“But there was another, wasn’t there? And you performed whatever trick you did the first time to find her.” Guy peered at Mercy. “What is she? A bastard child? A niece?” He advanced toward Miranda. “Hand her over.”
“No!” the old professor shouted.
One of the soldiers grabbed Miranda, and the other pulled the girl from her.
“But let’s be certain, shall we? I will not make the same mistake twice.” With a deft sweep of his wrist, Guy slashed Mercy across her hand. She screamed and Mr. Rings hissed.
“That’s uncalled for!” Arcadius said.
“Watch them,” Guy ordered his men while he moved to his horse.
“Hush now, be a brave girl for me,” Miranda told Mercy.
Guy carefully laid his sword on the ground, then withdrew a small leather case from his saddlebag. From it, he pulled forth a set of three vials. He uncorked the first, tilted it slightly, and tapped on it with his finger until a bit of powder sprinkled onto the bloodstained end of his sword.
“I want to leave now,” Mercy whimpered as the guard held her fast. “Please can we go?”
“Interesting,” Guy muttered to himself, then applied the contents of the next vial. This one held a liquid that hissed and fizzled when it landed on the blade.
“Guy!” Arcadius shouted at him as he stepped forward.
“Very interesting,” Guy continued. He uncorked the last vial.
“Guy, don’t!” the old man yelled.
He poured a single drop on the tip of the sword.
Pop!
The sound was like a wine bottle cork coming free and the flash was as brilliant as lightning.
The sentinel stood up, staring at the end of his sword, and began to laugh. It was a strange and eerie sound, like the song of a madman. “At last. At long last, I have found the Heir of Novron. The quest of my ancestors will be achieved through me.”
“Miranda,” Arcadius whispered, “you can do nothing more by yourself.” The old man’s eyes glanced toward the refugee camp.
As the morning light rose, Miranda could see several columns of smoke. Possible help was tantalizingly close. Only a few hundred yards at most.
“I’ve devoted my life to correcting my mistake. But now it is up to you to do what must be done,” Arcadius said.
Luis Guy took the girl and hoisted her onto his horse. “We’ll take her to the Patriarch.”
“What about these two, sir?” one of the hooded men asked.
“Take the old man. Kill the woman.”
Miranda’s heart skipped as the soldier reached for his sword.
“Wait!” Arcadius said. “What about the horn?” The old professor was backing away, clutching his satchel. “The Patriarch will want the horn too, won’t he?”
Guy’s eyes flashed at the bag Arcadius held.
“You have it?” the sentinel asked.
Arcadius shot a desperate look toward Miranda, then turned and fled back down the road.
“Watch the child,” Guy ordered one of his men. Turning to the other, he waved, and together they chased after Arcadius, who ran faster than Miranda would have ever imagined possible.
She watched him—her closest friend—racing back the way they had come, his cloak flying behind him. She might have thought the sight comical except she knew what Arcadius actually had in his satchel. She knew why he was running away, what that meant, and what he wanted her to do.
Miranda reached for the dagger under her cloak. She had never killed anyone before, but what choice did she have? The man standing between her and Mercy was a soldier, and likely a Seret Knight. He turned his back on her to get a better grip on Guy’s horse, focusing his attention on Mercy and the hissing raccoon that snapped at him.
Miranda had only seconds before Guy and the other man caught up to Arcadius. Knowing what would happen made her want to cry. They had come so far together, sacrificed so much, and just when it seemed like they were finally close to their goal… to be stopped like this… to be murdered on a roadside… Tragic was too weak a word to frame the injustice. There would be time for tears later. The professor was counting on her and she would not let him down. That one look had told her everything. This was the final gamble. If they could get Mercy to Modina, everything might be made right again.
She drew the dagger and rushed forward. With all her strength, Miranda stabbed the soldier in the back. He was not wearing mail or leather and the sharp blade bit deep, passing through clothes, skin, and muscle.
He spun and swatted her away. The back of his fist connected with her cheek and left her reeling from the blow. She fell to the snow, still holding the dagger, the handle slick with blood.
On the horse, Mercy held tight to the saddle and screamed. The raccoon chattered, its fur up.
Miranda got back to her feet as the soldier drew his sword. He was badly hurt. Blood soaked his pant leg and he staggered toward her. She tried to get away, reaching for Mercy and the horse, but the seret was faster. His sword pierced her side somewhere near her waist. She felt it go in. The pain burned, but then she suddenly felt cold. Her knees buckled. She managed to hold fast to the saddle as the horse, frightened by the violence and Mercy’s screaming, moved away, dragging her with it.
Behind them, the soldier fell to his knees, blood bubbling from his lips.
Miranda tried to pull herself up, but her legs were useless. They hung limp and she felt the strength draining from her arms. “Take the reins, Mercy, and hang on tight.”
Down the road, Guy and the other man had caught up to Arcadius. Guy, who had stopped at the sound of the girl’s screams, lagged behind, but the other soldier tackled the old professor to the snow.
“Mercy,” Miranda said, “you need to ride. Ride over there—ride to the campfires. Beg for help. Go.”
With her last bit of strength, she struck the horse’s flank. The animal bolted forward. The saddle ripped from Miranda’s hands and she fell once more into the snow. Lying on her back, she listened to the sound of the horse as it raced away.
“Get on your—” she heard Guy shout, but it was too late. Arcadius had opened the satchel.
Even from hundreds of feet away Miranda felt the earth shake from the explosion. An instant later, a gust of wind threw stinging snow against her face as a cloud billowed into the morning sky. Arcadius, and the man who wrestled with him, died instantly. Guy was blown off his feet. The remaining horses scattered.
As the snowy cloud settled, Miranda stared up at the brightening sky, at the rising dawn. She was not cold anymore. The pain in her side was going away, growing numb along with her legs and hands. She felt a breeze cross her cheek and noticed her legs and waist were wet, her dress soaked through. She could taste iron on her tongue. Breathing became difficult—as if she were drowning.
Guy was still alive. She heard him cursing the old man and calling to the horses as if they were disobedient dogs. The crunch of snow, the rub of leather, then the sound of hooves galloping away.
She was alone in the silence of the cold winter’s dawn.
It was quiet. Peaceful.
“Dear Maribor, hear me,” she prayed aloud to the brightening sky. “Oh Father of Novron, creator of men.” She took her last breath and with it said, “Take care of your only daughter.”
Alenda Lanaklin crept out of her tent into the brisk morning air. She wore her thickest wool dress and two layers of fur, but still she shivered. The sun was just rising—a cold milky haze in the soup of a heavy winter sky. The clouds had lingered for more than a week and she wondered if she would ever see the sun’s bright face again.
Alenda stood on the packed snow, looking around at the dozens of tents pitched among the pine forest’s eaves. Campfires burned in blackened snow pits, creating gray tails of smoke that wagged with the wind. Among them wandered figures, hooded and bundled such that it should have been difficult to identify male from female. Yet there was no such dilemma—they were all women. The camp was filled with them as well as c
hildren and the elderly. People walked with bowed heads, picking their way carefully through the trampled snow.
Everything appeared so different in the light, so quiet, so still. The previous night had been a terror of fire, screams, and a flight along the Westfield road. They had paused only briefly to take a head count before pushing on. Alenda had been so exhausted that she barely recalled the camp being set.
“Good morning, my lady,” Emily greeted her from beneath a blanket, which was wrapped over her cloak. Her words lacked their normal cheerfulness. Alenda’s maid had always been bright and playful in the morning. Now she stood with somber diligence, her reddened hands quivering, her jaw shaking with the chill.
“Is it, Emmy?” Alenda cast another look around. “How can you tell?”
“Let’s find you some breakfast. Something warm will make you feel better.”
“My father and brothers are dead,” Alenda replied. “The world is ending. How can breakfast possibly help?”
“I don’t know, my lady, but we must try. It’s what your father wanted—for you to survive, I mean. It’s why he stayed behind, isn’t it?”
A loud boom, like a crack of thunder, echoed from the north. Every head turned to look out across the snowy fields. Every face terrified that the end had arrived at last.
Reaching the center of the camp, Alenda found Belinda Pickering; her daughter, Lenare; old Julian, Melengar’s lord high chamberlain; and Lord Valin, the party’s sole protector. The elderly knight had led them through the chaos the night before. Among them, they composed the last vestiges of the royal court, at least those still in Melengar. King Alric was in Aquesta lending a hand in the brief civil war and saving his sister, Arista, from execution. It was to him they now fled.
“We have no idea, but it is foolish to stay any longer,” Lord Valin was saying.
“Yes, I agree,” Belinda replied.
Lord Valin turned to a young boy. “Send word to rouse everyone. We will break camp immediately.”
“Emmy,” Alenda said, turning to her maid. “Run back and pack our things.”
“Of course, my lady.” Emily curtsied and headed toward their tent.
“What was that sound?” Alenda asked Lenare, who only shrugged, her face frightened.
Lenare Pickering was lovely, as always. Despite the horrors, the flight, and the primitive condition of the camp, she was radiant. Even disheveled in a hastily grabbed cloak, with her blonde hair spilling out of her hood, she remained stunning, just as a sleeping baby is always precious. She had gotten this blessing from her mother. Just as the Pickering men were renowned for their swordsmanship, so too were the Pickering women celebrated for their beauty. Lenare’s mother, Belinda, was famous for it.
All that was over now. What had been constants only the day before were now lost beyond a gulf too wide to clearly see across, although at times it appeared that Lenare tried. Alenda often had seen her staring north at the horizon with a look somewhere between desperation and remorse, searching for ghosts.
In her arms, Lenare still held her father’s legendary sword. The count had handed it to her, begging that she deliver it safely to her brother Mauvin. Then he had kissed each member of his family before returning to the line where Alenda’s own father and brothers waited with the rest of the army. Since then, Lenare had never set the burden down. She had wrapped it in a dark wool blanket and bound it with a silk ribbon. Throughout the harrowing escape, she had hugged the long bundle to her breast, at times using it to wipe away tears.
“If we push hard today, we might make Colnora by sunset,” Lord Valin told them. “Assuming the weather improves.” The old knight glared up at the sky as if it alone were their adversary.
“Lord Julian,” Belinda said. “The relics… the scepter and seal—”
“They are all safe, my lady,” the ancient chamberlain replied. “Loaded in the wagons. The kingdom is intact, save for the land itself.” The old man looked back in the direction of the strange sound, toward the banks of the Galewyr River and the bridge they had crossed the night before.
“Will they help us in Colnora?” Belinda asked. “We haven’t much food.”
“If news has reached them of King Alric’s part in freeing the empress, they should be willing,” Lord Valin said. “Even if it has not, Colnora is a merchant city, and merchants thrive on profit, not chivalry.”
“I have some jewelry,” Belinda informed him. “If needs be, you can sell what I have for…” The countess paused as she noticed Julian still staring back at the bridge.
Others soon lifted their gazes, and finally Alenda looked up to see the approach of a rider.
“Is it…?” Lenare began.
“It’s a child,” Belinda said.
Alenda quickly realized she was right. A little girl raced at them, clutching to the back of the sweat-soaked horse. Her hood had blown back, revealing long dark hair and rosy cheeks. She was about six years old, and just as she clutched the horse, a raccoon held fast to her. They were an odd pair to be alone on the road, but Alenda reminded herself that “normal” no longer existed. If she should see a bear in a feather cap riding a chicken, that too might be normal now.
The horse entered the camp and Lord Valin grabbed the bit, forcing the animal and rider to a stop.
“Are you all right, honey?” Belinda asked.
“There’s blood on the saddle,” Lord Valin noted.
“Are you hurt?” the countess asked the child. “Where are your parents?”
The girl shivered and blinked but said nothing. Her little fists still clutched the horse’s reins.
“She’s cold as ice,” Belinda said, touching the child’s cheek. “Help me get her down.”
“What’s your name?” Alenda asked.
The girl remained mute. Deprived of her horse, she turned to hugging the raccoon.
“Another rider,” Lord Valin announced.
Alenda looked up to see a man crossing the bridge and wheeling toward them.
The rider charged into the camp and threw back his hood, revealing long black hair, pale skin, and intense eyes. He bore a narrow mustache and a short beard trimmed to a fine point. He glared at them until he spotted the girl.
“There!” he said, pointing. “Give her to me at once.”
The child cried out in fear, shaking her head.
“No!” Belinda shouted, and pressed the girl into Alenda’s hands.
“My lady,” Lord Valin said. “If the child is his—”
“This child does not belong to him,” the countess declared, her tone hateful.
“I am a Sentinel of Nyphron,” the man shouted so all could hear. “This child is claimed for the church. You will hand her over now. Any who oppose me will die.”
“I know very well who you are, Luis Guy,” Belinda said, seething. “I will not provide you with any more children to murder.”
The sentinel peered at her. “Countess Pickering?” He studied the camp with renewed interest. “Where is your husband? Where is your fugitive son?”
“I am no fugitive,” Denek said as he came forward. Belinda’s youngest had recently turned thirteen and was growing tall and lanky. He was well on his way to imitating his older brothers.
“He means Mauvin,” Belinda explained. “This is the man who murdered Fanen.”
“Again I ask you,” Guy pressed. “Where is your husband?”
“He is dead and Mauvin is well beyond your reach.”
The sentinel looked out over the crowd and then down at Lord Valin. “And he has left you poor protection. Now, hand over the child.”
“I will not,” Belinda said.
Guy dismounted and stepped forward to face Lord Valin. “Hand over the child or I will be forced to take her.”
The old knight looked to Belinda, whose face remained hateful. “My lady does not wish it, and I shall defend her decision.” The old man drew his sword. “You will leave now.”
Alenda jumped at the sound of steel as Guy drew his
own sword and lunged. In less than an instant, Lord Valin was clutching his bleeding side, his sword arm wavering. With a shake of his head, the sentinel slapped the old man’s blade away and stabbed him through the neck.
Guy advanced toward the girl with a terrifying fire in his eyes. Before he could cross the distance, Belinda stepped between them.
“I do not make a habit of killing women,” Guy told her. “But nothing will keep me from this prize.”
“What do you want her for?”
“As you said, to kill her. I will take the child to the Patriarch and then she must die, by my hands.”
“Never.”
“You cannot stop me. Look around. You have only women and children. You have no one to fight for you. Give me the child!”
“Mother?” Lenare said softly. “He is right. There is no one else. Please.”
“Mother, let me,” Denek pleaded.
“No. You are still too young. Your sister is right. There is no one else.” The countess nodded toward her daughter.
“I am pleased to see someone who—” Guy stopped as Lenare stepped forward. She slipped off her cloak and untied the bundle, revealing the sword of her father, which she drew forth and held before her. The blade caught the hazy winter light, pulling it in and casting it back in a sharp brilliance.
Puzzled, Guy looked at her for a moment. “What is this?”
“You killed my brother,” Lenare said.
Guy looked to Belinda. “You’re not serious.”
“Just this once, Lenare,” Belinda told her daughter.
“You would have your daughter die for this child? If I must kill all your children, I will.”
Alenda watched, terrified, as everyone backed away, leaving a circle around Sentinel Guy and Lenare. A ripping wind shuddered the canvas of the tents and threw Lenare’s golden hair back. Standing alone in the snow, dressed in her white traveling clothes and holding the rapier, she appeared as a mythical creature, a fairy queen or goddess—beautiful in her elegance.
With a scowl, Luis Guy lunged, and with surprising speed and grace, Lenare slapped the attack away. Her father’s sword sang with the contact.
Percepliquis Page 2
