C H A P T E R S E V E N
THE LADY
SWORD
The crossing into the Fells was anticlimactic, compared to last time. Han kept hold of his amulet, his hand stuffed into his coat as if for warmth. A bundled-up bluejacket pried himself out of his warm guardhouse to give Han the once-over and wave him on. It seemed that Fellsian eyes were turned inward now, focusing on the drama surrounding the princesses. No one seemed to care if a lone rider crossed into the north.
Han was oddly disappointed. He’d almost hoped for a confrontation, like any sword-dangler wanting to try out his shiny new weapons.
Ragger was downright frisky as they began the gentle climb that led to the pass, crow-hopping and tossing his head, trying to wrench the reins out of Han’s hands.
“Better save your strength,” Han said. “You’ll be complaining before long.”
It was the same road he’d traveled with Dancer eight months before, transformed by the recent snowfall. It was hard to say how much had fallen. In some places the wind had piled it into drifts higher than Han’s mounted height. Other places were scoured clean, down to bare rock. Once the sun rose, light glittered on the peaks, setting every twig and icy rock face aflame.
Han hadn’t much experience traveling in early spring in the mountains. He’d spent his summers in the mountain camps, his winters running the streets of Fellsmarch. As they climbed, the temperature dropped, the clear sky seeming to suck up the heat of Han’s body, no matter how many clothes he layered on. He drew heat from his amulet, using bits of flash to warm his hands and frozen face.
Even in summer, the weather in the mountains was changeable and treacherous, but Han was surprised how much the deep snow slowed him down. The road became a trail, threading between great blocks of stone that blocked the wind and drifting snow, at least.
It wasn’t long before Ragger stopped his prancing and dancing and bore down for the long haul, laying his ears back along his head. Han rested him frequently, graining him at every stop from an already dwindling supply.
It was past midday when Han came on a clan way house, called Way Camp, which lay a few hundred yards off the main road. He and Dancer had stayed there on their way south back in autumn. Han turned off the road toward the camp, thinking he could rest Ragger under shelter this time.
Han was tempted to stay the night. The Demonai often stocked the way camps with food and other supplies, especially this time of year. Han had chosen to travel light since he’d assumed he’d reach Marisa Pines by nightfall.
But if they stayed, they might be overtaken by the next storm, and then there was no telling how long they’d be stranded there. He decided that if the camp were provisioned, they’d stay and weather the storm under shelter. Otherwise, they’d push on through the pass, hoping to beat the snow.
When they reached the clearing, Han recognized the small cabin and attached lean-to for horses, layered with snow. Ragger went balky at the edge of the trees. He skidded to a stop, tossing his head, nostrils flaring as if picking some dangersome scent out of the razor-sharp air.
That was when Han noticed the bodies.
There were eight or ten scattered in bunches, like they’d gone down fighting together. Snow shrouded them in a rumpled coverlet as if the Maker had tried to put them to rest.
Easing his bow from his saddle boot, Han fumbled with the bowstring with half-frozen fingers, drew an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it, all the while scanning the camp for signs of life.
Nothing—no disturbance in the pristine snow cover. The snow frosted the corpses, unmelted, so the bodies were cold. This killing had happened at least a day ago.
It reminded Han of the time he’d passed through a dark cemetery in Ragmarket after the resurrection men had been at work. He’d realized to his horror that he was surrounded by linen-wrapped corpses, spilled everywhere on the ground, shallow graves yawning beside them. He’d fled the burying ground, screaming. He’d been seven years old at the time, the same age as his sister Mari when she burned to death.
When Ragger finally settled, Han heeled him into a walk, circling the clearing, staying within the fringe of trees, alert for any movement in the surrounding forest. The cabin seemed deserted. The snow billowed up against the door undisturbed.
Han dismounted and led Ragger forward. Keeping hold of the reins, he knelt next to the first body, brushing away the snow.
It was a tall, sturdy girlie, a little older than Han. She had the look of a sword-dangler, though she wore no emblem of allegiance. Her coat was crusted with frozen blood, and a crossbow bolt centered her chest.
Could she be a mercenary come up from the south? Had she run into a Demonai scouting party? No, the Demonai used longbows as a rule, and black-fletched arrows.
Ragger’s head came up and he whinnied out a challenge. Han swiveled on his knees, aiming his arrow into the woods in the direction the horse was pointing.
A riderless bay horse stood at the edge of the trees, ears pricked forward, watching them.
Han lowered his bow. Once he’d assured himself the horse was on his own, he called out softly, “You there. Where’s your owner?”
The horse staggered toward them, nearly going down, and that was when Han noticed the bolts feathering the gelding’s shoulder and neck. He was sturdy, standard Fellsian military issue, with a shaggy winter coat. He was fully tacked—obviously a casualty of the recent battle, or ambush, or whatever it was.
When the horse came within reach, Han held out his hand and the gelding lipped at it. There was a carry bag slung over the saddle, and Han lifted it down, murmuring soothingly to the badly wounded animal.
Han poked through the contents of the bag—a soldier’s kit. In a side pocket was a pay voucher from the Queen’s Guard of the Fells, made out to one Ginny Foster, Private.
What were bluejackets doing out here in the middle of a storm, all out of uniform?
Han made a quick circuit of the killing field, clearing snow away from two or three more bodies. All were dressed in nondescript traveling garb, most young.
Whose side were they on? Who had killed them? Had any of them escaped? And where were the killers now?
It didn’t seem wise to linger here, even though the battle was long over. If the killers were still in the area, they might return to this shelter when the new storm hit.
Han came up alongside the injured horse. It stood, head down, breathing hard. It would probably go down for good after a day or two of suffering.
“Hey, now,” he said, reaching around under the bay’s neck, probing with his fingers, finding the hot vein, gripping his amulet with his other hand.
“It’s all right,” he whispered, following with one of the deadly charms Crow had taught him.
The bay went down easily, but Han still shivered. It was the second time he’d killed with magic, the first he’d killed intentionally. Maybe it would get easier with time.
Han took a quick look inside the cabin, finding nothing of value except a sack of frozen oats in the lean-to, which he took.
Mounting up again, Han pulled his serpent amulet free, letting it rest on the outside of his coat. He slid his bow into his saddle boot, within easy reach, though he hoped the raiders or invaders or whoever they were had moved on.
For the rest of the afternoon, Han climbed as the sun descended toward the West Wall. As he approached the pass, he saw that others had come this way since the storm. Though the trail was drifted over in spots, elsewhere the snow was beaten down, pockmarked with hoofprints.
Han pressed on cautiously, acutely aware that anyone ahead of him could look back down the mountain and see him crawling up the slope behind them. In fair weather, he’d have given the strangers plenty of time to put distance between them, but a scrim of cloud had appeared on the horizon. He had no choice. The next storm was closing in, and there was no other path through this side of the West Wall.
As he passed through the narrowest part of the pass, his nerves screamed an
d his skin prickled. He knew it was a prime place for an ambush. Magic or not, a bolt between his shoulder blades would take him down quick.
Arrows were faster than jinxes—isn’t that what he’d told Micah Bayar a century ago?
He navigated the pass unmolested, pausing a moment at the highest point to scan the long descent in front of him. The snow was scuffed up and tumbled about, and it had happened recently. Something lay across the trail just ahead, black against the snow.
It was another body, bristling with arrows. A fresher kill, and clean of snow, so it must have happened since the storm.
Han sat motionless for a long moment, his eyes searching the downslope ahead of him. He scanned the masses of stone to either side of the trail, in case archers waited to ambush him there. The wind pitched fine snow into his face, stinging like glittery ground glass.
He was getting much too close to this action. He had no intention of dying here, within a day of his destination. But he couldn’t stay here either, not with bad weather coming.
He nudged Ragger forward at a slow walk, murmuring reassurances he didn’t believe himself. He rode up alongside the body and sat looking down at him.
The man lay on his face, arms stretched out ahead of him as if he hoped he could still go forward. Blood spattered the snow all around him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed like the dead soldiers back at Way House. Whoever had attacked him meant to make sure of him—Han counted eight arrows sticking out of him before he left off numbering them.
The snow surrounding the body was trampled down, bootprints and hoofprints of at least a dozen riders. Han examined the tracks descending toward Marisa Pines Camp. They’d left at a dead run. Afraid they’d be caught? Or still chasing someone?
Was this one last straggler from the attack at Way Camp? Why had they been so eager to finish him off? It was almost as if this man was such a dangerous person that they wanted to kill him extra dead.
Robbers or southern renegades wouldn’t worry about one survivor, would they? Soldiers never carried much money, not even right after payday. In Ragmarket, everybody knew they were not worth slide-hand, let alone a hard rush.
Anyway, they’d left Ginny Foster’s pay voucher behind.
It didn’t make sense—unless they’d served as guard to something valuable—trade goods, maybe. Maybe whoever had attacked them didn’t want anyone carrying tales back to the capital.
Wary as he was of being ambushed, Han would have ridden on by, except that he saw something glittering in the snow next to the dead soldier.
Taking a quick look around, Han dismounted and knelt next to the body. It was a sword, lying half under the dead man.
Made itchy by the notion of stealing from the dead, Han gently turned the body over, freeing the sword.
It was a beautiful piece, the hilt and cross-guard worked in gold, in the form of a lady with flowing hair.
His attackers must’ve been in a real hurry, to leave it behind.
No simple soldier carried a blade like this. It was the kind of movable that was handed down in blueblood families. Could this man be a noble in disguise?
He studied the man’s face for clues. He was older than the others he’d seen—of middle age, with graying hair in a military cut, his gray eyes staring out accusingly. There was something familiar about that face, about those gray eyes.
Han shivered, making the Maker’s sign, as if someone had walked over his own grave. Ah, Alister, he thought, shaking his head. You’re likely going all romantic about a thief and his stolen sword.
With his thumb and forefinger, Han gently closed the soldier’s eyes. The body was still faintly warm, and hadn’t stiffened up completely. He lifted the soldier’s hands and pressed them together across his chest. Then sat back, staring, his heart thumping.
The soldier wore a heavy gold ring on his right hand, engraved with circling wolves.
He’d seen rings like that before.
A memory came back to him: Rebecca’s Corporal Byrne smashing him up against a wall in Oden’s Ford, his hand in a choke hold around his neck, demanding to know where Rebecca was.
When Byrne had released him, Han had noticed the ring he wore. Wolves. Just like this one. Just like the ring Rebecca Morley had worn. At the time, Han had thought maybe she and her corporal had exchanged love tokens.
Now when he looked into the dead man’s face, he saw a reflection of the younger Byrne—the same gray eyes, the same bone structure. This was Corporal Byrne’s father. It had to be.
“Blood and bones,” Han said. The knowledge birthed more questions than it answered.
The elder Byrne was captain of the bluejackets. Han recalled that day in Southbridge when the younger Byrne had saved him from a beating by Mac Gillen, a brutal sergeant in the guard.
Maybe you’re the son of the commander, and maybe you go to the academy. That don’t mean nothin’, Gillen had sneered.
The dead soldiers—they were bluejackets for sure, then. Members of the Queen’s Guard traveling without uniforms.
So somebody had murdered a party of bluejackets in Marisa Pines Pass? But why? And who? Only the Demonai came to mind—if tensions between the clans and the Valefolk had erupted into conflict—but the Demonai warriors didn’t use crossbows.
And why would the guard ride unbadged? They must have crossed the border at Marisa Pines Pass. Were they coming back from some secret mission in the south?
Han didn’t know much about military matters, but he’d thought the Highlander army was supposed to handle spats across borders. Not the Queen’s Guard, who were more like bodyguards or constables. Their natural enemies were thieves, assassins, and other city criminals who would never attack soldiers traveling in a pack.
Whoever it was, whatever their purpose, it wasn’t Han’s fight. He had no use for bluejackets. They’d killed his mother and sister, had burned them to death in a stable. They’d hunted Han relentlessly for murders he didn’t commit. He didn’t owe them anything. He told himself this while he tried to put poor dead Ginny Foster out of his mind. While he tried to ignore Captain Byrne’s body lying in the middle of the trail.
Han and Amon Byrne had had their differences, mostly over Rebecca, but Byrne the Younger had stuck up for Han when nobody else did. Corporal Byrne seemed to have scruples at a time when scruples were scarce.
Han considered the blade, thinking he should leave it with Byrne, lay it next to him or press it into his hands. It seemed to belong with him, somehow.
But if he left it there, the next traveler through the pass would just take it and sell it in the markets.
I should take this to lytling Byrne, Han thought. He should have it—and the ring—along with the story of how his father had died.
Carefully, he slipped the gold ring off Byrne’s finger and tucked it into his purse.
That done, Han knew he’d better be on his way. He felt exposed, perched on high ground as he was. Danger thickened the air in the pass, making it hard to breathe.
But somehow it didn’t seem right to leave without some sort of ceremony.
Captain Byrne had died fighting. What did a person do for a soldier? After a moment’s thought, Han drew his own knife and put it between the dead man’s hands, the hilt pointing toward his head. He wasn’t much for praying, but he bowed his head over the body and commended Captain Byrne to the Maker and the Lady.
Han carried the sword back to Ragger, who was looking on disapprovingly. He slid the blade into his saddle boot next to his longbow and mounted up, thinking his home country was shaping up to be more dangersome than foreign places had ever been.
C H A P T E R E I G H T
ENDINGS AND
BEGINNINGS
Raisa found her hiding place at daybreak in a small ravine a few hundred yards off the main trail down into Marisa Pines Camp. There the trail ran over solid rock, and the wind had swept it clean of snow, making it hard for anyone following to tell where she’d turned off. After she stowed Gillen’s gelding
at the head of the ravine, she went back with a pine bough and did her best to brush away the tracks leading away from the road.
She fed and watered the horse, but left him saddled and ready to ride. She built a fire under an overhang, and huddled next to it, eating Gillen’s hardtack and sausage.
This might be your last meal, she thought, recalling all the elaborate banquets she’d attended at Fellsmarch Castle.
In fact, she was ravenous, and it tasted wonderful. She loved eating while breathing in the cold clear air, and being alive. She’d never really appreciated it before.
She’d learned so much in the past year—would it all go to waste now?
I’m only sixteen, she thought. I’ve got plans.
If she died in the mountains, Han Alister would never know what had happened to her.
And Amon. He was still alive—he had to be. She could feel energy singing along the connection between them. He would know she was in danger. He’d be frantic to get to her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry about your father. Stay alive and hurry home. I need you more than ever now.”
It was tempting to press on when safety seemed within her grasp. Marisa Pines Camp was an easy day’s ride away, if the weather stayed clear. She was tempted to make a run for it, to trust that she could evade her would-be assassins a little while longer.
But they would be waiting for her somewhere along the trail. They knew exactly where she was going, and they would bend all their efforts toward preventing her safe arrival. It was a bright sunny winter day. Everywhere she went she left tracks over the virgin snow cover. Each time she broke out of the trees she’d be visible for miles, a dark spot on white. Better to wait for the cover of darkness and then proceed cautiously, creeping off-trail whenever she could. Perhaps one person, alone in the dark, could slide through the traps they’d no doubt laid for her.
Sometimes inaction demanded more strength from a person than action.
She tried to look ahead, tried to convince herself she would make it to safety, that all of this struggle would not be in vain. She was determined to stay alive, to take vengeance on those who had murdered Edon Byrne. Who had tried their best to murder her.
The Seven Realms- The Complete Series Page 98
