*
“So there’ll be a census,” Sherwin said, sucking on the root Etana had given him, “and tha’ will get most of King Robert’s old supporters into the city. I don’t see what this has to do with Raf.”
“Shh,” Etana said, with the force of a small explosion. “You are speaking too loudly.”
“Yer shhhing too loudly,” Sherwin countered.
Rafen was leading them back through the Woods in an effort to reach New Isles before the Naztwai did. There was no time to contact Alexander. Etana had begged him to, and even Sherwin had thought it might be wiser to wait. He knew from experience that Rafen’s plans of rescuing people didn’t always turn out that well. Rafen pointed out the obvious to them both: once the Naztwai, who were on a tight schedule, had destroyed New Isles with all the people from the census inside it, the battle for Siana would concern only the Lashki and Sirius. Alexander could not wage war against either Sirius or the Lashki without the help of the noblemen who were still secretly on King Robert’s side. Rafen had only realized this recently, when Alexander had said in passing, “I continue to look for more men like my Lord Cyril.”
Naturally, the Lashki didn’t know who they all were. He merely knew, like Alexander, that they existed. Yet by declaring a census in the near vicinity of New Isles, he could at least be sure the lords with the greatest wealth and resources would be killed. Additionally, a large number of peasants who also would have helped turn the tide would be lost.
Though Etana and Sherwin hadn’t taken long to agree with Rafen’s arguments, they had rightly pointed out that there wasn’t much they – three teenagers alone – could do. Rafen had retorted that it was better than nothing, and they could make plans on the way there.
“I imagine the census serves a twofold purpose,” Etana said softly, pulling back a holly bush’s branches and startling a painted brunting. “The Lashki wants to make sure he has the allegiance of all the noblemen. While the noblemen likely all swore to the Lashki to serve him, the Lashki knows as well as we do that they are often two-faced. Sianians are stubborn, and many of the noblemen will be ready to help the leader of the first riot they come across, in the hope that King Albert will send support from Sarient.”
“Yeah, wha’s he doin’?” Sherwin said indignantly.
“King Albert does not like fighting the Lashki,” Etana said, and Rafen thought it was the greatest understatement he had heard. “He will come if someone starts the battle for him and he has a good chance of winning. Otherwise, he will not. I’m certain that he hasn’t told anyone in his courts what he knows either – Grandmother Adelphia has been in Sarient for some time, helping train Richard Patrick. She wrote to us that she was going there, even before we arrived in Siana after the sabbatical. Grandmother would have come immediately if she knew what’s happening here, but King Albert has all letters checked, and will have made sure she doesn’t find out. He certainly knows about the situation here, because the lords of Siana will have notified him, even if Father was not able to. But he will not risk his life, and his country, starting the battle to win back Siana.”
“Yer said there was a twofold purpose,” Sherwin said, acknowledging the explanation with a nod. “I’m guessin’ it’s like this: get rid of the suspicious lookin’ noblemen in order to replace ’em with men the Lashki trusts, sort of, and then polish off Raf the Wolf when he tries to rescue the city. Right?”
“Exactly,” Etana said.
“So I have one question,” Sherwin said, swallowing the remains of his root. “Why are we doin’ this? I know we’ve answered this before, but I’m jus’ interested to know again why Raf is plannin’ to walk into a death trap.”
“We lose Siana if we lose the lords,” Rafen said, looking back over his shoulder. It was the Lashki’s checkmate move.
“And the Lashki never said he would be there,” Etana said, with more hope than was warranted.
“I’ll tell him that when he turns up,” Sherwin said. “Er, sorry, china plate, but yer never said yer were goin’ to be in this here city.”
“It’s not funny, Sherwin,” Etana hissed, and Rafen bit back a smile.
“Another question,” Sherwin said, flapping his hands to fend off the afternoon’s flies. “What on Earth were yer doin’ at the Naztwai camp, Raf? Yer still haven’t explained that, and I’ve been askin’ yer for the last day, since we left it.”
“Nothing,” Rafen said uncomfortably. “I told you.”
“Exactly,” Etana said, indicating a barrier to their left with a finger, “you told him nothing.”
Sherwin gave the barrier a wide berth and nodded meaningfully to Rafen. Still in the lead, Rafen pretended not to see.
“You heard something,” Etana pressed. “Didn’t you?”
Rafen’s hand crept to his phoenix feather again. He gritted his teeth. “Maybe.”
“I know what ’e ’eard,” Sherwin said. “Naztwai, tramping.”
“No,” Etana said, her eyes fixed on Rafen and her forehead wrinkled. “I think it was Nazt.”
Rafen froze where he had been about to step over a tree root. Instinctively, the others stopped, thinking he had seen an enemy.
“It’s in my head,” Rafen whispered.
Sherwin looked aghast.
“You know who saved you from Nazt last year,” Etana said. “Rafen, you must never forget that. He is stronger.”
“I couldn’t even think enough to call Him,” Rafen said.
“You don’t always need to call Him,” Etana told Rafen quietly. “You simply need to listen when He calls you.”
“Are yer still goin’ to fight the Lashki?” Sherwin asked.
“I’ve got no choice,” Rafen said, anxiety choking him. Inwardly, he was thinking he wouldn’t last a minute.
“You are Siana’s one hope now,” Etana said, as if this were meant to be comforting.
“Thanks, Etana,” Rafen said with bitter sarcasm.
*
The Tarhians guffawed at Francisco, their faces forming a blurred circle of long ovals around the campfire. Francisco’s knees were knocking together. He wanted to collapse into a sitting position, but one of the Tarhians leaning against an oak in a disinterested manner had a pistol in his hand, and it was pointed at Francisco’s head. He planned to shoot if the nighttime amusement ceased.
“I’ll hit him now,” one of the tallest men said, stooping. “Hold, Herman. My turn.”
His fingers scrabbled at a small stone on the ground as he tried to outstrip short, scrawny Herman, who had dropped to a squat. Herman scooped up a handful of dirt and grit, beating Garrak as he drew back his arm and threw it at Francisco with flawless aim.
Francisco hurled himself sideways before remembering this was a stupid thing to do. The long-fingered Tarhian he careened into gave him the seventh beating he had had that night, delighting in each blow: one on the back of the head, a slap across the face, and several kicks to the ribs. Sobbing, Francisco reeled back into the center of the circle, almost falling into the campfire.
An explosion of fiery pain in his eye… Garrak had found his stone at last. The others now joined in with various things. A shoe hit Francisco’s back, and he stumbled forward. A stone struck his ankle. A pitcher hit the back of his head and fell to the ground cracked. White lights popped before Francisco’s eyes; he had fallen to his knees.
The click of a pistol sounded behind him.
He struggled to rise again, frantically. The laughter of the men was nothing to the pain ringing in his ears.
“STOP!” someone bellowed.
Francisco swayed uncertainly. He was upright again, and he stuffed his hands into his eyes, trying to block out everything, to rub the pain away. The flapping of a robe sounded near him, and the Ashurite seized his shoulder with a sinewy hand.
“Put down the hammer,” he said dangerously.
A thud sounded nearby.
“What do you think you are doing?”
The philosopher was vibrating with an
ger.
“You said,” Garrak said in broken Vernacular, “you said we could amuse ourself with him.”
“Oh, yes,” the Ashurite said, “yes, I did, Garrak. I also said not to kill him.”
“He is not dying,” Garrak said painfully slowly. “This is Rafen. He cannot die that easy.”
“Look at him!” the philosopher shouted, shaking Francisco.
In the moonlight, Francisco’s head lolled forward. He raised it slowly, removing his hands from his eyes. The Tarhians stared at him with dry expressions of disgust. Francisco’s face was swollen from numerous beatings, and one eye was completely closed. His skin was still woefully pale, even after three days of regular eating and drinking. Though the Ashurite was trying to keep him as well as possible for the final confrontation, Francisco did not have his brother’s strength. He felt dizzy, and his sight was blurred with fatigue and tears.
“Throwing hammers at him will kill him,” the philosopher said. “Are you out of your minds? The Lashki wants to see this one. He wants to do it himself.”
The Tarhians listened mutely, their eyes glued to Francisco. Still gripping Francisco’s shoulder, the philosopher turned him around and stared into his face.
“You’ll live,” he sneered. “But don’t think you’ve won, by any means.” The muscles in his neck became rigid as he shouted, “What are we waiting for? To the Master!”
The Tarhians raised their arms and bawled their enthusiasm as the philosopher dragged Francisco to the camp’s four horses and two wagons. Francisco’s heart felt like a stone within him. Memories of brilliant blue and racking pain assailed him. The Lashki had once tortured him until he was on the brink of insanity.
The philosopher flung a loop of rope around Francisco’s neck and attached its other end to his horse’s halter. Francisco tried convincing himself that this time, at least, it would be quick. The Lashki had wanted Rafen dead for so long that he would not tarry.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Francisco’s
News
Night had fallen, and they pressed on through the thickening basswoods in the heart of the forest. They had recently glimpsed a changeling, and Etana had grabbed both Sherwin and Rafen to stop them touching it.
“As if we didn’t know,” Sherwin said. “Only an idiot would go runnin’ into that thing’s arms.”
Rafen had silently watched it glide away into the trees, its green eyes fixed on him with a haunting expression. It was Wynne.
Despite the sticky horror that clung to her death, Rafen desired the finality of a body. He wanted to honor her, for the sake of her father, for the sake of his own battered conscience.
There was no time now.
He gently pulled apart some branches and stepped through them. The barriers were closer together now, and Rafen stepped back to let Etana lead. She could look at the air, see a slight wavering, and know exactly where the barrier was positioned.
“We ’aven’t met anyone for a while,” Sherwin said. “Maybe some of them ’ave left.”
“I don’t think so,” Etana whispered. “I think we are getting better at steering clear of them. They are as good as they ever were at hiding.”
“True,” Sherwin hissed back. “First time we journeyed through ’ere, I think the whole Woods knew about it.”
Rafen glanced behind them, expecting to see an army of Naztwai at their backs. He felt they were traveling too slowly. They had done some running today, but it was much harder deep in the Woods. They were all too likely to collide with something, and even running into a wild turkey, armadillo, or squirrel could mean trouble. Earlier in the afternoon, Etana had told them that their sprinting was over for now. They would have to wait until they reached the Woods’ western edge.
Rafen froze in the night as a scent met his flared nostrils. Horses and men. Plenty of men. He raised a hand, and both Etana and Sherwin stopped.
“We’ll meet them if we don’t move,” he mouthed.
“Is left all right?” Etana breathed.
Rafen nodded, and they moved carefully, striking out among the trees and climbing a slight slope of loose twigs and earth. Sherwin looked curiously behind them.
“Come on,” Rafen hissed.
Sherwin met Etana and Rafen at the top of the slope. “’ow far away are they?”
“Five, maybe ten minutes,” Rafen said. “Keep to the bushes.”
They slipped through the greenery silently for what felt like an age. His blood chilling, Rafen already knew the truth before he smelled it, but as the scents grew stronger and the men were only two minutes away, he couldn’t deny it any longer.
“It’s Francisco,” he whispered in Etana’s ear.
Sherwin froze, squatting among the bushes.
“Yer jokin’,” he said softly.
“He’s in trouble,” Rafen said, and this too was something he had known for some time.
The Tarhians came into sight gradually. From his occluded view among the bushes, Rafen estimated a train of twenty was filing through the trees. Two rode on wagons containing weapons, blankets, and portions of cut meat wrapped in cloth. The men were so close Rafen could have reached out from the slope and brushed their heads with his fingers.
Etana, Sherwin, and Rafen were crawling slowly now, terrified they would make a noise or movement that would alert the men. The Tarhians talked among themselves in bored voices.
“The death will be diverting,” a taller one said, trudging behind the second wagon.
The man next to him laughed nervously. “Perhaps. It might go fast.”
He looked wan as he said it, and Rafen instinctively knew he was talking about the Lashki, and that like all Tarhians, he had a fear of “sorcery”.
“He has not done anything,” the taller Tarhian said, merely making conversation for the sake of it. “For the true Rafen, he is very weak. Not much to speak of.”
The blood rushed to Rafen’s face. Though he had expected this, the mention of his brother’s capture made him wild. Sherwin and Etana hadn’t understood because the men were speaking Tarhian.
What had Francisco been doing out of the Hideout anyway? He was supposed to have been staying in safety. Rafen felt horribly cold, like something had gone very, very wrong.
He parted the leaves slightly. Sherwin and Etana had stopped ahead of him, and Sherwin paled, expecting him to do something insane again. His eyes the only visible part of him, Rafen peered down the line at an Ashurite philosopher mounted on a horse. A rope stretched from his halter to a stumbling form next to him.
“Wait,” Rafen murmured to the others.
“Francisco isn’ ’ere,” Sherwin muttered to him. “I’ve been lookin’.”
Rafen shook his head.
The philosopher drew nearer, his nhanya blade lit with fluorescent kesmal to show the way in the darkness. Sherwin sighted him through the leaves.
“Oh,” he whispered.
Francisco had raised a puffy face to look ahead momentarily before falling headlong, his knees buckling. He was behind the horse, and the philosopher turned his head with an impatient jerk and tugged the rope violently. Francisco’s body scraped forward along the ground, and his hands shot to his neck. Rafen’s own throat tightened and burned.
The transformation came over Rafen like rapid fever. His eyes dilated and he flew through the bushes in a single, soaring leap toward the philosopher and his horse, Etana’s scream ringing in his ears.
“NO!”
He landed lithely, and the hair vanished from his body, his clothes sliding back over him in a flash as rose. The explosion of pistols sounded behind, and his heart battered against his ribcage. He could already tell by the muted sounds that Etana had erected a hasty shield between him and the Tarhians. She stood in full view amid the bushes, her scepter in her hand, and her face flushed with anger.
“Are you entirely mad?” she screeched at him.
The philosopher’s nhanya sliced the air between him and Rafen, and a bursting, magenta
flower obstructed Rafen’s view of Francisco. Rafen flung out his arm, focusing on sucking the kesmal up, absorbing it like Sirius had done. In response to his efforts, his enemy’s onslaught was buffeted into a bush, which exploded in pink, pungent flames. Rafen’s arm ached belatedly with the impact he should have borne with his sword. He whipped it from his sheath now as another magenta blast filled the air. This time he met it with a flaming crescent, shattering it and burning through Francisco’s rope simultaneously.
The philosopher’s white horse reared above Rafen’s head, and Rafen flicked his sword up to point at the horse’s belly. An orange spurt struck the horse’s white underside, overbalancing it completely. The philosopher fell with a scream and the horse reeled, landing heavily on its flank and crushing its rider’s torso. The Ashurite shrieked something unintelligible, his one unpinioned arm scrabbling for his blade before stillness came over him.
Rafen rushed around the two corpses to where Francisco lay facedown. Dropping his sword, he shook his brother’s shoulders.
“Franny,” he panted. “Franny, please. Wake up.”
“I am awake,” Francisco sobbed. One arm moved. He was trying feebly to prop himself up.
“It’s all right,” Rafen said. “I’ll help you.”
Wrapping his arm around his brother’s torso, he helped Francisco first onto all fours and then onto unsteady feet.
He was facing Etana’s gold shield, which was still thrumming and alive. On its other side, Etana battled four Tarhians on the slope with kesmal. Another five lay on the ground, some unconscious from stones Sherwin had thrown, and others blasted by Etana. Sherwin fenced with two, even while seven flew up the slope toward him and the Secra.
Hot with fear, Rafen sheathed his sword, thrust Francisco against a tree, and leapt up the slope as the Wolf, passing Etana and transforming at Sherwin’s side. He tore his sword free again, kesmal erupting from it in a flood that overwhelmed three of the oncoming Tarhians. Sherwin ran through one of the two he was fighting just as the second raised his sword to cleave his head open. Rafen turned, too slowly.
Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3) Page 22
