by Jenna Rhodes
“What about the Bolger?”
“Strong, but slow. They can only offset their slowness by fighting at pole length or by throwing. I knew a Bolger with a net once who was extremely hard to bring down.” The Kobrir took two long and slow breaths. “I am going to come at you again, half-speed. I want you to counter what my shoulders tell you I’m going to do. Move at any pace you find natural, I will meet it if necessary.”
Sevryn had time enough to breathe deep before the Kobrir lunged at him. He saw his shoulder dip to the left ever so slightly, signaling a move to the left side, his right. An attack then, over or under his offensive hand. That was the last moment he had to think coherently. He noted the slowing of speed and found himself knowing the other’s move just before he made it, although he couldn’t say if he had spotted it through the balance shift of the other’s shoulders or his own deeply ingrained training. He felt an easiness and began to press the other, quickening his attacks. The Kobrir answered in kind. Sparks flew now and then as the blades rang off each other. He could feel the burn in the muscles down the back of his neck and shoulder, and where he’d been hit earlier began a dull aching throb. Yet Sevryn did not slow. He felt a kind of fierce joy in the spar. The Kobrir finally halted it by leaping back before bringing his hands up.
It was only then, as sweat trickled down his rib cage, that he felt the sting of having been scored by the other’s blade. Sevryn winced as he put a finger to it. Only the tiniest of surface slashes, not deep but long.
“You’ve done well. Tomorrow we practice again.”
“The day’s not over.”
The Kobrir inclined his head. “And you are in a hurry.”
“With a purpose, yes.” Worthy lessons, but they were keeping him from Rivergrace.
“The rest of the day, you will practice breathing. Your muscles are tired, your legs are nearly dead, and all because you cannot breathe deeply enough while you fight. Another will be along to teach you those lessons.” The Kobrir saluted him with both blades, stepped back, and disappeared into the shadows ringing the cave.
It did not help that his lungs ached, reinforcing the truth. Sevryn retreated to his bedroll, sat and began to sharpen, and then oil his blades. They had taken nicks, and he worked long to remove the imperfections. When he looked up, another Kobrir had come in and silently sat down in front of him, watching. As soon as awareness hit Sevryn, the Kobrir’s hand shot out, throwing him down and he suddenly lost all ability to breathe. Dark spots began to dance before his eyes in another moment as his heels drummed the dirt and he fought to break free.
“Do not fight,” the Kobrir whispered. “I will release you. Breathe deeply. Then I will take hold of you again. When you can resist my hold without falling unconscious, the lesson is finished.”
It seemed to last hours. Gulp air down and be assailed, and try not to run out of breath before being released. Again. And again. Until finally Sevryn likened it to swimming underwater and found a relaxation in lying in the other’s inexorable hold, his lungs slowly realizing that no more air was forthcoming, and his mind beginning to shout at him that he had to breathe. Those moments came farther and farther apart until . . .
The paralyzing hold on him let go and the assassin vanished, as had his brothers, leaving Sevryn alone on his now twisted and knotted bedroll. He could smell his sweat, sharp and pungent, as he filled his grateful lungs. With dinner, the silent woman who served him also brought a jar of water and two bathing cloths. He observed her as she bent to set the tray down, noting the wiry lines of her body, her hips, the fighting scars along one wrist as her sleeve slid up, and the fact she wore her weapon on her right hip for a left-handed draw. This one was undoubtedly like the Kobrir woman his dueling partner had warned him about, formidable in her own right. He wondered if he was supposed to test her and himself, but he was too tired and sore to make the attempt. Perhaps tomorrow night.
When Sevryn lay down to sleep, he fell soon but not so deeply that he did not count the sentries who came throughout the night to check on him and then left. Four, in all.
THE STREET WAS ON FIRE or he would have seen her.
Verdayne pulled his ponies to a halt, their heads high and their nostrils flared with the sight of flame and smoke dancing in front of them. They were all weary though he hadn’t driven them into the ground as he feared he would have, but last night had showed the lanterns and torches of Calcort glowing not too far away in the evening and he’d pitched camp to let them all sleep soundly. The ponies had gone to their knees and then hung their heads before giving in to rest, but he’d heard them up before dawn, greedily cropping at the spring grass, filling their round little bellies. He’d waited till the sun had come up soundly, warming the ground and chasing off the little mists of cold, early spring before harnessing them to complete their journey, his own hunger slaked by a crumbling biscuit. His tashya had carried the good saddlebags with sweet jerky and bags of toasted nuts.
Verdayne stood up in the cart bed, taking in the sight in amazement. The street was on fire because a Vaelinar had set it so, gold and blue and reddish flames fencing off a considerable part of the quarter’s district. Town guards had told him of the quarantine when he’d entered, but he’d had no idea of the scope. Even knowing that could not have prepared him for the sight, and then the Raymy came pelting down the street, weapons gripped, roaming in their odd gait of some on two feet and others on fours, moving rapidly. He watched the flames as they did, perplexed on how to cross, because the fire burned between him and the vineyard quarter, which was where he most desperately needed to be, at Tolby Farbranch’s holdings. The near wheel pony flung up her head and snorted. Her tension ran down the harness lines to his hands. They would not stand here quietly for long, their fear of the searing heat taking hold.
Nor, it seemed, would the Raymy. Hot and blazing though it was, there were spots where the wall did not burn as brightly nor as high, and if it had been meant to contain them, and Verdayne looked down the side street where fire ran along its gutters as far as he could see—if it had been meant to contain them, it had not been meant to burn indefinitely. Could not, fueled by nothing except magic, and that waned almost with every heartbeat. Movement ticked at the end of the street. Calcort guards. He could see them, on foot, weapons drawn, and coming after the Raymy on the run.
They would not make it in time. He could see the Raymy bunching, trotting at the far perimeter of the firewall, ready to jump its boundary. The beasts had decided to take their chances with the flames.
Verdayne drew his sword. Wrapped the reins about his right hand still telegraphing the extreme nervousness and tension through the harness, leaned forward on the balls of his feet, and shouted at his ponies. They bolted in panic.
The fire parted as they swept through. It crackled and spat and licked at him, but they moved so quickly it hardly touched the cart. A dust cloud roared up about them, and then they thrust through to the other side. Verdayne felt intense heat one second and nothing the next as he pulled on the reins and shoved a foot onto the brake so the cart skewed about and slid sideways through the far barrier of the flames, coming to a halt on the other side of it, so close he could hear the sparks snap and crackle as they bit at him.
The Raymy came leaping after. He sliced at the first one, downing it, and caught the second with his back swing. A third he slammed in the gut as it hurdled over him in an all-out dive for freedom. The last four landed just short of the cart, caught between it and the fire. A clawed hand swept at him, catching his leathers and pulling him from the cart bed. He rolled, hoping to land on his feet, his leather ripping free as he twisted. Dirt caught him, on hip and elbow, not as successful a maneuver as he’d hoped. He kicked out, catching the nearest reptile by the ankles, sweeping his legs from under him, even as he got to his own feet. A short sword slammed edge down into the dirt, the sound of its movement slicing past his temple. Verdayne dodged, and then pivo
ted to his right almost as quickly, hoping to confound any sword strokes, his left arm up to catch any blades on his bracer.
He used the cart bed to protect his back, but it also hampered his movement as the Raymy closed in on him. Another handful breached the firewall, and Verdayne felt the stench of their bodies clog his nostrils along with the choking smoke of the flames. They respected his sweeping cuts, but made trills and guttural hisses to one another, and he knew they would close in on him. He would lose by sheer numbers.
The cart shuddered as his ponies stamped and whinnied in terror. He spun about, his sword falling across the harness, slicing them free, and he slapped the one caramel-spotted butt close to him in encouragement. A Raymy bounded in vain after them, tripping over the harness that flapped behind them and entangled his feet. A guardsman sprinted past Verdayne to cut the creature down in two slices and a deep-throated jab. A sea of mottled gray-green skins surrounded him and that was the last he saw clearly although he could hear the grunts and cries of one guardsman to another sounding from within the fray. Survival kept him too busy to account for the others. His arms grew numb, one from wielding his blade, the other from blocking whatever blows he could catch on his bracer, but at the same time, he noted that the opposition fell back quicker than he had expected, panting and growling and hissing from their wattled throats as they did.
A guardsman caught one by the forearm as it staggered back from Verdayne, and spun it around, throwing him back into the flames.
“Plague,” he said. “Keep out of the gore.” Then he was off, fending two of the beasts away from Verdayne.
He found himself all alone, with one in front backed up against a cart wheel which grabbed at his sword hilt when he swung it, and caught it, wood splintering but not giving.
From his right flank came a muffled curse and a long knife whipping past him and into the Raymy’s throat. It blinked its large wet eyes, gurgled from deep in its wattle, and toppled.
“Well, a’right then,” his rescuer said. “Going to stand in the middle of a plague-ridden street or move out of the way?”
Verdayne turned. His jaw fell as an enormously pregnant girl stood at his elbow, bent slightly to stab her long knife into the street dirt, cleaning it off as best she could. Her curls bounced about her shoulders as she looked up to meet his stare. Her prettiness stopped his words cold in his throat.
“What? Are you telling me you didn’t see me when you put the cart in my path, nearly running me down?” Her eyes sparkled. “How could you miss me?”
Verdayne managed to close his mouth. “I was a bit busy at the time.”
“Busy thinking?”
“Something like that.”
“Hoping to be deep as a well and ending up a puddle.”
He felt his face warm. “I was thinking something had to be done.”
She gave a breathy snort. “Well, you did it. You drove through a wall of fire.”
He closed the distance between them. “Which is failing. I saw it—they saw it.” He took her elbow. “You need to get off the street before any more Raymy come through.”
“Or fire-eating ponies pulling carts.” She looked past him, and a look of pure joy replaced the mischievous glint in her golden-brown eyes. “Hosmer!”
“Meg! What are you doing hereabouts?” A stout Dweller wearing a captain’s rank in the City Guard swept her up in an awkward embrace. They forgot Verdayne for a moment, so he took a step back, eyeing his ponyless cart. He found a rag to clean his weapons.
The lass laughed. “What do I look like I’m doing? Taking up half the street! I slipped my guard to take a walk. My legs still work, aye? This gentleman here says the fire is burning out.”
“It is, but I think that’s our last nest of Raymy run to ground and quite successfully, too. We’ll dispose of the bodies, made a sweep of the quarantine area, and I may be home for dinner. And if I make it home, you and I will have a talk about slipping your guards!”
She beamed in spite of his scolding tone. “First time in days. I won’t tell Mother and ruin the surprise.” She turned away, ignoring Verdayne.
Captain Hosmer gave Verdayne a wry look. He saluted them both before trotting off to join the troops who were busy dragging the bodies down the street to a central pyre.
He put a hand out to stop the Dweller lass in her tracks. “Don’t go just yet.” He realized who she was but not quite how to approach his task, feeling all upended. He needed an introduction, but her brother had gone off.
She looked back over her shoulder and one eyebrow went up ever so slightly. “No?”
Verdayne gave a slight bow. “My thanks for the timely rescue.”
“And welcome t’you.”
He did not step away. Her other eyebrow arched to join the first in faint surprise as she swung about to face him.
“Would you know where the Farbranch vineyard is?”
“I might. And who would be asking?”
“Verdayne of House Vantane.”
“Oh.” Her face paled quite suddenly. “Bistel’s . . .”
“Son. One of them.”
“I know Bistane.”
“He’s been around a lot longer.” Verdayne readied to catch her if she swayed or got any paler. “Miss Nutmeg.”
“So you’re one of those. Born to the manor and high-minded about my imagined place in the world. You can just turn heel and head back to th’ Hold because I’m not about to be renouncing my claim, not that it’s mine anyway, it’s Queen Lariel’s, and I haven’t seen the man yet who can tell that woman what to do—well, Lord Bistel came close, but he’s gone now—and she’s the one who decided that this babe has got to be important to Larandaril and everyone else, not me. The baby is important to me, that’s not what I meant. It’s the succession that’s a problem. As for thinking I’ve disgraced Dwellers everywhere, you can just tuck that notion back under your hat if you have one, along with your ears, and if you can’t manage to do that, Hosmer will be helpin’ you.” She ran a little short of breath and stopped, pale features giving way to apple-shaded cheeks of indignation.
Verdayne rocked back on his heels. “Of course you are. Don’t. Aren’t.” And Bistane had thought she might need saving from her predicament. She sounded as though she quite had the bull by the horns. Still, there was the matter of working with her father. He rubbed the palm of one hand on the thigh of his trousers. “But you’re not why I’ve come to Calcort. I’ve been sent to find Tolby Farbranch.”
“And why would that be?”
“We need his help. The library of Ferstanthe is failing. The books carry a blight on them, like the black thread, and we hope he has a cure. His spray has been of some help, and I’ve come to encourage more. More than the books, the living aryns are falling prey to it, and that would be my concern, Mistress Farbranch.”
Her eyes searched his face, and her jawline softened. “I beg you forgive me for my tirade, then. This . . . babe . . . has been a bit worrisome.”
“You have every pardon you need from me.” He paused. “You were with Lord Bistel on the field, were you not? Did he die a good death?”
Her mouth curved slightly. “A brave one. He didn’t seem to be in pain, though he had no doubt he was dying. He was . . . Taken . . . as curious a sight as I’ve ever seen.”
Verdayne’s mouth felt almost too dry for words. He’d seen Taken deaths before. Most were incredibly difficult and heart-rending to watch, as if the Gods of death in two worlds fought over the scraps of flesh and soul. “Taken?”
“Peacefully. Back to his home, he said.”
“Peaceful.”
“Aye. A moment here and then, in a long moment, gone.”
He let out a breath.
“Well, then.” She looked back down the street, saying, “I imagine your cart ponies have already made it there. We have a sweet water well in the courtyard.
Push your cart aside, and I’ll leave a note for Hosmer to have it towed after.” She shoved a dimpled hand into her dress, finding a scrap of paper and a stub of chalk to write with as he took out the bundles he dared not leave behind. With the cart so marked, he shouldered it to the side.
Nutmeg took a deep breath before leading the way.
It wasn’t a far piece as walks go, but he had no need to have the cider house and vineyards marked, for the house and outbuildings were the last homes on the street, with stony hills of vineyards stretching far beyond until impenetrable cliffs halted even their rows of burgeoning grape vines. Two tall Vaelinar stood in the street, booted feet spread and arms crossed their chests, in daunting poses that made him think of his younger days when his father had a guard or two for him . . . and he’d done the same as Nutmeg, slipping by them whenever he could. He couldn’t imagine that Nutmeg would have her ears boxed for it, but when Tolby Farbranch stepped out with them, he knew that words would be had.
She slowed slightly. He could guess her apprehension. He touched her elbow lightly. “I know of your sister Rivergrace, but I imagine you have brothers, too?”
“Three,” she said, before looking at him. “Garner, the oldest, Hosmer you met, and the youngest is Keldan. Keldan has a way with horses and other four-legged beasts, as well as Dad’s talent for the fields.”
“You know about brothers, then. Imagine me, with one centuries older than my years, and taller, and likely to live centuries after, telling every tale he can remember of every foolish thing I’ve ever done or am likely to do.”
