by Jim Butcher
“Get through the woods,” Isana continued. “Get to Aldoholt, by the lake. I’ll have word to him by then, and he’ll either get you to Gram or get Gram to you. He’ll protect you until then. Do you understand, Tavi?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tavi gasped. “But —”
She leaned into him and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m sorry, Tavi, so sorry. There’s no time for questions now. You must trust me. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Tavi said.
Isana turned her head, and the fires spreading on shore reflected in her eyes. “It’s spreading. And the storm is nearly here. I have to call down Nereus, or Lilvia will whip those fires until they devour the Valley.” She looked back to them and said, “Tavi, get away from the river. As far away as you can. Head uphill. Take Fade with you, and keep a close eye on him—I don’t know what made you bring him along.” She shot a glance past Tavi to the slave, who offered a witless smile to Isana and ducked his head.
She shook hers in response, kissed Tavi’s head again, and said, “Go, quickly.” And with that, she turned and vanished down into the waters of the river again.
Tavi swallowed and tried to help Fade, as the slave moved out of the river to the far side and up onto the shore. Tavi looked back as he moved out of the water.
Kord lay on the ground, curled onto his side, weakly struggling to get back to his feet. Bernard, his face bruised and his tunic torn, stood with Amara at the white rock of the ford, their backs to Tavi, facing the woods.
From the smoke and the shadows of the trees there limped a man, middle-aged, barefoot, and of innocuous height. He swept his eyes around the fire-lit stream and then focused on the two people standing at the ford, then past them. Tavi felt the man’s eyes touch on him like cold, smooth stones, calmly weighing him, assessing him, dismissing him. The man lifted a hand, and Tavi heard the tree nearest him buck and tremble, and he turned in time to see it pitch forward toward him.
Bernard’s head whipped around, and he raised a fist. As swiftly as the first, a second tree uprooted itself and toppled, landing hard against the first, so that the two fell against one another, each supporting the other from falling, while Tavi and Fade stood trembling in the arched space beneath them.
“Impressive,” the man said. He focused on Bernard, and abruptly a wave of earth lashed out toward Tavi’s uncle. Bernard planted his feet on the ground, teeth bared in a grimace, and a second wave rose in front of him, gathered momentum toward the stranger’s attack. Bernard’s efforts were evidently not enough. The ripple in the rock tore through his own efforts and ripped apart the ground he and Amara stood upon, sending them both toppling.
Tavi cried out, for even as his uncle fell, the stranger drew from beneath his cloak a short and heavily curved bow. He set an arrow to the string and drew with a cool precision. The shaft leapt across the stream, toward Tavi.
From the ground, Amara cried out and slashed her hand at the air. The arrow flicked itself abruptly aside and rattled into the woods behind Tavi.
The man let out a short, frustrated noise and said, “Point-less. Kill them.”
From behind him stepped the man Tavi had seen earlier, sword again in hand, quietly lethal intent in his eyes. The swordsman glided forward, toward Amara and his uncle, the blade catching the scarlet light of the fires raging around.
Kord had regained mobility and hauled himself to one side. He roused Aric with a few kicks and started to fall back into the woods, letting his son scramble after him as he tried to regain his senses. But even as Kord left, there was a rattle in the blazing brush, and Bittan backed out of the middle of a blaze, blinded and choking on the smoke. He waved a hand before his face and found himself standing a few scant feet from the swordsman, between the man and Bernard.
Tavi never even saw the swordsman’s arm move. There was a hissing sound, and Bittan let out a surprised choke, and fell to his knees. The swordsman moved past the boy. Tavi saw scarlet puddling around Bittan’s knees, and the boy fell limply over onto his side.
Tavi felt his gorge rise in his belly. Fade let out a hiss of breath and clutched at Tavi’s arm.
“Bittan,” Aric choked. “No.”
For a moment, that tableau held, the boy on the ground in a pool of his own blood, scarlet firelight all around, the swordsman, blade extended to his side, moving with patient grace toward the people standing between him and Tavi.
Then everything happened at once.
Kord let out a bellow of raw and indiscriminate rage. The earth rippled around him and lashed out toward the swordsman.
Amara came to her feet, her blade in hand. She threw herself forward even as the swordsman’s blade descended toward Bernard, intercepting it. The earth heaved and threw them both to one side, locked together in a close-quarters struggle.
The innocuous looking man extended his hands toward the far side of the river, and the trees groaned in response, the air filling with the twist and crackle of branches, of movement.
And the storm arrived.
One moment, there was relative stillness—and the next, a wall of fury and sound and power thundered down over them, engulfed Tavi’s senses, blinded him, and whipped the surface of the river to icy foam. The flames Bittan had started buckled for a moment beneath the wind’s onslaught, and then, as though the storm had sensed their potential, they blossomed and bloomed, spreading and growing with a speed as terrifying as it was amazing. To Tavi, it almost seemed as though faces gibbered and shrieked in the wind around those flames, calling them, encouraging them.
Fade let out a squeal, cowering down against the winds, and Tavi abruptly remembered his aunt’s commands. He seized the slave by the arm, though still terrified for those behind him at the ford, and dragged him into the twisting woods, along the paths he knew, even in the semidarkness, away from the river.
They struggled forward together, holding one another in the screaming, frigid gale, Tavi filled with a sense of gratitude that there was another living human being there to touch. He was unsure for how long they struggled away, their path winding forward and then slowly uphill, before he heard the flood waters.
They rushed forward, nearly silent, preceded only by a whispering sigh and the groans of a thousand trees stirred in their ancient earthy beds. To the top of a hill, Tavi and Fade struggled, and he turned back to see, dimly through the ferocity of the storm, the dancing of the trees, that some pent-up tide had been loosed from up the stream of the Rillwater. The little river had exceeded itself and flooded its banks, and those cold, silent waters began to swallow Bittan’s fires as swiftly as they had spread. The waters rose, and in that screaming cyclone of the furystorm, Tavi was uncertain how anyone, even his aunt, could survive such an onslaught of the elements. Terror rushed through him, pounded through his veins with his blood.
Darkness swallowed the land as the silent waters of the flooding river swallowed errant flame, and in moments the werelightning of the furystorm flashed, green and eerie, to show Tavi which way to go. In silence, he turned back to his path and stumbled forward, leading Fade. Twice, windmanes swept toward them, but Tavi’s salt crystals, though partly dissolved from their time in the water, drove them away.
They made their way from the twisting wood an endless time later. Fade let out a sudden yelp and threw himself against Tavi with a sob of fear, forcing the boy down, the slave’s heavy body atop him.
Tavi wriggled and struggled to get out from under Fade, but only managed to free his head enough to crane his neck over the man and to see what had frightened him.
Around them stood a silent half-circle of Marat warriors, unmistakable with their pale braids and powerful bodies clad, even in this vicious weather, only in a brief cloth at the hips. Each of them stood very tall and more broad in the shoulders than Tavi could easily believe, with dark, serious eyes the same shade as the chipped stone tipping their broad-hafted spears.
Without expression, the tallest of the Marat stepped closer. He put his foot on
Tavi’s shoulder and rested the tip of his spear against the hollow of Tavi’s throat.
CHAPTER 22
Fidelias twisted himself up and out of the chilling waters of the angry river, frozen fingers clutching hard against the branch of the tree he had crafted within his reach. He felt numb, and his heart labored painfully against the shock of the cold water. The cold beckoned him with a slow, seductive caress, encouraging him to simply sink into the waters, relax, let his troubles slip away into the darkness.
Instead, he secured a hold on the next higher branch and hauled his body up out of the water. He huddled there for a few moments, shaking, struggling to gather his wits about him again, while the furystorm raged around him, winds hauling at his sodden clothes.
The one good thing about the flood, he decided, about the freezing water, was that he could no longer feel the cuts on his feet. He’d done his best to ignore them while recovering the horses, but the rocks and brush had been merciless to his skin. The woman, the watercrafter, had been onto them from the beginning, he decided. Clever, getting his shoes like that. She’d been planning on the boy running, and on hampering pursuit.
Fidelias leaned against the trunk and waited for the waters to subside. They did, in rapid order, proving more than anything else that the flood had been a deliberate crafting rather than a natural event. He shook his head. Odiana should have given them warning—but perhaps she had been overmatched. The locals were no amateurs at their furycrafting and had lived with the local furies for years. They would know them, be able to use them more effectively than even a crafter of Fidelias’s own level of skill. The Steadholder, for example — he had been formidable. In a direct, fair confrontation, Fidelias was uncertain whether or not he could simply overcome the man. Best then, to ensure that any future contact with the fellow discounted the possibility of a fair fight.
But then, that was in general Fidelias’s policy.
Once the waters had receded back down into the river’s original bed, Fidelias slipped down from the tree, grimacing as he got back to the ground. The pitch of the winds had only increased since the storm had rolled over them, and surviving in it had to be his first priority. He knelt by the trunk of the tree, resting a hand lightly on the sodden ground, reaching out for Vamma.
The fury responded to him at once, vanishing into the deep earth for several moments before rising back up toward him. Fidelias cupped his hands, and Vamma returned, providing what it had been sent to retrieve — a handful of salt crystals and a flint.
Fidelias pocketed the flint and swept the salt into a pouch, keeping a few pieces in hand. Then he rose, noting how slowly his body responded, and shook his head, shivering. The cold could kill him, if he didn’t get warmed up, and quickly. Rising, he dispatched Etan to look for signs of his companions, and Vamma to search through the surrounding earth, for signs of movement. If the locals, either the Bernardholters or those they had been fighting, were still at hand, they might feel few compunctions about finishing the job the watercrafter had started.
Fidelias had to hurl salt at a swooping windmane, while he waited for his furies to return to him. It didn’t take long. Etan appeared within a few moments and led him forward, through the blinding storm, down along the path of the river.
Several hundred yards downstream, Fidelias found Aldrick. The swordsman lay on the ground, unmoving, his fingers still locked around the hilt of his sword, buried to its hilts in the trunk of a tree. He had apparently managed to keep the flood from sweeping him away entirely, but had not taken into account the threat the elements represented. Fidelias checked the pulse at the man’s throat and found it there, still strong, if slow. His lips were blue. The cold. If the swordsman was not warmed, and quickly, he would die.
Fidelias debated allowing it to happen for a moment. Odiana remained an unknown quantity, and as long as she had Aldrick with her, she would be difficult to move against. Without the swordsman, Fidelias could remove her at leisure, and if Fidelias was fortunate, perhaps Aldrick’s death would unhinge her entirely.
Fidelias grimaced and shook his head. Aldrick could be arrogant, insubordinate, but his loyalty to Aquitaine was unquestioned, and he was a valuable resource. Besides which, Fidelias liked working with the man. He was a professional and understood the priorities of operating in the field. Fidelias, as his commander, owed him a certain amount of loyalty, protection. Convenient as it might be to him, in the long term, he could not allow the swordsman to come to grief.
Fidelias took a moment to draw strength from the earth, pouring into him in a sudden flood. He jerked the sword from the tree’s trunk, and peeled Aldrick’s hand from its hilt. Then he picked up the man and slung him over one shoulder. His balance wavered dangerously, and he took a moment to breathe, to steady himself, before taking up the naked sword and turning, with Aldrick, to march away from the river, up out of the flood-saturated ground of the river’s course.
Vamma shaped out a shelter from a rocky hillside, and Fidelias ducked into it and out of the storm. Etan provided ample kindling and wood, and Fidelias managed to coax a pile of shavings into flame using the flint and Aldrick’s sword. By slow degrees, he built up the fire, until the inside of the furycrafted shelter began to grow warm, even cozy.
He leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed, and dispatched Vamma and Etan again. As tired as he was, there was still a job to do. Fidelias remained silent for a moment, letting his furies gather information about those who still moved in the wild storm outside.
When he opened his eyes again, Aldrick was awake and watching him.
“You found me,” the swordsman said.
“Yes.”
“Blade isn’t much good against a river.”
“Mmmm.”
Aldrick sat up and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand, wincing, gathering himself back together with the resilience of his craft — and of comparative youth, Fidelias thought. He wasn’t young anymore. “Where’s Odiana?”
“I don’t know yet,” Fidelias said. “The storm offers considerable danger. I’ve found two moving groups, so far, and I think there’s at least one more that I can’t pinpoint.”
“Which one is Odiana in?”
Fidelias shrugged. “One is heading to the northeast, and one to the southeast. I thought I felt something more directly east of here, but I can’t be certain.”
“Northeast isn’t anything,” Aldrick said. “Maybe one of the steadholts. Southeast of here, there isn’t even that. Turns into the Wax Forest and the plains beyond it.”
“And east is Garrison,” Fidelias said. “I know.”
“She’s been taken, or she’d have stayed close to me.”
“Yes.”
Aldrick rose. “We have to find out which group she’s in.”
Fidelias shook his head. “No, we don’t.”
The swordsman narrowed his eyes. “Then how are we supposed to find her?”
“We don’t,” Fidelias said. “Not until the mission is finished.”
Aldrick went silent for several seconds. The fire popped and crackled. Then he said, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that, old man.”
Fidelias looked up at him and said, “Aquitaine assigned you to this personally, didn’t he?”
Aldrick nodded, once.
“You’ve been his right hand through most of this. You know all the details. You’re the one who has handled the money, the logistics. Yes?”
“What’s your point?”
“What do you think is going to happen if the mission fails, hmm? If Aquitaine is in danger of exposure? Do you think he’s just going to give you a wink and a nod and ask you not to mention it where anyone could overhear? Or do you think he’s going to make sure that no one ever finds your body, much less what you know about what he is planning.”
Aldrick stared steadily at Fidelias, then tightened his jaw and looked away.
Fidelias nodded. “We finish the mission. We stop whoever is going to the local count
, send in the Windwolves, and turn the Marat loose. After that, we’ll find the girl.”
“To the crows with the mission,” Aldrick spat. “I’m going to find her.”
“Oh?” Fidelias asked. “And how are you going to manage that? You have many skills, Aldrick, but you’re no tracker. You’re in strange country, with strange furies and hostile locals. At best, you’ll wander around lost like an idiot. At worst, the locals will kill you, or the Marat will when they attack. And then who will find the girl?”
Aldrick snarled, pacing back and forth within the confines of the shelter. “Crows take you,” he snarled. “All of you.”
“Assuming the girl is alive,” Fidelias said. “She is quite capable. If she has been taken, I am sure she is well able to survive on her own. Give her that much credit. In two days, at the most, we’ll go after her.”
“Two days,” Aldrick said. He bowed his head and growled, “Then let’s get started. Now. We stop the messengers to the Count and then we get her.”
“Sit down. Rest. We’ve lost the horses in the flood. We can wait until the storm is out, at least.”
Aldrick stepped across the space between them and hauled Fidelias to his feet, eyes narrowed. “No, old man. We go now. You find us salt, and we go out into that storm and get this over with. Then you take me to Odiana.”
Fidelias swallowed and kept his expression careful, neutral. “And then?”
“Then I kill anyone that gets between me and her,” Aldrick said.
“It would be safer for us if we —”
“I couldn’t care less about safe,” Aldrick said. “Time’s wasting.”
Fidelias looked out of the shelter at the storm. His body ached in its joints, groaned at the abuse that had already been heaped on it. His feet throbbed where they were cut, steady, slow pain. He looked back to Aldrick. The swordsman’s eyes glittered, cold and hard.
“All right,” Fidelias said. “Let’s find them.”
