Lance loomed over him. “Well? Ready to listen yet?” He was more than willing to thrash Fitch to a bloody pulp if that was what it took, and it must have showed in his voice.
Fitch pushed himself to his feet. Bizarrely, he was smiling. Not a nasty grin, but one full of delight. That damn charisma again. “You have my attention,” he said, “but how about one more pass?”
“Go ahead.”
Lightning-quick, Fitch feinted toward his stomach and then popped Lance in the eye.
Lance grimaced, but pain was an old companion. His own fist cracked Fitch in the ribs, catching him mid-laugh, and laying him out on the road again. The herd was thinning, and the remaining sheep swerved to avoid them.
“We done now?” Lance asked, looking down at him. Growled rather. His black eye would mend, but he would be missing a tooth for the rest of his life.
“Yes.” Fitch held out his hand, and rather to his own surprise Lance gripped it and pulled the other man to his feet.
The bastard did have charm.
The sheep drovers cast them curious glances as they pushed the last stragglers past.
“You’ve a hard head,” Fitch complained. “I think I broke my fist.” He shook his hand.
“Next time go for the soft tissue,” Lance advised him. Impersonally, he reached out and closed his hands over Fitch’s.
The Goddess came. Lance sensed Her healing not only Fitch’s cut forehead, but several bruises on his ribs and an incipient cold before She retreated once more.
Fitch was staring at him cockeyed when he finished. “You’re a strange man, Lance of Kandrith. Not many would heal his foe.”
Lance shrugged.
“Lance Wears the Brown,” Sara said placidly, joining them on the street. “He heals everyone.”
Lance remembered Madam Lust, the noblewoman who’d owned his family, and how he’d broken her neck. He fought back a shudder. “Not everyone.”
“So what was it you wanted to speak to me about?” Fitch asked, beginning to walk. The streets began to fill again around them.
Damned if he’d ask permission. “I came to tell you I’m going on the raid, so I can heal the wounded.”
Fitch sighed. “You’ve won the right, though you’ll likely get yourself killed. A battlefield’s no place for an unarmed man.”
Lance bared his teeth. “And miles away in camp is no place for a healer.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Lance said. “I want to tell you a story.”
Fitch groaned, but gestured for him to continue.
Lance took a step to the side to avoid some fresh sheep dung. “You’ll have gathered by now a little about how sacrifice magic works.” Just to be on the safe side, he explained again, using himself as an example.
“That’s...very interesting,” Fitch said when he finished. “But I don’t think I’ll find many volunteers to become ill.”
Lance gave a short laugh. “True. I never would have chosen to be ill every day of my life—until my sister lay dying. But if they have the knowledge, even if most of them believe it’s just stories, then you might be surprised at the decisions made in battle and times of strife. And there’s more than one type of sacrifice.”
“Perhaps,” Fitch said politely. It was patently obvious that he could not conceive of any circumstances under which he’d sacrifice himself. “I’m still waiting for the story.”
So Lance told him the history of Kandrith. “Eighty years ago runaway slaves began to congregate in a rocky, hilly area of the Republic of Temboria. Because few crops grew there, the land was unsettled and the nearest lord preferred to spend his days in the city. For a while the escaped slaves were left alone, but when the old lord died his heir decided to try to recapture the slaves to sell them for extra money.
“His initial efforts were repulsed by the first shandies, but as time wore on the efforts to root out the slaves became greater. The Primus sent forth a Legion to cleanse the area once and for all.”
Fitch rolled his shoulders restlessly, no doubt thinking of the Legion rumoured to be soon dispatched to subdue Gotia’s rebellion.
“The slaves knew they wouldn’t be able to hide. Their situation desperate, six men and women, whom we call the Red Saints, came together. They each made their Lifegift to form a mountain with steep cliffs. The Legion general woke to find his way blocked by the mountain chain that rings Kandrith. Since then, Kandrith has been invaded, but has never fallen to the Republic of Temboria.”
Fitch sneered. “Mountains? They traded their lives to become hunks of stone, not magic swords that could slay dozens with one blow or arrows that always find their target?”
Lance gritted his teeth, then winced at the resulting pain. “No magical slaying. Loma is the Goddess of Mercy.”
“Huh.” Fitch kicked at a stone, then smiled mockingly. “It’s a pretty story, but I think I’ll stick to my own god.” He touched the pommel of his sword, then increased his pace, leaving Lance and Sara behind.
Chapter Thirteen
Rhiain’s tail lashed in impatience. It had taken her an hour to maneuver herself into the perfect place in the wheatfield, unseen, and now she was eager to attack.
She stared longingly at the prosperous estate below, a large villa enclosed by a seven-foot-high stone wall. Part of her still wanted to be with Fitch and his Grasslanders as they swept down on the vulnerable gate, but Fitch had explained that he needed her here on the hill.
Fifty slaves were at work, harvesting. The men scythed grain with broad, monotonous strokes, while the women walked behind, stooping to bundle the golden wheat stalks into sheaves and then stacking the sheaves into stooks.
Five mounted Republican overseers patrolled the slaves, ready to run down any who tried to escape.
Rhiain’s assignment was to ensure none of the overseers made it down the road and alerted the Legion.
I’m relying on you. Just the memory of Fitch’s words gave her a warm thrill. She shivered with eagerness, muscles coiling.
She’d positioned herself carefully between the overseers and the road while still remaining upwind of the horses.
The nearest Republican was a gray-bearded man, skilled with the whip. Whenever one of the slaves paused to rest, his whip would flick out and open up a red line on an available bit of bare skin: a man’s arm, a woman’s calf. He sat an equally mean white horse that liked to bite people.
Rhiain wanted to take a bite out of the horse.
Fitch had promised her the horses were hers to eat—once they were all down. The thought made her stomach rumble. The hunting around the rebel camp was rather thin. She needed meat to be at her peak fighting ability. She didn’t think she could eat all five, but she was willing to try.
The next closest overseers were two black-haired men who stood their mares together and handed a wineskin back and forth. They only rarely chastened anybody, but usually picked on the same poor slave, an older woman struggling to keep up. They laughed as they knocked over her sheaves and striped her shoulder with their whips as she scrambled to pick the sheaves up. Rhiain fought down a growl.
She didn’t understand why the slaves didn’t rise up. The overseers were mounted, but their crossbows were tied to the saddles, not ready to fire, and the slaves outnumbered them fifty to five. Why didn’t they just overwhelm the overseers? Their scythes would make good weapons.
When she’d said as much yesterday to Fitch, he’d laid his warm hand on her shoulder, making her want to arch and stretch. “I would do the same, but you and I are warriors. These will be cowed slaves. They know the first few would be cut down so they don’t try. But then what can you expect from Senarians?”
The contempt in his voice had startled Rhiain. “I thought they were Gotians like you.”
“Senarians are a weak western tribe. I am descended from an Ainarian clan chief and a Grasslander, both proud fighting peoples,” he’d declared. “A real warrior would die before letting himself be chained and his women raped.”
His harsh words still troubled her, but it was true that she hadn’t let herself be chained and raped. The slaves working the field could’ve become shandies like her—except most people didn’t know about sacrifice magic.
That was why she and Lance were here, to show them.
Feeling better, Rhiain resumed studying her prey.
The fourth overseer was a powerfully muscled warrior with biceps the size of melons. He regarded the slaves sleepily, but his black warhorse’s tack gleamed. He carried a sword as well as a whip. Rhiain’s instincts whispered that he was the most dangerous of the bunch.
The tall man was farthest away. All she could really tell was that he yelled a lot, haranguing the slaves in his section until they stumbled over themselves to obey.
She had no compunction about killing the lot.
Her skin prickled with impatience, and she dug her claws into the earth. Loma’s mercy, but she hated waiting.
Finally, when the sun shone directly overhead, the gate opened so more slaves could bring the noon meal out to the field.
“Now!” Fitch yelled. He and fifty Grassland cavlary burst from the orchard between the villa and the road, scimitars flashing. They howled war cries and charged the two hundred yards to the startled guards at the gate.
Screaming, the slaves dropped their covered baskets of food and tried to run back inside, hampering the guards’ efforts to close the gate. One hundred yards. Fifty.
Rhiain didn’t see any more because at the same moment a line of Gotian archers popped up and took aim at the mounted overseers. Thrum. Thrum. Black arrows sprouted from the riders.
Gray-beard took an arrow in the throat and another in the chest and fell.
Black-Hair One slumped over with two arrows in his back.
Black-Hair Two was initially unscathed. While he gaped, a second wave of arrows studded his chest, several also striking his mare. She reared, and he crashed to the ground.
Tall’s gray horse was down, rolling in agony, legs kicking the air; Rhiain couldn’t see where he’d fallen.
Biceps took one in the arm, but cursed and spurred his horse into motion, bending low. The next wave of arrows skimmed over his head.
His black stallion showed its mettle, opening up its stride. A third round of arrows fell short.
Which made him her prey. Her hind end quivered, waiting as he galloped closer and closer, heading for the road.
He glanced behind, looking for pursuit, lips bared in determination—
She smashed into them, bearing Biceps to the ground. He lost his wind and his grip on his sword. In the next second, Rhiain snapped his neck. The black gelding reared up on his hind legs, neighing.
Before it could bring those flashing hooves down, Rhiain opened up its belly with her hind claws. Wet entrails dropped down, followed by the horse’s deadweight.
Though the blood smelled wonderful, Rhiain didn’t pause for a bite, pushing back to her feet.
A quick survey showed a knot of frightened slaves milling about under the guard of Willem’s archers, but the fighting here seemed to be over, down to the aftermath. Tall’s horse continued to thrash and scream.
Rhiain checked on the battle at the gate. The wooden barricade still held, but now that the garrison’s attention was focused on the Grasslanders, the remainder of Fitch’s Gotians would boost themselves over a side wall and attack from within.
She spotted Fitch fighting with one of the guards trapped outside. With his shield he held the man at bay, then darted in to chop at his exposed shoulder joint. Fitch moved like poetry.
Her muscles quivered. She would race down and—
Movement caught her eye. Tall had mounted Black Hair One’s mare and sent her galloping toward the road.
She moved to intercept him, bounding along, the golden wheat stubble pricking her legs.
He held his sword over his head and sent it swinging down as his horse swept by. Yowling, Rhiain knocked it aside with one paw. The steel sliced the pad open, but the blood roaring in her ears made it easy to ignore the pain.
She sank her teeth into the horse’s haunches and gouged out a mouthful.
The wonderful taste of blood flooded her mouth. The mare squealed in pain and bucked—
Tall hit her again, this time driving the metal edge of his shield down on her head. It gouged a path down her brow, just skipped over her eye, and down her cheek.
Annoyed, Rhiain clawed at him, but his shield protected his head and neck.
“Help me and I’ll free your family,” Tall called out.
Who—? Before Rhiain could fully turn her head, metal bit into her flank, drawing blood.
She spun, hissing. Droplets of blood flew from her muzzle, spattering on the terrified face of one of the male slaves. White showed around his brown eyes, but he didn’t look cowed. He looked determined as he held his scythe high. Though short and bandy-legged, his arms were muscular.
Rhiain drew back in confusion and dismay. She couldn’t kill a slave.
He chopped down with the scythe, and she flinched aside.
Rhiain tried to weave around him, but he jumped into her path. Another swing whistled over her head. His blows were wild, leaving himself wide open for retaliation, but they had power.
Tall was getting away. “Out of my way! I don’t want to hurrrt you,” she growled at the slave.
The sound of her voice clearly startled him, but then his lips firmed in determination. “I’ll gladly die to free my family.” He swung the scythe again, sideways as if cutting grain.
Rhiain ducked the pitted blade, then deliberately batted it out of his hand. She pulled the blow, but he still screamed and she heard the crack of bone. Remorse flooded her when he collapsed to his knees, cradling his limp arm. “Stay therrre. Lance will heal you,” she snarled him.
Now back to the real foe...Panic clawed at Rhiain as she discovered what the slave’s delay had cost her. Tall and his new horse were almost out of sight.
She bounded off in pursuit, covering ground at a rapid pace, but she couldn’t maintain such a speed for long. The gap narrowed, then steadied. Dismay closed a fist around her heart. The horse had too much of a lead.
* * *
Lance cursed as the faint sound of battle reached his ears. Damn Fitch for starting without him. He flapped the reins, and the oxen pulling his wagon responded by increasing their pace—from a slow plod to a brisk walk. It wasn’t enough.
Thrusting the reins at Edvard, Lance jumped down from the wagon box. Sara landed lightly beside him, fleet as a deer. Without a word needing to be exchanged, they started to run.
Unlike the rest of the rebel force, they’d travelled straight down the Republican road in broad daylight, masquerading as farmers.
Within a few strides, Lance’s nose began to bleed. Again. He swiped at the trickle with his sleeve and breathed through his mouth. He found his current affliction more annoying than debilitating, but it wasn’t helping to inspire trust in his healing abilities.
“Keep away from the fighting,” he ordered Sara as they neared the villa.
The gate in the stone wall gaped open, and the battle had moved inside. Five dead men lay in the grass, four of them legionnaires. He bent to check the fifth man—a branded slave in his thirties. In the wrong place at the wrong time, he’d taken a thigh wound and bled out.
Anger stirred inside Lance’s chest at the waste of life. If Fitch had waited for Lance to arrive, he could have saved this man. He could have lived thirty more years as a free man.
From the furious clash of arms assaulting his ears, Lance co
uld tell more men were dying inside. He recklessly barreled through the gate, scanning for people to heal.
There, a Grasslander barely fending off blows from a grizzled ex-legionnaire, while his Grasslander companion circled around and attempted to jab the guard with a spear.
There, Fitch neatly dispatching his opponent with a single thrust through the uniformed guard’s neck.
There, a plaid-wearing rebel scrabbling on his hands and knees, trying to put his guts back inside his stomach.
Him. Ignoring the battle raging around them, Lance knelt in the hard-packed dirt and laid his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Be still. All will be well.”
“Are you crazed?” the man screamed. His face was as white as wool. “Can’t you see I’m dying?”
Lance gripped him tighter. The door inside himself opened, and the Goddess stepped through. The man blubbered and gibbered as he watched his flesh reknit.
Lance stood, already seeking his next patient. Instead of retreating as She usually did, the Goddess hovered just inside him.
“Here,” Sara called. “These two still live.”
The grizzled guard had taken out both the Grasslanders plaguing him and now he and Fitch fought hammer and tongs. Lance edged around their back-and-forth dance, heading for the fallen rebels beside Sara.
To do so he had to pass the guard Fitch had impaled through the neck. The flow of blood indicated that the man wasn’t yet dead.
The Goddess’s compassion rose, a swelling music. To his surprise, She spoke: He has three daughters and a wife who loves him.
Lance faltered, then hardened his heart. Men died in battle, and the guards were on the side of slavery. The rebels have loved ones, too.
It was true. But it still hurt the Goddess to walk past the dying Republican. And what hurt Loma, hurt him.
Lance hurried to join Sara by the Grasslanders. The two had fallen on top of each other, close enough together that he could touch them both. Healing heat burst from his hands even before he’d fully accessed the damage: a deep stab wound, a bleeding femoral artery, a torn scalp.
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 21
