Path of Blood

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Reisil stared, her heart clenched. He could go inside without being warped by the magic. She didn’t know why, but the knowledge made her want to cry. Swallowing hard, she looked at Yohuac.

  “It’s just us, then.”

  Once again, Yohuac gathered his magic. Reisil watched as a gold bubble formed around him. His eyes glowed as if lit from within, and the sun flecks on his skin seemed to flicker like flame. The golden bubble pushed outward, encircling Baku and then Reisil. As it pushed through and around her, Reisil felt a flash of heat that reminded her of the return from Cemanahuatl. They’d traveled through Ilhuicatl’s heart, Yohuac had told her. Through the sun. The bubble firmed. Blue-tipped flames continued to dance along its surface.

  A moment later Baku began his shield. White sparks spiraled down his black length, like fireflies. The bubble he made was silvery blue, like the North Star. As Yohuac had done, Baku pushed the shield out. When it passed through Reisil, she shivered. It swelled until it melded against Yohuac’s gold shield. There was a crack like thawing river ice.

  It was done.

  “Walk slowly. Stay on one side of Baku, and I will be on the other. Hold tight to him. We must not separate.”

  Reisil nodded, gripping one of Baku’s neck ridges with her right hand. Yohuac’s hand settled on top of hers, his fingers wrapping hers tightly.

  Lady, help us if you can, she prayed. And then they inched down into the mist, Juhrnus pacing alongside.

  Chapter 39

  Tapit opened the door without knocking. The room was lit only by a crackling fire. The witch woman, Nurema, sat talking with three members of the Whieche. Demonlord, but they were young. And scared. They started and turned, eyes wide. He could smell their fear. He looked appraisingly at the witch woman. She had gray hair that was scraped back into a tight bun. Her skin was dark and made leathery by the sun. She had snapping black eyes and a taste—His eyes widened and he nodded respectfully. There was more to her than he had thought.

  “Well, now, Tapit, yer finally here. And none too soon,” she said caustically.

  “You were expecting me?” he asked, startled. He had only just left the others. Who had warned her?

  She laughed, the sound reminding him of a donkey’s bray. “I’ve known you was coming for years.” She laughed again at his shock and waved him toward a chair. “I’m a seer, boy. But ye don’t need me to say we’re about to have troubles. Now sit yerself down and ye can tell me about yer wizard friends. They’re gonna be here by daylight. We have to be ready.”

  Soka and Metyein crawled up out of the tunnel into a carefully planted thicket of pine and huckleberry bushes. It screened the entry entirely. Soka lowered the trapdoor cover. It was covered with rocks and debris held in place by wire and glue. Metyein brushed the ground to wipe away the evidence of their passing, and the two slid out into the night.

  They were in the hills due south of Lion. The command tents for Aare’s army were at the eastern end of the valley, in the middle of the enormous camp. It was going to take most of the night to work past the sentries and join the camp. Then they had to work their way through to the command tents. Metyein hoped to reach his father before dawn, while he was still alone. Otherwise, he’d have to wait until the evening to get their chance. By then it might be too late.

  Neither man spoke to the other as they began to ease through the darkness. Metyein winced with every snapped twig. Suddenly, from Honor, came shouts and the blowing of horns. It was a diversion. Metyein touched Soka’s shoulder and they hurried faster.

  They ran over the rocky ground, slinking from tree to boulder to bush. The first of the sentries was caught up in the commotion below. He never noticed the knife that severed his vocal cords and arteries in one vicious thrust.

  “Can’t do much more of that or they’ll notice we’re here. Drag him over there,” Soka whispered, motioning to a gully shrouded in bushes.

  Metyein wiped his dagger on a handful of leaves and obeyed. His mind felt clear and alert, as if it weren’t quite attached to his body. He was grateful for that. He’d killed men before, but never from behind, never when they were helpless.

  They threaded through the sentry perimeter. Most soldiers were distracted and not very worried about intruders. A few were more diligent. They killed two more men before reaching the edge of the bustling camp. They hid the bodies as best as they could. But when daylight came and the watch changed, the dead men would certainly be found.

  Soka and Metyein stripped the last two of their tunics. They’d knocked in their skulls, and the clothing, while greasy and stained with food and grime, was not bloody.

  “Are you ready?” asked Soka, a peculiar light glinting in his eye.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  They came out of the shadows, striding purposefully toward the interior command area as if they belonged. They nodded to the other men but did not stop to talk, except to say they had a message for the captain. No one asked which one. It was enough to silence suspicion. Better soldiers might have prodded them, but these weren’t much better than street rabble. They served because it paid and gave them regular meals. And because they’d be killed otherwise. Most were sleeping or dicing or telling lewd stories as the fires burned low. There were a few camp followers with whom the men enthusiastically romped while their friends watched and leered, waiting for their turn.

  Closer to the command tents the security tightened. These men were regulars. Metyein and Soka straightened, marching more determinedly.

  “Hold up, there. What do you want?” A man stepped in front of them, his thumbs hooked in his sword belt.

  “Message for the Lord Marshal,” Metyein said, meeting the sergeant’s glare with a steady gaze.

  “Give it here, then.” The other man thrust out a meaty slab of a hand.

  “No, sir. We were ordered to take it to the Lord Marshal’s aide-de-camp.” Metyein spoke crisply.

  The sergeant scanned them up and down, his lip curling at their filthy tunics. His gaze snagged on the black rag tied over Soka’s eye.

  “What happened to him?”

  “A disagreement,” Soka replied.

  “Stirring up trouble?” the sergeant said, rolling forward on the balls of his feet, his eyes narrowing.

  “No, sir. Ending it.”

  The sergeant stared a moment, considering, and then nodded. “Follow me.”

  Metyein breathed out in relief. They followed the sergeant, threading through the maze of tents and campfires.

  It was still an hour before dawn when the sergeant brought them to the Lord Marshal’s pavilion. It was made of heavy canvas and was fully a quarter acre in size. A pennant near the door indicated the Lord Marshal was within. On the hill behind, Metyein saw Aare’s extravagant pavilion. It was made of midnight silk with golden gryphons gamboling around the bottom and top edges. His pennant flapped in the breeze above the doorway. Metyein’s heart pounded. To be this close . . .

  The aide-de-camp was sent for. His name was Samles. He’d been with Metyein’s father for eight years. At last he emerged, straightening his clothing, his narrow face hard with annoyance.

  “What is it?” he barked at the sergeant who snapped to attention and saluted.

  “Message for the Lord Marshal, sir.”

  “Well? Give it here.”

  The sergeant turned sharply around with military precision. “Present your message,” he ordered Metyein.

  Now the aide-de-camp fixed his attention on the two grubby men. Recognition flickered in his eyes, but his expression did not vary.

  “It’s not written, sir,” Metyein said, standing at attention.

  “Hmph. All right. Inside. I’ll have my kohv and breakfast while you spit it out. This had better be worth it, or you’ll have full-time duty digging latrines. Try not to drop any of your filth on the carpet. Don’t touch anything.” He hardly paused as he turned his attention to the sergeant.

  “Master Sergeant Vicker, I confess myself disappointed in the poo
r personal grooming exhibited by these men. I think the Kodu Riikian army should have higher standards. I want inspections. I want to see a little order and pride. See to it personally. I’ll have my clerk write the orders. Anyone who gives you lip can take latrine duty. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” the sergeant saluted again.

  Samles led the way inside, pausing to relay his orders to a groggy clerk sitting at a low table just within. He then led them farther inside to a small sitting room.

  “Wait here, please. I’ll call the Lord Marshal.”

  Neither man sat. Soka prowled restlessly while Metyein stood still. He went over his arguments in his mind and prayed for his father to see reason.

  Five minutes later, the curtained door behind which Samles had disappeared was pushed aside and his father entered, with Samles close on his heels.

  For a moment father and son stared at each other. Metyein noted that his father was thinner and looked haggard. Then the other man opened his arms. Metyein stepped into his grasp, hugging him back hard. Emotion flooded him and he blinked away hot tears.

  After a moment, Metyein pulled away. “There’s not much time.”

  His father’s expression tightened. He nodded and turned to Samles. “Tighten the guard. I don’t want any visitors. Make sure they’re ours.”

  Samles nodded and withdrew, his gaze lingering on Metyein. Metyein gave a half-smile, thanking the Lady that it was Samles who still served as his father’s aide-de-camp and not someone new.

  “Why are you here?” his father demanded as soon as Samles was gone. “This is beyond dangerous. It’s downright stupid. If Aare found out—” He broke off, his face turning to stone.

  “I came to ask for your help,” Metyein said simply.

  “Help? You chose another side. You’re a traitor. There’s no help I can give you.”

  Metyein studied his father. Did Aare even know what he had in Derros cas Vare?

  “I have some things to tell you. And then you can decide what you will do. But first I’ll remind you of what I told you before. I do what honor and duty require. I serve the Lady and I serve Kodu Riik.

  “Now I’ll be as quick as I can for the rest of it. The first thing that you don’t know is that if the Scallacians or the wizards attack Mysane Kosk again, then Kodu Riik will be destroyed. Honor’s wards were tied into the power of Mysane Kosk. When the sorcerer hit Bear yesterday, you saw what happened. The blight-circle doubled. And it isn’t just Kodu Riik that will be obliterated. It’s everywhere. The world will be remade; and nothing will survive.

  “Reisiltark is going into Mysane Kosk to try to fix the problem. But an attack will destroy her. If she dies, then there is no hope at all. I can’t allow that to happen. And since I know you don’t trust her, let me tell you this. Aare arranged to have me kidnapped so that either I could spy on you, or else he could hold me hostage as a lever to keep you in line. But things went wrong. I was gut-shot and Soka was taken instead. I should have died. Reisiltark healed me. If she hadn’t, I’d be napping in a dirt bed right now. Later, he set Soka free to spy on me and you. After he tortured him. That’s the man you serve.”

  Metyein didn’t give his father a chance to speak, but hurried on, searching for the words that would convince him.

  “You know he’s gone after the ahalad-kaaslane. You know he’s not loyal to the Lady. He is a traitor to his land and his people. You owe him nothing. Dazien Emelovi is her father’s daughter. She’s the one you ought to be serving.

  “So here’s what I came to ask you. I need you to keep the sorcerers from attacking Mysane Kosk. Nothing else matters.”

  He stopped, breathing fast, feeling like he’d been running uphill. His father’s expression had not changed. Metyein wasn’t even sure the other man had heard. Skraa! How could his father continue to be loyal to Aare?

  “I’m sure you believe what you’ve told me,” his father said finally. “But what proof can you offer?”

  Metyein pulled up his tunic, exposing the scar on his stomach. “Courtesy of the Regent,” he snarled softly.

  His father’s gaze flicked to the rippled, twisted flesh. He shrugged. “You were shot. Reisiltark healed you. But what proof have you that the Iisand was behind it? What proof have you that it wasn’t one of her plots to gain your loyalty and use you? If she can heal that, then why not the plague? Why not Geran?”

  Metyein stared, his stomach flipping. The Iisand? Aare had gained the throne? He looked away. This was futile. His father was what he was. Metyein might have convinced him while Aare was still Regent, but not now.

  “I’ve said what I came to say. I don’t have any other proof for you. If you don’t recognize the truth when you hear it, if you want to serve that ganyik, then so be it. We’ll go now—unless you want to arrest us?” he asked coldly.

  “If he doesn’t, I certainly do,” a cruel voice purred, and Aare stepped out from behind the curtains. His gaze raked over Metyein and then to Soka, who looked feral. “What have we here? Traitors both.” He licked his lips and smiled. “I will have to welcome you properly.”

  Metyein glanced at his father. He’d gone gray, but his expression remained stoic.

  “Daz Aare. What brings you to my quarters at this hour?”

  “I understood you had visitors,” he said mildly. But no one could mistake the threat in his voice.

  “Oh?” There was a wealth of resentment and distrust in that question.

  “Yes. Thanks to our Scallacian friends, I know when anyone who doesn’t belong to me enters the camp.”

  Fury flashed in Derros cas Vare’s eyes and his nostrils flared. “I am responsible for safeguarding this camp. Why wasn’t I informed?”

  Aare waved the question away. “Oh, it wasn’t necessary. I daresay I’m entitled to a few secrets, am I not?” he asked silkily. “Now, what to do with these two?”

  He walked around, scanning both Metyein and Soka up and down. Metyein gritted his teeth. Soka merely stared straight ahead and looked bored. No doubt the poison bead was safely ensconced in his cheek. He’d not be tortured by Aare again. Metyein was glad for him.

  “We’ll have to make a lesson of them,” Aare murmured. “Something to demoralize the rebels. Something to remind the men of the price to be paid for betraying their country and rightful leader. Something to remind Emelovi of her place.” This last was said in a vicious whisper. Metyein glanced at his father, who looked sick.

  Quick as an adder he whipped his sword from his scabbard and drove it at Aare’s chest.

  His arm wrenched as the sword stuck fast in thin air, inches from Aare’s chest. The new Iisand chortled delightedly. Metyein struggled to pull it away or let go, to no avail. He cursed himself. Of course Aare would have magical protection. He had the sorcerers in his pocket. Suddenly something crawled up over his hand. He tried to wrench himself away again. The sensation continued, tickling, like centipedes crawling onto his flesh. And then . . . they burrowed.

  Metyein screamed as voracious jaws chewed into his flesh and under his skin. They gnawed a slow, winding path to his bone. His flesh split open as more and more of the invisible creatures devoured his skin and muscle. There was no blood. They crept toward his elbow. Soon his hand and forearm were nothing but pale bone, not even a scrap of flesh remaining. The pain was beyond anything Metyein had experienced. He heard himself scream, jerking his arm so that his shoulder came loose from the socket. Still he was trapped.

  Soka and his father drew their swords. The two male sorcerers emerged from behind the curtain to counter them.

  “I wouldn’t move,” Aare said conversationally. “You don’t want to share his fate, do you? If you’re good and quiet, I will let him die sooner rather than later. Now, sheath your swords and watch what happens to traitors. And, dear Derros, take careful note. He is not your only son.”

  Lord Marshal Vare slowly lowered his sword. His face was white. Metyein turned to look at Soka, pleading. The creatures had burrowed up to his armpit and he
dangled helplessly by his ruined arm, unable to stand, unable to let go of the sword. Agony screamed along his nerves and he began to retch convulsively. His body spasmed and vomit splattered the floor. Aare pulled his robe aside and stepped back in distaste.

  And then with a strangled sound, Soka leaped forward. His mouth was pulled in a rictus of hate and anguish. His sword flashed. Metyein felt the clean bite of steel against his neck. And then everything went black.

  “Here, Dazien, let me help you.”

  Emelovi smiled at Ledus and let him take her hand to steady her as she half slid down the steep bank. Kebonsat waited below with Dumen. Both Ledus and Dumen were Patversemese knights who had accompanied Kebonsat on his ambassadorial mission to woo her. Like him, they’d been declared dead by their country and families when the blockade had gone up and Aare had taken them hostage. And they’d joined Honor to help fight against Aare’s despotism.

  Emelovi winced as Kebonsat reached up to catch her if she fell. But it was reflexive. In fact, she was startled to realize she no longer felt the hot wash of bitterness that usually accompanied thinking about Kebonsat. She frowned. When had she stopped being so angry with him?

  She reached the bottom of the gully without incident. Kebonsat stepped away without touching her, his expression remote. Emelovi frowned at the irrational irritation she felt, stepping aside while the rest of their escort scrabbled down. Pebbles bounced around them. One struck her a stinging blow on the back of her hand. She stifled her cry of pain and rubbed the sore spot.

  When all the men had descended, Kebonsat waved them forward. He led the way with four men behind him. Then came Emelovi with Dumen and Ledus flanking her. The rest of their escort fanned out behind. The group went slowly and silently, following the twisting path of the gully. The ground turned muddy and it was difficult to walk. The dark made finding her footing even worse. Emelovi struggled to pull her feet free of the sticky mud. She slipped, and the two men at her side caught her arms, lifting her back up. Her legs began to burn as they climbed higher out of the valley. She quickly grew hot and wished she could remove her cloak. She panted, her chest beginning to hurt.