“I want to go with my father.”
“It’s too dangerous,” I said. “He needs you to be a brave girl right now. Can you do that? Can you be brave for your father?”
Madrie caught my glance and placed a reassuring hand on Talira’s shoulder.
A tear fell from the little girl’s eye. She folded her lips in and nodded. Then she wheezed and choked on the smoke that rapidly filled the room.
I wiped the tear away and took her by the hand. “You’ll see him soon,” I lied.
After a whisper to Madrie that she should follow us, I scooped Talira into one arm and took the rope of bedding in my free hand.
“Hold on to me,” I told her.
Her wet eyes pressed against my cheek as she threw her quivering arms around my neck. I sat my ass on the windowsill, let out a big sigh and thought, Well, here goes.
Out of the window I climbed, throwing my shoulder around so I swung into the wall. Bracing my feet against the stone, I relaxed my grip on the rope so Talira and I slid down a smidgen. Then I closed my hand tight, breathed, and relaxed it again. Inch by inch we rappelled down the face of the keep.
The muscles in my forearm felt like enormous knots bursting through the flesh. I’d rappelled down a wall before, but I typically didn’t have a little girl in one arm. A little girl who was determined to choke the life out of me.
“Ta…” I gasped, nudging her hands with my chin. “…lira. My throat. Br…eathe. Can’t…”
Instantly, she softened her grip. “Sorry,” she said meekly.
As we dropped closer to the ground, the stones emanated a greater warmth. Windows fifteen feet away burbled and hissed, and sometimes they crackled and roared as fire briefly leapt out. When that happened, Talira made noises, and I had to remind her again that I couldn’t breathe.
“Hold on tight,” I told her as the last of the linen rope spun through my hand. We fell a few feet into the dry grass below, none the worse for wear. I shifted her so I could hold her more securely, then it was down to the commons and through the choking smoke, our shirts stuffed in our mouths.
If it hadn’t been a twenty-second jog to the gate, we wouldn’t have made it out alive. The smoke would have seared our eyes, sapped the breath right from our lungs, and put us down. Like it had so many of those we stepped over, and on.
Rovid had led everyone into the Swamplands, where I finally set Talira down. The armies of Kane Calbid would approach from the high roads, so we were safe from a barrage of trading arrows and huge boulders that the trebuchets of Erior would sling overhead.
I sat by Vayle, blowing black dust out of my nose and my lungs.
“Braddock’s girl,” I said. “Forgot she’d be in there.”
“I want to see my father,” Talira said.
“It’s not safe yet,” I told her. “There’s a war coming.”
Her mouth formed a little O. “A war?”
“We’ll reunite you with your father soon. Okay? We might have to travel a little ways first.”
Talira swallowed, then closed her eyes. And she kept ’em closed, even as the tears spilled out from under her lashes.
Rovid attempted to console her. He massaged her shoulder and offered her an apple. “Here, are you hungry?”
While the two of them disagreed over whether she was hungry or not, Demerick came over, fiddling with his thumbs. “Er,” he began, looking at his feet, “thanks, Shepherd. For, you know. This.”
That seemed to cue the other Rots, who formed a line of tired, withered bodies. Each gave me a pat and a sincere thanks. I didn’t know how to react.
They shouldn’t have thanked me. They should have blamed me. They’d all chosen separate paths after the conjurer war; the Black Rot was behind them. And now, because of me, they had been ripped away from their new life and thrust back into the old.
But dammit if it didn’t breathe something wicked and powerful into me, seeing these bastards again. Even in their poor shape.
The feeling didn’t last. Approximately ten minutes into our rest, it dawned on me that I’d planned this whole escape business flawlessly up to the actual point of escape. I hadn’t worked out the events that would happen afterward. If I had, there’d be about twenty-some horses waiting for us, and lots of supplies. Instead, I found myself looking at a city of trees and shrubs and vines, with only two horses amongst them — the ones Rovid and I had ridden in on. Perhaps even worse, we had few supplies.
I thought about this for a while, as the rumble of war from above rippled across the forest. A messenger camp sat about two days’ walk from here. Maybe three, given the Rots wouldn’t exactly be skipping along. We could resupply there, but grabbing twenty horses wouldn’t be an option — the camp simply wasn’t large enough to part with that many. But ten or so? Entirely viable. My Rots would have simply needed to be content riding crotch-to-ass, that was all.
We passed across a few creeks on our short journey, washing off in their gentle flowing waters and refilling our waterskins. My Rots were slower than I’d anticipated. Many had to pause every few miles, and Vayle could barely make it that long. Those who were worst off rode horseback for a while. Rovid and I took turns carrying Talira when she complained her legs were sore, or her feet hurt, or she was sleepy.
Food was scarce, as it always is in the forest. Squirrels and rabbits might be plentiful in the jungle, but they’re wary creatures. Still trapped a few, but not enough to keep my stomach from growling. I ate only for sustenance, passing off the bulk to my friends who were in greater need.
Brierwall Messenger Camp greeted us on the fifth day, a small outpost tied off at all sides with an entanglement of briers that dressed the land out here in a massive, prickly sweater. The last of the Swamplands had bidden us goodbye a fortnight ago.
“Five thousand gold coins for ten of your beasts,” I told the commander of the camp. “We’ll return them within two weeks.”
“Twenty thousand,” he shot back.
“We’re borrowing them, not keeping them.”
The commander was a no-nonsense sort of guy. Big in the shoulders, bigger around the neck, buttery face. He waited for moments like this. Lived for ’em.
“Ten’s a third of my bloody stock. Black Rot might have got itself a reputation, but incidents happen out there. Mountain clan come down on you in the night, what’ll happen then? I’ll tell you what — all my damn ponies will be gone, and I’ll be shat out of coin. Twenty thousand. No less.”
Wasn’t going to be a goddamn mountain clan where we were headed, but no amount of sweet talk would convince the commander of that. So I agreed, said my Rots would bring him the money when they returned — a proposition that had the fat man blowing snot out his nose he laughed so hard. No coin on hand meant he had to jack it up to thirty thousand.
Worst deal I’d ever made, but in the process I managed to negotiate Talira’s return to her family. A messenger would bring her to the city of Mocium, a Glannondil stronghold about a hundred miles north of Erior, controlled by Braddock’s brother-in-law. He’d know what to do with the little girl better than I.
The Hole greeted us about a week after we set out from Brierwall Camp. I wondered how my Rots felt being back here. Perhaps like a child going back to a home they thought they’d never return to. Oh well. They’d rest for now, lick their wounds. Once they’d regained their strength, they’d be free to do whatever they wished. At least until the reaped poured across Mizridahl; then they’d die.
I thought about asking Vayle if she’d go back to the North again, but… well, it wasn’t much my business, was it? And she needed sleep.
Everyone had gone to sleep, except me. I thought about waking Rovid, telling him the bad news. Not for any reason except I wanted someone to share my misery.
Those ten thousand reaped Ripheneal had promised… I needed them now. Well, so long as Lysa managed to take Dercy’s mind. Without his war effort, this whole thing was pointless, and I’d not waste ten thousand souls on a losing fig
ht.
So I packed up some wine and some dried, salted meat. Some bread, some pepper. Some rope, because you never know. An extra dagger, and another blade. I stuffed the smaller items into a satchel, tied it tight, then mounted a horse.
And I left. Onward to Watchmen’s Bay. The gods know I’m not a man to pray, but I prayed that night. I prayed that Dercy Daniser was a puppet and Lysa Rabthorn was pulling the strings. Because if not… well, there were worse things than death, and I would soon see them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
She wasn’t there. She hadn’t ever been there.
There was talk of the sky bursting into a ball of fire two weeks ago, wings born of flame. It disappeared beyond the ocean, a straight path to Lith.
What are you up to, Lysa Rabthorn?
Chapter Twenty-Four
It wasn’t a very mature decision, but fuck if it didn’t feel good and right. Upon discovering Lysa had apparently hitched a ride across the bloody ocean on the back of a phoenix — nice time to conjure one of those up, by the way — I should’ve looked to my next move. That’s what a good chess master does, right? Get your shit blown up by a wayward rook you never anticipated capturing your bishop, and you’ve got to make an adjustment, yeah?
Well, I decided to get knackered. And I mean full-fuck blown up. Taking ale to the face so frequently my cheeks looked like red embers an hour into the festivities. Lads at Watchmen’s Bay, they knew how to get drunk. Got myself in a nipple-pinching contest sometime during the night. Whoever could withstand getting their nipples pinched by some mean ole red crabs the longest would win. Gal named Gloria turned out to be the victor. Bit of a cheat, if you ask me, because she admitted with a wry smile on her face that a crab’s pinchers paled in comparison to her betrothed’s fingers.
In the morning, I slogged along the sandy paths of Watchmen’s Bay, holding my head, cradling my stomach. Face felt blanched, eyes swollen. I sat on an abandoned crate and watched small fishing vessels roll across the ocean with their nets. The fish fought valiantly as the menacing woven ropes captured them, but they were, in the end, overwhelmed and taken aboard to be gutted.
Huh. I stood and looked toward the Twin Mountains, imagining the bareness of the Bay of Selaph beyond them, the hundreds and thousands of reaped amassing on the other side. There were worse ways to die, I thought.
I left the kingdom of salt and sand behind me, taking off on the horse I had come in on. By nightfall the grass was nice and thick and green again, not the sort of wimpy threads of beige that looked like a preening bird had plucked them out and left them for the sand to swallow up. There was soil underfoot, lots of lumber surging into the sky. This was my type of land here, where a good sniff would sting your lungs with the sharpness of pine.
Too bad I’d take the long nap at sea instead of here. Shame, really.
A few days later saw me back at the Hole.
“Thought you’d gone for some whores,” Rory said, skinning a stick by a fire.
“Where’s Vayle?” I asked.
He motioned toward the Hole, never missing a flick of his knife. Strange boy, that one. How it’s enjoyable to flick bark into flame, I’ll never know.
After coming up empty in several rooms, I found my commander eying up some ebon on the bladewall — essentially an armory. A poor man’s armory. Well, at least in terms of luster. Can’t very well be poor and afford a wall full of ebon, can you?
“Already leaving, are you?” I asked.
“Resupplying,” she said, drawing her finger across the face of a dagger.
“You know they’re mostly the same. You and I are the ones who commissioned them.”
She rapped her nail against the crossguard. “Yes. But do I desire a tall one and a short one?” She shuffled to the right. “Or two long ones?” She turned, her face characteristically flat. “I suppose the better question is what kind of job am I doing?”
There, the tiniest of smiles.
“I was hoping you’d say something like that. So you’re with me?”
“Perhaps. Tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
I rubbed my face and sighed. “Everything. Okay. Here goes. It starts with my brother.”
Then, some thirty minutes later, “And apparently she conjured a fucking phoenix, and poof! Gone.”
“Why would she do that?” Vayle asked.
I shrugged. “Got no idea. None. Not even the slightest.”
“Do you think she’s working with Occrum?”
“Lysa? No. Not a chance. Look, you don’t know her like I do — she’s…”
“Somehow gotten your trust,” Vayle said. “That’s a rare thing for you to give away, so I imagine she’s a special woman. Like a child to her father.”
I furrowed my brows. “Why do people keep saying that?”
Vayle compared the length of the short dagger to the long one. “Because of the way you talk about her.”
“Yeah, well, I guess. She’s done this sort of thing before. Not following directions — going off on her own. It’s… fuck. I do sound like her father, don’t I?”
There was a brief murmur of laughter.
“All right,” I said. “Fine. But I don’t understand her display of independence this time. Only thing I can think is that she saw the writing on the wall and went to find Rav’s house for a way into Amortis. She probably thinks she’ll find safety there, somewhere. By the way, where is Rovid?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? As in, he giddied up and galloped away, or…?”
“Gone as in gone. I don’t know where. No one does. Maybe Lysa has her own plans. You never told her yours, so it’s only fair. Maybe she knows a weakness in this reaped assault Occrum intends to unleash.”
“She’d better hurry up, in that case,” I said. “We’ve got ten days, maybe. Then they’re coming.”
Vayle snatched the longer dagger from the hooks on the wall. “So what are your intentions?”
I clicked my tongue as I thought the words. “Sounded a lot better when I was hungover and dreaming of martyrdom. I had this grand image of you and me, standing out on the land bridge. Clanging our swords together as the reaped rushed us. Hell of a way to go, huh?”
“Well, then,” Vayle said, sheathing her new dagger, “what are we waiting for? If death is inevitable, let us determine the course.”
“You’ve come to terms, then?” I asked. “With the slave girls you’ve not yet freed? You can’t free them all, you know.”
Vayle crossed her arms. “My camp was destroyed when Braddock sicced his warmongers on us. I am ten days’ ride at best from reestablishing my previous position, and several weeks away from restocking with good men and women. It would seem by that time, this world will be dead. I do have one request if I am to join you.”
I raised my brow.
She tightened her lips into a smile that struck me like a sorrowful arrow. She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Everything good must end, Astul. Better it ends quickly and furiously than slowly and painfully. I think you’ll find your assassins quite agree. One more for all of the Black Rot, not just you and me. What do you say?”
My eyes felt hot. “One more” — I swallowed the lump in my throat — “one more for the Black Rot.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Picture this. Two swooping masses of rock, a yawning basin of sand and grit stretching between them. No matter how hard you try, you can’t see where the horizon of the basin concludes. It seems to go on forever, perhaps ending only when it drops off the other side of the world. And if you ever fancied seeing that sheer drop into oblivion, well, now’s your chance, ’cause a well-placed bridge — intelligently placed, you might say — of sand as dense and heavy as a brick extends like a branch over a creek, offering you the trip of a lifetime.
My Rots and I set out across that bridge on horseback. It was not the edge of the world we were looking for, but we would meet oblivion nevertheless.
To our backs, docks were crusted over with salt that used to wash ashore from the ocean that once filled this basin. Some of the villagers had deserted. Others stayed behind, prophesying the end times through their teary eyes, determined to stay in their homes as the cataclysm came. An emaciated man had lunged for Rory’s satchels, hungering for the food he claimed to smell. His mind was playing tricks on him, because one doesn’t smell stale bread, and that was all we were carrying. It was all we needed.
Stay alive until the reaped poured through. That was the only job we had. The last job the Black Rot would ever undertake.
The width of the bridge allowed all twenty-two of us to ride abreast with about twenty feet of space on either side. Pockets of water lay in the basin below, swirling with the glossy reflection of a sun that roasted both the earth and the back of my neck.
A boundless splash of beige besieged us, monotony tightening its grip as we ventured deeper into this newly made desert. A graveyard of flat, dull scales lay amongst the sand — rotting fish whose flesh and eyes were being feasted upon by opportunistic vultures and crows and gulls.
Sometimes I looked into the sky, wondering if perhaps hope would strike as it had when I’d stood before the gates of Edenvaile, the bluster of winter chilling my spine. But, no. Only a starlit sky at night, and a blue wonder in the day.
We came to our resting place as twilight settled above. Our horses snorted and flicked their tails, perturbed at the sight before them.
A ways out lay a ridged shelf poised high above the basin. When the sea was full, water would have lapped against the edge. But now? Now the edge was stained with the blackness of shadows. Tall, corrugated shadows that bore resemblance to jagged shapes created from bare bone and fleshless skulls.
Their numbers were innumerable. From left to right they gathered, as wide as the eye could see before the haze of a distance too great muddled your view. From front to back they stood, in formal rows reminiscent of a proper army.
The Miscreant (An Assassin's Blade Book 2) Page 24
