'Something's wrong,' he said. 'Seriously wrong.'
'What?' Crale's voice was light, but Asram didn't have time to bandy with Crale. Standing, he pointed at Rena. 'She won't wake. Look at her eyes...'
Shawford did. All the while the baby was crying.
Shawford leapt back when he saw her eyes, a look of horror on his face that Asram hadn't thought the cool man capable of. Such a look made Asram's heart go cold, too. He had been worried for Rena. Now he was frightened for her, too. Something was obviously worse than wrong.
'It cannot be...' said Crale, backing away from Rena.
'What, man? You know what this is?'
Shawford nodded after a second, and the man's face paled even lighter than his normal pallor. He seemed almost perfectly white in the snow.
'It is a disease...'
'What kind?'
'One that is safe for you. For me...' Shawford Crale shuddered and stepped back. 'I haven't seen this in...'
But the man didn't finish his sentence.
'What can we do?' said Asram impatiently. Crale was quiet. 'Damn, Crale, what can we do?'
'I don't know. I know of no cure.'
The baby was crying lustily now. Asram whispered and shushed the child, rocking him on his shoulder.
'There must be something. We can't just leave her like...this.'
Shawford paced back and forth around the camp. The snow settled on his hair as he walked.
'I know of one...a witch...'
'Then let's go,' said Asram.
'I cannot. I'll stay here. Watch the child and Rena. You go.'
'I'll carry her,' said Asram.
'No. Don't move her.'
'Why?'
'She may be...' Shawford flapped his hands, as though he did not wish to give further details.
'Crale,' said Asram, 'Come on. I need to know what we're dealing with.'
Crale shook his head. 'Go. Go to Hullford, just to the north-east. Hurry. Bring back the old mother. Ask for directions in town.'
Asram did not want to leave Rena and the babe with Crale, but he had little choice. 'Go, go quickly, Asram. Perhaps it is not too late...'
Asram gave Crale a last look. Too late? Too late for what?
But he felt Crale's urgency urging him on. Questions for later. Time, perhaps, was short. He turned his back on the three of them and set out at a run for the village, his feet kicking up snowfall as he ran through the growing dark.
*
Chapter Fifty-Three
Asram ran all the way to Hullford. He was a fit man, but he was a big man. He wasn't built for running. His heart pounded and his breath puffed hard into the heavy air.
Whenever he wanted to know a thing, he went to a tavern. People talked in taverns, and they were open at all hours. As it was, Asram found The Wild Man. He felt like the wild man himself, painted on the wooden walls of the tavern. It could just as easily have been a painting of Asram. Except the hunter was far redder in the face.
He pushed the door open wide, without fear, knowing that he was no easy mark for cutpurses or brigands, should the inn prove to be a place for men of low character. But it was just a village inn, with an old man behind the bar and one young girl, maybe no more than 16, serving a few patrons. There was no rowdy air about the place. The wood was darkened and some patrons sat before smoke wheels rather than ales and wines.
Asram went straight to the barman, ignoring the stares and muttering that always accompanied a stranger in a village inn.
'Drink? Smoke?' The barman leaned on the bar. Asram figured the man for an old soldier, from the way he held himself, his scarred knuckles and face and hard eyes. But there were crinkles about those eyes - a man who knew how to smile, too.
'Neither, but thank you. My travelling companion sickens some way down the road. I wonder if you've a wise woman who tends the village?'
'Aye, we have. You can find her out on the edge of the woods. Is your friend coming here?'
'I don't know. Perhaps.'
'We have rooms made ready, should you need them. Need help?'
Asram was pleasantly surprised by the offer. He did think about it, but decided against it unless it became necessary. Crale was frightened by the malady that Rena suffered. It would not do to put more men in danger than he had to.
But then it was snowing out, and Rena sickened. Maybe it would be better to move her, get her into the warm. He had to weigh the import of these strangers against his duty to Rena and the child, and yes, at a remove, Roskel Farinder and Selana, too.
'Please,' he said, realising in that moment just how much he had come to value Rena and baby Tarn's lives. 'If the wise woman cannot help, we may need a room. But I must go now.'
The barkeep gave Asram directions, and refused the warrior's offer of coin for the information. Asram left and set off at as hard a run as he could manage through the snowfall, crusted in the moonlight. He ran, panting, his lungs burning, in the direction that the old man had told him.
The snowfall became heavier while he ran, all the while worrying over Rena. He knew far too little of this illness that beset her, and had not had time to ask Crale for more detail. He wished, now, that he had. Fear for Rena made his limbs weaker than they should have been. That, battling the snow, and the fierce cold, made the going tough.
After a time, Asram, tired from running through snow and watching his feet in the dark night, he found an old hut. In good repair, with seasoned wood stacked under one low eave and a fire burning within.
The witch, or 'wise woman' in certain parts where witching was frowned upon, waited with the door open as he approached. It was fire and candle-lit behind her, and an inviting space.
The old woman - very old, from what he could tell, silhouetted as she was in the light behind her, barked a harsh laugh. 'Fool man,' she said. 'Now you're just going to have to run all the way out and bring her back again.'
'You knew I was coming, old mother?' said Asram.
'I did. I've the sight,' she nodded.
The woman was old. Extremely old. She did not shake from the cold, but from age and weakness. But her eyes were shrewd enough, and though her eyes were almost purely white, Asram knew that she was not blind.
'I'd come with, but I can't travel far these days. Bring her to the hut. I'll tend her.'
Asram didn't ask the price. There was always a price for dealing with a witch. It didn't matter. He would pay it. He was sworn to protect Rena and the child. He would do so with his life if it came to it.
For more than duty? he wondered.
'Go on, then,' said the witch as Asram dallied.
He nodded in return and set off again at a run, panting, sweating within his furs, and the crisp snow breaking underfoot.
*
Chapter Fifty-Four
Selana stepped forward from the deepest shadows in the old witch's hut without a sound. One moment she wasn't there. The next, she was.
The old witch Beatrain turned to the Queen of Thieves and the head of the Witches' Covenant with a grim expression on her wrinkled face.
'I should have told him to run faster,' she said.
'Her company will protect her,' said Selana. 'Trust in me, Beatrain. The vampire will not harm her, or it will mean his end. He knows this.'
'You trust a blood drinker?'
The Queen laughed. 'No. I do not. I am not fool, as you well know. But you have seen the girl coming here. You know he will not harm her or the child. I will watch over her, and she will come here. None, not even I, have the skill of healing as you have, Beatrain. She will come, and you will make her hale.'
'I wish I had your surety,' said Beatrain.
'I place much stock in careful planning, Beatrain...but sometimes you just have to have faith. Now, they can't find me here - I must go.'
And the moment Beatrain looked away, the Queen was no longer there.
She thought about swearing, but the thing was, no one could ever be entirely sure that Selana had, in fact, gone. Be
atrain prodded at the shadows with a gnarled old finger. She found nothing but a couple of old cobwebs for her trouble.
*
Chapter Fifty-Five
Snow fell thick and fast as the night wore on. Shawford sat on crossed legs in the snow, watching the babe nursing from his unconscious mother's breast. He was repulsed at the sight of the sickly whitish, yellowish fluid leaking out around the child's mouth. But he still considered drinking their blood.
Crale was not cold. He didn't even hunger - he'd fed well in a village down the road on a man deep in his cups walking to his home. Walking through the snow like that...the man probably would have died anyway.
Probably. Anyway and either way, no one would miss the old sot.
Shawford could not have cared one way or the other. Just like he did not care if Rena or Tarn died. The only thing stopping him from drinking his fill was his mistress...mistress to all his kind.
Selana.
Few people could put an end of Crale's life, but she was among the number. Maybe a handful of people, and she was top of the list. So the snow fell and Crale sat in the snow like a good boy, the flakes making his black hair white and settling on his shoulders. The snow was kept from the sleeping woman and her babe with a rude tent he'd erected around her. He felt her pulse, from time to time...a sweet temptation. Her pulse remained strong, and her skin was warm enough. But she would not wake.
The Queen had said he had to protect the woman. He didn't recall anything about the child.
He licked his lips and stroked the child's cheek while the fat babe fed. The child gurgled, sleepily, and nestled into his mother.
Snow fell on, and Shawford watched the small tick of blood coursing through the child's neck. He watched, and the hunger grew.
'Crale, Gods, man! You must be freezing.'
Shawford's teeth grew longer, just for a moment, in his anger. Asram Fell. The bastard had some sixth sense when it came to timing. So intent had Crale been on the child's pulse that he hadn't even heard the hunter's approach.
He smiled though, ever the country gentleman as far as his travelling companions were concerned.
'What kept you?' he said, and pushed himself to his feet, shaking the snow from his hair and shoulders.
Moments later, he was covered in snow again.
I could kill them al, he thought.Then just...walk away.
But how far would he get? Where on Rythe could Selana's power not reach? And did he, Shawford Crale, married, with a darling daughter, live a life on the run?
He was sorely tempted, looking at Fell's idiot face.
'What did the old mother say?' he asked instead of tearing the man's head from his shoulders.
'To bring her,' said Fell.
It figured, thought Crale. It just about made his night perfect. But he just nodded.
He hated witches even more than Asram Fell.
*
Chapter Fifty-Six
Their makeshift tent stowed, Asram unstrapped the babe from Rena's chest and wrapped the sleeping child within his thick cloak. Under it, he could feel his sweat cooling against his skin. It would be cold in there, for the child Tarn, but there was no other way. Once he was underway again, he would sweat, and the child would warm in his body heat.
The babe snuggled in close, and Asram smiled down at Tarn. Tarn did not return the smile, because he had fallen fast asleep. While he was looking at the baby, Asram did not notice the look of revulsion that passed Crale's face in a rare moment of weakness on the vampire's part.
Shawford tied ever-present hemp sack around his shoulders, then hefted the unconscious girl up into his arms.
To Asram the man looked like he would snap, wiry though he was.
'You sure?' he asked again. 'It's a fair walk.'
'I'm stronger than I look,' said Crale, and set off, forcing Asram to keep up.
He was strong, indeed, thought Fell as he followed in the man's footsteps. It was a hell of a pace. After running all the way to Hullford and beyond, and then back again, it was Asram Fell who was worried about his legs snapping. Crale looked like he could go on all night, snow or not, freezing or not...nothing seemed to faze the man.
Bastard, thought Fell. Perhaps, he mused, somewhat unreasonably. Perhaps not. But still, he resolved to watch Crale every step of the way.
His cargo was precious indeed.
*
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Beatrain the witch opened the door to her hut well past midnight. She ushered in the man with the heavy beard with a smile.
And the vampire, too, entered with an irritating smile for her. The man, Asram, did not know. It was not for Beatrain to let the thick, bearded man know that this dandy of a travelling companion was a vampire.
And the vampire knew it. That bastard was smug.
Rena, the sick girl, was carried by the nightwalker. She'd seen him, of course, but she hadn't known that the man and the girl were ignorant of the threat that walked with them in human guise.
The Queen had long plans. Beatrain did not know what they were - she was as much a thrall to the Queen as any in the Witches' or the Thieves' Covenants. But she would not work with a nightwalker under her roof. Never.
'Out, fool men,' she said, giving no indication that she knew what the creature was. 'Out. Witching is woman's work.'
'It snows hard, old mother,' said the mortal.
'I need wood chopping. You'll find a pile out back. That'll keep you warm enough,' she said. 'Leave the child with me, eh?' she added.
The men...one man, one vampire...grumbled. The one with the beard laid the sleeping child down on blankets that the old witch had prepared.
They grumbled some more, but she was deaf to their complaints.
'Out,' she said again, when the child had murmured and turned in his sleep and the girl was as comfortable as she could be on the witch's old, hard bed.
The man and the fey creature left.
Beatrain stared hard at the old, crooked door and listened to their footfalls as they headed off in search of her woodpile. She thought hard, too. What game did the Queen play, letting such a precious package as these two into the care of a vampire?
She shrugged. Maybe it was not for her to know.
She turned her gaze, instead, to the sleeping child, and the girl - little more than a child herself. The babe was hale, a chubby child with a soft round face. The girl...the girl was pretty indeed. Curling blonde locks, and the purest skin that Beatrain had ever seen on a woman child. The woman child who might have been Queen.
'They would have sung songs about you, girl,' said Beatrain to no one in particular.
The sounds of axe work, somewhat deadened by the snow, came from outside.
She sighed deeply. Then she turned to the business of witching.
*
Chapter Fifty-Eight
When she was sure that there would be no interruption, Beatrain leaned over the sickened girl and let her magic free. It swarmed from her consciousness like tendrils of smoke, probing at the girl's soul. Her white eyes leaked magic into the room, all the while searching, testing the limits of what she could do to the girl.
She knew the ailment. Red eye...fatal, left untreated, but an illness that only affected the magically gifted. She'd never seen it worse than in the girl. She did not stir at all. Beatrain could feel its sickly taint in the air of her hut.
Now that the men were out of sight, she could use her power without fear. Her magic was a secret. It had to be. Magic did not exist in Sturma. But there were still those that had the old blood. The old powers.
Beatrain was one who had such powers.
While she knew the use of herbs and potions, her magic was not mere hedge magic, but came from the soul, as true magic always did.
'Let's see, girl,' she said under her breath. And with a sigh, she opened her eyes as wide as she could and her magic, long hidden, came forth. The hut was filled with a sudden glorious light. Beatrain's eyes, pure white, though not blind,
not blind at all, glowed brighter than the firelight in the hearth. The interior of the hut was bathed in the glow of her magic...those tendrils of light expanded, and finally travelled within Rena, and suddenly there was a brutal flash of red light that came from Rena. The old witch was thrown across the room.
When she sat up she felt blood on her thin scalp. Her head hurt, her back and hips hurt too.
She gritted her teeth and pushed herself to her feet.
'It can't be,' she said, limping closer to the girl on the bed. There was fear in her voice as she said again, 'It can't be.'
She pulled back the sleeping girls eyelids and gasped. Blood red, corner to corner. A little blood trickled down the girl's cheek, as though she cried in her sleep. And maybe she did, because she was surely living a nightmare...
The girl wasn't merely sick. This wasn't red eye...
It was the blight.
*
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The dream mist was getting heavier, and though Rena was not walking, she could feel herself moving - being drawn toward something just in the distance. As yet it was out of reach, and she could see nothing past her old friend Tulathia, who stood in front of her, but there was a call, and her soul could not deny it.
'He calls you, Rena. He's calling you, and he's close, now. I can hold you here, but not forever.'
Tulathia reached out and touched Rena's cheek.
'I always loved you girl, but you were ever a dreamer. Times change. Things change. You've got to be a fighter, now.'
'Madal's calling me? Then there is no hope left?'
'Tsh, girl,' said Tulathia. 'Dying, still...but he's close now. Close.'
'I can't fight Madal.'
Tulathia's face hardened. 'Really? Why ever not? What do you think I'm doing?'
Rena's surprise was obvious. 'Gods, Tulathia...I'm not as strong as you!'
The Queen of Thieves: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three Page 11
