Allan looked toward her, eyebrows raised, and she burst into a laugh, shaking her head.
“It’s not what you think. We were playing Thistles in the square when the Dogs came to raid a nearby flat. We ran, even though they weren’t after us. We were kids.”
Allan wanted to ask her about the name she’d swallowed, but didn’t. “If the Wielders knew about the distortions that early, why didn’t they stop them?”
“I don’t think they knew how. All we could do was heal them. Now the Primes . . . I don’t know what they knew. Even if Prime Wielder Augustus knew what was causing them—and I’d guess that it had something to do with the Nexus and the overuse of the ley system—do you really think Baron Arent would have allowed him to fix it if it threatened his hold on the ley and the other Barons?”
Allan thought about his few meetings with the Baron and the Prime Wielder. “No, he wouldn’t. But Augustus was obsessed with the Nexus. If it were unstable, he would have attempted to repair it.”
“If he could have repaired it, he would have.”
“Maybe it wasn’t the Wielders or the Primes. Maybe the Nexus didn’t need to be fixed.”
Kara looked toward him, half of her face in shadow, her body tense. “You mean the Kormanley?”
“They certainly caused enough havoc before I left for the Hollow.”
Kara’s hand tore viciously at the grass before her. He expected her to launch into a tirade about how destructive they’d been, but she surprised him.
She stopped shredding the grass and looked toward Erenthrall. “Do you think we deserved it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of those in the Hollow believe that the Shattering was a punishment, the vengeance of the gods, brought down upon us for our abuse of the ley.”
“It wasn’t the act of a god. It was Prime Wielder Augustus’ arrogance and Baron Arent’s greed. I was in the Amber Tower. I saw it.”
“And some of them—not just the Hollowers, but a few of the refugees who came with us—believe that it’s the Wielders’ fault.”
“They’re fools.”
“But we were misusing the ley. The distortions, the blackouts—they were all signs that we’d pushed the network too far. Yet we didn’t stop. Nature tried to warn us and we didn’t listen. Look what happened.”
She gestured out toward the plains, toward the distant glaring dome of the distortion. They sat in silence, the stillness of the plains interrupted from behind by those in the camp.
Then Allan said, “It’s changed completely. And I don’t mean just Erenthrall. On my excursions to the city before the Shattering, to gather supplies for the Hollow, I’d sit on the hilltops and look down at it from afar. Ley lines spread out from it in all directions, like a web stretching to the towns and villages that dotted the plains. The web is gone now. The plains are dark.”
Kara shifted her attention to the rest of the plains. There were a few spots of light scattered here and there outside the dome, close to the city; places where the ley system was intact, but obviously wild. White light flickered to the east, where Allan knew a plume of ley shot into the sky a hundred feet high. Almost directly on the path between the Hollow and the distortion, a large lake of ley had pooled in a low-lying area, what had once been a village. The spire of the town’s stone meeting hall jutted out of the center of the lake, a few of the larger buildings’ roofs visible as well. Besides pinpricks of white ley light in various other locations, they could make out a few outcroppings of firelight—again, all close to the city.
Kara pointed toward the brightest of the firelit sections. “What’s that?”
“The Temerite’s enclave. They were the most organized right after the Shattering. They seized hold of a few districts that hadn’t been as severely damaged as the others and walled them in using the stone from collapsed buildings. The fire you see is actually dozens of bonfires set on the walls. They keep them lit so they can patrol and keep scavengers out. The smaller fire, farther to the south, is the Gorrani camp. There are rumors of an Archipelago compound on the far side of the distortion. And of course there are other encampments scattered between them all. But before the Shattering, there were ley lights three or four times that distance out into the plains, especially along the Tiana and Urate, and southward toward Farrade and Tumbor. All of those towns and villages are dark now.”
“The ley is still there, running through those towns. It’s just not being augmented by the Nexus like it was before.”
“Is that what you intend to do if you can heal the distortion? Create a new network?”
“Not like what the Baron and Prime Wielder Augustus had,” Kara said harshly. “They abused the ley to retain their power. But the world needs somewhere safe to travel, somewhere the ley is stable and that can be easily protected. If we can heal the distortion, we can make Erenthrall a home again, without the Baron and the Dogs and the Primes controlling everything.”
“And you think we can do that, those of us in the Hollow.”
“Why not? We have you and the Dogs. We’ll have resources, once the distortion is gone. And we have Wielders.”
Allan was going to point out that Erenthrall may have changed too much to be recovered when one of the guards shouted a warning.
He was moving, sword drawn, before Kara had even turned. He charged through the startled camp. Without thought, he noted who was frozen in shock and who was grabbing for weapons. Then he caught sight of Tim’s shadowed form and slowed. “Report.”
“Something on the plains to the northeast.” Tim pointed toward the direction of Dunmara and the Reaches. “Looks like a fire of some kind.”
Allan picked the faint, flickering light out of the darkness, surprised Tim had noticed it at all. Muscles in his back and shoulders relaxed as he realized how distant the fire was, too far for whoever it was to have seen or heard them.
Gaven, Carter, and Artras appeared behind them, knives or swords readied.
“Is it the raiders?” Gaven demanded.
“No. At least, not near enough to threaten us.”
Gaven looked disappointed.
“What should we do?” Artras asked.
Allan sheathed his sword and the others lowered their weapons in response. He motioned to Kent and Adder. “We’ll go check it out.”
“I’ll come as well,” Gaven said, stepping forward.
Allan halted him with a hard grip on his shoulder. “I need you here, Gaven.” He looked the older wagon driver in the eye. “I know you want to hurt them for killing Terrim, but with three Dogs gone, and Jack and Cutter out hunting, you’ll need to help guard the others.”
Gaven glared out at the faint fire, but nodded.
Allan, Kent, and Adder struck out across the grassland, moving at a steady, ground-eating pace. The camp fell behind, lost within a few hundred yards, the depression obscuring the glow of the heating stone. Allan focused on the dim firelight ahead, flickering low enough that occasionally it vanished. As they drew closer, it strengthened into a steady fire, larger than a campfire. Smoke billowed up toward the stars in a thick column, lit from beneath by angry red-orange flames. A gust of breeze brought the acrid reek of smoke and the stench of burning bodies. Allan swallowed against the smell, then gestured toward the two Dogs.
Kent and Adder angled toward Allan as he slowed. They edged forward cautiously, the wind shifting again, blowing the smoke away from them. All three dropped to the ground as they came up on the edge of a knoll, inching forward on hands and knees, then stomachs, using the grass as a screen.
Ten wagons lined the wide wash of the creek bed below, a thin trickle running through its center now, but a much wider flood path carved out of the plains on either side. Four of the wagons were burning, the fire crackling and snapping as it ate at the wooden walls and roofs, billowing out from beneath miniature eaves. At least twenty me
n were tossing trunks and barrels into four of the remaining wagons through the small open doors at their backs, a few others dragging more supplies from the remaining two. Five others held twelve men, women, and children captive near the center of the camp, a few of the women sobbing, one screaming, held back by two others as she struggled toward a body lying not far distant. More bodies riddled the wash, most obviously belonging to men from the wagons, killed before they could mount a defense.
The group’s leader suddenly spun. “Shut that bitch up.” When no one moved, he took two long strides toward the woman and slapped her hard across the face, flinging her back into the men holding her. They both lurched to their feet, fists clenched, but the five men guarding them leaped forward, swords bared, and they backed down.
The leader—a tall man with broad shoulders and a regal bearing, hints of Temerite in his face—turned away. His gaze swept the area, passing over Allan’s position without pause, fastening on the men holding the skittish horses being hitched to the four wagons. “Where are Ghent and Harrison? Haven’t they returned with the horses that bolted yet?”
Someone answered, but Kent tugged on Allan’s shirt. The Dog pointed to a few of the bodies, then jerked his head toward the edges of the wash.
It took a moment for Allan to realize that the men had been killed by archers. None of the men below dealing with the supplies and horses had bows.
Which meant the archers were likely still watching from the darkness above the wash.
He passed the word on to Adder. They’d been lucky not to run into them on their approach. The smoke must have obscured them in the darkness, along with the grasses as they edged up to the knoll.
Adder gave him a questioning look, tilting his head toward the darkness behind them, but Allan shook his head. He didn’t want to risk exposing their position by retreating now that he knew there were others behind them.
Below, one of the men shouted, “It’s empty,” and climbed down from a wagon.
“Torch it.”
Three men stepped forward with firebrands, one of them tossing a glass object inside with enough force Allan heard it shatter on impact. The others threw in their brands, and flame gushed out of the door with a feral whoosh, the men ducking as they backed away.
Allan focused on the leader, watching his movements. The Temerite lord stayed back from the main activity, but shifted from position to position, completely in control. The men were efficient, methodical, speaking to each other in curt sentences. No one laughed or joked. The leader rarely spoke. Everyone already knew what they were supposed to do.
The sixth wagon was finally emptied, the man inside hopping out mere moments before it was torched like the other. The leader began shouting orders, the others picking up the pace as the last of the supplies were loaded into the remaining wagons. Allan felt Kent tense as the men below regrouped. Two of the wagons began to trundle out of the wash, heading northeast. The men who’d been loading it drifted to surround the captives, glances passing among those with swords already drawn.
Allan placed a hand on Kent’s shoulder and the man’s eyes narrowed. Allan shook his head. Kent tried to pull away, but Allan clamped down hard, shoving him flat against the grass, leaning in close when he began to struggle.
“There’s too many of them. We’d only get ourselves killed.”
“Like hells,” Kent spat. Allan shot a glance at the wash to see if anyone had heard, then tightened his grip until pain lanced across Kent’s face.
“Do you want them to find our own camp?” Adder snapped from Allan’s other side. “Or the Hollow?”
Kent fought a moment more, then relented. “They don’t have a chance.”
Allan loosened his grip, fingers aching. “They were all dead as soon as this group found them.”
Below, someone barked a command and slapped their hand to the back of the last wagon. It began pulling away, after a shove from three of the men when one wheel stuck in the sandy bottom.
As soon as it began to move, the leader raised a hand and gave a curt signal.
Arrows shot out of the darkness from six different locations, each finding a mark among the captives. Four fell without a sound, including both children, arrows protruding from chests, a neck, an eye. Two others screamed, clutching at an arm, a stomach, but before the rest of the captives could react, more arrows found marks. The few survivors leaped up, men roaring, women screaming, and the men that circled them closed in. It was a slaughter, over in seconds.
The leader watched in silence. As soon as the last body slumped to the ground, the woman clawing at her attacker’s arm even as she fell, he ordered, “Back to Haven.”
The men stepped away from the slew of bodies, heading toward the edge of the wash. Conversations broke out, a few bursting out in laughter as they scrambled up the cut’s far slope. Allan tasted bile in the back of his throat.
“What about Ghent and Harrison?” someone asked.
The leader scanned the darkness. “They’ll find us on our way.”
Allan, Adder, and Kent hunkered down even further as the six archers leaped down to join their fellows. Within moments, the wash was clear, only the dead and the six burning wagons left behind. The crackle of the flames eating away at the wood was loud in Allan’s ears. To one side, he heard Adder dry retching.
“Should we leave now?” Kent jerked out from beneath Allan’s hand. “I think the slaughter is over.”
“Not yet. We don’t know whether they’ve all left.”
“They’re gone.”
All three of them lurched to a seated position, Allan managing to draw his blade and point it toward the figure standing over them, but an arrow was trained at his head.
“It’s Cutter.”
Kent swore as Cutter lowered his bow to the ground. The tracker scanned the darkness, eyes settling on the dead. “They’ve all headed northeast.”
“Even the two after the horses?”
Cutter nodded, and Allan rose into a crouch. “Then let’s get back to camp. Cutter, follow them discreetly, find out where they’re headed.”
Cutter pulled a string of dangling hares attached to his belt and handed them over to Allan. “I’ll be back before you break camp.” Then he vanished into the darkness.
“What about the dead?” Adder asked, staring down into the wash.
“We don’t have time to bury them.”
“We can at least pray for them.”
“Pray as we walk.”
Three
MORRELL FINISHED LABELING the last of the medicine bottles and placed them back in the wooden cabinet inside the healer’s cottage. The wooden door creaked as she closed it and slid the string over the knob to keep it secured. She turned to brush the small cutting board free of the dusty remnants of crumbled wormroot, but a moan interrupted her.
She sucked in a harsh breath of fear, then remembered that she wasn’t alone in the cottage. Claye was still here.
She rounded the central table where Logan had cut the arrow free of Claye’s side and entered the small side room where the Dog rested on a plain cot, a blanket thrown over him. He’d been unconscious and feverish since the day he’d been rushed into the cabin. She knelt down next to the cot and placed a hand against Claye’s flushed forehead. He tried to flinch away, one hand flapping weakly against the blanket.
“Stop it.”
“What—?” His bloodshot and grit-crusted eyes caught hers briefly, registering confusion but no recognition, then flicked away, taking in the room. His breath was a phlegmy rasp, rattling deep in his chest. His skin was hot to the touch.
Morrell pulled her hand away and frowned. “You’re in Logan’s cottage. You were attacked, shot with an arrow. Remember?”
Edges of panic lined his face. “Logan? Attacked?”
“You were returning from Erenthrall with the wagon. Bandits tried to
take it.”
He sucked in a breath and held it, but then something clicked and he sank back into the cot. “Yes. Yes, I remember. They killed Terrim.” He broke into a fit of coughing.
Morrell reached for the damp cloth in a small basin of water to one side, used it to remove the gunk from around his eyes. “You were hit, in the side.”
He scrabbled at her arm. “Bryce? The others?”
“Everyone else is fine.”
His eyes fluttered closed in relief.
She continued to wash his face, then set the cloth aside. Raising one of his arms—it felt strangely weightless, as if it were hollow—she pulled back the blanket to check the bandages wrapped around his chest. Fresh blood stained them in three places; his activity had reopened the wounds. But it was the putrid smell that bothered her.
“How bad is it?” Claye asked, startling her. She’d thought he’d slipped back into unconsciousness.
“It’s festering. Logan’s done all he can.”
His head sank back to the cot. A moment later, he chuckled. “Killed by infection. How stupid.”
Morrell pulled the blanket back further, then rose.
Claye had enough strength to catch her wrist. “Where are you going?”
She pulled his hand free. “I’m going to send for Logan. And I’m going to change your bandages. I’ll be back.”
She slipped into the outer room, then out the front door into bright sunlight. She squinted, catching sight of Jasom running across the rutted street in the direction of the barns.
“Jasom, come here!”
Normally, Jasom wouldn’t pay her any attention, but the harshness in her voice halted him in his tracks.
“What is it? I’m busy.”
“I’ll bet. Claye’s conscious. Fetch healer Logan. He’ll want to take a look at him.”
Jasom’s eyes widened. “I think he’s in the fields. I’ll bring him right back!”
Threading the Needle Page 4
