Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Now, as the thunk, thunk of the axe came from beyond the storeroom, where the penitents were chopping wood, he felt himself almost dozing off.

  Zabier ran into the study. ‘Da needs you. Come quick.’

  They looked to Oskane, who gestured for them to go.

  The storeroom where Kolst kept his tools was empty, but they could hear raised voices from the patch of ground beyond.

  ‘...a man should be king in his own home.’ Joaken’s voice held contempt. His broken nose was a reminder of their last run-in. ‘Yet, she leads you around by your prick. You’re a ball-less wonder, Kolst. A ball-less Wyrd-lover!’

  Through the door they could see their father confronting Joaken, while Denat and the cripple stood back, grinning. Kolst looked past Joaken’s shoulder to them.

  The moment their father was distracted, Joaken pulled a knife and went for him.

  Sorne shouted a warning and charged Joaken, but it was too far. Time seemed to slow. He saw Kolst deflect Joaken’s knife. Kolst was younger, but Joaken was a trained killer. The pair of them grappled, tripping over the chopping block.

  Joaken landed on top of Kolst. But the time Sorne and Izteben reached them, blood was pooling under the wood-worker. They pulled Joaken off him, rolling him aside to kneel beside their father. He lay still, pale blue eyes staring up at the sky.

  ‘Da.’ Zabier threw his arms around Kolst, who blinked.

  Sorne was so relieved he felt dizzy. They helped their father to sit up.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Oskane demanded as he arrived with his assistant. ‘Well?’

  ‘Joaken pulled a knife on Da. He...’ Sorne gestured to the ex-mercenary and fell silent. The knife hilt protruded from Joaken’s belly. The penitent panted, bleeding profusely. Denat and the cripple stared in shock.

  ‘Franto.’ Oskane gestured to the wounded man.

  As Franto knelt over the stricken penitent, Izteben and Sorne helped their father to his feet. Kolst swayed as if drunk and had to lean on the chopping block.

  Franto reported softly to Oskane.

  ‘I’ve killed him, haven’t I?’ Kolst demanded. He was pale; blood covered his belly and thighs.

  Hiruna came through the storeroom. She gave a cry of horror and ran towards him.

  Kolst held her off. ‘I’ve killed a man, all because you won’t listen to reason.’ His hands shook and his voice cracked. ‘That’s it. We’re going.’

  Hiruna took a step back, shaking her head.

  Sorne’s mouth went dry with fear. Was he the only one who saw the flaw in their father’s logic? Nothing was Hiruna’s fault. They were all victims of the divide between True-men and Wyrds.

  Kolst beckoned. ‘Zabier, come here. Help your mother pack.’

  ‘No.’ Hiruna looked desperate. ‘You can’t ask me to give up my baby daughter.’

  ‘She’s a Wyrd. She belongs with her own people.’ Kolst made an impatient gesture. ‘I’m leaving today. Right now.’

  Hiruna stared at Kolst. ‘You’re in shock. You’re not thinking clearly.’

  ‘For once, I am thinking clearly. I should never–’

  ‘I’m not leaving Ma.’ Zabier threw his arms around Hiruna.

  Kolst looked to Oskane.

  ‘You have to, son,’ the scholar said. ‘Your father’s word is law.’

  ‘Ma?’ Zabier lifted his face to Hiruna, who appeared stricken.

  ‘She has no say,’ Oskane told him. ‘Do as your father tells you.’

  A rushing filled Sorne’s head. Everything seemed unreal. Before dusk, Joaken was dead, their father and brother were gone and it was like a light had gone out in their mother.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Year 307

  OSKANE MENTALLY REVIEWED his list as he travelled. Almost seventeen years of studying the scrolls and observing the half-blood boys grow up, and four years of careful questioning of the she-Wyrd, and this was what he had come up with. The females were more powerful than the males, and they all needed touch to use their gifts. He’d discarded the instances of mass hallucinations and gift use without touch because they could not be verified.

  Nothing had been found to protect True-men from the Wyrds’ power, although some men seemed to have natural resistance. Oskane suspected it came down to a person’s will and self-belief. He opened his travelling kit and fingered the malachite Franto had found when one of the boards covering the entrance to the mine had fallen down in a strong wind. Trust his assistant to go poking around in there. At the discovery of semi-precious stones, the street urchin in Franto had surfaced and he’d wanted to dig up more to guard against a rainy day. Oskane stopped him when he had enough to test his theory.

  If a man believed that malachite could protect him, Oskane suspected it would; belief was a powerful thing.

  The cart came to a stop. As Oskane climbed down, he took a deep breath. It was good to leave the mountains. At least you could get a decent chestful of air here.

  His agent met him and took his bag.

  ‘You have her? A full-blood Wyrd?’ Oskane asked. ‘A T’En?’

  ‘The silverhead’s locked in the cellar.’ He gestured to the abbey’s burnt-out mill house. ‘You were right. She did not suspect the child who led her to us.’

  ‘Because the child did not suspect.’

  ‘I’d no idea it would be so easy,’ the agent said.

  ‘Only because you followed my instructions. If she hadn’t been concentrating on the child, she would have anticipated the blow to the back of her head.’

  The agent chuckled. ‘My, but she was furious when she woke up chained to the cellar wall.’

  ‘She’s chained? So much for the stories of Wyrds manipulating metal,’ Oskane said. ‘And the volunteers?’

  ‘Six of them. All healthy young penitents.’

  Oskane nodded and entered the burnt-out building. The roof had collapsed, letting in dusty shafts of sunlight.

  Six young hopeful faces turned to Oskane. He repressed a feeling of regret. There was a good chance some or all of them would die.

  ‘The king thanks you for taking part. If you ever speak of what passes here today, the Father will turn His face from you. You will be buried in unsanctified ground and your soul will never know peace.’

  They looked suitably frightened.

  ‘The Wyrds have grown arrogant and powerful, and the king has asked me to discover their weakness. I have been studying the Wyrd scrolls, and I have found that most of what you’ve heard about Wyrd power is a myth. They cannot bend metal with their will alone. They cannot control fire or the weather. And they cannot take over a True-man’s mind if his faith is strong. You will all wear these.’ He produced the malachite pendants from his bag. ‘This rare stone will protect you from their gift. After it is all over, I will purify you, so you don’t need to worry about being tainted.’

  They nodded and stepped forward, one by one, to receive their pendant and blessing. Which would do precisely nothing, other than armouring them with the idea that it would.

  ‘You and you, come with me.’ He selected two men at random and led them into the basement.

  The sight of the Wyrd warrior chained to the cellar wall thrilled him. She glared across the dim cellar, lit by a single lantern hanging over the stairs.

  Oskane dipped into his bag and handed the two penitents gloves. ‘You’ll wear these. You will not touch her flesh. You will not look into her eyes.’ He had several knives: one made of silver, another of gold, and a third of bronze. He even had a malachite knife. He selected the silver knife. ‘One of you will hold her still, while the other cuts off her little fingers.’

  The captive’s eyes widened. ‘What is wrong with you people?’

  He hadn’t realised she spoke Chalcedonian; not all of them did.

  ‘Ignore her. Her voice holds no power. That is another myth.’ It was wonderful to see ignorance defeated by knowledge.

  The first two penitents crossed the cellar. One of them forced the woman�
��s arm against the wall. Her eyes darted about in panic and, although he couldn’t sense it, Oskane knew her gift would be rising.

  ‘Eh.’ The one holding her arm turned his face away. ‘Fair makes me teeth ache.’

  So he was sensitive to Wyrd power; some True-men were.

  ‘Hurry up. I can’t take much more of this.’

  The other one was having trouble holding her hand still. Finally, he had the fingers splayed against the wall and started sawing at her little finger. Blood ran down her arm and the wall. She writhed and jerked, shrieking at them in her heathen language.

  All of which proved Oskane’s theory. If she had any real power, she would not put up with this treatment. All these years, it had been the True-man’s fear of Wyrds that had held them back.

  The two penitents cursed as they fought to keep her still. The one with the knife slipped and the blade slashed his companion’s arm.

  ‘Watch what you’re feckin’ doing,’ the bloodied man cursed.

  Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he reached clumsily for his companion’s knife.

  ‘Don’t give it to him, you idiot!’ Oskane yelled.

  Too late. The possessed penitent slid the knife up into the other man’s ribs, then turned towards Oskane

  Oskane looked past the penitent to the Wyrd. She was focusing inward as she controlled the man. Darting forward, Oskane took the knife away from the possessed penitent, who stood there stupidly.

  The agent, who had stumbled down the steps behind them to see what all the shouting was about, turned to Oskane. ‘I thought you said she couldn’t–’

  ‘Her blood mingled with his, giving her power over him.’ Why was he surrounded by fools? ‘Tie him to the wall.’ Oskane needed to know if she could control more than one man at a time.

  But before he could be bound, the possessed penitent tackled the agent. The two men rolled across the floor. Oskane watched the silverhead; she was completely still, eyes closed. All her concentration was on the man she controlled, and he realised how vulnerable she now was. He’d read of this, silverheads lying unconscious or frozen in place while they worked their gifts, protected by half-bloods or other T’En.

  There was the sound of a rib cracking and then something soft being punctured. The agent came to his feet, a little unsteady.

  ‘Why did you have to kill him?’ Oskane had wanted to cause the possessed man pain, to see if the Wyrd felt it too.

  ‘The malachite didn’t protect him,’ the agent said, as he held up the pendant.

  ‘Of course not,’ the Wyrd said. ‘There’s no power in it.’

  ‘The power is in the idea. The man clearly had a weak mind,’ Oskane said. ‘Get the bodies out of here, sluice away the blood and send the next two down.’

  The next two men put on their gloves, took a knife each and came at her from the sides. She couldn’t watch both.

  This time she didn’t let them get near.

  With surprising speed, she kicked the first one under the chin, driving his head back. Oskane heard the click as his neck broke. The second man got in a single strike, pulled the knife out and turned to see if his partner was all right. Grasping her shackles, the woman lifted her legs, caught him around the waist with her thighs and squeezed.

  ‘You should have chained her legs as well,’ Oskane told the agent.

  ‘I didn’t think it mattered,’ he said and went to help the penitent, who had lost his grip on the knife and was struggling to breathe.

  ‘No. Leave him.’ Oskane noted the way the penitent pried at her legs, gasping. Would she lose strength from blood loss before he passed out? No. The man laboured to breathe, then dropped.

  ‘She crushed his ribs,’ the agent said.

  Yes, but she’d used her strength, not her gift. It appeared the Wyrd powers were not useful in a direct physical confrontation.

  Oskane’s agent dragged the body away. All the while, the silverhead gasped, flinching as her rapid breathing tugged on the wound in her side; she was failing. One attempt to use her gift on them. One attempt to use her strength. What did she had left?

  ‘What do you want from me?’ she gasped.

  ‘You specifically? Nothing.’ Oskane knew the extent of her gift now. If she was reduced to bargaining, she had nothing in reserve. ‘But I will take your hair and your little sixth fingers for trophies.’ He wanted to test Sorne, to see if he could sense residual power.

  The agent brought down the next two penitents. Their eyes darted about the dim cellar.

  Oskane gave them the gloves and the knives. ‘Kill her.’

  ‘You are an evil man,’ she told Oskane.

  The penitents eyed her warily.

  ‘She cannot hurt you. If she had any power, do you think she would be manacled in a cellar, bleeding, at my mercy?’

  Seeing the sense in this, they looked to each other and drove their knives up under her ribs.

  She sent Oskane a look of triumph and...

  Disappeared.

  Her clothing dropped to the ground. At the same time the two penitents fell like sacks of grain and a sharp smell filled the cellar, reminding Oskane of the sea.

  ‘That was most unexpected.’

  The agent ran to check both penitents. ‘Dead. But I thought they were safe if they didn’t touch her skin.’

  ‘They were covered in her blood.’

  ‘If she could get away at any time, why didn’t she do it sooner? Why stay here and let us torture her?’

  ‘Because she didn’t get away.’ Oskane was certain of this. ‘She’s dead. Wherever she went, it was a last resort, and she chose to go there to cheat me of my prizes. But today has not been a total loss. I’ve proven several theories. Next time, kill the silverhead from a distance and don’t approach until you are certain it’s dead, then send me the trophies.’

  When he got back to the retreat, he wrote up his observations. He should have taken her clothing. It would have been imbued with gift power. Never mind; his agent would send him suitable T’En artefacts.

  If he could teach Sorne to resist their lure, the lad would be able to enter the city. But it might take years for the boys to work their way into positions of trust where they could carry out assassinations. Oskane was tired of waiting.

  He needed something concrete to take to Charald, and soon. Besides, after seeing the full-blood take over the penitent, Oskane did not know if the two half-bloods would come out of the city as his spies, or the Wyrd’s double agents.

  He’d give them a year. If they had nothing by then, he’d go to Charald with the ‘discovery’ that Wyrd power was mostly bluff. Avoid the eyes, avoid touch, wear a talisman. Malachite would be as good as any.

  There were many more half-bloods in Cesspit City than T’En, and only the adult T’En had innate power. The Mieren vastly outnumbered Wyrds. If they lost ten thousand True-men to the T’En gifts, those men died martyrs and it was worth the sacrifice to take the city and wipe out the Wyrds.

  SORNE FOLLOWED FRANTO into the courtyard when the cart arrived. Oskane’s assistant welcomed the carter, then called for Denat to come and unload. He was the last of the penitents, and he avoided work whereever possible.

  Sorne called through the stable door. ‘Cart’s here.’

  ‘Cart’s here,’ little Valendia repeated in a sing-song voice as she trotted after Izteben. At three and a half, her head was a mass of red-gold curls that had yet to darken to copper, but the distinctive eyes and six fingers revealed her tainted blood.

  ‘Wait, Dia,’ their mother warned. She picked up the toddler and watched from the doorway. When Kolst had taken Zabier, something in Hiruna had died. She was less trusting, and never let Valendia out of her sight.

  ‘It’s just the cart, Ma,’ Sorne said. ‘With the same driver as always. He’s not going to take Valendia.’

  ‘Zabier will be thirteen next spring. Almost a man,’ Hiruna said. Sorne and Izteben exchanged looks. Where had that come from?

  ‘I think of
him every day.’

  Franto called again for Denat but there was no sign of him.

  ‘Go help Franto unload,’ Hiruna urged. ‘He’ll do himself an injury, if he’s not careful.’

  Sorne and Izteben crossed the courtyard.

  ‘Have you seen Denat?’ Franto asked them.

  They shook their heads, shouldered a sack of flour each and took them inside.

  As Sorne returned to the cart, he saw the driver hand Franto a carved chest. A word was exchanged and Franto turned to look up to the third floor window, where Scholar Oskane was watching. The scholar beckoned eagerly.

  Sorne had to get a look inside that chest.

  OSKANE TUGGED HIS gloves on, pressing down between each finger to ensure a neat fit. Then he spread out the bloodstained robe; brocade edged with semi-precious stones. Such an arrogant display of wealth. Typical of the T’En.

  According to his Enlightenment Abbey agent, a full-blood female had worn it. She’d been old and frail, and had fallen behind the rest of the party, accompanied only by an equally elderly half-blood.

  They’d thought themselves safe, had discovered otherwise when they’d taken arrows in their backs.

  There were stories of T’En catching arrows in flight, but that was three hundred years ago during battle, and Oskane suspected such tales were grand exaggerations.

  Oskane took the small knife from his waist and sliced off a silver button, tucking it into his vest pocket before thinking better of it and wrapping it in a kerchief. He refolded the robe and placed it on his bed.

  Next he picked up the silver braid. It was almost as long as he was tall. The T’En wore their hair long in elaborate styles, as a sign of status.

  He hesitated for a heartbeat, then removed one glove and ran his hand over the plait. It felt like silk, fine, soft and slippery. He’d always wondered what their hair would feel like.

  During the great war between the True-men and the Wyrds, the barons strung these trophy plaits from their banners. As a boy, he’d stared up at their family’s banner in his cousin’s hall and wondered about the four silver plaits, each thick as a man’s wrist. Four dead T’En.