. When the horn sounds, archers will let fly. After the arrows are depleted, cavalry begins its assault, with footspears supporting. Questions?”
The corporal shook his head. “No, sir. But the captain was feeling poorly. Sergeant Olivel commands.”
“Then inform the sergeant. You are dismissed.”
The corporal pounded his fist against his wolf patch and then peeled away, his horse kicking up a plume of mud.
Metyein urged his horse into a fast trot. There was one thing Kebonsat would abandon this fight for. The captain was feeling poorly. By the Lady, not the plague. Not yet.
Nighttime was a distinctly stupid time to wage a battle. Clouds covered the moon, and the ground was sloppy and uncertain. Raven itself gave off little light with its torches doused to keep the defenders from night blindness. The earthworks at the base of the walls was nothing more than a quagmire moat. The horses could not encroach too closely or they would certainly break their legs.
The nokulas did not seem bothered by the mess and the darkness and had no mind to wait until morning. The noise of their attack shredded the air. The beasts shrieked and growled as they scrabbled at the palisade walls. They clambered up the vertical timbers like cats, tumbling back to land on their companions when the defenders jabbed at them with fire-hardened spears and hails of arrows.
Path of Blood Page 9
