Neven’s gaze quickened. “Is it true, Svala? Will you return with us when the war is ended?”
Kath did not answer, for somehow it did not feel true. “We have another war to win before I can go home.” They looked at her, but she did not say where that home would be. In truth, she had no answer, just a gaping hollowness inside. Tugging on Duncan’s warrior ring, she looked away, hiding her own uncertainty. “I just came to see how Danya is faring.” She stood to go.
“Svala?”
Neven stopped her with a question.
“Yes?”
“When you go south, you must take us,” he gestured to Danya and Bryx and the other wolf warriors sitting in the shadows, “all of us with you.”
“When Danya wakes, she can decide for herself.”
“No, Svala.”
His voice held such certainty that she stared at him.
“The Ancestor said that the Beastspeaker must go south with the War Helm…and Danya agreed. She made us swear before we marched on the Citadel.”
More prophecy, Kath shivered, but she did not want to risk another friend. “Danya’s already done so much...she deserves the peace of the north.”
“There will be no peace unless we win.”
The words hit her like a hammer blow, the weight of the world falling on her shoulders.
“Will you swear, Svala?”
“Yes,” for she could give no other answer.
“Good.” Neven settled back amongst the pillows, never releasing Danya’s hand. “When the time is right, we will be ready.”
Bryx yipped as if in agreement.
Kath took her leave, stepping from the tented sanctuary. Lost in thought, she roamed the marble hallways, shaken by the exchange. Her friend lay locked in a healing coma, yet she’d found her heart’s desire…while Kath’s heart felt like ashes. Somehow she had to find a way south and she had to win…but she felt so empty. Frustration warred with sorrow, she felt so hopeless, so lost. Kath gripped the crystal dagger, feeling like a pawn of prophecy.
9
Juliana
“Captain!” A harsh knock on the door startled Juliana from sleep. “Captain, I need to see you!” Nestled beneath a warm quilt, she stirred, placing a hand against the hull to feel her ship. The gentle creak and sway spoke of a smooth sea and the faint thrumming of the hull bespoke a full sail. Reassured, she smiled knowing the Sea Sprite sped homeward at steady clip. Rising, she peered through the salt-encrusted porthole. Dawn cracked the horizon, a glimmer of golden light reflected on calm seas. Smooth waters, no enemy in sight, and no footsteps drumming overhead, the apparent calm belied the urgency in her first mate’s voice. “A moment!” Juliana took the time to pull on her boots and belt a long dagger to her waist. Tucking a wayward strand of copper-bright hair behind her ear, she opened the cabin door to find her first mate hovering outside, an anxious look on his suntanned face.
Marcus stabbed her with a daggered glare. “Wren found this tied to the crow’s nest. He swears it was not there yesterday.”
Her gaze flicked to his hands, shocked by what he held. “Come in.” She stepped aside, locking the door behind him.
Marcus filled her cabin. A big burly man with dark wavy hair tied at his nape, a gilded seashell dangling from his left ear for luck, he smelled of leather and salt. Setting the pouch on her chart table, he stepped back as if it held a coiled cobra.
A red and blue checkered shield surmounted by a white osprey with wings spread wide emblazoned the pouch, marking it as a royal dispatch. Juliana’s fingers traced the embroidery, but instead of tanned leather, the pouch was made of sealskin…as if it was meant to weather a storm.
“Never seen one like that.”
“Nor I.”
“Never found one tied to a crow’s nest either.”
And that was the riddle. Messenger pouches usually waited for her in ports of call or were passed from ship to ship. They didn’t just appear while under sail betwixt a long sea crossing.
“I’ve sworn Wren to silence.” His deep voice was a low growl. “Can’t let rumors of magic fester.”
“Just so.” As a Royal J, Juliana was acquainted with magic, enough to value its uses without stirring irrational fears, but her seamen were a superstitious lot and ill omens could scuttle a voyage. “You did well, but there’s no one in Navarre who could magic a message pouch halfway across the Western Ocean.”
“Yet it’s here.”
She gave him a slanted look. “And the watch noticed nothing unusual?”
“Nothing reported.”
“Then we best learn the meaning behind the riddle.” She untied the elaborate knot, more proof the dispatch came from Castle Seamount. Inside she found two scrolls. One bore the seal of her father, the king of Navarre, and the other bore the seal of her sister. “Jordan!” Her swordish sister was meant to be Wayfaring with the Kiralynn monks deep in the Southern Mountains, a long way for a scroll to travel, a riddle of another sort. At the bottom of the pouch, she found a wooden disk with a message coil. The message coil gave her pause for they were only used in dire times.
Marcus hissed when he saw it. “An ill-omen.”
“Perhaps.” She reached for her sister’s scroll first. Cramped handwriting crowded the page. The familiar scrawl told a tale of ambush in the monastery, of a long journey across Erdhe, of strange visions and a wedding in a ruined keep…and then it spoke of death. Juliana issued a strangled cry. “Death at Castle Seamount!”
“Navarre’s been attacked?”
“Assaulted by treachery.” Juliana sank onto her bunk, feeling gut-punched.
“Treachery?”
“The Curse of the Vowels.”
Marcus gasped making the hand sign against evil. “The king?”
“Survives, but many Royal Is are dead, my aunts, my uncles, felled by poison.” Juliana struggled to hold back tears. “How could this happen?”
Marcus had no answer. “Perhaps the other scroll?”
Taking a steadying breath, she broke the second seal, her gaze scanning her father’s bold hand. “Impossible!” The vellum slipped from her fingers.
Marcus stared at her. “New orders?”
“A death sentence.” She nudged the scroll towards him.
He scooped it up, holding the vellum to the light, his lips silently forming the words. “By the gods!” He glared at her. “This must be a lie!”
“Yet the seals and the knot work name it true, though I cannot believe the king would issue such orders.”
“But you cannot sail the fleet there, ‘tis madness.”
“Poison and prophecies,” she shook her head, “perhaps we live in mad times.” Her gaze sought the message coil. “Or perhaps the answer lies within.”
He hovered beside her, his fists clenched.
“Best if you wait outside.”
Marcus gave her a grave nod. “I’ll be waiting.”
She saw him to the door and locked it behind him. For half a heartbeat she leaned against the sturdy door, absorbing the sounds of her ship. Taking a deep breath, she stared at the wooden disc spooled with parchment as if it carried a venomous adder. Message coils always accompanied the most dire dispatches. Bearing only a few words, the coils either verified or negated the scrolls they accompanied. She’d heard tell of coils that read “ignore’, or “do the opposite”, or simply “obey”. Juliana prayed for the first and feared the later. Whatever the message, she was charged to follow the will of her king. “Only one way to be sure.” Snatching the wooden coil from the table, she carefully removed the long thin strip of parchment. A swirl of red ink marked one end, followed by a long list of words. On its own, the list was gibberish, but every ship’s captain carried a means to decode the message. Setting the parchment aside, she unlocked her sea chest, fishing through charts and spare clothing till she found the leather satchel. Opening the satchel, she revealed four wooden rods imprinted with the crest of Navarre. Ranging in thickness from a skinny chicken bone to a cook’s
rolling pin, each two foot rod bore a colored dot and a nail in one end. Matching the red swirl to the blue rod, she pierced the parchment with the nail and began wrapping it around the rod, overlapping the parchment in such a fashion that only the first letter of each line remained visible. When the winding was complete, she took a steadying breath before reading the message. Writ along the length of the rod in clear script, the message read, “Believe and obey with all haste”.
“No!” The cry shivered out of her. Sinking to her bunk, she read it again, but the words remained the same. A cold foreboding claimed her. She shook her head in disbelief. They were asking her to risk her entire ship, nay the entire fleet, for the sake of prophecies and visions. It was madness, an insane folly, a cruel jest of some sort. Desperate to disregard the message, she reached for her sister’s scroll and read it again, clutching at details. So many phrases sounded like Jordan, yet the message spoke of god-given visions and death. Her swordish sister had always been so steady and sure, as dependable as steel, and now she claimed a seer’s powers? It was damn near impossible to believe…but duty mattered to Jordan…as much as it did to Juliana…and the message was properly sealed and confirmed.
A fist hammered the door. “Captain!”
Delay would not change the message. Carefully unwrapping the parchment coil, Juliana returned the rods to her sea chest. Taking a steadying breath, she unlocked the door.
Marcus gaped when he saw her face. “So it’s true!”
She gave him a grim nod. “Raise the pennant flag for captains’ parlay. The fleet has new orders.”
His face paled. “You won’t do it. It’s a death mission.”
She steeled her voice. “You have your orders.”
He stepped back as if slapped. “Yes, captain.” He turned to do her bidding.
She closed and locked her door. Death and duty, the thoughts chased her mind. Leaning against the sturdy wood, she worried that Marcus was right.
10
Blaine
Something darted behind the statue. The sneaky movement snagged Blaine’s gaze, yet he never slowed the speed of his sword. Blue steel cleaved the cold morning air as he worked through the classical forms, but his gaze remained fixed on the statue. This early in the morning, the great rune-carved courtyard was usually deserted, yet something skulked behind the statue.
Flowing from slash of the snake to strike of the eagle, Blaine whirled, deliberately turning his back on the statue. Poised on the balls of his feet, his blue sword gripped in both gauntleted hands, he listened for an attack, yet none came. Six heartbeats later, he pivoted just in time to spy a small dark-haired lad scurry up the palace steps, disappearing between the golden doors. Skinny and short and clad in a filthy tunic, the lad looked like a street urchin…yet he carried a short sword. A short sword…mischief or malevolence, Blaine decided to follow.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Blaine slipped between the golden doors just as the lad turned down the left hand hallway. Blaine followed, stepping lightly across the marble floor. Braziers glowed the length of the hall, striping the walls with light and shadow. The boy moved like a thief, scurrying from one shadow to the next. Carefully peering around each corner, he flinched at any sound. Clearly the boy was afraid, yet he pressed deeper into the palace, the sword clutched awkwardly in his two hands.
Intrigued, Blaine followed, keeping just enough distance to remain unheard. The palace was a labyrinth of luxury; marble hallways, gilded braziers and rich tapestries, yet the urchin seemed to know his way, compounding the riddle. Blaine turned the corner…and the lad was gone. He scanned the hallway, but found nowhere for the lad to hide. Swearing silently, Blaine ran to the far corner, but saw no sign of the urchin. Puzzled, he retraced his steps. A strange, bitter smell rankled his nostrils. Breathing deep, he traced the smoky scent to a tapestry. A tapestry! Twitching the tapestry aside, he discovered stairs leading down, a bracketed torch glittering at the bottom. The god-cursed palace was a tangled labyrinth, worse than he’d ever thought.
Sword at the ready, Blaine descended the stairs. Instead of dark marble, the walls were dull granite, gray and unadorned. Perhaps he’d stumbled onto the servants’ quarters...or something worse. The smoky smell grew stronger, scratching at his throat. Bitter and irritating, the noxious scent was vaguely familiar. He’d smelled it before, in other parts of the palace, but never this strong.
Peering around the corner, he spied the urchin-lad standing in front of a closed door. Gripping his sword, the lad glared at the door as if summoning his courage.
If the lad truly needed the sword, he wouldn’t stand a chance. It was time to end this charade. Blaine stepped into the hallway, torchlight glittering on his silver surcoat, but the boy never turned. Instead, he opened the door and plunged inside.
Angry shouts erupted from the chamber.
Blaine leaped forward, barreling through the doorway. Bitter smoke stung his nostrils, a blue haze clouding his vision, but then he saw them, dark robed priests! With long bright knives, they slashed at the boy. Blaine grabbed the lad by his tunic, and hurled him backwards. Stepping between the boy and the priests, Blaine snarled, “Fight me!” He slashed left and right, his sword’s tip slicing a priest’s throat, opening a bright red slash. Blood sprayed the others, a flailing corpse falling to the floor.
By all rights, the priests should have fled…but instead, they leaped to a frenzied attack. Knives slashed towards his face. Hands clawed at his legs. They swarmed him, fighting like rabid dogs, biting and kicking. Blaine struck left and right, cleaving a path through flesh and bone. Screams filled the chamber and blood spattered the walls yet the priests kept fighting. Stumbling over fresh corpses, they clung to Blaine’s arms and legs, trying to pull him down, trying to bite through chainmail and leather. And then he saw their faces, their mouths stained dark blue, their eyes filmed white like wet maggots. Horror and revulsion gripped him in equal measure. Flinching from their touch, he punched and kicked, gaining space to wield his sword. A berserker’s madness took him. Laughing, he hacked and cut, his sword cleaving flesh and bone till nothing moved save twitching corpses.
Blaine staggered to a stop, blood dripping from his blue blade. His nostrils stung from the blue smoke. Spying a wine flagon, he dumped it on the brazier, quenching the flames. A billow of noxious blue smoke laced with wine belched to the ceiling. Peering through the smoky haze, Blaine saw pallets pushed along the wall, mounds of clothing and hoarded food stacked between them, as if the thrice-damned priests had nested in the chamber. “Priests!” He made the word a curse.
“Not priests.”
He whirled, his sword raised…but it was just the boy.
“Not priests…acolytes.”
“How can you tell?”
“By their robes, poor quality wool, too scratchy for full-sworn priests.”
Blaine reached for a robe, feeling the scratchy weave. “You’ve a good eye for cloth.” He used the robe to wipe the blood from his sword.
The boy stepped close, staring down at the dead. “And besides, priests would never be chained to Vetra.”
“Vetra?”
“A plant they grow in their secret gardens.”
“Why?”
“To chew or smoke in their braziers. It’s supposed to cause visions, to let them hear the Dark God’s voice, but too much makes them crazy. Chained to the smoke, they become rabid like animals, craving it always, willing to kill for it…till it turns their eyes white as blind mice. Once their eyes turn, it kills them.” He kicked a dead foot as if daring the corpse to rise.
“Smoke that turns men into monsters.” Blaine scowled, backing away from the brazier, wondering if he’d breathed too much. The Citadel held a legion of horrors, but he’d never guessed smoke would be one of them. “How do you know so much?”
“My brother was chosen as an acolyte.”
Things began to make sense. “And you came looking for him?”
The boy nodded.
“To kill
him or to rescue him?”
The boy gave him a dead-eyed stare. “Depends on his eyes.”
Blaine looked at the lad with a measure of respect. “You see him here?”
The boy took his time, making his way through the tangled corpses. His face paled at the carnage but he did not puke. Returning to Blaine, he gave the smallest shake of his head. “No.”
“You think there’s more nests like this?”
“Yes.”
“Priests as well as acolytes?” Blaine shepherded the boy from the room, wanting to get away from the foul smoke.
“Yes.”
“I’ve a mind to hunt some priests.”
The boy gave him a fierce look. “I can help.”
“I thought you might.” Blaine sheathed his sword. “What’s your name?”
“Dermit.”
He led the boy back up the stairs and through the tapestry curtain. “When’d you last have a good meal, Dermit?”
The boy looked away. “Can’t remember.”
“My name’s Sir Blaine and all this fighting has made me hungry.” He steered the boy back towards the royal kitchens. “Come on, let’s find something to eat. And then we’ll talk about hunting priests.”
11
General Haith
General Haith stood atop the battlement of Raven Pass, savoring the victory. As the Mordant’s battle commander, he’d ordered all memory of the maroon to be struck down and destroyed. Soldiers in black prowled the battlements, checking the bodies, dumping slain knights from the ramparts. A few still lived, screaming as they toppled from the walls. Bodies piled below, scavenged by the victors. Octagon shields were defiled before being shattered. Maroon battle banners were severed from their poles, cut loose to ride the wind like flotsam. A single banner fluttered southward like a frightened eel, homeless, despoiled, vanquished, an omen of things to come. A smile rode the general’s face; he’d waited a lifetime for this victory, the beginning of a great conquest.
Smoke rose in dark pillars from the central yard. The dead burned upon a massive pyre, a fitting sacrifice to the Dark Lord. Battle clerics in dark robes supervised the fire, often despoiling the corpses before consigning them to the flames. The general despised the priests but they had their uses. Turning his back on the greasy stench, he continued his progress along the wall.
The Knight Marshal (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 7
