“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Don’t start.” She wiped her mouth with her bloody sleeve and looked around. “Where is Osias? He’s usually met us by now.”
Draken nodded to Truls, who headed off to where Osias stood guard. At least the dead Mance was making himself useful in a practical way lately.
Tyrolean joined in short order and they followed the ghost’s trail back to Osias. He’d kept the ponies in a gully, part of the Silent Trail where the sides had weathered and worn it shallower. But as they approached, Draken’s eyes narrowed. A party of riders gathered on a rock field stretching over where Osias should be, but from this distance he couldn’t make out their armor and uniforms. The last moon was just dropping below the horizon: Elna with her black spot. She was gentle on his eyes.
He slowed and knelt, staring, willing himself to see, fingers nocking an arrow from habit. Tyrolean and Aarinnaie paused in his wake and knelt by him.
“Akrasians? Or Ashen?” Aarinnaie whispered, keeping low. He was the only one who could see anyway.
“I don’t know who they are,” Draken muttered. He drew and sighted down the arrow just in case.
Gradually his vision stretched and sharpened. He hissed a soft breath. “Ashen.”
“Not from here. We’ll have to get closer to pick them off.”
They’d have to, for if the Monoeans ran on horseback, they’d lose them on foot. The three of them belly-crawled slowly through the grasses, Draken peeking up occasionally to see that they were still there. Their four ponies had been led up out of the gully. No sign of Osias. Glamoured then. Draken prayed to Khellian he’d stay out of the way of the arrows. Or better yet, divert them.
A dozen men, another Ashen raiding party. Again, it struck him how odd this action was compared to the tactics he knew. They’d worked that way in the Black Guard, but it had been elite, confined to specific duties. To work haphazardly across a war zone in small, secret groups didn’t feel like Monoean way. It felt more like …
Moonling ways, actually.
Draken frowned. Damn, you’re right.
It was a stupid tactic. With so many men, the Monoean army could sweep across the plains and destroy all in its path, especially with Korde turning their hapless victims into bane-ridden killers, and particularly if it had a Moonling contingent to work the Abeyance. Stopping time proved a very effective weapon. But then, maybe it stood to reason, the Monoeans adopting Moonling ways. Perhaps these unpopulated Grasslands were considered a waste of effort and only a small portion of the Monoean army had been sent out. Perhaps Korde had driven his Monoean army to other, more fertile battlefields. After all, the Monoeans sought to reinstill the Moonminster Faith, and that would be most effective in the cities. Surely the Moonlings would be happy to destroy the cities that had enslaved them. But none seemed to realize, the Ashen invaders, the Moonlings, even the Akrasians, that the gods made pawns of them all in their own war. The Monoeans were allied with Korde, the god of death. Surely that meant he would see them all die …
Someone tugged on his boot. Aarinnaie. He’d kept crawling while discussing things with Bruche and had gotten very close to the Monoeans. They spoke quietly, studying the little encampment Osias had made. Half the men had dismounted. Arrows might hold them at bay for a few breaths. He glanced over his shoulder at Elna. She left only the faintest glow at the horizon. The others wouldn’t be able to see at all in a moment.
He pushed up to his knees, counting on the Monoeans’ distraction and the darkness to shield him. He fired as he rose, and a figure tumbled from his horse. Another arrow, and shouts. The Monoeans shifted, knotting together in the dark, scrambling for their horses. Tyrolean and Aarinnaie joined him, arrows soaring like pickbirds in rhythmic clumps. Draken pushed to his feet and ran toward the enemy, still firing. Shouts echoed across the grass. Bumpus and the other tora ponies whinnied and trotted away, stubbornly dragging the shouting Monoean holding them.
He fired through his final two arrows and dropped his bow to draw Seaborn. It lit the area in front of him, making him a target. He snarled a curse and raced on. Any arrows he took would have to be pushed on through his flesh later. Right now he had Monoeans to kill.
A rider spun within the pandemonium, reached out and grabbed the reins of another, dragging him along. Both shouted at each other; the strains of argument reached Draken without his making out the words. The closest Ashen had started their ululating war cries “Il Vanni masacr!” blocking any meaning from the other shouts. Fury flared and he growled as he struck the Ashen between helm and shoulder. His cries dropped off abruptly.
Bruche forced Draken’s attention past the newly dead man toward the two riders. Galbrait.
It couldn’t be. Was it? Yes, there. The gold torque gleaming about his neck. Draken couldn’t risk letting him go. He reached another Ashen and slashed. The Ashen, clad in their grey metal plate, parried with his bracer and fought back with skill. With a sword instead of a seax.
No ordinary Ashen, these. Bruche slipped fully into place, taking over the fight and leaving Draken in dispassion. Two strikes and he drove the sword through the Ashen’s throat, shoved past him. By then Tyrolean was there, his swords clanging on armor until they found flesh, and Aarinnaie with her long knives, stabbing.
The Prince!
Galbrait was getting away. Bruche cut his way through another Ashen and Draken raced for a horse, threw himself on it, and kicked it to a gallop. He thought Aarinnaie might be calling after him but he couldn’t stop to look back or wait for aid. Catching them without an arrow was unlikely at best. But his horse, happy to flee the fight, stretched out and thundered over the dried grass. Trepidation at losing the man who had betrayed him and eluded him twice gnawed at Draken. He felt every nuance of the uneven ground through the horse’s gait, but he whipped it on, leaning low over its neck.
Draken’s darksight stretched ahead of his quarry to a bluish glow, faint color against the mass of whirring greys. A chill encased him; Bruche whispered rare fear. The swordhand tried to slow the horse but Draken refused to let him take command. The horse’s nostrils flared with a crying neigh as it tried to slow. It had seen it: Korde or whatever god was chasing them now.
The two horses ahead balked. One rider was thrown. Galbrait looked back, his pale face imprinted on Draken’s vision, and whipped his horse. But it was enough, only just. They ran nearly abreast, Draken trying to steer his animal into his prey. Galbrait swung wide and gained ground again.
“Damn the gods, you are mine!” Draken roared the words, uncaring whether Galbrait heard. His mount threw on a final burst of speed. But just as Draken was edging up on Galbrait, his horse’s bit on a level with Galbrait’s stirrup, his horse stumbled. Violently, and with a terrible scream.
Draken was thrown forward over the horse’s head. In a moment of clarity, Draken’s and Bruche’s minds melded. Draken twisted up as he flew through the air, arms stretching, catching at whatever he could. His swordhand banged into Galbrait’s back plate. A collective snap and pain lanced through his fingers. His offhand, though, snagged the Prince around his neck. Awkwardly and hard enough to send a searing jab of pain through his shoulder, he slammed into the Prince with enough force to tumble them both off the racing horse. He crashed onto Galbrait’s armored body as they hit the ground, jarring his bad shoulder.
When do you ever not land on your bad shoulder? Maybe that’s why it’s bad, eh?
Draken shoved himself to his knees with his offhand and looked back. Galbrait wasn’t moving. But the extra rider ran at him from behind with a sword. Draken had to roll aside of Galbrait and fend off blows with the armored bracer of his offhand. He cursed inwardly, wishing he could draw Seaborn. The Ashen had lost his helm, an easy vulnerability even Draken could take advantage of. But with broken fingers Bruche couldn’t help him draw the sword strapped to his back. It was trapped between him and the ground. In a moment the Ashen’s blade would find his flesh. His mind flashed to a ship he’d taken d
own with his healing. That would shake everyone off their feet. But Draken couldn’t risk taking such a brutal injury, not now, when he was so close to exacting his revenge. First he would bleed Galbrait for his betrayal of their family, and then they would hunt Ilumat, Elena and the Queen’s law be damned—
The hard ground trembled beneath his knees, rattling the dried grasses and teeth. Draken cradled his broken hand against his chest, grunting in pain as the bones knit. His attacker tripped to one knee. His gaze darted from Draken’s face. Before the pain was quite finished, Bruche rolled him to his side and drew Seaborn. Draken climbed to his feet. The blade glowed blue with godslight against the black sky, flashing as Bruche stepped Draken forward and swung before the Ashen could open his mouth.
Galbrait groaned. Draken sank back to one knee, in pain as Bruche receded. He stared at the young Prince … the rightful King of Monoea … coming awake on the hard grassy plain in a foreign country and wondered again at the machinations that brought them all to this point.
“Damned bloody gods. Wasteful bastards.” Draken reached down and slapped Galbrait’s cheek with his gauntleted hand … the one not still stinging from breaking and healing inside twenty breaths. “Wake up, Galbrait. It’s time to die. I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”
The Prince’s eyelids fluttered. His brow compressed into a frown. Draken glanced back over his shoulder toward the camp. Too far to see. He had to count on the others having killed the rest of the Ashen. He lifted his sword and pressed the point under Galbrait’s chin.
The Prince twitched back from the blade with a semi-conscious grunt but Draken let it follow, let it prick the skin deep enough to leave a scar.
Galbrait groaned, tried again to escape the blade, tried to knock it away with his gauntleted hand. Draken shifted the blade, poked the end deeper under his chin.
The Prince’s eyes opened and he stared upward at the black sky overhead. “Draken,” he husked out.
“Where is Rinwar and the other commanders?”
“Rinwar is dead. You killed him.”
“The priest, fool.”
“Oh. Him. The Meek One, he calls himself.” The lump in Galbrait’s throat bobbed beneath the blade.
“Ironic, considering what he does daily to my country,” Draken said.
“I don’t disagree.” Another harsh swallow, and he coughed, making the obvious effort not to move. “What do you want from me?”
“I want their location. And then I want you to die.”
“You’re not giving me much incentive to help you.”
“It’s not meant as incentive. It’s a statement of fact. You are dying shortly. If you want it quick and painless, then talk. If you want me to enjoy it overmuch, then don’t.”
“I haven’t seen them in many sevennight.”
“You saw them at an encampment on the Silent Trail, downland of here. You. The priest. Moonlings. And someone else.” The encampment was disbanded. They’d moved on. It had been the first place he’d gone after leaving Elena.
“It’s too late. I’m speaking truth. The Priest has given himself over to something that cannot be forsaken or defeated.”
“Not good enough. I’m looking for specifics, Galbrait.” Draken heard rustling behind him, felt the faint thud of hooves. He turned to make sure it wasn’t a Monoean rescue company. Aarinnaie, Tyrolean, and Osias on horses and leading the ponies. A bound prisoner bounced on his stomach across Bumpus’s back. A rope tied him to Bumpus’s neck. Bumpus ran along with his head up and ears back, straining on his lead as if protesting every urgent step.
Galbrait moved; Draken heard it rather than felt it. He spun back as Galbrait rolled away from his blade and started to push to his feet. Frustration bit at him. He followed the Prince with the sword. Galbrait tripped over some grasses and fell back to his knees. Draken thumped him hard on the arse with the flat of his blade and sent him sprawling. “Say goodbye, Galbrait.”
“Draken,” Osias said.
“He won’t talk. Maybe the one you brought will be more cooperative.”
“Wait,” Osias said. “We can question them both.”
Draken ignored him, strode forward, pressed the tip of his sword to the bare spot at the top of Galbrait’s spine …
Osias tried again. “Draken! No!”
Draken put some weight on the sword. An agony of spasm assaulted his back from bending over at the odd angle. He froze in pain, stopping the progress of the blade.
Galbrait grunted. Softly he said, muffled by grasses: “I know where your daughter is.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
No quickness or desperation in Galbrait’s voice. Just simple words shaped into a lie, but they stayed Draken’s hand just the same. He hated the surge of hope in his heart. Hope made a man weak, sloppy.
Bruche?
Death can make people say many things. Some truth, some lies. There is no way to know for sure.
“My daughter is dead.”
“Could you move your blade? I’d be able to concentrate better if I were upright.”
Draken shifted the sword back a handspan. Galbrait sat up gingerly and turned to face him. His gaze flicked back to Tyrolean and Osias, who had dismounted and gathered round. Aarinnaie hauled the prisoner off Bumpus. He hit the ground with a sharp grunt and struggled in his bonds, but she kicked him and he stopped moving.
“Tell me your lies before you die. A story to entertain me,” Draken said.
“She and the Manceling … that Moonling half. They were brought to the same meet where you claim to have seen me.”
“I did see you, with the Moonlings and some ruddy Ashen,” Draken growled, but a growing unease filled his chest.
“The Moonlings were there to take Sikyra. A trade for favors done.”
“What bloody favors?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can fair guess,” Tyrolean said. Galbrait’s gaze flicked to him. Tyrolean’s voice had no expression, the same since they’d left Elena.
“When did they take Sikyra?”
“That night. But I heard later someone attacked them. They got away with her, though, only just.”
No one moved, but Draken felt their attention on him. He held still, trying to force himself to breathe, to stop his heart lurching. Gods, he could have killed her—
You didn’t know. Bruche was a soothing rumble in his icy, locked chest.
Ignorance would not have left her any less dead.
Galbrait says they got away. Your daughter lives.
We don’t know that. He’s lying.
Ask where they went. See if it’s even plausible.
It could be a ruse. Galbrait had tricked him before, had fooled the entire Monoean royal family into believing he was a victim rather than instigator, and they had died for it. All but Draken.
Galbrait’s horse, over its fright from the chase, wandered near. Galbrait waited quietly, rumpled, dirty, and sitting stiffly in his armor.
“Where are they taking her, and why?”
He answered without hesitation. “At first thaw a ship will take her back to Monoea.”
“Why?”
“Her blood is yours, yes?” Galbrait dropped into Monoean. “They want her on the throne.”
“You’re King. The rightful one, if not deserving.”
Galbrait dropped his gaze. “I’ve no magic. I’m old guard. A heretic, they say. The only reason I’m still alive is because I helped them.”
The arguments against the credibility of his claim stacked in Draken’s mind. “They need you. They need your support. My daughter is foreign and you are last of the family that ruled for generations.”
“No! Your daughter is the last of the generation,” Galbrait said.
“The Moonminsters are stealing the power of all the women of this land. This makes no sense. They are to be only mothers, like Ma Vanni. This I have heard. I’ve seen who the Ashen kill, and it is not the men.”
“It is not untrue. They want your daugh
ter to birth a new race of Kings.” Galbrait lifted his chin. “I’m telling you, Draken. She is alive. And I know where they are taking her.”
“Watch him, Tyrolean.” He stepped away with his sister and Osias, putting his back to the sun. “Well?”
“He’s lying.”
Draken sighed. “I know, Aarin, but how much are lies? If he leads me to Rinwar, I can kill him.”
“If there is even a chance she is alive, you must go,” Osias said. “You must inform Elena and seek your child.”
“And Setia.”
“Aye. And Setia.” Osias held his gaze without a flicker of threat crossing the irises.
As honest as a Mance can get, Bruche said.
“Does she even have magic, Osias? I was not born with mine.”
“Aye, you were. You were born to take up Akhen Khel. Someday the sword may light for her as it does you. Or, it will not.”
“In which case they’ll kill her,” Aarinnaie said.
“They won’t know,” Draken said. “I have the sword.”
Sometimes he wished he’d left the damn thing on the bottom of the ocean when he’d had the chance. Of course, it had been Bruche who recovered it, not him. He stared past them as the Grassland were brought to life by the sun, muted by his mask.
“His story makes sense. If they do want Sikyra for her magic, Galbrait’s support would be invaluable in her smooth placement on the throne. He could formally abdicate for her.”
“She’s just a baby—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Draken said. Aarinnaie didn’t blanch at his tone, but he drew a breath. Snapping at his friends and sister served nothing. “The first sign of magic, they’ll turn her into a silked, gilded slave.”
“Take Galbrait to—” Osias began but a shout and jingle of tack interrupted him. They spun to see the prisoner upright on Galbrait’s horse and galloping away. Draken cursed and ran for his bow, remembered he was out of arrows, and didn’t bother running for Bumpus. Tyrolean had the presence of mind to keep all his weapons on him; he shot but missed.
Draken looked around at the placid tora ponies, munching dried grasses as if nothing had happened. “Don’t waste your arrows, Ty.”
Enemy Page 30
