Galena’s cheek itched. She scrubbed at it with the back of her hand, but the itching grew worse. Damned magic. If only that cursed ship would come so she might be rid of this torment.
“Eyes up,” Detlef said softly.
Galena lowered her hand at once and shifted her sword. Detlef silently pointed. Ahead lay a silver-lit square, the entrance to the main avenue. She squinted, saw nothing unusual. But when she held her breath and listened, she heard the faint tread of boots over stone. The footsteps ran swiftly, stopped, then others echoed from farther away. It was a pattern she knew well—the scouts advanced, scanned the next stretch, then motioned their companions to follow.
Detlef laid a hand on her arm and drew her close. “Those might be our friends,” he whispered into her ear. “I don’t know. But I don’t like how they travel. Too quiet. You, go back to the campsite and warn the others. I’ll make sure of these.”
Meaning, if these were enemy, he would try to hold them until she woke the others.
He’ll die, she thought. Unless our enemies sent too few. She doubted that.
“Let me stay,” she whispered back. “You go back to Lord Kosenmark. I’ll hold them.”
Even as she spoke, her skin rippled in fear. But it only made sense, she told herself. Detlef was the senior guard. Kosenmark needed him the most. Besides, with Toc’s goodwill, she could hold them long enough for reinforcements to come to her aid.
“Are you certain?” Detlef said.
“Do you think I won’t?”
He tilted his head. His face was invisible in the darkness, but he reached out and gripped her arm. “I trust you. Stand strong.”
With that, he turned back into the dark side street and set off in a silent run. Galena hefted her sword, checked her helmet, then strode toward the enemy.
* * *
ILSE WOKE TO a shout from Detlef. Instinct took over. She flung the blanket away and snatched up her sword. Raul already had his in hand. He tossed one helmet to Ilse, took another for himself. “Boots and daggers, too,” he said. With shaking hands, she buckled on her belt and stuffed her feet into her boots. She thrust daggers into both sheaths. Raul did the same. “Stay close to me,” he said. Then they were through the tent flaps.
Outside, the entire camp was awake. Detlef was bellowing, “To arms, to arms.” Ada had rousted the last of those sleeping, handing out swords and helmets, and shouting for the outer perimeter to draw back now, damn it.
Just in time. A crowd of strangers poured into the moonlit plaza, a swarm of faceless shadows. Kosenmark’s guards met them with swords and knives. The pilot and his crew had their clubs. One man caught up a burning brand from the fire. He hurled that in the face of the nearest enemy and struck with his dagger. The next moment, the air went taut with magic, and he went down into a pool of blood.
Ilse had no time to notice more. One of the strangers shouted an order. Immediately the others spread out. Three of them ran toward her and Raul. Ilse swept up her sword to block the first blow. She blocked again and felt the shock of her opponent’s blow through her body. He was a tall man. He had a longer reach. She did not dare to press him too closely or he would use his height and strength to overpower her. The years of drill served well enough to keep the man from breaking through her defenses, but he would, soon enough.
Raul charged the man, who turned to meet him. Sword struck sword. Raul pressed the man’s sword back to his throat and drove his dagger into the man’s belly. One garbled curse, a wet and choking noise, and the man collapsed.
Károvín, Ilse thought. He spoke Károvín.
The other clues clicked into place. These were soldiers—Dzavek’s men—come for Valara Baussay. She had no more time for thought. Raul plunged into the fight. Ilse followed. Together they fought their way toward the rest of their company. Their only chance was to make a square and work their way to the nearest wall.
It wouldn’t be enough. They were only twelve. Their attackers almost twice as many.
Katje went down, run through by a sword. Ada leapt over her body to fill the gap. Ilse sensed Valara’s signature, but she could not see where the woman had gone.
Then she spotted her.
Valara had a knife in her hand. She was swiping at those trying to capture her, and shouting in Erythandran. A bright fire hung in the air around her. One of the Károvín soldiers shouted an answering spell. The fire wavered. He plunged through and wrapped an arm around her throat. Valara twisted away from his hold. Before he could recapture her, she cried out in Erythandran.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Anderswar.”
Magic exploded in the air. There was a blinding bright spot in the middle, which changed in an instant to the dark outline of a woman’s form. Valara. Gone. Ilse didn’t wait to think what to do.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter,” she cried. “Komen mir de Anderswar. Komen uns de vleisch unde sêle.”
The world split open in a dazzling cloud of magic.
* * *
MIRO LUNGED TOWARD Valara Baussay. Moments before his hand closed over her arm, a blinding explosion of magic swept over him. He stumbled, caught himself, and rubbed his gloved hand over his eyes. He could see little more than a smudge of light and shadow. But then the shadow blinked out of sight.
His pulse tripped and raced forward. She escaped.
He knew it. Caught the scent of Vnejšek, of smoke and burning incense, as though a wisp of its essence had leaked through the infinitesimal gap required for her flight from one plane to another. He hesitated a moment—he had made this leap only a few times before—then he was speaking the words to follow.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm. Komen mir de vleisch unde sêle ane Anderswar.”
Hallau Island vanished. But the stink of blood and fire, the smell of panic—all the scents of battle—filled his nose. He felt everything ten times over, from the cold air in his lungs to his blood rippling beneath his skin. Vnejšek in the flesh.
He spun around, searching for Valara Baussay. White vapor extended in all directions, shaped in pillars and canyons and shadowy halls of a gossamer substance. The air smelled of hot tallow and ashes and a scent he recognized as Leos Dzavek’s. Vnejšek was reading details from his secret thoughts and half-remembered dreams.
A wall of blue fire illuminated the horizon. Two shadows stood before it, tiny dark dots before that glaring light. One shadow turned. He recognized Valara Baussay’s profile and the way she lifted her chin.
Her gaze met his. Miro sheathed his sword and lifted one hand. Hers lifted halfway. She stopped herself, leaned close to her companion. There was a blur of motion which he could not follow. The next instant, both vanished into the fire.
Miro ran forward along the edge between worlds. Stopped himself. The queen might flee through a hundred different paths, he told himself. In the end, however, she would return to her home. If he pursued her, he might—would—lose a month or longer to magic and its realms.
That decided him. He spun away from the void and into the maelstrom below. Károví, Károví, Károví, he chanted.
A muffled chorus of wails and gibbers rose up from the depths. Darkness pressed against him. His flesh turned heavy, heavy, heavier, until he lost his balance and plunged an immeasurable depth, to land on his hands and knees. His stomach lurched against his chest. He swallowed. Gradually took in a few more details. Wet. Mud. (Mud? Such an ordinary thing.) An ache shot up his arms, as though he had fallen a much greater distance than he had first estimated.
It took him even longer to recover his bearings, to focus his eyes. Which world had he landed upon? He might have misjudged, might have plunged into another time or another place far removed from the one he knew.
He drew a deep breath. His sense of smell told him the truth. The fragrance of clover struck him first, of spring mixed with snow, and far away, the newly flowered památka. These and all the other scents he knew from Károví’s northern plains. He rubbed a hand over his eyes to clear them. A m
uddy plain stretched out before him. Above arced the pale blue sky of his homeland. Károví, yes. He almost laughed with delight and relief. And there, not a mile away, the walls of a garrison.
* * *
RAUL SWUNG HIS sword up to meet the next blow. A burst of magic illuminated the plaza. His vision blurred. He saw a mass of shadows against the brilliance. The shadows wavered, separated into three. Two vanished. A moment later, the third and last followed.
Then a bright shape arced upward. He met the blade with his own. For a long moment, he strained to hold his sword against the enemy, while all around, the magic current sparked and buzzed. When his vision cleared, he saw he faced a tall Károvín, a man nearly as tall as he was, but of a wiry build, obvious in spite of the layers of leather armor. The man’s dark face gleamed with sweat; gray stubble along his jaw gleamed in the moonlight.
Everyone—Veraenen and Károvín alike—had frozen in momentary confusion. Kosenmark swiftly scanned the immediate area. There were several down, including Detlef. He could not tell if Ilse were among the dead and wounded. An inner voice whispered she had escaped, chasing after Valara Baussay. He almost laughed, until he remembered the third shadow. A Károvín must have dared the leap to follow them.
If he had possessed the skill, he would have done the same that instant. No. He would not. He could not desert his soldiers on this desolate island.
“Are you stuffed full of battle yet?” he said in Károvín to his opponent. “Or do you want to fight on?”
He caught a passing expression of surprise on the man’s face, followed by a studied blankness. “Not part of my orders,” the other replied.
It was his voice.
I should be used to it by now, Raul thought. And yet I am not.
“So,” he replied gruffly. “What were your orders? To start a war with Veraene?”
That provoked a harsh laugh, broken off. “Oh no.”
Raul took in the man’s military bearing, his reticence, and came to his own conclusions. “You are the king’s soldiers. You came here for a purpose, and she is no longer here. Never mind whether I am right or not. Tell me— No, do not tell me anything except this—did your commander give you further orders?”
The other man hesitated, then said, “No.”
Kosenmark released a breath—the moment of trust had come—and slowly lowered his sword. “A truce then. Agreed?”
The Károvín nodded. “Agreed.”
There was the usual grumbling but soon enough, both sides withdrew, Károvín on one side of the square, Veraenen on the other, the dead and wounded scattered in between. The Károvín leader made a quick inspection of his people, then returned. “My name is Grisha Donlov,” he said. “Captain Donlov. Do you need a mage-healer?”
“Mine is Raul Kosenmark. Yes, we do.”
The aftermath took much longer than the battle itself. The Károvín and Veraenen worked together to sort out the dead and wounded. Katje had died in the first onslaught, as had Johannes and two of the fishermen. Detlef had taken a sword thrust to his belly. He would not survive the night, the Károvín healer told Raul. She was more a soldier than a healer, older than Raul, but only by a few years. For the dead, she called down the magic current to turn each body into ashes. For those who lived and suffered, she stayed by their sides to give such comfort as she could.
Raul visited each of his own wounded. The tally was less than he had feared. Gervas had taken a blow to the head, but other than a temporary deafness, he would be fit for duty the next morning. Others had bruises or cuts, which he or the Károvín healer dealt with. He checked over the dead twice. There was no sign of Ilse Zhalina or Valara Baussay.
Near the end, he came to the body of a young woman, dressed in secondhand clothes from his own stores, with a helmet set askew. The Károvín had carried her into the plaza from down the avenue.
Galena Alighero.
Her face was slick with blood. More blood soaked her clothes. Raul counted a dozen wounds on her body. She had fought on despite them. It was the deep gash across her throat that had bled her dry.
Raul touched the cold cheek. It was bare of any mark. Even as he took his fingers away, he felt the fading signature of Nicol Joannis of Fortezzien.
Death wipes all dishonor, Raul thought. Even yours, Nicol.
“She fought against all of us together,” the Károvín healer said. “Back there. We might have taken you if she had not held us back.” In a softer voice, she added, “She died bravely.”
* * *
THE SHIP WITH Gerek Hessler and Alesso Valturri arrived off the coast, five days past the appointed time. They had spent three days, at least, skirting around the royal fleet, another day evading a mysterious single ship, sighted on the horizon. Only after they spent an entire day without further sightings did the captain and Gerek consent to head toward Hallau’s shore.
Alesso had borrowed a glass from the captain, and he swept the coast for several long moments before he spoke. “Empty.”
His tone was impossible to read. “What do you mean, empty?” Gerek demanded.
“Just that. Nothing and no one on shore.”
Gerek snatched the glass and made his own examination. Though the captain warned them what to expect, the sight unnerved him. The city blackened and ruined. Empty. The wharves a desolate expanse of broken stone. As the ship slanted toward the coast, he glimpsed a small, one-masted boat tucked into a hiding spot, but no sign of the promised signals.
“What next?” Alesso said.
Over the past ten days, Alesso and the captain both had showed more respect than Gerek felt he deserved. And yet someone had to make decisions. “We send a launch to shore with six men,” he said. “You choose your followers. Make sure they are well-armed.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I-I should go, too.”
It was a strange and silent journey to the wharf. The crew landed them neatly beside the other boat, which rocked in the waves, its single sail fluttering in the breeze. No one was on deck. As a precaution, Gerek sent Alesso over to search the small cabin.
“No one on board,” Alesso reported. “But no sign of any fight.”
Then one of the crew sniffed the air. “I smell wood smoke.”
There were fresh tracks in the dust, too, which another man discovered. Farther on, signs of a scuffle and dark stains in the dirt. Gerek sent the two men ahead to follow the scent and the tracks, while he followed behind with Alesso. “It could be a trap,” Alesso observed.
“It could,” Gerek replied, nettled. “Do you have a better suggestion?”
Alesso shrugged. “No. Only that we don’t go rushing forward with joy at finding your beloved master. After all, that boat might belong to a crew of testy smugglers.”
“Then we take precautions.”
Precautions meant they kept well behind their advance scouts, gliding through the unnaturally silent ruins. There were no birds here, Gerek noticed. No mice or crickets or toads creaking in the twilight. He almost remanded his order, thinking they should retreat to the ship for a conference, when footsteps ahead brought them all to attention.
One woman, two men rounded the corner from an alleyway. They stopped at the sight of Gerek and his guards.
There was a snick of tension. Both parties shifted into battle stance with weapons drawn.
Gerek tried to speak, but his tongue stuck on the first syllable. Then he recognized Kosenmark’s guards—Ada Geiss, Barrent, and Gervas. In the same moment, Ada spotted Gerek. She gave a signal. Her guards dropped back a few steps. A breath later, so did Alesso and the others.
Ada lowered her sword. “Maester Hessler,” she called out. “A good thing you came along.”
He nodded, not quite able to master his speech. She seemed to understand because she drew him off to one side. “I am glad you came, and not just because we knew you. We’ve had trouble. I can’t say more here, but take care when you speak with him.”
He found his voice at last. “What happened?”
“Any dead?”
She shook her head, but Gerek understood her meaning. It was a thing she could not discuss yet, not here in the open. He motioned for the rest to stay behind with Ada and her crew, then hurried forward alone through the avenue, until he came to a wide plaza. More ruins met his gaze, more dust and emptiness. On the farther side of the plaza stood the campsite—several canvas shelters stretched between enormous fallen blocks. One man bent over a makeshift fire pit, stirring a pot filled with bubbling stew. Others were at work with different tasks.
One of the men recognized him. “Ah, Maester Hessler. You want Lord Kosenmark, don’t you?”
He pointed out Kosenmark’s tent, larger then the rest, which was situated at the edge of their camp. Gerek jogged toward it, taking in the sight of the wounded, the great charred square off to one side, and a lingering burnt stench that hung over everything. By the time he reached Kosenmark’s tent, his steps had slowed. He stopped a few feet away. “My lord,” he said, tentatively.
There was a pause. Then, that high familiar voice said, “Come in.”
Kosenmark’s appearance shocked Gerek. The man’s face was bruised. His eyes were sunken, as if he’d not slept in days, and the once-faint lines beside them were etched deeper and stronger. It was then that Gerek realized he had seen no sign of Ilse Zhalina or anyone else except the guards from Kosenmark’s own household.
Take care when you speak with him, Ada had said.
Gerek bowed. “My lord.”
Kosenmark studied him with those great golden eyes. “I did not expect you.”
“There were … difficulties, my lord.”
“Ah.” A tiny smile lightened Kosenmark’s expression. It vanished quickly. “Just as well. As you perceive, our agenda has changed somewhat.”
Queen's Hunt Page 27
