In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1)

by Ballintyne, Ciara

  The burning embers of nearby campfires tantalised her. One brand, one lick of flame, and these siege engines would be reduced to so much charcoal.

  But doing so now would ruin their chances to replenish the food stores, and without food, they would die anyway. She ground her teeth, let the canvas drop, and headed for the wagons. Perhaps on the way out.

  Everything seemed still here, but when she ducked past the first row of carts she found around two-thirds of their men already present. Another slipped in behind her.

  “You and you.” Everard pointed at her and the other new arrival. Lyram’s aide looked decidedly odd in grimy leathers and mismatched pieces of armour. His glasses slipped down his nose, and he pushed them up absently before indicating a wagon in the second row. “Take this one and hitch up some horses. You’ll find the picket lines the other side.”

  Ellaeva pushed her hood back, and the aide sniffed.

  “Just you, then.” Everard waved the soldier away.

  “Is Lyram here yet?”

  Everard’s nose twitched, but other than that his face was unreadable. Likely he did many things for his lord that required an inscrutable poker face, not least of them keeping Lyram’s many secrets. He probably kept them better than Lyram did. “I thought he was with you.”

  “He didn’t wait for me.” Ahura curse the man. Securing food was vitally important, and he must be counting on that to keep her from interfering. What were Lyram’s secrets? He’d been free enough with his suspicions about the prince, but surprisingly tight-lipped when accused of his wife’s murder. Had his openness played against him at court? Well of course—he’d been exiled here after all. But why didn’t he at least deny Zaheva’s murder? He clearly believed the prince responsible, but not once did he utter a denial in her hearing.

  Everard stared out into the darkness, his mouth puckered like a man who’d discovered his orange was really a lemon. “Nothing we can do for him.”

  She should go after him, and yet...

  Ellaeva glanced at Everard, at his blank face as he gazed across the camp. He was not someone she cared to find herself across the card table from.

  What if he is the Rahmyrrim?

  Whether the necromancer was a deep-cover sleeper agent put in place years ago to gain Lyram’s trust or a recent arrival hiding behind a glamour, he was most likely someone close to the commander, and someone trusted. Leinahre and Galdron remained in the castle for this raid, but Everard... Was anyone more trusted than a commander’s aide-de-camp?

  Is he my parents’ murderer?

  Her breath caught, her chest tightening to the point of pain. All thought of following Lyram fled her mind, and as Everard made to walk way, she grabbed at his arm.

  “He cared for his wife very much.” She spoke without thinking, but sounding out the aide-de-camp made sense. A necromancer merely hiding behind Everard’s face might not know all the facts, and so an evasive response might mean she’d found her quarry.

  The aide looked at her with both eyebrows raised above his spectacles. “I suppose you wouldn’t have heard anything, not with the way things are. Not many even dare mention her name in his hearing.”

  That explained Lyram’s anger at her on occasion then. Several times she’d thoughtlessly mentioned what everyone else tip-toed around. “I know only what he’s told me, and what I’ve puzzled out for myself. She’s dead, and he believes Drault did it, or maybe Traeburhn—and he somehow blames himself. There were rumours, even across the continent. Many believed he killed her, and Kastyn said the same back at the castle. I can’t bring myself to believe it, but he doesn’t defend himself.”

  Everard’s eyes unfocussed, as though he looked back through memory. “I wasn’t present, but Galdron was. Still, the events are hideously garbled. The prince wanted to go hunting, chasing after some stag reported in the woods outside the capital—a sixteen point they say.”

  Everard shrugged, betraying his disinterest in such things, and she waved him on.

  “The commander isn’t fond of the hunt, but he held the position of the King’s Sword, and the king ordered him to escort the prince and ensure an adequate contingent of guards. Despite the best precautions, at some point during the hunt the prince gave him the slip. It’s sheer confusion, the hunt.”

  “I’ve been to one or two.” She nodded. “Dogs baying, horses running, men scattered in pursuit of something half-seen through the trees, and the woods bewildering the eye.”

  “Exactly. Galdron said by the time anyone noticed Drault missing, no one knew when or where they last saw him.”

  “Lyram searched for him?”

  “Of course, all afternoon, although Zaheva had arranged to meet him at dusk at the city gates. She wanted to ride through the king’s park in the moonlight. No amount of searching turned up the prince, and eventually the commander returned to the city, anticipating the king’s wrath. Zaheva wasn’t at the gate, nor did he expect her to be by then, but she wasn’t at home either, and her horse was missing from the stable. He went back out into the snow alone, in defiance of the king’s order to present himself and explain Drault’s absence.”

  Ellaeva arched an eyebrow. In some courts, that alone would be enough to result in exile. Few crowned monarchs had much patience with subjects who disobeyed orders, least of all after losing the heir apparent. “Then what?”

  “The guards at the gate insisted that Zaheva went out alone at her own request. Well, she might have done at that, being Tembran and all. Fiery lot, those Tembrans. Uh...” He cleared his throat under her dark gaze, as if reminded Ellaeva shared that kingdom of origin.

  “It doesn’t snow much in Tembra, either,” she said.

  Relief flooded Everard’s face. “Indeed, and though my lady had been in Ahlleyn a few seasons by then, she rarely went out in the winter’s snow, and I don’t think she really appreciated the risks—how easily one can become lost or turned around. She may have thought following the road and finding the commander a simple thing.”

  “She didn’t find him, though,” she said. “But he found her.”

  “Aye. Dead. An arrow in her back and her throat slit like a stag’s.” His expression darkened. “She’d been... violated.”

  Ellaeva stroked the dragon cut-out in her sword’s basket hilt. Alone, in the dark and the blistering cold of the snow, with nothing but the pain of the arrow in her back for company, Zaheva had endured one last ordeal before an ignominious death. Her fingers tightened on the sword. What barbaric animal...? Surely no prince of Ahlleyn would stoop so low? “Then what happened?”

  “Galdron and I had followed him out with some of his most loyal guards. We found him, half-frozen over the body in the falling snow. His hands were blue from the cold. Her wedding ring was missing, and he’d been digging in the snow looking for it—at some point he’d torn his gloves off.”

  That image, of the grieving man bent over his wife’s corpse, with the falling snow slowly covering them both, caught her sharp as a knife to the breast. She muffled a gasp, turning it into a cough.

  “Galdron gave him whisky to warm him. We took him back to the city. Palace guards met us at the gates and dragged him before the king. The prince had returned by then, and though the king was understandably upset by his long absence, news of Zaheva’s death blunted his ire a bit. However, the commander had drowned himself in the whisky. When they hauled him into court to explain himself, Drault made a veiled insult, and the commander... struck him.” Everard shrugged and dropped his eyes. “Broke his nose, actually. Drault demanded my lord’s exile, and the king had to do something.”

  She nodded. No king could, or would, allow such insult to pass unpunished, no matter how favoured the perpetrator. To do so would invite those less loyal to rattle the bars and test the wind—and there were always some whose oaths could not be trusted.

  Everard fell into a despairing silence, his expression lost in the dark of the night. Then he shook himself. “He took it hard, and Zaheva’s death was poli
tically ugly too. She first came to Ahlleyn as the Tembran ambassador, and her mother is an important baroness.”

  No one had previously mentioned to her that Zaheva was Tembran, though it explained the way Lyram looked at her sometimes. The story filled in a lot of gaps, made sense of so much she hadn’t known. She almost understood the drinking. It didn’t explain why he didn’t defend himself though.

  She opened her mouth to ask the question, but an unoccupied soldier wandered past aimlessly. Everard surged after the man with a low hiss, catching him by the arm and redirecting him with a few curt words. He glanced back at her once, shrugged and hurried off to finish his work.

  She stared back through the wagons at the camp. Should she go after Lyram? It was probably too late to help him or stop him, and a mercenary might recognise she didn’t belong. She better understood the risks Lyram took now, though. He was hell-bent on finding the people responsible for turning his life upside down.

  I know all about that, sweet Lady of Death. I do.

  It made a man dangerous, but it also made him erratic, and impaired his judgement. She hesitated. If she went after him, would it be because duty demanded it? Or because she felt drawn to him and his plight?

  Ahura, he is dangerous.

  Something combusted inside Lyram’s head, and he back-handed Bradlin, sending the man sprawling.

  “Guards!” Bradlin’s scream split the night air.

  Lyram kicked the other man in the ribs. The viscount choked and fought to suck in a breath. Lyram kicked him again, so hard he rolled across the rug-strewn floor.

  “My lord!” The canvas flap ripped aside as the guards charged through.

  Lyram snatched a sword from beside Bradlin’s bed and cut furiously at the guards. He smashed the mail of the first, down low on his chest. The armour gave with a crunching sound, and the guard collapsed. Ribs broken at least, but probably not fatally wounded.

  The second guard moved in with more caution than his groaning fellow. Lyram hammered at the man with hard blows. A few landed, but the soldier’s spaulders deflected the broadsword, and the man retreated.

  Something seized Lyram’s ankle and yanked. His foot came out from under him, and he crashed face first to the layered rugs covering the ground. Strewn cushions broke his fall, and he rolled, kicking with his foot. The hand clung tenaciously. A sword plunged into a cushion beside his head, releasing goose-down feathers into the air, and Lyram rolled again, waving his blade blindly in a furious effort to fend off the guard.

  His foot connected hard with something, eliciting a muffled cry, and the grip on his ankle vanished. Lyram yanked himself clear and stumbled to his feet, whirling. Bradlin lay on the ground, blood oozing between the fingers pressed to his face.

  The guard spared his lord only a moment’s glance before attacking anew. Lyram lunged, driving the guard back. The man tripped on the cushions, spewing more feathers into the air. Lyram burst through the drifting down and smashed the flat of the blade into the man’s helmed head with all his might. The guard’s eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped like a stone.

  “Sorry,” Lyram muttered.

  He threw open a nearby chest and rummaged through the contents. He pulled a spare blanket free and cut strips to bind and gag the guards.

  Bradlin cried out, whimpering, as Lyram bound his blood-covered hands.

  “You can’t gag me,” he said, voice thick. “I can’t breathe through my nose.”

  “Try, my lord, try.” Lyram stuffed the wadded cloth into Bradlin’s mouth. “My wife couldn’t run very fast with an arrow in her back, either.”

  The despair in Bradlin’s eyes almost made him change his mind, but he clung hard to the words the viscount had told him: If she had to die, he might as well have some fun first. Fresh rage boiled up in him so fast all rational thought was lost in the red wave surging through his brain. Breathing hard, he abandoned Bradlin’s sword and staggered from the tent.

  The cool, fresh air of the night did him as much good as a slap to the face. He came to an unsteady halt and dragged in a deep lungful. His thoughts cleared, and he stooped to retrieve his baldric from the ground. Buckling it back on, he swaggered through the camp with the arrogant walk of a mercenary.

  No outcry came from behind. With luck, his men would be gone from the camp before anyone found Bradlin, but they’d need to hurry.

  The supply wains were quiet and still as he approached. Then he stepped beyond the first line of wagons and into a stealthy bustle of activity. Men led horses into the shafts of wagons, their harness muffled with cloth and the metal darkened with soot. Other men checked the contents of the wagons to be sure they stole only what they most needed, moving goods in and out as needed. Two of the couriers saddled horses for their ride for the capital. Only two. Lyram scoured the camp for the other pair of guards who’d volunteered to carry a message to the king. Where were they?

  To one side, more horses stood saddled, waiting to carry his soldiers as they fled back to the castle. Nearer to Lyram, Ellaeva lowered an unconscious man to the ground and began trussing him with cord. As though sensing his gaze, she glanced up, and her expression darkened. She yanked the knots tight on the prisoner and stalked over, as impressive as a storm building on the horizon.

  “You!” Her mouth worked, as though the words she sought escaped her.

  She was quite tall, enough to reach his chin. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Ciotach an Bhais was larger than life. This swordswoman in leather breeches and armour radiated cold anger, but though any wise man would tread carefully in her presence, the loss of the trappings of her goddess somehow made her more human.

  “Me,” he said, grinning.

  And she slapped him. The blow didn’t really hurt, but shock shot through him.

  “Ahura save me from idiots who I must protect from themselves,” she snapped. “I see you’ve managed to keep yourself alive, and your wit intact. Try to stay with the soldiers this time, hmm?”

  He stared after her, absently rubbing his smarting cheek and uncertain whether to be angry, amused, or... what? The swing of her hips as she strode away arrested his gaze.

  “Really, sir?” Everard scuttled past, laden down with all manner of foodstuffs. “Really?”

  Lyram tore his gaze away and moved to help. “Have we got what we came for?”

  “More or less.” Everard huffed with exertion and relinquished a ham, freeing a hand to push his glasses back into the bridge of his nose. “We’ve got four wagons hitched and ready to go, and eight riding horses saddled and waiting. The men should be bringing more horses shortly, for those who won’t fit on the wagons. The couriers are ready to ride. Then the picket lines will be let loose. There was only one interruption. A quartermaster, I think.”

  Lyram followed his aide’s pointing finger to the man Ellaeva had trussed so efficiently. “We need to hurry. I, uh, had an altercation. We may not have much time. Where are the rest of the messengers?”

  Everard shook his head. “They never arrived at the rendezvous point, and nor another pair of soldiers. If they’ve been captured, they may not have told anyone what we’re up to yet, but...”

  It was only a matter of time.

  Lyram spun, calling orders in a low voice. They needed to get out of here now. The two messengers swung into their saddles, glancing his way for orders. He waved them off, giving a brisk salute. They clapped heels to their mounts and disappeared into the dark as he turned to the next task.

  From the direction of the horse pickets, two more of his men led four bridled horses each between the wagons. All the metal on the bridles was muffled and blackened. That made sixteen horses all told, and the two men cutting the pickets would likely bring at least one more each. With two soldiers lost in the camp, there was a total of thirty men and women to return to the castle which meant twelve men to ride in the wagons. Four wagons hitched, three men a piece....

  Lyram swung up onto the nearest wagon, took the reins and urged the others ont
o the wagons. The two blinkered horses in the traces stood patiently. “Up you come, Everard.”

  He reached around the side of the wagon. A hand took his, and he pulled, only to find himself helping Ellaeva up. He hesitated with her halfway up, and she pulled herself the rest of the way and sat on the splintering seat.

  “Move over if you expect Everard to fit up here, too.”

  He did, and she shuffled over, allowing Everard to climb up beside her. Her leg pressed against Lyram’s from hip to knee. He cleared his throat and tried to move over farther, but he was already on the edge.

  “Any moment now,” she whispered into the tense stillness. “Don’t forget the horses are likely to bolt. All you can do is try to make them bolt in the right direction.”

  “Yes, yes, I know the plan,” he said. “Do you—”

  The howl of a wolf split the night, followed by another, the long baying hanging in the air. Behind them, the camp’s picket lines erupted in panic, with horses neighing and squealing and hooves thundering in the darkness. Not much was visible through the encircling wagons, but embers shot into the sky at a nearby fire, and a horse squealed in pain. More hooves pounded past, and men shouted, in pain, in fear, or in desperate anger. The camp dissolved into disaster as freed horses fled amongst the men in panic.

  Ellaeva abruptly stood, looking anxiously away from the wagons. “I almost forgot. They’re building siege towers.”

  “What?” Lyram jerked to his own feet. Siege towers coupled with cats. The castle wouldn’t last long if the enemy breached the walls. “Where? How many?”

  “Two.” She pointed. “I wanted to fire them, but we needed the food.”

  “Go! Now!”

  The wagon horses shifted in the traces, their ears flicking back and forth nervously, and he tightened the reins while making soothing noises. Ellaeva swung a leg over to climb past Everard. Another howl tore through the night, and the horses broke. The jolt as the wagon lurched into motion almost threw her clear, but Everard seized her by an arm. The horses moved from a trot into a canter. Ellaeva still stood, balanced on the edge of the wagon seat, secured only by Everard’s grip. Lyram reached over and jerked her down into the seat as they hit a bump.