He did not answer, though his hood tipped slightly to acknowledge her presence. She frowned around the cheroot and pressed forward, fingers tapping their familiar staccato against Serindas as she moved among the trees.
The snow was thinner here, the ground clogged with low brush. Ilshenrir was only a few strides in, his side presented to her, his face shaded. A tangle of briars guarded his back.
From within those briars came a low, rolling growl, and a great mass of grey fur and muscle and glaring eyes rose into view.
Dasira stopped in her tracks, alarmed. She knew from a glance that it was Arik in wolf form, but something was deeply wrong. He was bigger, his shoulders easily on level with her ribs, and his fur bristled thickly around his heavy head, full of quills. His eyes, which even in wolf-form usually held their human cleverness, were flat and pale and strange.
Much like he had been when they chased Cob to Erestoia, and when Cob had lain wounded in the Damiels’ basement. His lips peeled back from his long, sharp teeth as their eyes locked, and she forced herself to look past him, knowing a challenge when she saw one.
“What’s going on?” she hissed at Ilshenrir.
The wraith did not move, but said in a low, calm voice, “He is anxious without the Guardian. Alone, he is a wolf in a strange land, and salves his fear with anger.”
Dasira grimaced. She could understand that.
The wolf kept growling, but when she did not look at him or move from the fringe of the trees, he settled down again, all but hidden in the brush.
“So what’s he doing here?” she said quietly.
“I believe he is contemplating whether he should kill me.”
“What? Why?”
“Why would he not? But I am merely monitoring the barrier, so he has no immediate reason to strike.” Ilshenrir paused, then added in a lower tone, “Something has awoken the Carad Narath. It bodes ill.”
A chill went through her, and she eyed the red network. “Can you tell what’s happening?”
“No. I dare not extend my perceptions beyond the barrier. If the Carad Narath senses me, he will devour me, but his attention is currently more…centrally located. He is angry.”
“You can’t sense Cob or Fiora?”
“No. But I have been monitoring the barrier since they departed, and noted someone else entering last night. One signature, the same as your earring.”
Dasira gripped Serindas’ hilt, not sure if she should take that as an accusation, but Ilshenrir did not even glance her way. He would be right to accuse, she thought dully, remembering her last conversation with Enkhaelen. Pike that bastard. He went for them instead of us.
“Also, there are portals standing open to the north of Turo.”
She stiffened. He continued, “I have been monitoring their behavior since they opened a mark ago. They resonate against the barrier slightly; it is not wise of them to be so close, but I imagine they have their reasons. Their signature is Gold Army but I can discern little more.”
“And you didn’t think to tell us—“ Dasira stopped herself before she could start shouting, mind racing over the options. Going for both sides? But working with the Gold Army isn’t his style, and neither is tipping them off. Did the Golds track us on their own? Not impossible, and we’ve been seen enough for there to be gossip. “How many people have passed through?”
“I have sensed over thirty large disturbances.”
“You need to get Lark,” she said. “She’s at the Damiels’. Get her out of there, get the others’ stuff, be ready to run. I should go check this out.”
“What is it that you think you can do?” said Ilshenrir, turning his head just enough to regard her through one citrine eye.
Grimacing, she let go of Serindas and set her hand over her bracer instead. “Deal with them, however necessary.”
“On your own?”
“I’ve done it before.”
“As you will, then.”
She nodded to him curtly and turned away. Her claim was not braggadocio—she had emptied more than one garrison—but that had been with free rein over her bracer and its powers. Right now, it throbbed sullenly from its extended stay in the Trifold aura, and even were it fully capable, charging straight into the enemy ranks was not something she could live through. She was made to attack from ambush, steal a body and use it against its former allies, then return to her original body for the getaway. Stealth and treachery, not war.
And Ilshenrir’s behavior put her hackles up. He had not even tried to contact them, had waited with the news until she found him and waded through his issues with Arik. Perhaps he did not consider the Golds a threat because they were on the other side of town, or because he was better than them, but it was piking inconsiderate not to send warning.
Light-blasted piking wraiths. Why is he even involved in this?
She did not follow the path back into Turo. She did not want to be restricted, so once she was out of the trees, she got up onto the wall and started running, the Haarakash barrier nudging her gently from one side. The stones were ice-free, the air almost tepid, and she made good time in a long, slight arc south-to-north. Snow-cloaked fields flitted past on her left, but few buildings stood within earshot, as if the Turonans knew better than to build close to the barrier.
By the time she approached the northern edge of town, demarcated by a goat fence and a new tree-line, she had lost her cheroot somewhere. There were more hills, more woods beyond the valley town, and great stretches of pristine snow.
She began to suspect that Ilshenrir had gotten rid of her.
Then she caught the acrid scent of the Call.
The abominable apparatus in the roof of her mouth twinged in response, and her lips curled in an automatic sneer. She paused on the wall and let the hollow fang-like structures slide free of her soft palate. They were made of the same material extruded by her bracer, the same stuff that knit her muscles and bones back together and left the scar-like patches of ashy white in place of torn skin. If she so wished, she could be covered in such little fangs and thorns.
But that would be ugly and pointless. The fang-structures in her mouth were not for biting, but for shaping the silent speech of the intelligent Imperial abominations: the Call she scented right now. Though she did not know how she understood the mix of venom and pheromone that composed it, she did.
To her sharp senses, it said, Gather. Prepare to hunt.
Dasira licked dry lips. Must be veiled, she thought, regarding the empty hills. That means several powerful mages to cover up portals as well as tracks. And that was a young senvraka’s Call, which would indicate one or more of those and at least a dozen lesser abominations. With that kind of crew, they can’t be thinking of attacking the town. None of the abominations will be able to get through.
Unless the mages assault it first and the abominations pick people off as they flee.
A standard tactic, though she did not know how it would work against Trifolders, since the mages normally used fire for that and Brigyddians had no fear of it. Perhaps the Golds had not known where they were assaulting? No, despite her low opinion of them, they were not that incompetent. Which meant…
I don’t know. Guess I’ll have to ask.
She knew that she had probably been seen, and that her behavior was suspicious enough to mark her as a threat. Bodythieves had no scent unless they chose to or were badly injured, so the veiled troops would not know she was one of them until she showed it.
Gathering her own Call in the back of her throat, she let her not-fangs shape it as she stepped down from the wall. Slowly, cautiously, she moved forward through the snow, rolling up the left-hand sleeve of her coat and the tunic beneath it. The black bracer squeezed a little harder on her arm.
Here to report, she exhaled, the Call burning across her tongue.
A tingle ran over her skin. The air before her shimmered, and suddenly the hills were not so pristine.
Not so clean-scented either, for with her inclusio
n in the veil, she also caught all the abomination-stink that had been masked. She quick-counted thirty-four figures before her: seven mages in Gold robes, a terribly handsome Amand in a Gold uniform, five ruengriin with teardrop pendants gleaming at their throats, and twenty-one ‘hounds’. Thiolgriin, wolf-eaters. With golden teardrops on their collars, they looked like huge hairless grey dogs, but she knew what they were under the illusion: madmen twisted into bestial form by their conversion. Even with their false appearances, they still exhibited hints of their nature, drooling from unhinged jaws or snapping at each other recklessly or just staring with dazed eyes.
At the back of their group, a portal stood open into a wide, white-lit chamber.
“So report,” said the handsome Amand—the senvraka. He beckoned her forward, eyes hooded imperiously, and she realized that he was too new to tell her generation from her Call.
It took effort not to smile. She strode through the snow, gaze running over him and then to the ruengriin, to the weapons sheathed at their belts. Not one had the telltale hilt of an akarriden blade.
“I’ve been in the town,” she said, considering her words carefully. “It’s warded from end to end and full up with Trifolders. Not a soft target. What are you looking for?”
“Who assigned you?” the senvraka rejoined.
Dasira did smirk this time, and reached into her coat for the scroll Enkhaelen had rescued along with her bracer. She had thought about this during the run, and had a decent plan. “The Crimson General,” she said, unfurling the Hunter writ to show its red seal. “I’m out of my jurisdiction, I know, which is why I’m just observing.”
The senvraka snatched the writ from her hand and examined the rip in one corner before skimming the words. “Cobrin of Risholnis, Kerrindryr,” he read off it, then eyed her. “Our quarry. And who are you?”
“Cerithe,” she replied easily. “Aenkelagi infiltrator-class.”
The lie went right past him, as she had anticipated. Bodythieves had little to do with the other abominations, and even to the knowledgeable, it was hard to tell the difference between an infiltrator and an assassin until it was too late. She took advantage of his moment of thought to add, “If you’re planning an assault here, you’ll need some more bodies.”
“We’re an intercept, not an assault,” he corrected automatically. “Word is that he’s been seen here, and your presence seems to bear that out. Our orders are to take him when he leaves. Where is he hiding?”
“He left several marks ago.”
The abominations stared at her. She kept her expression steady, made an educated guess about Cob’s plans, and said, “He has dangerous companions. They spotted me—I barely escaped—then they veiled up and ran. East.” She nodded that way, toward the mounting hills and thickening forest that led along the Haarakash border toward the distant foothills of the Trivestean plateau.
It was a gamble, trying to divert them. She knew she could not fight them all, but she could not let them sniff around Turo; they might hear about the Damiels or that Cob had been seen on the south side. They might realize that he had crossed the barrier. Ilshenrir was a powerful sorcerer and Arik a vicious combatant but they would be overwhelmed if they tried to stand in this team’s way.
And if Cob came back directly into a mob of abominations, she did not know if his Guardian powers could help him.
“Several marks?” said the senvraka, annoyed. “We were just rallied for this.”
Bless the military bureaucracy. “They’re small and well-coordinated, and move fast. And they have a mage, so they leave no piking tracks. But I know where they’re headed.”
“Where?”
“The Garnets. To the skinchanger enclaves there. They want to rally an army.”
The abominations and mages looked to each other uneasily, and Dasira kept her expression stiff. She had picked that destination for its plausibility and because she knew Cob would not go there; if he wanted to hit Enkhaelen in the Palace, he needed to go north. Still, there was the concern that the abominations would report back to their commander rather than give chase. She scolded herself for mentioning a veil; it might put them off too badly.
“They went on foot though,” she amended. “Over the snow. You can probably pick up the trail once their mage gets tired of holding the veil.”
“You mean ‘we’,” said the senvraka. “You’re the Hunter.”
She opened her mouth to decline, but their eyes were on her—every single pair, from senvraka to hounds to mages—and she knew that she had trapped herself.
"Of course," she said. "I know them. I can point them out for you if they get lucky enough to reach a town and try to hide in the crowd."
The senvraka nodded curtly and motioned to a mage, who moved to dispel the portal. It shimmered and collapsed. "We'll go now, at full speed. See if we can close the gap. Ever ridden a hound before, Cerithe?"
She allowed herself a bitter smile, comforted only by the weight of Serindas at her belt. "Unfortunately, yes."
*****
By the time Cob and the others approached the barrier, it was late afternoon. Cob’s cuts still bled sluggishly. A few had closed, but those spots hurt the worst, the skin beneath them threaded with red. Acclimated to hard work and travel though he was, the pain and exhaustion dragged at him like an anchor.
Fiora was not much better. She had barely been scratched but was definitely shaken, and held onto Cob’s wrist as if she feared he might vanish. He wanted to put his arm around her but it was impossible to run like that. Neither of them had eaten since the blood-apples, and they both stumbled on the uneven ground, catching each other when they could.
As for Adram, his brisk pace had slowed significantly, though perhaps it was to let Cob and Fiora keep up. He still wore the blindfold but seemed unafflicted.
They had more companions on the trek, though. Cob could not see them, but he felt them: the red thorns creeping beneath the earth in his wake, following his blood-trail. The seeking fingers of the Thorn Protector.
Ahead, the hills rose roughly, clad less in thorn and more in grass. At their tops were hints of snow. Relief touched Cob for the first time, but with it came concern. From the slant of the sunlight, he knew they were looking north.
“Where are we?” he called to Adram.
The Haarakash man halted on the trail to look back. “Closest section of the barrier. Less than a day’s walk from Turo if you follow it from the outside.”
“Through the snow and ice? I’m not sure we can manage,” Cob said, unsure of the Guardian’s strength after this ordeal. He looked to Fiora, panting and dull-eyed but still holding tight to his arm. She rallied a weak smile.
“You don’t have a choice,” said Adram. “You must leave here.”
“I know, but can’t we follow the barrier from the inside? Isn’t your Thorn Protector weaker at the fringes?”
Adram gave him a blind, rueful smile. “What do you think?”
Cob looked down at his arms, where the red lines spread like capillaries under his skin. He looked at the ground where a few new drops had fallen and saw thorny red tendrils poking up through the spots.
“Pike it,” he said, and peered toward the crust of snow on the hill. A day of following the barrier from the outside could mean frostbite for Fiora, who had changed from sarong to trousers but was still ill-prepared for a winter trek. He did not know if the Guardian could protect her, but if they were at Turo by the end of the run, at least Mother Matriarch Vriene could help them recover. “All right. Guess there are no good options. Let’s go.”
The last short walk to the border felt harder than ever. Cob’s legs ached from the climb, but he sensed the Guardian stir in his chest and clung to the hope that it could help them. No wall stood atop the hill to divide the natural world from Haaraka’s curse, and in the span of a few strides the verdant growth withered to brown stalks, then to frost-encrusted stubble.
It was hard to say exactly where the barrier was. Cob fumbled at
his neck and pulled out the passage medallion, unnerved at how it seemed to throb in his hand. “Will you be all right?” he said, glancing to Adram as he took Fiora’s hand and pressed it over the medallion.
The Haarakash man nodded. “I will not return to the complex. I will go home and stay there until the chaos has died down. Such things have happened before. I should have warned you, but—“
“Oh goddess,” said Fiora, staring past Cob with wide eyes.
He turned to look at the barrier, and it looked back at him.
Writhing into visibility, it was a ghastly sight: a lattice of veins and thorns pulsing in thin air, spotted with tight flower buds. Vines lashed from it toward Cob, and his arm moved as if on a string, the red splinters pushing out through his skin and growing wildly to connect with the reaching thorns. He tried to yank backward but they were already crawling over his arm and up his shoulder, strong as iron. In the center, near his hand, a knot opened into a bloodshot eye the size of a fist.
Fiora pulled at him, then gasped and sagged, and he half-turned to see her sink to the earth in the grip of more vines, eyes fluttering shut as the buds bloomed into blood-colored roses. Adram was already on the ground, thoroughly covered. A thick, cloying scent flooded the air, and Cob’s head swam with weariness. His fingers went slack and Fiora’s hand slipped from his, taking the medallion with it.
Pike it, no, he thought, and reached for the Guardian.
It withdrew.
Anger roared through him, momentarily driving back the roses’ intoxication. How dare you? he thought at the spirit, and reached deeper, the world going dark around him. No sight, no sound, just the cellar of his soul where the Guardian struggled to barricade itself.
For an interminable, frustrating span, the dark spirit slid away while the burning eye watched him from above. The harder he clutched, the faster it slipped free, and the more his panic heightened. You can’t leave us to die! he thought furiously. You’re the one who made the curse!
But if the Guardian felt shame, it did not react, and Cob’s sense of his own body started to drain away through the lines of agony in his arm. A cold knot formed in his chest as he envisioned the Guardians in the black water, watching, uncaring.
The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) Page 50
