Redemption (Book 6)

by Ben Cassidy

  Kara gave a heavy sigh. She folded her hands on the table.

  Maklavir rubbed nervously at his neck. “You’ve barely touched your food, Kara. Perhaps I can—”

  Kara looked up, directly at the man across from him. “I think I know what is going on between the two of you.”

  Maklavir didn’t move a muscle. “You...do?”

  Kara looked over at the inn’s door again. “Yes. And I’ve noticed it too. It’s been hard not to over the last few weeks.”

  Maklavir tried to swallow, but his mouth was bone dry. He set the fork back down on the table with a slightly trembling hand. “Yes, I see. I—” He rubbed his hands again on his pant legs. “Well, actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. About what Joseph and I were—” Maklavir’s face grew red. “Well, about what we were...fighting over yesterday—”

  “Please, Maklavir.” Kara reached across the table and put her warm hand on top of Maklavir’s. “Let me speak first.”

  Maklavir shut his mouth.

  Kara glanced at the inn’s front door again. “I know I was in that coma for a long time, after the Soulbinder was destroyed.”

  Maklavir didn’t say anything.

  Kara looked back over at him. “And I know that Joseph has...changed. He’s not quite the same man he was before, at least not the one that I remember. I think what happened in Vorten—” She paused for a moment, her face blanching. “What happened to me...affected him. He won’t say it, of course, and I know he doesn’t like to talk about it, but I think the whole experience shook him more than he wants to admit.”

  Maklavir clasped his hands on the table. He still didn’t speak.

  Kara lowered her gaze to the tabletop. “I know that...that things have been tense between the two of you lately.”

  Maklavir gave a small smile. “You could say that.”

  Kara looked up at Maklavir with pleading emerald eyes. “Please, Maklavir. Give Joseph time. He’s still healing.” She put a hand unconsciously on her chest. “Just like me. Only with him it’s not physical.” She glanced again at the door, as if willing the pathfinder to appear. “It’s mental. Emotional.” She dropped her eyes. “Spiritual.” She looked at Maklavir again. “I know that’s why you two were fighting yesterday. And I know that’s why the two of you have been so cold to each other the last few weeks.” She tightened her grip on Maklavir’s hand. “Just...be extra patient with him, will you? For me.”

  Maklavir felt suddenly cold. He looked down at his plate of half-eaten food. “You...really care about him, don’t you?” He took a breath and glanced up at Kara. “Joseph, I mean?”

  Kara swept a strand of red hair out of her eyes. She looked shyly down at the table. “Of...course I do. I care about all of you. That’s why I’m trying to get to Redemption. Kendril needs our help.” She looked up at Maklavir. “When I lost Torin, I—” Her voice started to crack.

  Maklavir waited patiently.

  Kara looked away. There was a sparkle of tears in her eyes. “When I lost Torin,” she said slowly and deliberately, “I thought I would never have a family again. He was all I had left in the world, my only brother.” She looked back over at Maklavir and smiled. “But now...it feels like I have a family again. You and Kendril are like my brothers.”

  Maklavir felt a sinking hole open up in his stomach. His eyes were fixed on Kara. He couldn’t take them off, couldn’t look away. “And Joseph?” he said at last. “Is he like a...brother to you too?”

  Kara opened her mouth, but quickly shut it again. She just looked at Maklavir with a strange expression on her face.

  There was a long moment of silence between the two of them.

  “You...were going to tell me something,” said Kara in a small voice. “Before I interrupted you.”

  Maklavir looked up suddenly, as if waking out of a dream. “Was I?” he said with a smile. “Was I indeed? You know, I really can’t remember what I was going to say now. Completely slipped my mind.” He sat back in his chair with a carefree expression on his face. “Can’t have been all that important, I imagine.”

  Kara gave the man a searching glance. “Are...you sure you’re okay, Maklavir?”

  “Okay?” Maklavir folded his hands together in front of him. “I’m absolutely marvelous.” He cocked his head. “I wouldn’t worry about Joseph, my dear. I’m sure the man will come around. We just need to give him more time.”

  Kara nodded slowly, still gazing intently at Maklavir. “Yes.”

  “Well,” said Maklavir as he tossed his napkin back on the table. “I for one plan on giving Joseph lots of grace, just like you suggested. I’m sure he’ll be back any moment now.”

  Kara glanced down at Maklavir’s plate. “You’re all done?”

  Maklavir looked at his food. “Yes. I have a stomach like a bird, I suppose.” He looked up at Kara with another smile. “Why don’t you head on upstairs. I’ll stay down here, keep a watch out for Joseph.”

  Kara glanced anxiously at the door. “I suppose it would be nice to freshen up before we find a ship today.”

  “Absolutely,” said Maklavir easily. “I’ll let you know when Joseph comes back.”

  Kara got up from her seat. She crossed over to Maklavir and gave the diplomat a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Maklavir. For everything.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Maklavir said.

  Kara turned and disappeared up the staircase.

  Maklavir sat in his chair, staring forlornly at the fire. The flames crackled and danced around the large log that lay in the hearth.

  “Sir?” A buxom, pretty wench appeared at Maklavir’s side. She gestured to Kara’s plate. “Is your wife all done with her breakfast?”

  Maklavir stared at the attractive woman for a moment, as if shaking himself out of a fog. “Wife?” he said at last, slipping once more into his easy smile. “Hardly. More like a...sister, really.”

  The wench gave Maklavir an understanding smile. She took Kara’s plate and silverware.

  Maklavir ran his eyes up and down the young woman’s shapely form. “I don’t suppose you have any tea at all?”

  The wench glanced back at him. “I could certainly check, sir. Are you enjoying your breakfast?” She gave a flirtatious smile. “I made the eggs myself.”

  “Did you?” Maklavir leaned forward in his chair. There was a predatory glint in his eyes. “Well, they were absolutely smashing.”

  The woman giggled. “Thanks.”

  “Here,” said Maklavir as he pushed back his chair and stood. “Allow me to help you with these.” He grabbed one of the plates off the table.

  “Oh, no sir,” said the serving wench quickly, “it wouldn’t be proper. It’s my job to—”

  “Nonsense,” said Maklavir firmly. “A gentleman always helps a woman.” He gave a roguish grin. “Especially one as lovely as yourself.”

  The woman blushed deeply and giggled again.

  “Now,” said Maklavir as he hefted the dishes. “Lead the way to the kitchen, my dear.”

  Kara picked up the long bow.

  It was a little smaller than the one she had had before, the weapon that she had used ever since her time as part of her brother’s bandit gang in the Howling Woods. Still, it seemed to be well-designed, with a good draw-weight to it. She had found it in Badera, just outside of the city of Rella. Her old bow, the one she had had for years, had been lost in the fires of Vorten.

  The weapon felt deceptively light in her hand. Kara put a finger to the string, and plucked.

  A sharp twang filled the room.

  Kara took a deep breath. She extended out the long bow in her left hand, then grasped the string with her right. She aimed the unloaded weapon at the far wall of the inn’s bedroom.

  This time, she could do it. She would do it.

  Kara breathed out through her mouth. She pulled back the string.

  It moved back, easily at first, then slowed as it hit resistance.

  Kara felt the familiar burn of pain acro
ss her chest. She ignored it and kept pulling.

  The string moved further back. The bow creaked.

  Kara’s arm began to tremble. The pain in her chest flared and sharpened, like a knife was being stabbed into her.

  She released the string with a sobbing gasp, letting it fall slowly into its ready position.

  She hadn’t even gotten the bow drawn to the anchor point. If it had been loaded, it never would have fired accurately.

  Kara sank down onto the bed, the bow still in her hand. She stared morosely at the floor of the room.

  “Give yourself time,” said a quiet voice from the doorway. “You’ll heal.”

  Kara looked over, startled.

  Joseph stood in the doorway. The brown greatcoat and broad-brimmed hat he always wore were speckled with rain.

  “It’s been a month,” Kara said. Her voice sounded small in her own ears. “A month and I can’t even draw a bow.” She shook her head. “You’re right, Joseph. I’m useless. What help am I going to be to Kendril, or to anyone else for that matter?”

  Joseph came into the room. He took off his hat and tossed it onto the bed. “I never said you were useless.”

  Kara gave a bitter smile. She put a hand to her chest and gently rubbed it. “Did you see Maklavir? He was waiting down in the common room for you.”

  Joseph gave a short shake of his head. “Didn’t see him.”

  “That’s odd.” Kara glanced over at Joseph. “Look, Joseph, about what happened last night. I just wanted to say—”

  Joseph held up a hand. In it were three small, brown pieces of paper.

  Kara frowned. “What are those?”

  “Tickets,” came Joseph’s laconic reply. “We leave on the evening tide. For Redemption.”

  Chapter 4

  The early morning sky was red with smoke.

  The chanting and wailing of the barbarian women had grown even louder, and the eerie pipes still played relentlessly from somewhere just out of sight in the woods beyond the Wall. It sounded as if all the ghosts of the dead were keening at once.

  “Sir!” Sergeant Dyke grabbed Captain Lockhart and physically dragged him back a few steps.

  Surprised, and halfway through reloading his pistol, Lockhart glanced around wildly.

  The northern watchtower gave a crackling series of cracks. The wooden supports began to give way in the heat of the flames that were eating the entire structure. With a thunderous boom, the watchtower crashed forward over the Wall in a flurry of embers and scattering sparks. A wall of smoke erupted from where it fell.

  A howl of triumph came from the barbarians on the other side of the Wall. A warrior climbed over the burning palisade, a spear clutched tightly in his hands.

  One of the dragoons dropped to his knees and shot the Jombard through the head at point blank range.

  Another Jombard appeared through the flames and smoke of the fallen watchtower. He was followed quickly by two more. All came running forward, heedless of the blazing fire, swirling smoke, and falling pieces of wood.

  Lockhart retreated a step or two down the turf escarpment. He drew his sword.

  Two shots sounded out from the milefort below.

  Two of the Jombards spun and fell.

  Dyke stepped forward and lowered a pistol. He took careful aim and fired.

  The third Jombard dropped. His war cry died on his lips.

  Hangman’s Hill was falling. The palisade was burning fiercely. Already the south watchtower was an inferno of flame and smoke. It was leaning heavily to one side, ready to fall any minute. Heedless of the flames and churning smoke, the Jombards were crawling over the blazing remnants of the wooden palisade. Some fell back screaming into the trench beyond the escarpment, their bodies covered with fire. For each that did, however, two more were climbing and hacking their way through the remains of the Wall.

  Lockhart blinked smoke out of his eyes. He glanced back at his men.

  The dragoons were retreating into the milefort. So far they were still in good order, but they were about to be overrun by more Jombards than they could possibly battle.

  And still no significant reinforcements. Thirty minutes before another squad of dragoons had arrived from the nearest milefort to the north, but that had been nowhere near enough to curtail the barbarian attack.

  Hangman’s Hill was lost. If the breakthrough wasn’t contained, it could mean a tidal wave of barbarians flooding through the gap.

  Lockhart swung his head back towards the burning palisade.

  The Jombards were coming. There seemed to be scores of them left, all with crazed looks in their eyes and wolf skins on their heads.

  “Sound the retreat,” Lockhart shouted to Dyke. Sergeant Madison was dead, his body lost amid the flames and smoke of the palisade barrier.

  Dyke nodded, one fearful eye on the approaching Jombards.

  Lockhart hurried down the steps into the milefort.

  The dragoons were piling up a makeshift barrier. With the palisade penetrated, there was now nothing between the steps of the escarpment and the courtyard of the milefort. The Jombards would be on them in seconds.

  “Get the mounts,” Lockhart thundered. He waved his sword for emphasis. “Regroup at the Rest. Go.”

  “Sir!” A dragoon came around an overturned table. “The mounts have bolted, sir.” He pointed around towards the open gates of the milefort, and the empty stables. There were only a few stray nags in the courtyard, their eyes wide with fear at the smell of smoke and blood.

  Lockhart stopped short. He swallowed a rising string of curses.

  In all the confusion, there had been no one to watch the horses or secure them in the stables. Every hand had been needed on the Wall the moment they arrived at the besieged fort, and the stable boy had long since fled.

  “Sir,” Dyke shouted over the wailing cries of the barbarians. “We can make our stand here!” He lifted his sword as if to prove the point.

  Lockhart ran a quick eye over his men.

  There were about fifteen of them left. Almost all were wounded or burned in some manner. Lockhart himself was bleeding from a nasty gash in his arm that he was trying hard to ignore.

  The barbarians were skilled in hand-to-hand combat, and equipped for it. The dragoons would get perhaps one volley, and then it would be sword work against an enemy that outnumbered them several to one.

  It was suicide.

  “Sir?” said Dyke. Blood ran down his cheek from a nasty cut.

  Lockhart tightened his grip on his sword.

  They couldn’t go back. There was nowhere to go. They needed to make a stand, here in the milefort. Try to buy as much time as they possibly could.

  “Hold,” Lockhart said. “Prepare to fire a volley on my order. Have the men—” he paused mid-sentence, his eyes riveted on the burning remains of the palisade wall.

  Something massive was emerging through the smoke and fire.

  The barbarians began to chant even louder.

  Harnathu...Harnathu...Harnathu....

  “Eru save us,” Dyke whispered.

  A beast in human shape came through the curling smoke. It was huge, at least eight feet tall, with a massive axe held in each of its clawed hands. Gray and black fur covered its body. Yellow eyes glowed in its wolf-shaped face.

  At first Lockhart thought it was another wolf skin helmet, similar to what the other barbarians were wearing. Then he realized the horrible, impossible truth.

  It was a werewolf. Eight feet of bristling muscles, claws, and fangs.

  “That’s...not possible,” Lockhart stammered.

  The barbarians gave a keening cry, stamping their spear shafts against the ground.

  The werewolf opened its mouth and howled.

  The sound was chilling. Lockhart felt every ounce of courage drain out of him, like water through a hole.

  The dragoons began to flee. They ran screaming, throwing down their carbines and covering their ears.

  Dyke looked wildly at the fleeing troop
ers. He grabbed Lockhart by the arm. “Sir!”

  Lockhart stared at the massive man-beast in terrified fascination. It was an abomination of nature, something so obscene that its very existence seemed to pull apart the threads of his sanity.

  Dyke pulled harder. “Sir! The men are running!”

  Lockhart couldn’t take his eyes off the monster. His body felt frozen, paralyzed.

  It was over. There was no way that mortal men could fight a thing like that. The Jombards had breached the Wall. They would pour through the gap, burn Redemption to the ground, slaughter the people—

  The werewolf stepped forward. It growled, quickening its pace as it raised the axes in both claws.

  Lockhart ran.

  He stumbled down the last few steps of the escarpment, filled with a blind, unreasoning terror. Even as he ran his mind screamed at himself to stop, to hold his ground and die like a soldier of Arbela.

  But with the smell of smoke, the roar of the flames and chanting of the Jombards in his ears, and the knowledge that the werewolf was behind him...he couldn’t stop, couldn’t turn to face his doom.

  Lockhart ran out of the southern gate of the milefort. He had lost his pistol somewhere along the way, though his sword was somehow still in his hand. In front of him he spotted the fleeing dragoons. Most had thrown away their weapons and were running for their very lives.

  Long grass whipped by Lockhart’s knees. The cold morning air was heavy with the smell of burning wood. He continued to run, not caring what was in front of him. He glanced back over his shoulder.

  Jombards poured out of the southern gate, hollering and shrieking in victory. The milefort was already beginning to burn.

  Lost. All was lost.

  Then a bugle sounded.

  Lockhart slowed, his mind slowly coming back to its senses. The bugle call was sharp and clear, sounding over the rolling drums and wails of the barbarians women.

  The bugle sounded again.

  Lockhart swung his head around to the south.

  The hill before him sloped gradually downwards. On either side of Military Way the countryside was clear and covered with grass, broken only by the occasional rock and stray tree. In the growing light of dawn, Lockhart could see the grass waving gently in the morning breeze.