The blood king cotn-2

by Gail Z. Martin

  Fallon smiled at the characterization. "Our mages have been doing a great deal more than conversing with bats and wolves," she said as they climbed the twisting stairs to the top of the citadel. "Our fire mage attempted to strike, but there's a powerful warding which let a direct hit bounce away harmlessly. Our water mages have called on the springs to bog down the ground, making it a sea of mud, which should hamper their use of war machines. Latt's spell to spoil their food may have worked, in which case, you may find them… indisposed."

  "I used to think a mage would just look at someone the wrong way and 'poof,' they'd be gone, or burned to a cinder," Soterius said. Mikhail joined them at the third landing, climbing with them in silence. "After hanging around with Tris, I get the idea that it might not be quite that easy."

  "It's taking a considerable amount of our mages' energy to avoid going 'poof when their mage sends something our way." Fallon replied. "Which I'm sure is why Arontala added the mages."

  They reached the top of the tower. The moon was full and bright. Soterius frowned, wishing for clouds to dim its light. "I wish you well," Fallon said. "Wait until the twelfth bell. Then listen for the bats. They will be your cue."

  "I was kidding about the bats," Soterius said with an anxious glance. "Never really liked bats," he added beneath his breath.

  "Latt also called a fog, which should help to hide your movements," Fallon added. She handed him a folded cloak. "This cloak has been spelled to be magic-neutral. It will hide the spelled chit from detection, and may protect you from magic directed at you."

  "May?"

  "We don't know the skills of the mage Arontala has sent. The cloak should shield you, but it can't protect you from everything. Use caution."

  "Thanks a lot."

  "Don't forget this," Fallon said. She stretched out her palm, and her opened hand revealed a

  plain-looking piece of buff pottery, stamped with an intricate design that seemed to blur and move. "It's a wizard's mark. This chit has been spelled to break the mage's warding and destroy his Elemental. You must be within an arm's length of him for it to work, and it must touch his body."

  "What if he has some sort of, I don't know, protections or something?"

  "You'll have to improvise."

  "Great. Anything else I should know?"

  "The cloak will let you pass among our mage's traps without harm," Fallon told him. "You need fear nothing from the wolves, or the bats. But beware of the Elemental."

  Soterius raised an eyebrow at her tone. "The way you say that makes me worry."

  Fallon frowned. "Elementals are unpredictable. They're a temporary creation, wholly created from the will and power of the maker. I can't predict what will happen when you break the wizard's warding." "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning that the Elemental may dissipate or-"

  "Or what?"

  "Or it may return to its maker before its energy is spent."

  "And I have to be within reach of its maker."

  "I've not seen many Elementals," Fallon said. "Because of the danger they pose to the maker, wizards of the Light rarely call such things. I have no way to know how spent its fury may be if it returns to its source. It could destroy the wizard alone-or the entire camp. Even the cloak can't protect you completely from the energy of an Elemental," she cautioned. "I suggest you escape quickly."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Soterius retorted. Beneath him, the bells tolled eleven times. "I'd like to study the lay of the land from here," he said. It wasn't the first time that day Soterius had climbed to the tower's top to survey the enemy. But in moonlight, the terrain took on a different look. He wanted to prepare, knowing there would be no time once he reached the ground.

  "Goddess go with you," Fallon said, making the sign of the Lady. "I'll leave you now."

  "Thanks," Soterius said, as she moved to the door. "Keep a watch out. I'll need someone to let me back in."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE CANDLEMARKS SLIPPED away, and soon the bells tolled midnight. Soterius drew a deep breath, ready for the night's work. He wore the mage's cloak and the spelled chit hung beneath his,

  tunic in a pouch on a strap around his neck. His sword hung ready and his dagger belt crossed shoulder to hip.

  Just then, Soterius heard the velvet rustle of a thousand bat wings.

  Soterius stepped up to the edge of the wall. He tried to quiet a primal panic as the vayash moru stepped up behind him, encircling his chest with inhumanly strong arms. In one smooth motion, Soterius felt his feet leave the ground. Then they were aloft, over the top of the crenellations and descending so quickly it made Soterius's stomach flip.

  They touched down lightly, and Mikhail released his hold, seeming to vanish in the next heartbeat.

  The night air was cold enough to frost Soterius's breath, and he was grateful for his heavy cloak. He looked up. Just as long as I don't have to climb back in, he thought, adding a short, fervent prayer to the Goddess.

  The cool mist of a thick ground fog greeted him, and Soterius dropped to a crouch. He lifted the spelled cowl over his head. He made his way through the mud, silently cursing the effectiveness of that particular spell. The cloak shielded him from the worst of the chill. Ahead, the fires of the camp burned brightly, their light diffused by the fog. From the woods beyond the camp, Soterius heard the howl of a wolf, and the answering cries of the pack. A shiver ran down his spine, despite Fallon's assurances that the wolves had been warned of his approach. He had met up with wolves on campaign more times than he liked to remember, and the flash of their teeth and hunger of their snarls were clear in his memory.

  Heart thudding, Soterius approached the camp, careful to skirt the rim of firelight, staying well into the shadows. How do I tell which one is the mage? The troops wore the livery of Margolan, he noted bitterly. Close enough to see their faces, he watched the soldiers move about their camp, looking for anyone he recognized, surprised at how cold he felt inside at the thought of making war on men he once trained. The officers' tents were close to the center of the camp, while the enlisted men's tents circled the periphery. Soterius could spot the cook tent and the latrine, and a small wooden enclosure that served as a temporary stockade. There were more than enough soldiers to keep the citadel imprisoned

  for quite some time. To his relief, the siege engines and catapults appeared to be mired in deep mud. It was obvious that the commanders were prepared to play a waiting game.

  Soterius had made nearly a full circle before he spotted the mage, a solitary figure near the center of the camp. His shadow was outlined by the light inside his tent, his arms raised, a scrying ball silhouetted beside him. Soterius smiled coldly, his target in view. This part of the job he understood completely.

  It was joyous to do the work of a soldier once more, and he rose to the challenge. With a practiced eye Soterius set a course for himself, making use of what little concealment the camp provided. He took a deep breath, steeling himself to walk purposefully across the camp as if he belonged there.

  Behind him the wolves howled louder. The bats, nearly wingtip to wingtip in the dark sky, squealed and fluttered overhead, diving at the soldiers, too -fast and small to fear the swords. The bats took most of the idle soldiers' attention, enabling Soterius to slip past the guard.

  Soterius closed the distance to the tent, moving silently, Carroway's pellets in one hand and the spelled chit in the other. He reached the shadows at the back of the tent and knelt. He was ready to slip beneath the back edge of the tent when he heard a crunch on the ground behind him, and the sound of a crossbow being drawn.

  "Throw down your weapon and stand up."

  Soterius stiffened, and held out his sword hand as if to surrender the blade. His wrist jerked and the pellets went flying, blinding the guard with red and green fire as they struck the ground and giving Soterius enough cover to throw a small shiv that sank hilt-deep into the guard's chest. Knowing he was about to lose his chance completely, Soterius dove beneath the tent and
flung the chit at the startled mage, grazing his leg.

  There was a clap like thunder, and then the howl of a distant storm. As the camp erupted into chaos, Soterius ran for his life toward a trench along the perimeter. He huddled in the bottom of the ditch, flattening himself against the ground with the cloak pulled over his head. In the distance he heard terrified screams as the hum of the Elemental grew louder. The winds battered him, pulling at his cloak with such force that he thought they might lift him from the trench and hurl him into the air. Soterius tried to make himself as small as possible, curling into a tight ball.

  Above the shriek of the wind, Soterius heard screams in the darkness. He felt the power of the storm sweep over him. Even on the edge of the camp, as far away as he could get from the mage's tent, the wind beat against his magicked cloak. He held on to its fabric until his hands cramped and his fingers bled. Debris pelted him, and from that the cloak gave no reprieve. Soterius stifled a cry as wood and rock slammed against him; he prayed to the Lady that none of the debris would rend his cloak. Soterius closed his eyes, prepared to die.

  The wind stopped, and the camp fell silent.

  His heart pounding in his throat, Soterius rose slowly. Tents, set afire by scattered coals from the camp's fires, blazed out of control. The Elemental had carved a path through the heart of the camp.

  Where the mage's tent had been, the ground was bare and burned.

  Soterius ran for his life. His breath steamed in the cold air. He zigzagged his way back along the lines, using the wreckage as cover to elude the remaining soldiers who tried to round up their panicked comrades. As Soterius hid behind a ruined wagon, waiting for two soldiers to pass, a streak of color in the mud caught his attention. Tattered by the Elemental and sullied by the campaign, the banner he pulled from the mud was still recognizable. It brought a lump to his throat and stung his eyes. Soterius held the banner of Margolan clenched in his fists.

  He did not have to worry about having to scale the citadel tower to regain entry; Mikhail waited at the base of the watchtower to welcome him back. Joyous peasants spilled into the bailey. Soterius passed among them, oblivious to their glee, managing a smile only when they pressed around him and hoisted him onto their shoulders, carrying him in victory.

  He left as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Mikhail followed him when he made his way back up to the tower roof.

  "You're the hero," Mikhail said. "Your party is downstairs."

  Soterius struggled with his memories. "You didn't hear the soldiers die, when the Elemental came."

  "You've been to battle before, Ban. You know it for what it is."

  "They never had a chance."

  "Did the villagers in the outer bailey?" Mikhail replied. "The mage who called the Elemental didn't mind starving us out, or driving the villagers mad with thirst."

  "It was slaughter," Soterius said quietly. Overhead, the winter constellations burned brightly. He pulled the shreds of flag out of his cloak pocket, and looked out over the plain once more, the ruined soldiers' camp just a silhouette of tumbled tents and nearly spent fires.

  "You saved those villagers down there, and the Sisters, and their citadel. That's something to be proud of," Mikhail said. "They're from Margolan, too."

  "I feel as proud as if I'd knifed those soldiers in their sleep. They were Margolan troops, Mikhail." He shook his head. "Fallon told me that the Elemental could return to the camp. She warned me it would be dangerous. But being there, hearing it… It's hard to be proud of winning if it isn't a fair fight."

  "The soldiers made their choice when they swore allegiance to a murdering pretender. They obeyed Jared's orders to kill their own people. Jared's not worthy of that flag. And the troops that do his bidding aren't worthy of your pity."

  "I want to drive the bastard out," Soterius said. "I want to go home."

  "So do I. But not until a king I trust sits on the throne. We have to put Tris there, Ban."

  Soterius looked across the plain at the burning camp. "I know. I know."

  "Come on. Give the villagers a hero to celebrate. Lady knows they've had little enough cause for happiness lately. And afterwards, Fallon's got a bottle of Cartelesian brandy waiting for you in your room. Seems our good Sisters partake," he said with a grin. "Then to bed with you. We've got a ride ahead of us tomorrow night."

  Soterius took a deep breath, knowing Mikhail was right; the villagers needed a symbol and a hero more than he needed the luxury of quiet grief. The men wound their way down the stairs toward the bailey, where the sound of revelry and music echoed throughout the ancient fortress.

  Soterius attempted his best show of lighthearted gaiety, obliging the village girls who waited for a dance with the evening's hero, embarrassedly accepting the heaping trenchers of food brought to him by village matrons, and washing them down with tankards of ale that the farmers and townsmen kept filled. It was well past mid-morning before the celebration began to wind down, and the sun hung in the afternoon sky before Soterius was free to find his bed. The morrow would come too quickly, Soterius knew. And while it would not be the first time he rode with a throbbing head; it was just as 'well that he would have something to take his mind off his memory of the night's work, and what it truly meant to raise steel against his own flag.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE LAST OF the spring rains ended late in the fourth month, the Lover's Moon. When the roads were dry enough to ride without bogging down, Tris and his companions prepared for the final campaign into Margolan.

  Their departure was unheralded, with only Staden, Taru, Berry, and Royster on hand to bid them farewell. Staden made sure they were provisioned with excellent horses and supplies. Berry, as close to tears as Tris had ever seen the feisty young princess, hugged them all and promised prayers to the Lady for their success. Royster mentioned vague plans to return to the Library at Westmarch, although Tris privately wondered if the librarian would give up his newfound freedom easily. Gabriel had left the night before their departure to meet with his "family" in Margolan and arrange for safe houses and vayash moru escorts along their way.

  He had promised to meet up with Tris and the others once they reached Margolan.

  The group would make the best time on the journey south traveling the river Nu, whose deep, swift course would save them a dangerous overland passage. Staden sent them with a letter to his friend Sakwi, the land mage who had helped Kiara on her journey north. The letter asked for Sakwi's assistance and his help in securing a boat for both them and their horses. That letter waited safe in the breast pocket of Tris's tunic.

  Though both Staden and Kiara attested to Sakwi's trustworthiness, Tris was worried about the river journey itself. The river was the best way to avoid a dangerous passage through Margolan's northern mountains, but it would be wild and swift from the melted snows. The only other land route ran through Dhasson, but Tris had no reason to believe that Arontala's spell to call the magicked beasts had lost its potency. They would stay close to the Margolan banks when they passed along the Dhasson stretch. The river would let them bypass the mountains to reach the southern plains and Shekerishet more quickly. Once they left the banks of Principality, they would be back in hostile territory, and closer than ever to Jared and Arontala.

  "I hope the weather holds," Kiara said. She lifted her face to the wind, and let it rustle back through her thick hair. She looked up, scanning the clouds. "It can change without warning on the river."

  "Here's hoping the Lady's with us all the way," Tris said. "I was thinking the same thing."

  THEY REACHED THE village where Staden had said they would find Sakwi near dusk. It smelled of fish and wood smoke. It was just far enough from the banks of the river that the yearly floods would not sweep it away. The village housed only a handful of families. Nets were hung from the trees to dry and skiffs were pulled up on the banks. The streets were deserted as Tris and his friends rode up, but once they passed the first small house, Tris could feel that they were be
ing watched.

  "We seem to be leading a parade," Carroway said from behind them, as their horses splashed down the muddy road. Tris glimpsed a silent congregation of ill-clad villagers slip from their homes to keep a watchful eye on the strangers.

  When they reached the center of the small town, Vahanian stopped, and turned in his saddle to look back at the villagers who followed them. "We're looking for a traveling mage," he called to the group. "A land mage named Sakwi."

  A bearded man stepped forward. "What do you want?"

  "We were told this mage could help us navigate the river on our journey south," Vahanian replied. "We have a letter of introduction from a friend."

  "I'm Sakwi." They turned to see a thin, slightly stooped mage whose racking cough silenced him for a moment after he spoke.

  "Sakwi!" Kiara called in greeting. She slid from her horse and ran to the mage.

  "Please, come inside," Sakwi said, gesturing for them to tether their horses and follow him into a small house. "If I'm to be of help, I must understand your journey. You'll be safe here," he said, with a nod to the villager who first intercepted them. The fisherman nodded in return. In the dim light, Tris caught the glint of a dagger in the man's hand. Tris looked around at the group of villagers, noting that each was well-armed by common standards. This might be the last safe haven they would have for quite some time, he thought. He would enjoy it while it lasted.

  "Sakwi gave me the key to Westmarch, and introduced me to Grayfoot the fox," Kiara explained once the door was closed. Briefly, she told Sakwi of her trek northward, and of the magicked beast she encountered and Grayfoot's sacrifice.

  "I believe Grayfoot had some idea of what might befall him," Sakwi said. "He was a bit of a mystic."

  "The fox?" Vahanian asked incredulously. Kiara glared at him.

  "I'm not sure what he was, but he wasn't your average fox," Kiara reproved.

  "Actually," Sakwi said, "he was quite average. The fox are very intelligent… for those who know how to speak with them." Sakwi turned his attention to Tris. "I doubt you've come to reminisce. How can I help you?"