Tyrolean shook his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t rush in and try to kill them all.”
He shrugged. “I did manage to shoot some Moonlings with a bow as they rode away.”
“And you survived it? One against a whole war party?” Tyrolean asked.
“It was dark and I was well-hidden.” And lucky, Bruche pointed out. Draken grimaced. “And lucky. Our path will take us right by them. Morning patrols will find a dead guard and several dead Moonlings. We need to get on with it, and give them wide berth.”
Tyrolean leaned his arm on his upraised knee, annoyingly not getting up to saddle his pony. “Vigilante action is against the Queen’s law, Your Highness.”
“I take your point, Ty. But I’m no longer Prince nor Night Lord.” And Elena, if or when he saw her, had no reason to restore him now that Sikyra was dead. Whatever love and affection she shared with him would be lost to grief, he did not doubt.
“You can no more escape your royalty than you can your own skin, my friend,” Osias said.
Draken grinned, and by Osias’s widened eyes, it must have looked garish on his face. “Ilumat did a damned good job stripping me of it. I have no Bastion, no crown, no Night Lord Pendant, no daughter, no Queen. My connection to the royals of Monoea is destroyed as well. I don’t even have a bloody horse. I might have royal blood but I am a common man again, common as I was in exile, common enough to hunt and kill those who attack my people.”
“My people,” Osias echoed faintly. “Those are not words of a man in exile.”
Draken grunted. “Don’t make more of it than it is. My time to lead is over.” He had only one certain intention now, something more certain than chasing the cold trails of his Queen. He had to kill Galbrait and Oklai. He fingered the loose flap of leather on his sword. And maybe a god or two while he was at it.
Setia had once asked him if he was happy, during his early days in Akrasia. Content, he’d answered. Now there would be no contentment in killing them, but a sort of relief, maybe.
Aarinnaie toyed with her knife. “I welcome the opportunity to kill Monoeans.”
Draken sucked down the rest of his tea, avoiding the topic and Osias’s sharp gaze. He hadn’t spoken to her of forgoing killing yet. He was out of the mood with revenge on his mind. “Saddle up, you lot. We’ve a distance to ride today.”
* * *
Draken pulled his mask off with relief the next night. Even with the nightfall chill, he was glad to have the air on his face. The world turned to the crisp, many-shaded grey as he shifted from veiled vision to his darksight, and the winds had subsided during the day so that riding with the sun on their backs was almost pleasant.
The terrain had shifted as well, cut through with tributaries and ice-laced ponds. The endless rolling grasses gave way to larger foliage, clumps of shrubs and copses of trees. Every now and then they saw a deserted house, sometimes burned, often left with doors and shutters banging in the winds. They approached none of them, guessing what they’d find. It seemed more Monoeans had swept upland, cutting through the Grassland like a scythe, leaving little life in their wake. Livestock from paddocks or fields were missing, butchered to feed the Monoean army.
For Draken’s part, and his friends’, they were nearly out of food and hungry. They rarely saw the small deer, wild horses, fowl, or hares populating the Grassland. Fresh water kept them going, and nibbles of the last of the dried stuff in their packs. Not even any silver fishtails flashed in the shallows under the ice, which was too thin and unreliable to venture upon.
Sighting a farm with some life to it ahead brought cautious hope for a bite and maybe bedding down out of the weather for a night. It was a lonely place, a cottage with sloped roof, a similar barn, a dirt paddock, and a small pond. Quiet. Too quiet. But as they rode closer, Draken’s darksight picked out a man plodding between the barn and the house, stopping when he apparently saw the newcomers.
He was bulky in the way farmers are: barrel-chested and broad, but gone a little soft during Frost. Lined eyes, so full-blooded Akrasian. Unsurprising. Most of the herders and horse traders out here were full-blood, even this close to Septonshir.
He leaned on a shovel as he eyed them, and had a long knife strapped to his belt. At length he dipped his chin to Osias. “Well? Fair odd lot, aren’t you?”
Osias introduced himself. “I and my friends would appreciate shelter for the night. The barn suits.”
“Why would a blind man carry a sword?”
Draken didn’t like the wry twist of the man’s mouth.
“It is his sword,” Aarinnaie said.
“Not got much use for it, has he?”
The shutter at the peak of the roof by the corner of the house moved, pulling tighter. Draken’s eyes narrowed under his mask. “I can hear where a man stands. Fair enough to strike. Will you share space with us or shall we move on?”
“Not bloody Ashen are you?” This he addressed to Tyrolean.
Tyrolean shook his head, confused. “Of course not. We are on war business.” He lied smoothly, though perhaps it wasn’t quite a lie.
“Reckon I’d best let you in, then. I’m Nolarth.”
Osias gave him their names, though he used Drae and Aarin, and they dismounted and let the ponies into the paddock. While Draken moved to the fence to lay Bumpus’s blanket over it to air, Nolarth came up behind him. Draken knew because he smelled of herbal soap scent. With the rain and sleet filling water barrels and less to do around a farm in general in cold weather, Draken imagined baths were in good supply. He longed for one himself.
“You move about fair well.”
“I’m not entirely blind,” Draken admitted, turning to face him. Bumpus nipped at his hand and he smacked the pony’s nose lightly. “Why did you question our loyalty to the Crown?”
Nolarth squinted past him into the night. “Best to get inside, aye? Nightfall’s not safe on the Grassland.”
Draken turned his head to watch the horizon.
Nothing. No army or such, Bruche said.
Though if some came, they’d make for good killing.
Nolarth had a wife, Finid, inside the house, but no children. Hadn’t been married but a few moonturns. While there was no overt affection between them, he seemed gruffly kind to her and she seemed easy enough with him. She wasn’t any older than Aarinnaie, seemed timid of the men, and studied Aarinnaie curiously whenever it appeared she didn’t notice, which was most of the time.
Aarin kept her bracelet covered with a thick woolen wrap and stared into the fire from a bench near it, the line of her body tight. When offered food, she ate methodically and only after encouragement from Tyrolean.
Too long without spilling blood.
Draken feared it was so. He turned to Nolarth. “Have you seen evidence of the Ashen?”
“Naught but what I hear.” He sat with a pipe, which Osias moved to light for him with his fingertips. Nolarth stared, then blinked. He puffed a few smoky breaths before speaking. Dishes clinked softly in the background as Finid set them aside and joined them. “Went to Larse’s farm to help fix his fence. He’d heard tell of farms raided. Livestock. Stores.”
Draken nodded. “We’ve seen evidence of the same. Monoea has thousands of men on Akrasian lands. It takes a deal to feed them.”
“Aye. Rough hunting this Frost.”
“We’ve not seen more than a hare or a few birds for a sevennight,” Tyrolean said, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. He sat as close to Aarinnaie as he could without their touching. “But we were hoping the bulk of the army hadn’t moved so far upland. Last we knew the front was around Auwaer and lower into Moonling Woods.”
Nolarth nodded. “Aye. What I’ve heard. But there’s more. Some rumors tell the women and children were left dead and the men taken.”
Draken frowned. That was usually the opposite of how it went.
Osias sat up straighter. “Taken? Why? Any soldiers among them?”
“Farmers up here, and herders.”
Nolarth shrugged. “Dunno the why.”
Osias and Draken exchanged glances, but they had no answers for Nolarth, with his tense voice and deep pulls on his pipe. The rest of the evening passed slowly with stilted conversation and long silences. Aarinnaie, at last, was given a pallet on the floor by the fire. Draken, Osias, and Tyrolean went out to sleep in the hay stacks of the barn.
Osias was quieter than usual and moving slow. Draken wondered if it had to do with Setia’s absence. He’d once said he’d given her some magic to survive with after a life-threatening injury, and it was that which bound them. But a necromancer fueled by hundreds of spirits probably had given her spirits rather than magic per se.
As he did you, Bruche said.
The gods couldn’t have given me something really useful, like terminal warmth? Draken sat by a cracked shutter in the hay loft, staring out at the night, wrapped tight in his cloak and thoughts, neither of which served to dispel the cold.
I think the ability to heal any wound is quite enough. Besides a magic sword and the darksight. And ME.
Draken sighed. He tired of wearing the mask. Of never achieving a restful darkness. By day, the sun assaulted him, and by night he could not escape the shadows of death and life. That was why, despite his bone-throbbing exhaustion, he bid the others sleep. He alone could see enemy coming.
Bruche stilled within him. Speaking of.
Aye. Man-shaped shadows lumbered through the dark grassland right toward the farm with impeccable timing and chilling accuracy. “Tyrolean.”
The captain hadn’t been sleeping too deeply because he only had to say his name once. He crawled up beside Draken and hissed a breath. “Ten?”
“Or a dozen, aye.”
“I’d best get to the house,” Tyrolean said.
“I think they’re likely to attack there first,” Draken agreed in a whisper. “Nolarth looked like he could handle himself around a spade or knife, eh?”
“Aye.” Tyrolean started to climb down, stopping to wake Osias. Draken readied his arrows. He’d fell as many as he could once they were within range, but he was running low after his ambush on the Moonlings. He’d have to find or make more after this. Osias set himself by the doorway to shoot any attackers who got closer. Truls shifted nervously on the dirt floor.
Do you suppose they won’t attack? Maybe they’re just looking for shelter as you were.
“No. They’ll attack.” Draken rose to string his bow. He settled back down onto one knee with an arrow nocked, his gaze on the clump of men. Moonlight glinted on weapons. Monoeans, had to be.
He drew his arrow and sighted down it, head tipped, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. His eyes narrowed and he cursed. Shadows wove between them. He said it under his breath just as Truls announced it:
banes
“Could have bloody told us sooner,” he hissed at the ghost. No matter. He had a necromancer to subdue the banes, providing Osias had the will and strength. He drew and fired into the clump. Nocked, drew, fired. Nock, draw, fire. A rhythm made comforting by long practice. They kept coming at the farm, toward his arrows, as if he needed any indication they were actually driven by banes.
He reached down and his fingers found only an empty quiver. He cursed softly, snatched up his sword in its scabbard, and scrambled for the edge of the loft, throwing himself down the short ladder. Osias was already rushing out of the barn. Draken moved swiftly to catch up. Magic or no, the Mance had no sword.
Magic makes a fair weapon … there, Draken! As they passed through the doorway, one of the bane-ridden … Akrasians?! rushed him. Draken blinked and struck just in time to block the shovel coming at him. It was a clumsy attempt; just the handle banged his arm. The man’s lined eyes stared unblinking as he died. But another came at him, stepping right over the first. This one had no weapon, no armor, just hands held up like claws, an inhuman snarl twisting his face. Draken grimaced, but killed him with a slash across the throat. Despite being far too used to it by now, bile rose at the thick splatter of blood. He forced it back and strode for the house. The others had already smashed through the door to get at those inside and a raucous noise filtered through the wood and shutters: shouts and wordless grunts and snarls. Clouds swirled overhead, concealing the moons. A pelting rain began to fall as Draken raced for the house.
Inside was bedlam. Finid fought with a kitchen blade, clumsy and screaming in terror as she did so. Aarinnaie was silent, more frightening than the banes in her skilled efficiency. She slipped inside the guard of one man and killed him by stabbing him hard in the chest, then spun and gouged the throat of the one coming at her from behind. Her banesplint flared like a beacon and Draken wondered as he joined the fray if it maybe was a beacon of sorts to the other banes. Nolarth had one on the ground, slamming his head over and over against the wooden floor. Another Akrasian crawled onto Nolarth’s broad back, hands tangled around his neck. Osias glided to the farmer first, his magical Voice roaring through them all with words Draken couldn’t understand but a tenor he certainly did. The Mance had his hands outstretched and the baneshadow on Nolarth’s back pulled from within his skin, scrabbling for its host. But to no avail; the bane flew to Osias’s hand and was crushed to stinking mists. Draken stared. Knowing necromancy existed was one thing, but actually seeing it …
Pain brought him back. A bane slashed at him, slicing through the skin of his back. He whirled to kill it. The man crumpled and the bane tried to flee. A seax clattered to the floor.
“No—I’ll stop them. Don’t kill them,” Osias shouted, even as Aarinnaie attacked another. Tyrolean shoved off the one he was fighting and strode to her. He put his arm around her waist and dragged her back. She tried to stab at his arm but his bracer stopped it.
The cut on Draken’s back stung deeply and then started to close, the house shuddering.
Osias bellowed in his Voice and at once the bane-riddled Akrasians slumped to the floor, black shadows misting up into a foul wind that threw open the shutters and door but soon cleared the room of stench. It was too late. They were too injured and bled out before they could be helped.
Draken leaned on the table, panting as his skin finished closing. He lifted his head to look at Nolarth once the house stopped shaking. He’d probably knocked nails from their holes. “You must go from this place.”
“But we’ve nowhere.”
There was no sleep for them that night. They helped Nolarth burn the bodies in a fallow field, saddled their horses, and rode away.
Osias lighted his pipe as they rode. The smoke trailed forward to Draken on the wind at their backs. “There is no place for revenge in this war, my friend. The army must be mobilized again. You must find the Queen.”
* * *
It was two nights before they stopped longer than it took to fill their canteens and let the ponies graze a bit. Their pace had slowed and Draken knew they’d have to have to sleep soon. This one, or next. He couldn’t keep driving the ponies like this. They, at least, needed to eat and rest. The day dawned sunny, which made the others relax a bit, but stung Draken’s eyes so that even with his mask, he had to tuck his chin most of the time.
The grasses deepened, and more tree branches arched overhead, naked from Frost. Draken stared. He hadn’t seen trees such as these since Monoea. The Moonling Woods didn’t shed its canopy, and most of the trees in the forests flanking the Eros outside the city of Brîn proper had needles. He thought of the tree arching over the ruins of his cottage in Monoea, his throat thick. He’d led so many lives since then. Endured so many losses.
The castle itself had been overrun with Ashen as they escaped Monoea and he wouldn’t be surprised to learn all of Sevenfel was ruled by the Moonminsters. What would it be for the cities to lose half its workforce, women sequestered at home and all the young men brought here to fight and die on foreign soil? He gritted his jaw against the shreds of sympathy. Monoea was the enemy, and there was no turning back to it, blood or no.
“Drae.”
The
single syllable made him lift his head. Tyrolean … using no Highness or Khel Szi. Hissing sounds carried further distances than any. Bumpus eased to a stop behind the others, tail swishing across the dried grasses long enough to brush Draken’s boots. Truls stood ahead, as usual. This time he pointed in the direction they were going as if to gesture them on.
A scent carried to him: cold, salty, rank. He frowned. The sea?
No. Fish. Salted for storage. They’re Sept.
A heavy hoof stamped. Draken squinted. Travelers in a wagon, flanked by six mounted Monoeans in their grey armor. An older man sat on the wagon seat with his hands up. Must be the arrows the Monoeans pointed at him. A woman in a miscellany of armored leather stood between the wagon and a Monoean who had gotten to his feet. She had Akrasian features but no lined eyes. The Monoean was an officer, if his tone could be judged. Authoritative and haughty.
An attacker who loves the sound of his own voice. Excellent.
Is there any other kind? Bruche moved his hand to Seaborn, tied to Draken’s saddle.
What are the chances there are people in those wagons rather than fish?
Sons, most like. They send their sons to villages to sell.
To sell the sons? Draken shook his head, confused.
A low chuckle reached Draken’s lips. No. The sons go to sell the ruddy fish.
“Come, then.” This must be something Truls wanted them to interrupt, as he kept pointing at the wagon. He urged Bumpus on, dropping the reins to untie his bow from the saddle and nock an arrow. The Monoeans’ backs were to Draken.
As they moved closer, the officer grabbed at the woman. The man on the wagon stood, reaching for something. An arrow caught his arm. He screamed when the arrow stuck, blood pouring out. The officer had the woman by the hair and around the neck, shouted at the screaming man to shut it.
Draken urged Bumpus on, but the best he could get from the stubborn pony was a trot. Instead he reined up, swung down, and ran the distance himself. In a breath, Aarinnaie ran ahead of him, slight enough to slip between blades of the dry, feathered grasses.
Despite the commotion right in front of them, the Monoeans noticed the new arrivals and turned. Another arrow flew, slicing Draken’s shoulder as he tried to duck it. The ground trembled with his healing, and the warrior woman in the officer’s arms struggled. Draken was just reaching him, ready to forgo formalities and cut him down, when she twisted in his arms, raised hers to chop at the thick hand holding her hair, and took him down at the knees with a swing of her leg. A blade appeared out of nowhere—armored skirt? bodice? thin bloody air? Draken had no idea—and it was resting tight beneath the man’s chin before another arrow flew or word was spoken.
Enemy Page 27
