Gail Z. Martin - COTN 03 - Dark Haven (V1.0)(lit)

by Gail Z. Martin

  He wasn't surprised to find Senne overseeing the cairn-building. Senne looked worn, as if he had aged since the start of the campaign. He made a perfunctory bow as Tris approached.

  "How many dead?" Tris asked.

  "Since we can't safely clear the field, we won't know for certain until a count is com­plete. If I had to guess, I'd say we lost about three hundred, and at least that number wounded in the battle at the gates. Fever's taken another two hundred. It may kill more than Curane's archers do before this is over."

  Tris stepped forward and raised his hands toward the cairn. The crowd and the piper fell silent, and the drummer stopped his drumming. It hurt to reach for the magic, as if the channels of power had been seared. On the nether plain, it took all the power Tris could harness to make the spirits visible for the living.

  The spirits of the dead soldiers turned toward him, a formation of gray ghosts rank upon rank. They watched his every move, as if the warmth of his living spirit might offer them comfort in the darkness. "I can't bring you back to life, but I can make your passage to the Lady," Tris said. One of the men stepped for­ward and struck his chest. As one, the ghosts echoed the salute.

  "In life and in death, we'll follow where you lead."

  Tris looked out over the faces of the dead. "You know what's at stake." In the distance,

  he could hear the soulsong of the Lady offering her respite, and he knew that the ghosts also heard that sweet song. "I won't bind you here, but if you wish to remain to fight, we'd wel­come your help."

  One by one, the spirits of the fallen soldiers knelt. To a man, they remained. "Thank you." Tris spoke the words aloud, and his voice caught. "When this is over, I'll make your pas­sage to the Lady."

  The magic wavered and threatened to slip beyond his grasp. Tris turned to face the crowd of soldiers who had assembled. Many of the soldiers were no older than he, and some were several years younger. In their faces he saw the shock and loss of battle. The same innocence that had died in his own heart was gone for them as well. In the faces of the older men, Tris saw quiet acceptance. These were the men who had lost family and entire villages to Jared, men who would not curse Death's coming if it ended memory and dreams.

  "We're all that stands between Margolan and the darkness," Tris said, shouting to be heard above the wind. "If we let Curane's forces win, our children and their children will never know anything better than the yoke and the chain. On this thin line, Margolan will stand or fall, and with it, the Winter Kingdoms."

  Somewhere in the ranks, one man began to clap. Others took up the beat until the entire camp rang with clapping, wave upon wave

  breaking the winter stillness. It echoed off the stone walls of Lochlanimar, loud enough to shake the snow from the trees.

  "There's your mandate," Senne said quietly. "They know the odds, and the price. And to a man, we'll follow you to the Crone if that's what it will take to save Margolan."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  "What in the name of the Crone happened out there?" Curane thundered.

  Cadoc looked up. The air mage was badly bruised, and one eye was swollen shut. Beside him, Dirmed, a fire mage, was in worse shape. One arm was badly burned, and his hair was singed from his head on one side of his scalp. "The magic went wild," Cadoc said.

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means that that damned energy river is going mad," Dirmed said. The right side of his face was peeling from a burn. "It threw our power back on us. The Flow's unstable. All the magic's making it worse."

  "And Finten?"

  Dirmed shrugged. "Finten was unlucky. We think he struck close to Martris Drayke. Our guess is that, Drayke latched onto the power and used it as a channel for his own magic. Finten was standing next to me when he caught on fire. It wasn't pretty."

  "A dozen mages, and the best you can do is make some people down in the ginnels sick," Curane replied.

  Cadoc glared. "Blood magic is slow and cost­ly. Every time we do a blood working, one of us is half dead for at least two days. And each time we experiment with another nasty little pox, the Flow gets further out of reach. It's starting to break apart."

  "How can a river of energy break apart?" Curane flicked his hand dismissively. "Can the wind break apart? Can the sea split itself down the middle? I'm tired of excuses."

  "I've found that magic is the answer to every problem—for people who aren't mages," Cadoc said. He took a step toward Curane, fury in his eyes. "I've lost three apprentices conjuring up poxes for you. We've had to lock down half the ginnels because of it. At least a quarter of the villagers are dead. No one's been in or out of midquarters since we locked the yetts, but from the smell, it's a good bet they're dead. I don't know how many Margolan men the plagues are killing, but they've probably murdered more of our own people than the enemy."

  "There's only so much lime we can dump from the walkways," Dirmed said. "And no

  way to keep the rats and the vultures from spreading what's on the other side of the gates. If the Margolan army does break through the wall, they'll likely find a city of the dead."

  Curane smiled. "Let them. Plague's cheaper than soldiers. Your magic protects us."

  "For now," Cadoc said. "But if the Flow fails us, the magic dies with it—and so do we."

  "This'll be over before that happens." Curane replied.

  "Is that why you sent the girl and her baby away? Because you're sure victory is immi­nent?" Dirmed asked.

  "I sent them away because the girl needs a stern hand and I know of no one more suited to the task than Lady Monteith. Lady Montei-th can turn that slip of a girl into the mother of a king and show her the proper way to raise a prince. When the boy is older, Lord Montei­th can introduce him to the Trevath court. It's about time King Nikolaj realized that I've pre­sented him with an outstanding opportunity."

  "The fact remains that we're as hard pressed inside the walls as the Margolan army is out­side," General Drostan said. "It's true that with fewer villagers our firewood and supplies have lasted longer, but the villagers who are still alive are getting desperate. They fear the plague more than the army outside. I don't have the guards to put down an insurrection and fight a siege."

  "Then take hostages. Separate out the essential workers and guarantee their compli­ance by taking their families as surety. You're a military man, Drostan. You can figure this out."

  "With all due respect, Lord Curane, the bat­tle has gone hard on 'military men.' We lost General Arnalt when the East tower collapsed in the bombardment. General Eddig burned with his garrison when one of the fireballs hit the south wallwalk. General Nerin lost an eye to shrapnel. Siencen and I are the only two generals still uninjured. Our ranks are down by a third. There's precious little room to dodge boulders inside stone walls," Droston said.

  "Are we beaten so easily by a boy king?" Curane thundered. "Every day, Martris Drayke becomes more vulnerable. His army weakens. And while he's busy here, our man at Shekerishet grows closer to solving another problem.

  "The net's tightening around the new queen. And as it does, our partners in Isen-croft are making sure that Donelan is far too busy with his own problems to worry about Margolan." Curane smiled. "Great plans take time. Just a while longer, and we'll be the regents behind the crown—not just of Mar­golan, but of Isencroft as well. A handsome payoff for a bit of messy work, wouldn't you say?"

  "I learned a long time ago that a soldier should never count on his pay until the battle's been fought," Drosten replied. "Especially when magic's involved."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Isencroft night was bitter cold. Cam secured his horse at a hitching post down the street from the Stray Dog Inn, tethering him lightly for a quick departure. He looked at the brightly lit windows and sighed. Although a few minutes by the fire and a mug of ale would feel good, he decided that it was best to avoid being seen too often inside the inn. He'd worked out a way to leave a message for Kev— a com on an unused back shelf in the stabl
e was the signal for a meeting the following night at eighth bells.

  For two months, Kev had watched and reported. The bit of information the stable boy provided had helped Cam piece together details of the divisionists—and of what seemed clear to be an outside power behind them. Cam ducked down an alley, careful to make sure no one was following him. From the trampled snow and the muddy hoof prints leading into the stable, Cam guessed it was a busy night at the inn. Moonlight filtered in to the stable through cracks in the walls, catching dust in its rays.

  "Kev?" Cam hissed. He drew his sword. It wasn't like Kev to be late.

  "Kev's right here." A pox-faced man easily Cam's own size stepped from one of the empty stables. Kev was pinned in the big man's grip, a knife against his throat.

  "Let him go."

  The pox-faced man shook his head. "Too late for that."

  Kev's eyes grew wide, but there was no chance for him to scream. The man behind him drew his dagger across the boy's throat in one swift movement, slitting him from ear to ear. Blood soaked Kev's shirt and his body tumbled to the floor.

  "Leave him as a warning," the pox-scarred man said. He looked to Cam with a cold smile. "On the other hand, you're much too valuable a hostage to waste."

  Cam's sword was ready as the two dozen men sprang from the shadows, swords drawn. Cam launched himself at the two men closest to him. He ran the first through with an inside thrust, and parried the second man's charge, taking only a cut to his forearm. A third man ran at him from behind, and Cam kicked,

  catching his attacker off guard and throwing him clear. He overturned a hopper of feed, fill­ing the air with dust and momentarily blinding his attackers.

  Cam coughed and sputtered, hacking at the dark shapes as they struggled through the dust. At least three men blocked the door closest to the inn, and Cam could see another three out­lined in the far doorway.

  "Get him."

  Four fighters approached him from the right, and three more from the left. Cam stood his ground, heart pounding. Two swordsmen charged and Cam met their attack, holding them off although he was tiring quickly. He heard a stave whistle as it swung through the air, catching him across the small of his back. A mace jangled as it flew, and blinding pain radiated from Cam's right leg as the heavy spiked ball connected. He fell and a boot slammed down on his right hand, breaking his grip on his sword. Another boot kicked him hard in the ribs, snapping bone. Cam struggled for breath. Two men hauled him to his feet, and a third landed a solid punch to his jaw. Cam felt teeth loosen and his head swam.

  It was over. Someone bound his wrists tight­ly with rough rope. One of his attackers punched him in the kidneys and Cam groaned. The silhouetted figure moved toward him.

  "I expected better from the king's champi­on." He delivered a hard punch to Cam's stomach, and Cam doubled up, retching. "You shouldn't have come here."

  "Go to the Whore."

  Cam could see the man's face now. While the men who attacked him might be common thugs, everything about the man's eyes marked him as a professional.

  Cam struggled to stay conscious. "Donelan won't deal with you. Not even for me."

  The pox-scarred man shrugged. "We'll see." He reached out for Cam's left hand and noted the signet he wore, the crest of the King's Champion. "This will do nicely." With a jerk of his head, he directed Cam's guards to drag him over to one of the feed bins. The man forced Cam's hand flat against the bin and drew his dagger, slicing off his ring finger. "Now, Donelan will know that we're serious." He took a kerchief from his pocket and wrapped the severed finger with the ring in the piece of cloth and handed it to one of his men. "Leave this near the guard house where it'll be found. Mind that you're not seen. It should be enough to begin a conversation."

  He turned his attention back to Cam. "I think our luck just turned. And so did yours."

  Fading in and out of consciousness, Cam tried to count the turns and bridges as the wagon lurched along the rutted roads. Every bump jarred his broken leg, sending shooting pains from ankle to thigh. His hands were

  numb from the ropes that secured his wrists. He struggled to breathe with the dust. Cam could feel the roads change as the wagon rolled from the town's plank road onto the hard-packed dirt of the main road, and then onto a rough farm road. Finally, the horses stopped and two men dragged him down from the wagon. .

  "Damn, he's heavy."

  "Shut up and lift."

  They dumped him on the floor and jerked off the hood. Cam blinked and coughed. They were in an old millhouse. In the shadows, he could hear rats. Cold winds blew though the rickety walls and up through the paddle-wheel's opening. One of the men secured Cam's wrists to the prongs of the massive gears behind him. "He's not going anywhere, not on that leg."

  The pox-faced man left his conversation and walked toward Cam. "I gather you've been wanting to meet me. I'm Leather John."

  "Donelan won't pay a ransom, if that's what you're after. He'll hang hostage-takers before he'll negotiate."

  Leather John shrugged. "Suits me. We're not afraid. Not afraid of the King's Champion, and not afraid of the king. All we want is an inde­pendent Isencroft."

  "You won't get it from Curane, if that's what you're thinking."

  "Who said anything about Curane?"

  "That's who Ruggs is dealing with, isn't it? What'd he promise you? That if you keep Isen-croft tied up while Curane wins the throne in Margolan, he'll send Kiara and the baby back here and everything will be wrapped up with a bow?"

  "What do you know about Curane?" Leather John's voice was dangerous.

  Cam was too angry to worry. "Curane's got Jared's bastard son locked up in a keep on the Margolan plains. If Tris Drayke dies, that bas­tard becomes king of Margolan—with Curane as his regent. Jared wanted Isencroft all along. So will Curane—Isencroft and Margolan. He's just keeping you busy until it's too late."

  "You're lying."

  "Why else would Curane care about your rebellion? What's in it for him?"

  "You're lying!" Leather John's voice rose a notch and he backhanded Cam hard enough that Cam's vision blurred.

  "I've been to Margolan. I've seen what Jared's done to it. Towns looted. Farms burned. Whole villages hanged—"

  "Shut up! Shut the hell up!" Leather John tore a strip from a feedback and gagged Cam with it. He was breathing hard and his eyes were wide. "No more lies."

  Leather John turned to his men. "Send out the raiders tonight. Burn out anyone who gets in our way. Start with the Stray Dog Inn. Let's make sure Donelan gets our message." Leather

  John raised his sword. "Isencroft independ-"Isencroft Independent! Isencroft Independ-He jerked Cam by the hair to look at him. "The people don't want a joint kingdom. We don't want Margolan taking our women, pol­luting the blood. Curane understands about blood. He understands. Blood tells."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  "There's Truly no end to the people who've come," Carina exclaimed as she looked out at the courtyard of waiting patients. Old women, carried in carts or on the backs of men, women with difficult pregnan­cies, children with fevers, and wounds that would not heal. Despite her efforts, each new day lengthened the line of those who waited.

  "They've come from several days' ride," Neirin observed. "Perhaps they fear that after the wedding next week, your priorities may shift to other concerns."

  Carina smiled. "I doubt it. Jonmarc knew when he brought me here that healing was part of the bargain." A month had passed since Winterstide, and true to his oath, Jonmarc had set a date for a ritual wedding. After the

  disturbances at the holiday, Dark Haven had been quiet, falling into the slower rhythms of winter. Talk of the wedding captivated the gossips, and many of the people who came for healing wished Carina well or gave her a wedding blessing.

  "It's the first time in a hundred years that the Lord of Dark Haven has taken a bride here at the manor," Neirin said, smiling. "Quite an honor for us. And an omen, perhaps, of brighter things to come."

  "R
ight now, the only omen I want is to smell lunch cooking," Carina laughed. "It's just mid-morning, but I'm famished!"

  "I'll have the kitchen send up something," Neirin promised. His attention was distracted by a noise near the doorway. A young man pushed through the crowd, still brushing snow from his heavy cloak. He made a low bow when he approached Carina.

  "Greetings, Lady Vahanian."

  Carina looked at the newcomer. He was slightly built, perhaps a few years younger than herself, with close-cropped reddish-blond hair and a patchy beard. His skin was reddened from the cold, and his cloak was wet with snow. "My name is Adon, from the village of Westormere. They sent me here to see if I could convince you to come back with me. There's a fever taken hold, a bad one. Our hedge witches tried, but they can't do nothing for it, and some of them took sick as well." He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "Please, m'lady, I know it's a lot to ask, but I'm afraid for my vil­lage. There were three dead just this morning. There's no one else who can put it right."

  "How far away is Westormere?"

  Adon raised his head. "Not a candlemark distant, m'lady."

  Carina looked at Neirin. "I could be back before sundown. If it's plague, there's no time to waste."

  "I'd feel better if Lord Vahanian rode with you. He's out in the fields. Please, m'lady, wait until he gets back. Go in the morning."

  Carina looked at Adon. "How many in your village are sick?"

  "Almost all, m'lady. My farm's on the very edge, that's why I was well enough to ride. There are about sixty people in the town, m'la­dy. Might be about a handful that aren't feverish. Please, m'lady. They'll die if you don't come."

  Carina looked back to Neirin. "I need to go," she said. "Please, make the people here as comfortable as you can while they wait. I'll be back before sundown."

  "Please, Carina, you must take guards with you. Lord Jonmarc would never forgive me if I let you go without protection."

  "Fine with me—sounds like I'll have work for them to do when we get there."