“Then she dies.”
Relieved beyond words to learn someone else was to be held accountable for this disaster, Mahkas nodded slowly in agreement.
He didn’t doubt for a moment that Marla meant every word of her promise to kill Luciena Mariner. And he wondered if he was the only one in the room who understood that the princess hadn’t actually called off the execution. She’d merely delayed it for a while.
Chapter 28
Brak rode in silence for the first few miles of the steep pass, impressed by the work that had gone into making a narrow slice between two peaks into a navigable road. Familiar with the building techniques of the Harshini, who had the benefit of magic to aid them in their work, he was used to seeing construction on a grand scale. What made this impressive was that it had been done with nothing more than human ingenuity and sweat. There had been no magical assistance in the Widowmaker to widen the road or transport the granite high into the mountains; no sorcerers to search for weaknesses in the rock, or instinctively feel for the easiest path, or the best place to lay foundations. They’d done it the hard way, using mathematics, engineering, a little bit of inspired guesswork and a huge force of slave labour. The mountain had been blasted away in places, the exposed rock face sharp and raw like a gaping wound on the flesh of the mountain. The walls had been reinforced in places, too, and the road snaked through it, paved in red granite from Krakandar that looked strangely out of place among the black rocks of the Sunrise Mountains.
Maybe the one good thing to come out of the Harshini exile, Brak decided, was that it gave humans a chance to discover what they were capable of when forced to rely on their own resources.
Wrayan rode beside him in silence, for which Brak was extremely grateful. He had no wish to talk. No wish to do much of anything. His world was defined only by his desire to see this Fardohnyan child he had never met delivered into safe hands. He needed to make some small amends for his crime; he needed to attempt some noble deed to atone. After that, Brak had no plans. He had nothing. His future was as empty as his soul.
Brak was counting the days until summer ended and Korandellen hid Sanctuary out of time once more. The ache would fade then, for a time. It wasn’t as strong when the settlement was hidden, although it never truly left him. Brak needed the pain to go away. He needed memories of Sanctuary and the Harshini to fade into a distant blur.
At the same time, he savoured the torment. It was a cruel punishment, but a punishment he felt he deserved.
There is no going back, Brak told himself harshly. He deserved to suffer and all of the torments of the Seven Hells of Men probably couldn’t penalise him enough for what he’d done. I can never go back. Never go home. Never.
And he figured he wouldn’t need to. Once he and Wrayan had found this child locked in the dungeons of Westbrook, Brak would help Wrayan release him and then cover their escape. He would make sure they got away cleanly.
That was the reason Brak had invited Wrayan along on this journey. He needed to see this child got back to Hythria in one piece. He needed the boy to be placed somewhere he had a chance of growing up. Wrayan would see to it. He was a confidant of the High Prince of Hythria’s sister, after all, and undoubtedly still had contacts in the Sorcerers’ Collective. Wrayan would see the boy was safe.
“Can you hear that?”
Brak glanced at Wrayan. He could hear nothing at all but the sound of his own misery. “Hear what?”
Wrayan cocked his head. “Sounds like fighting.”
Instinctively, Brak’s hand moved to the hilt of the serviceable Defender blade he carried. Now that Wrayan had brought it to his attention, he could hear it over the faint rush of a waterfall—the metallic scraping of blade against blade and the panicked shouts of men under attack. He listened carefully, not sure if the sounds were coming from ahead or behind them. The walls of the Widowmaker did strange things with echoes.
“It’s ahead of us, I think,” Wrayan said.
Brak gathered up his reins, pleased by the thought of facing some action. It didn’t hurt nearly as much when he was fighting. The need to stay focused on survival swamped the guilt and the pain for a time. His horse, sensing the change in his rider’s demeanour, reared in anticipation.
“Probably a caravan under attack.” Brak grinned humourlessly, drawing his sword with a dramatic flourish. “Let’s go do our good deed for the day.”
Wrayan grabbed him by the arm before he could move. “You might fancy the idea of being a dead hero, Brak, but I’m rather fond of seeing the day out, thank you.”
“You just want to sit here and do nothing?”
“There’re only two of us. Exactly how much difference is that going to make to a caravan under attack from bandits who are probably very well trained Fardohnyan soldiers in disguise?”
“You have no idea how much difference one man can make, Wrayan,” Brak snapped, shaking free of Wrayan’s restraining hand. “Come with me or not,” he added, more harshly than he’d intended.
He kicked his horse forward into a gallop without waiting to see if Wrayan was following. “I really don’t care.”
The road curved ahead, following the natural contours of the pass. Here there had been no need to blast through rock to open up the road. It was almost wide enough to let another caravan pass. The forested slopes reached all the way to the edge of the road and, on the left, a small spring high above fed a narrow waterfall that poured down the face of the mountain in a constant tumble of white water.
As he rounded the bend, Brak heard the sound of a horse following him, which meant Wrayan had decided to join his hopeless quest after all.
Just beyond the next bend in the road, he found them.
It was only a small caravan—no doubt the reason it was attacked—three canvas-covered, ox-drawn wagons caught between a felled tree the bandits had used to block the pass ahead and the swarm of men attacking from behind. The dozen or so Fardohnyan bandits were dressed in a motley collection of dark civilian clothing, which made it hard to tell them from the defenders. Those, he guessed, were the terrified-looking men standing with their backs to the wagons, holding off their assailants awkwardly. Most of the caravan guards seemed to be dead already; only the merchants were left to defend their property.
Brak urged his horse forward, careless of any lookouts that might be posted above, half-hoping for the solid thunk of an arrow in his back to end this downward spiral into self-destruction into which he could feel himself plunging. He couldn’t go on like this. Although not immortal in the truest sense of the word, Brak’s life span was that of a Harshini. He had lived more than seven hundred years now and, barring accidents, would likely live a thousand or two more. He couldn’t carry the burden of his guilt for that long. He could barely lift it now.
With a glance, Brak took in the situation and then ploughed into the mélée. He took out the first three bandits before they even realised someone was attacking them from behind. As soon as they became aware of the threat, however, the outlaws turned on him. Brak fought the next man off with ease—one can become quite expert with a blade after seven hundred years of practice—and then he turned to face his next attacker.
This man seemed a little more cautious. Brak had already taken out four of his companions. The Fardohnyan obviously judged this new opponent worthy of respect. He was swarthy and brown-eyed, but not fearful. Brak dismounted, not taking his eyes from the man, and pushed the horse clear as the bandit lunged for him. His first few strokes were careful, as if he was testing Brak’s skill. Or his resolve.
He moved sideways, forcing Brak to move with him, to keep him in sight. Then the bandit feinted, forcing Brak to move again until the bandit’s back was to the wagons.
Clever, Brak thought, realising he now had his back to the rest of the bandits and no way of seeing one of them come up behind him. Is this how it’s going to end?
Was it really going to be this easy?
A sudden cry behind him caught Brak’s attent
ion. He glanced over his shoulder to discover another man, his curved scimitar raised to strike in a blow that would have cleaved his skull in two had it connected. But the blow never fell. The man seemed frozen for a moment in time, and then he toppled forward, a small throwing knife embedded to the hilt in his neck.
Wrayan, Brak thought, looking around for the thief.
He couldn’t see him, but he could feel the faintest prickle of magic against his skin, which meant Wrayan had had the presence of mind to draw a glamour around himself before he plunged into battle, and was effectively invisible. As he turned back to face the other bandit, he saw that man fall, too. The bandit had a shocked look on his grubby, stubbled face as he studied the six inches of metal unexpectedly protruding from his ribs. He slipped off the blade as he fell forward and suddenly Wrayan appeared behind him, as if from thin air, his dark eyes fading to their normal colour as he dropped the glamour and pulled his sword free.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he snapped at Brak. “Duck!”
Brak ducked as Wrayan swung his blade in a wide, inelegant arc above the Halfbreed’s crouching form, almost taking another bandit’s arm off at the shoulder. The man screamed and dropped his sword, then turned and fled back towards the forested slopes of the mountain pass. His departure seemed to give the merchants heart and they attacked the remaining thieves with renewed ferocity. Within a few moments, the rest of the Fardohnyans decided this caravan was now a lost cause and they followed their wounded companion back into the forest, leaving their dead comrades behind.
Brak glanced around at the dead guards and the dying bandits as he wiped his blade on the shirt of the nearest corpse and then sheathed it. He looked over at Wrayan. The young man wasn’t a killer at heart, Brak knew, for all that he could wield a competent blade when the need arose. But neither was he squeamish. One didn’t hold down a position like head of a Thieves’ Guild for long if one couldn’t deal out a bit of rough justice when the need arose.
“I guess they don’t call this place the Widowmaker for nothing, eh?”
Wrayan didn’t answer him. The thief simply sheathed his own sword and went to see what he could do to help the merchants.
By the time they’d helped load the bodies of the dead guards and the Fardohnyan bandits into the last wagon and pushed the felled tree off the road, it was almost sunset. Brak had thought it more logical to leave the corpses behind, but the caravan owner, a tubby little Hythrun named Kelesan Hull, insisted they take the bodies with them. He wanted to present the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook, the garrison commander of the Fardohnyan fort, with evidence of the attack and demand compensation. To do that, he needed proof.
“Eight dead guards and six dead bandits make for some fairly solid evidence,” Wrayan explained when Brak asked why they were loading the dead men onto the wagon. He would have taken his own men and left the bandits for their friends to retrieve later.
Brak had barely spoken to the merchants since he and Wrayan had rescued them, letting Wrayan do most of the talking. He was in no mood to socialise anyway. Brak wasn’t upset about the men he’d killed. He was sorry that he wasn’t one of them.
“Master Hull has invited us to join his caravan for the rest of the trip through the pass.”
Brak shook his head and glanced over at the hopeful merchant, who was wringing his hands as they tied the last wagon down and looking west towards the setting sun, no doubt wondering which was worse—travelling in darkness or spending a night in the pass with more of Chyler’s Children in the vicinity.
“He wants us to protect his cargo from thieves?” Brak smiled humourlessly. “You didn’t mention you were head of the Krakandar Thieves’ Guild, I’m guessing.”
“The subject didn’t actually come up.”
“Does he think two men will do where eight failed?”
The thief shrugged. “It’s not likely they’ll be attacked again before we reach Westbrook.”
“Then they hardly need us, do they?”
Wrayan looked at him with a frown. “You were the one who wanted to rescue them in the first place, Brak.”
“I wasn’t looking for a job opportunity out of it.”
“Which begs the question of what you were hoping to achieve, ploughing into that fight like you have a death wish.” Wrayan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you want to tell me what’s really going on?”
There’s always a downside with the smart ones, Brak thought. I should pick more stupid friends.
Things would be a lot less complicated.
“There’s nothing going on, Wrayan. I just felt like a bit of exercise.”
“Exercise?” the thief repeated incredulously. “You killed four men. And you could have got us both killed!”
“Don’t exaggerate. Anyway, you cheated. You used magic.”
Wrayan opened his mouth to protest and then suddenly closed it again, as if there was simply no point in arguing about it. With a snort of frustration, the thief threw his hands up, turned on his heel, and went to explain to Kelesan Hull that he and his companion were not available as guards for the remainder of their journey through the Widowmaker Pass into Fardohnya.
Chapter 29
The pain in Luciena’s head was unbearable. It had started, she recalled dimly, down in the markets. They’d been looking at that Fardohnyan bride’s blade. She remembered Tejay Bearbow haggling with the merchant. She remembered Tejay making her a gift of the delicate little dagger.
And she remembered Tejay saying, “Welcome to the family.”
After that, Luciena didn’t remember very much at all . . . not until hours later when she discovered she was in Damin Wolfblade’s room, just after he hit her on the jaw, knocked her down, almost wrenched her arm from its socket and then stood on her neck while he accused her of trying to kill him.
What had happened in the intervening hours was a complete mystery.
Luciena put her pounding head in her hands, recalling the look on Princess Marla’s face as the guards had hauled Luciena to her feet. It was her contempt that ate at Luciena more than anything.
“So, this is how you repay my generosity?” the princess had said to her. If Marla had been the God of Storms, her voice alone would have brought on an Ice Age.
Luciena tried to shake her head; she tried to deny she’d done anything wrong. But the pain was unbearable and there were no words available to her. For some reason, she couldn’t speak, even though she’d desperately wanted to protest her innocence. And even if she’d found her voice, what was she supposed to say? She didn’t remember any of it. She’d certainly never set out to harm Damin Wolfblade and had no recollection of sneaking through the slaveways and using the hidden key to his room. The guards outside Damin’s door hadn’t granted her entry so, short of her scaling the outside wall of the palace—unlikely—even Luciena admitted there was no other way she could have got in there.
But why? she asked herself, over and over. Why would I do something like that?
There was no logical reason for any of this. Luciena had no gripe against Damin. Since coming to Krakandar she’d even begun to soften towards Marla, understanding a little of the pressures that dictated the princess’s actions. The children of Marla’s extended family had welcomed her with remarkably little fuss. Even Lord Damaran, although clearly dubious about Luciena’s pedigree, had treated her with distant cordiality.
It’s what I always wanted. Why would I throw it all away?
Locked in the hot, close confines of her bare prison, Luciena had had all night and much of the day to ponder that thought. In the cells behind the Raider’s barracks—thankfully they didn’t have dungeons here—she’d done little else but wonder how this could have happened to her.
In a way, the thoughts were a welcome distraction. Trying to figure out why she’d attacked Damin meant she didn’t have to think about her future. Not that I have a future. Luciena was under no illusions about the inevitable fate of anybody foolish enough to assault the
High Prince’s heir.
Breakfast was served in her cell the following morning and she sat on the edge of the straw pallet in her ruined ballgown and ate the slops mechanically. She didn’t taste a bite, but wasn’t sure if that was the result of her misery or simply the tastelessness of the gluey gruel that passed for food here.
They gave her a jug of tepid water and a bucket to use as a toilet and then left her alone to ponder her fate, hour after torturous hour, the silence and the isolation more frightening than being yelled at. It was as if they’d thrown her in here and forgotten all about her.
Maybe that’s my punishment. “Lock her up and throw away the key.”
Would Marla Wolfblade be content with that? Probably not. She’s more your blood-for-blood sort of woman . She was practical, too. For the fool who dared threaten one of her precious babies, death was far cheaper than longterm incarceration.
It was almost sunset, and the pain had abated a little, when the lock on the door rattled, making Luciena jump to her feet, filled with a fear that was nauseating in its intensity. Suddenly, being ignored seemed so much better than being forced to confront the possibility they had come to carry out her execution.
The door opened. Luciena almost fainted with relief to discover it was Xanda Taranger. Then she noticed the look on his face and wondered if, perhaps, execution wouldn’t have been easier to deal with.
He studied her for a long moment before he spoke. Luciena imagined the picture she must present. Her beautiful blue and gold gown was a ruin. The skirt was crumpled, the bodice stained by unsightly damp marks under her arms and across the small of her back. The smell of her unwashed body seemed to fill the small, airless cell. Her dark hair was in disarray and they’d taken her shoes and jewellery from her when she was thrown in here to await judgment.
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