It irked, but slavery was a problem for another day. He watched the camp for a while but gradually shifted to a squat and then a sit. He thought over what he’d seen: few guards despite the “royals” within, and neat, hastily built fire pits. Nothing indicated a protracted stay. His best guess was they had arrived yesterday or the day before and were scheduled to pack up in the early daylight hours and move on immediately. But to where? And for what purpose?
The horses dozed, snuffling, stamping occasionally. The moons glided slowly across the sky. Ma’Vanni dropped behind the great standing rock, which the highlight of moonglow made look imposing. At length, deep night swept over the plains, his knee grew stiff from the cold, and he removed the mask. The wind still made the sparks dance from puddles of eye-searing coals. If he avoided them his darksight evened out and he could pick out the shadows of men easily enough.
His shoulders tightened as he finally emerged from between the horses. About twenty strides separated him from the nearest tents. He couldn’t run or even walk fast. Men stirred slowly at night within a moving camp, only rising for duty or to relieve themselves, moving as if worn from long days on the sword or in the saddle.
The sound of cantering hooves made him startle and step back within the horses. Damn damn damn, they’d be bringing more animals this way. But he had to know who these late newcomers were. Outriders, or a rear guard? Or visitors.
A voice rang out, mindless of the sleeping camp. “I hope this isn’t a waste of my time.”
It chilled Draken far beyond what the wind had done. Oklai, Bruche whispered.
The Moonling had threatened him when he refused to free the slaves of Brîn outright. She had shifted from once saving his life to doing her damnedest to destroy it in the time he’d known her. Her diminutive stature belied the power and magic she held.
A much taller figure dismounted. He spoke in a voice locked tightly inside Draken’s memory. A voice he’d never forget. “I would not lead you on a fool’s journey, my lady.”
“Majesty,” Oklai answered, her voice chill.
Bloody Galbrait. Truls had found his cousin twice. Draken’s fingers tightened on his sword. It would almost be worth it. He would be overcome, but he could surely kill both traitors before their guards cut him down.
Nay, hold. Information is the better weapon here. What you learn could be the death of them, aye? All of them.
Truth, and the thought of Elena held his blade as well. She deserved to hear of their daughter’s fate from him, and he longed for her as well. With her, he could share his grief, even if she would surely blame him. And only he could understand her. He owed her that much.
It took a moment for Galbrait to reply, and his voice was dry. “Of course. Your Majesty. I forget we are of a rank.”
“You’re not King yet, child, nor are you a Prince if your own country won’t have you. Well? Take me to him, then.”
Galbrait held a moment, maybe holding back the comment that Oklai’s country hardly named her Queen, so their rank was in accord after all. But at last he walked stiffly at her side toward the center tent. Their guards followed, and a pale, flitting glow.
Truls, following the enemies. He behaved strangely, though, stopping as if he’d hit an invisible barrier that Oklai and Galbrait passed through unheeded. Truls stilled for a moment and then vanished.
No help from the ghost, then, as they disappeared inside the central tent. Typical. No one stirred among the conscript tents, but the Moonling war party would see him if he approached from this direction. Draken cursed inwardly and eased between the horses away from the Escorts.
Best to come at it from behind anyway, but he had to wend his way through more tents. Once he was among them, he found it wasn’t difficult to stay concealed. They were nearly as tall as him, and beyond some snoring and coughing, the camp was quiet. It obviously relied on their perimeter guards. Good. He drew his blade, mercifully dark, and eased down to a squat between the side of a conscript tent—emitting at least three varieties of snores—and the main tent.
He sorted the voices. Oklai, the Moonling warrior who fashioned herself Queen of the Moonlings, though they were subject to Elena. Galbrait, deferential in his familiar, Monoean-accented Akrasian. Rinwar, the younger brother of a Landed Lord Draken had killed in Monoea, a priest who liked to call himself a General, his accent thicker. No matter the language, he never sounded anything but confident.
And an unfamiliar, cold voice that rattled Draken to his core. “I assume you’re here to renegotiate.”
“Truth, our arrangement for the Agrian Range seems paltry when compared to your need,” Oklai said.
Galbrait cleared his throat. A warning, maybe? But Oklai went on. “You cannot take these lands without Moonling magic.”
“We will give you what your people want once you’ve done as you said you would.”
“Perhaps a little more reward is in order, my …” Galbrait faltered as if he didn’t know how to title the owner of the cold voice.
“‘My lord’ is sufficient.” Amused, but with an edge that honed itself on souls. “The Moonlings have been of great aid to us, my lord,” Galbrait said. “The soldiers you make are even more so.”
Draken frowned. The soldiers you make … It wasn’t a Monoean turn of phrase.
“Time does go on,” Rinwar said.
“Agreed,” Galbrait said. As he went on, his words strengthened. “Word of the Queen’s movements are reaching the most common ears. It encourages the Akrasians. The last village fought us hard.”
“But it did succumb.”
“Nearly a hundred more followers, my lord.”
“If I can find Elena, we can use her as bait,” Oklai said. The cold voice remained silent. So did the others. Oklai went on with what Draken considered a great deal of bravado. “She seeks the Khel Szi, does she not?”
“Those are the rumors,” Galbrait answered. “She travels to Brîn.”
“It stands to reason, but in spite of the Reschanian trader’s attempt to claim the opposite, his guards told me he had elite guests at his castle. The Khel Szi and three companions.”
“Va Khlar could not be persuaded to cooperate, then,” Rinwar said. “A pity.”
“Not even under pain of death,” Oklai replied.
Draken bowed his head. Truth, Va Khlar had few honorable ambitions, but he was a close, valuable ally. A friend.
“Could they have missed each other, Draken and the Queen?” Galbrait asked.
“Likely. Keep to the villages. We need to build our army more than some Akrasian outliers need their Queen. She matters naught to this war.”
All the while Bruche’s discomfort had been growing, a wordless plea to retreat. But they didn’t know how this conversation would resolve. Draken had only got a taste of strategy … not enough to use against them. He’d only learned two things of value: They believed Elena was alive and on the move, and the Moonlings were using the Abeyance to help the Monoeans.
Bruche didn’t reply in so many words, but he urged him to go while he could get away safely. Draken tipped his head up to look at the sky. There was more to learn here. But it was nearly moonset, the darkest of night, and the best time to escape. His companions would be wondering where he’d gotten to. His jaw tightened. Damn him, Bruche was right. He rose, grimacing at the cracking in his knees. Held. The voices continued in the tent, Oklai insisting the magic was worth more than the Agrian Range. The Abeyance, the Moonling’s ability to stop time, had proved to be a valuable weapon. Draken thought she had a valid point as he stole between the tents back toward the horses.
Once among them, he turned his head and looked at the large tent, torn again between escape and doing something. So many enemies in one place. Galbrait, his cousin who had betrayed him. Oklai, who had taken his Queen and his child and held them captive, who had said in not so many words that she had killed Va Khlar. The Priest-General Rinwar, who had stabbed him in the chest with his own sword and brought down ancient wall
s. And that cold voice … someone new. Someone else in command.
He could cut the head off the invasion here. He might even seek revenge for Sikyra and Setia, since Moonlings had helped Korde kill them.
But it brought him no closer to Elena. He would die here and she would have to face Sikyra’s loss alone. He retreated back to the old wall by the horses, his back against the crumbling stone. His fingers toyed with the leather flap on his sword grip.
I need to kill them.
Draken, you are one man. See reason.
I am one man with darksight, a man who cannot be killed.
You don’t know that.
He did. He’d tried enough times. I have a sword that kills gods. I surely can kill a few men and Moonlings.
You don’t know that’s all they are.
Draken sighed. Bruche was right. That voice had felt different. He tried to think back to how he’d felt when speaking with Zozia. He’d been too surprised and apprehensive to notice much else.
But Oklai would ride out. Perhaps Galbrait would ride with her. He clenched his jaw as resolve took hold.
The problem would be catching up with their ponies. But the camp was still quiet and if they separated at all, he could take them out one by one. A voice niggled at him that he could still strive to ally the Moonlings. Surely some of them were more reasonable than Oklai. But a bigger part wanted her dead, gone from his life. She’d once done him a good turn, but abducting Elena and their infant daughter had far overshadowed it.
I’m more concerned with how you’ll kill them without going down yourself. Besides, Galbrait may be of use yet. He knows things.
Not nearly enough. It was Rinwar he needed for information, to put this invasion to rest, but he’d learned the last time he’d gone up against the Priest not to underestimate him. This was a much smaller camp than Rinwar had kept at the siege of Auwaer, but as Bruche’s incessant nagging reminded him, he was only one man. He fingered his sword hilt thoughtfully, and then it hit him. Of course.
He had the advantage of darkness, but the disadvantage of time. He thought back over the conversation. There’d been no offers of hospitality; not even an exchange of drinks or gifts, or pleasantries, for that matter. The Moonlings would surely soon mount their restless ponies and leave. He had a few breaths to decide and move. Soon the sun would stain the horizon gold.
He’d spilled so much blood since his exile. His first act on Akrasian soil had been to beat someone bloody. Not killing that man had nearly cost him his life. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He slid the bow from his shoulder and lifted a little to string it.
Footsteps behind him. He stayed crouched in the deep darkness between tents, barely breathing, gripping his bow in one hand and his sword hilt in the other, ready to rise and spin and draw. They paused. Could someone see him between tents or … he turned his head slowly, hoping his neck didn’t crack the way it usually did. A form took shape at the end of the little corridor made by this group of six tents; a soldier, his back to Draken. He appeared to be messing with something on the front of his armor, head down. He cursed low in Monoean about a broken strap.
A flitting pale flash appeared beyond. Draken’s eyes narrowed. Truls, flickering into view and then out as if someone had extinguished a torch. The soldier looked up. Swore again, but his tone was questioning. He started off the way Truls had gone.
Draken released the breath he’d been holding and rose, turning to find a soldier climbing out of his tent, ducked low under the flap. Draken strode between tents, weaving through them toward the open plains rolling off between the two rock outcroppings. The wrong direction from his friends’ camp, but he’d lay a thousand rare this was the way the Moonlings would ride. This way led back to their ruined home at Skyhaven.
Truls appeared again, having ditched his curious soldier. He gestured. Draken didn’t pause to think. He moved toward the ghost, who lingered near four thick quivers leaning up against each other like the three-pole tents the Novern wilders used. Draken nodded to the ghost, grabbed a handful of arrows, ten or so to supplement the ones on his back, and kept moving. His back trickled sweat despite the cold wind sweeping over him as he escaped the encampment and emerged between the two great rocks.
The shadow of a boulder nudged his darksight. He made for it, cursing his limping run. He’d strained his knee beyond redemption for this night. But the stone provided good cover. He knelt—half fell—behind it and just breathed for a bit while he stared back the way he’d come. Motion … someone searching? No. A regular guard he’d just missed. And then a larger contingent: ponies and riders in a thick clump that spread out as they emerged between the rocks and darkness of the camp.
His jaw tightened and he rose just enough to string the bow. He set his arrows on the ground and ran his fingers along one, checking feathers and straightness. All of this he did by feel because he was too busy watching the group of Moonlings. They were close to the ground. No man of tall stature rode among them; no Galbrait. Poor fortune. He hissed softly and nocked an arrow.
Oklai would be in the middle, protected. As soon as one of her guards fell, he’d have to fire very fast to get her, and even then, getting away might be a challenge. They’d raise an alarm, blow a horn or scream or some damned thing. Maybe even work the Abeyance. It wouldn’t be difficult to figure out where the arrows came from. But he had to risk it. He thought of going to Skyhaven to retrieve his family. Oklai’s face when she’d spoken of his child as if she were no more than a thing; a bit of coin or a valuable oddity to hold as collateral for a bad loan. Elena, as she had shifted from relief at the sight of him to apprehension when she realized the Moonlings had no intention of letting her go, to determination to help Draken carry their child to safety. The sight of her throwing flame from her palms, screaming at him to run as she burned Skyhaven to the ground in order to provide him and Sikyra an opportunity at escape.
An escape for naught, for the Moonlings had caught up with his daughter and helped Korde murder her. How would he ever make Elena understand? He didn’t understand himself, there was no explaining it unless he believed in destiny, which he bloody well did not. He had made the decisions that led to their daughter’s death, and his presence with Elena could provide her no comfort. And truth, dying here this night, at least trying to achieve some justice, appealed more than living to explain himself to Elena, trying to give her comfort that she surely would not want from him.
Only a sliver of Khellian remained on the horizon, easier to see from behind the rocks with the great plains stretching toward its light. A great gust of wind buffeted his body and left still air in its wake. Khellian winked out and the greys of his darksight filled this blackest time.
His body fell into a position as familiar as breathing, string drawn to cheek, legs braced to give him stability. Even with having to adjust for weight and draw, a Moonling tumbled from her horse and he had another arrow on the string as quick. As a war tribe, they weren’t stupid. They turned as a group toward him, leaving only one behind to see to their fallen comrade.
How can they see in this pitch? Bruche wondered.
Draken grimaced and shot again. Despite the arrow in his shoulder, the Moonling kept his seat. Draken had another arrow on the string, throwing two more Moonlings off their ponies.
As one, the clump of galloping ponies turned to head out to the plains, steering away from him, upland.
Why do they run? He thought it would be obvious he was alone, or at least that they far outnumbered their attackers, just by virtue of the arrows.
They can’t see you and you fired quickly. You’ve more advantage than you thought.
Or they’ve got somewhere to be in a hurry. He watched the fleeing Moonlings leave their dying comrades behind, satisfied. Now they knew how it felt to be on the run, to fear hidden enemies who might strike at any time.
Bruche hesitated. This is revenge, Draken, not battle strategy or even justice.
They took Elena. They’re alli
ed with the Monoeans. With Galbrait. They are traitors.
But are they traitors when they never proclaimed their loyalty to you?
It was a fair question that made his blood run hot with fury. Oklai proclaimed her friendship once, and then stole my family from me. Galbrait knelt to me and then betrayed me. They are out to break this country. For that, they will pay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Where in Khellian’s name have you been?” Aarinnaie jumped up, startling the horses and making Tyrolean snort softly awake. The sun was just greying the black skies. Shadows over the Grassland made it reminiscent of the sea. Osias stood apart, out of the light of the fire, an arrow on the string. He gave Draken a nod but kept his attention on the trail behind them.
He sat on the ground by the fire, glad for the heat. A pot boiled a little water with sweet-scented tea and wine. His scarf wrapped around his fingers to protect them from the hot metal, he poured himself a cupful and sipped. It warmed his bones. “I found a Monoean encampment. They had visitors in the night. This is quite good, by the way.”
“It was meant for the Captain.” Aarinnaie stood over him, hands propped on her hips. “What visitors?”
“Lady Oklai and her war party. And Galbrait.”
“Prisoners?” She frowned when Draken shook his head.
“No. Guests. Allies. I was able to catch part of the conversation. The Moonlings are helping the Monoeans raid villages and farms, to secure their hold on Akrasia. They’re trading magic for the Agrian Range. I’m not sure of Galbrait’s role other than as a puppet king for the Ashen.”
She sank down onto her heels, staring at him.
Tyrolean was listening because he rolled over and sat up, rubbing his hand over his face. “Why did they meet in the middle of the Grassland?”
“It was a very secret meeting, I think. The priest Rinwar was there, and some other. I don’t know who it was.” His voice dropped and he suppressed a shudder.
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