Dropping the axe, he wrapped his big hands around Erik’s head and pressed hard against his temples and cheeks. The captive’s eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped open in a wail. Grieve’s muscles bulged with the effort as he snapped the other man’s head sideways in an abrupt vicious turn. The bone cracked, and Erik’s feet jittered on the deck, clanking the ankle chain.
Bannon felt sick, his knees weak as he forced himself to remain standing. Other Norukai crowded close, making sure he did not try to dive over the side, but Bannon was paralyzed by the sight of his dead friend.
King Grieve wasn’t finished, though. With an additional grunt he twisted the head around even more, snapping and grinding the neck bones, stretching the skin and tendons. Erik’s head faced entirely the wrong direction. With another severe jerk, Grieve twisted again until the neck popped and tore, and then he wrenched Erik’s head off his shoulders, uprooting the spine with the ragged cord still dangling down.
Grieve shoved the limp body onto the deck boards. “Now you have another mess to clean up.”
The remaining slaves whimpered, but Bannon refused to reward the king with any reaction. He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling murderous rage toward Grieve and all Norukai, as well as dismay that he had let his friend down. If only he had a chance . . .
With an offhand gesture the king tossed Erik’s head overboard, and Bannon heard it splash into the dark river where Lila had vanished more than an hour ago. If she came back, the young man imagined he and the morazeth together could kill a dozen of the ugly raiders . . . but it wouldn’t be enough.
“Clean up the woman’s body,” Grieve sneered. “I’ll dispose of this garbage.” Seeming to take pleasure in the labor, he raised his axe again and brought it down in an abrupt stroke that struck off Erik’s foot just above the iron shackle so he could drag the body from the chain.
Chalk let out a high-pitched laugh. “The axe does cleave the bone!”
Bannon knew that the albino had saved him, staying King Grieve, but he could have saved Erik, too. Chalk’s eyes were bright as he capered around, distracted.
Grieve heaved the headless body over the side of the serpent ship. Eager to help, Chalk ran up, grabbed Erik’s severed foot, and flung it into the river, following the larger body with a smaller splash.
“Feed the fish!” Chalk cried. “Make them grow big.”
Bannon hardened his heart with the certainty that someday he would be free and someday he would kill King Grieve.
Moving stiffly with pain, he went to the bow, where Adessa’s disfigured body lay on the deck. Her face, throat, and chest were like pounded meat. The king thought he was punishing Bannon by forcing him to see the bloody morazeth leader, but Bannon had hated Adessa, too, although he felt no elation at seeing the woman dead. He couldn’t understand why Adessa would have been any part of Lila’s plan to help free him, but she had provided a distraction that gave Lila a chance, though not enough.
Bannon slung the morazeth leader’s mangled body over his shoulder and grimaced when he felt the wet pulp of her skin, the oozing blood and tissue. She felt light, empty, for such a fearsome warrior. The Norukai sailors watched, amused, as he rolled her overboard into the darkness.
“Feed the fish!” Chalk cried. “Big fish.”
With a queasy stomach, Bannon turned to Maxim’s collapsed skull and sloughed, rotten flesh. He shuddered as he remembered the unmistakable maniacal laugh, the taunting voice of the dead. He feared the slain wizard commander’s spirit might return.
Bannon upended the barrel and dumped the mess overboard, where it joined Adessa’s body in the river.
Many of the Norukai lounged back and snored for the remaining hours of the night, though edgy guards stayed close to Bannon. He concentrated on scrubbing the blood and washing the deck clean with buckets of river water. The work wasn’t much different from cleaning fish guts and slime, but this was the smeared remnants of human beings.
As if keeping him company, Chalk pestered him for hours, even if his words were slurred due to his split and swollen lip. Bannon did his best to ignore the bothersome shaman, though each time he saw the scars from the myriad bite marks on the pale skin, he shuddered from the ordeal the outcast had endured.
After sunrise, when the deck was scoured clean five times over, the Norukai tied Bannon next to the other slaves again, and Chalk found a spot beside a wooden crate, where he curled up and went to sleep.
When the morning brightened enough for them to see the channel ahead, the Norukai raised their anchors and stretched the dark sails to drift down the river again. The slaves sat quietly under the hot sun, searching for remnants of hope. If they tried to speak to one another, the Norukai would beat them.
Near noon, the crew grew visibly excited when they could see the estuary ahead, the widening mouth where the river spilled into the vast open water.
“I can’t wait to be out on the ocean again,” Gara said, then let out a mournful whistle. “My ships were made for the open sea.”
With longing in his heart, Bannon remembered spending time on sailing ships, even the doomed Wavewalker. As a boy on Chiriya Island, he had watched the graceful vessels sail off to places he could only dream of. He had always wanted to sail the seas, and now he was a captive of the hideous raiders. He had no hope of escape, unless Chalk could help him. . . .
As the raider vessels cruised into the delta, shouts of surprise came from the bow. Norukai hurried to the front of the ship. Some of the raiders guffawed and joked, pointing over the side. Bannon strained against his bindings to see what had drawn their attention, but too many burly bodies blocked his view.
King Grieve stood by the carved serpent figurehead, and he let out an angry snort. “I can kill her just as easily as I killed the last one. Go get her.”
Out in the widening estuary where sandbars and hummocks confused the direct route to the ocean, a woman stood alone on a sandbar in the middle of the river, waiting for the serpent ships to arrive.
Lila.
*
When Bannon watched the Norukai bring the new prisoner on board, she was trussed like an animal killed in a hunt. Her wrists and ankles were bound, as if the raiders feared her, and with good reason. They dropped Lila heavily onto the deck, and she smothered her grunt as her head struck the wood. She glared at them in defiance.
When she saw Bannon, her stony expression softened and her eyes lit up. Chalk cringed and scuttled away from the woman who had struck him.
Grieve bent down to relieve Lila of her dagger, then—gingerly—her agile knife. “You won’t be using these again.” He threw both weapons over the side.
Next, he pulled the sword that was bound to her back, holding up Sturdy. Bannon’s heart surged at seeing his trusty weapon. He had bought the discolored blade from a swordsmith in Tanimura. Nathan had trained him in its use aboard the Wavewalker, and Bannon had killed many enemies with it, including countless Norukai. He strained against his bonds. If only he could get the weapon, his familiar blade—
“Ugly sword,” Grieve said. He unceremoniously threw it overboard into the river.
Bannon bit back an outcry. Sturdy! The sword tumbled and spun in the air before it splashed into the deepening water. The serpent ships sailed on, past the estuary toward the open sea.
Bannon slumped back. Sturdy was gone, sunk to the bottom of the river’s mouth.
Lila managed to sit upright, and Chalk pranced over to her, reluctant to approach the morazeth. His cheek and mouth were swollen, puffy with blossoming bruises, and blood from the split lip caked his pale mouth.
Glancing at the shaman’s damaged face, Grieve glared down at Lila. “This is for what you did to my Chalk.” He slugged her face hard, knocking her to the deck with blood pouring from her smashed nose and split lip. Though Lila didn’t make a sound, Bannon groaned in anticipation of what he knew was to come.
The serpent ships left the coast and headed out to sea.
CHAPTER
39
After their reunion at Cliffwall, Nathan and his companions prepared to defend the world. They didn’t have much time.
Even the staunchest fighters could not hope to drive off the gigantic army, should Utros find the isolated archive, so their best defense lay in remaining hidden in the maze of canyons. On a forced march to the coast, General Utros would have no reason to explore these side canyons, so the scholars should be safe while they planned.
As he stood outside in the open alcove in front of the main building, Nathan regarded the prophecy building that now lay slumped and melted against the far wall, its windows scarred over like wet clay. It had been destroyed by a foolish student who accidentally released a “Weeping Stone” spell without understanding how to control it. Nathan sighed at yet another reminder of the dangerous knowledge in the archive.
A knot of dread formed in his stomach as he considered so many naive and untrained scholars ransacking the archive for equally powerful magic. What if another eager but foolish scholar unleashed a dangerous spell that got out of hand? He, Prelate Verna, and the Sisters of the Light would have to serve as a check before anyone used such destructive magic.
He stroked his chin as he gazed out to the green canyon, the orchards, the flocks of sheep. These isolated people had vanished from the world thousands of years ago, during the great war. When Sulachan declared that all magical lore be rounded up and destroyed, many valiant wizards had secretly stockpiled old books and scrolls, preserving the information here in the wilderness. Now, perhaps that knowledge could be used to defend against General Utros.
Nathan sighed. Every time one terrible enemy was vanquished, another appeared—a discouraging thought. But maybe he should look at it the other way around. For every enemy that threatened the world, there would always be defenders like himself, Nicci, Richard, and Kahlan to stand against tyranny, proving to be stronger than evil, again and again.
This time would be no different.
Inhaling another breath of fresh air and solitude, Nathan turned back to the main archive building, which contained far too many books to read. Somewhere, there would be at least one good solution.
Inside the vaulted library chamber, glowing lights hovered above study tables, illuminated by simple spells that the young novices used for practice. Scholars sat at individual desks or at long tables piled with books. They all searched for new ideas, some unorthodox spell that could help stop the ancient army. Gloria distributed volumes for her avid memmers to peruse. Traditional scholars searched volume after volume, categorizing the books so that the Sisters of the Light could locate relevant subjects for more careful study.
Nathan was impressed by how engrossed they were in their search. The men and women bent over faded words, compared notes, and deciphered near-forgotten languages. The air in the chamber seemed to throb with the intensity of their thoughts.
Verna looked up from a long scroll spread out on the main table. Novice Amber and Sisters Mab, Sharon, and Arabella sat close to the prelate, sharing books and indicating passages they found of interest. Seeing him in the doorway, Verna raised her voice. “Can you read the documents by standing all the way over there, Nathan? Your eyesight must be extraordinary.”
“I was pondering, my dear prelate.” He came in and seated himself on the bench beside Amber, and the prelate handed him a stack of books as if she were a schoolmistress. “We haven’t reviewed these yet. Of the five hundred tomes we studied today, we set aside fifteen that are worth a second look. It is hard work.”
“Well, well, fifteen are better than none.” He opened the cover of the first book, which was filled with nautical charts. He wondered how such a book had ever found its way so far inland, but he doubted it would contain anything they could use against the marching army. He set the tome aside.
For the next several hours, Nathan fell into a routine, studying spines and titles, occasionally recognizing an author. Some books were written in the alphabet of Ildakar, which he had learned from Elsa during their stay in the city. Some languages were incomprehensible to him, so he returned those books to the stack in hopes that someone else might recognize the writing. Several books were written in High D’Haran, and one volume sent a tingle through his skin. He leaned closer. “This is in the language of Creation.”
“That bodes well. It must be extraordinarily powerful,” Verna said. “If you can read it?”
Nathan took that as a challenge. “I am somewhat versed in the language of Creation, but it requires a great deal of interpretation.”
He spent an hour on that book alone, while the scholars and the Sisters cataloged, studied, and discarded dozens of volumes. Finally, he admitted defeat. “Too much of a challenge, even for me.” He clucked his tongue against his teeth. “I was adept at constructed spells, but these words have an unknown foundation. If only Richard were here! That boy was quite skilled in working constructed spells, far beyond my talents.”
“Yes, Richard was the best student ever, the only war wizard born in thousands of years.” Verna closed a green leather-bound book, which sported a prominent dried bloodstain. “But we don’t have him now. We have only ourselves. And we have all this.” She gestured to the crowded shelves that lined the walls of the library, as well as the countless tunnels and archive vaults, the satellite buildings, even the innumerable sealed chests preserved by spells long ago. “That should be enough.”
“We just need to find out how, my dear,” he said.
*
Alone in the small austere chamber they had assigned him, Nathan fell into a deep sleep, still exhausted from the long and arduous trek. His mind and heart felt bruised from the loss of dear Elsa. Ildakar was gone, and he didn’t know whether Bannon and Nicci were alive or dead.
He tossed and turned on his narrow pallet. In his dreams he went back to Ildakar, but he felt a darkness around his memories. His heart pounded like a drum inside his chest, and he sank deeper into the dream. Subconsciously, he realized that he wasn’t looking through his own eyes.
Nathan saw himself in the combat arena, but his body felt different, solid and muscular. He brushed the front of his vest, finding not his usual ruffled white shirt, but the pelt of a sand panther . . . a sand panther he himself had skinned after killing it. After Ivan had killed it!
The chief handler’s heart thundered in his chest. Ivan had been a cruel man who enjoyed torturing the beasts he created. He would beat them into submission, but he valued them, if only because they served as his killing machines.
Still sleeping, captured by the unwelcome dream, Nathan felt a rush of exhilaration as he remembered harassing a huge, caged combat bear. Fleshmancers had created the beasts for the arena, and Ivan’s gift could control the creatures’ rudimentary brains. He remembered jabbing the bear with a sharp stick, making the monster crash into the iron bars of his cage. It had claws that could rip a horse apart.
Deeply asleep, Nathan stirred, tried to fight off the nightmare. Ivan was dead, mauled to death by his own animals. The man’s heart had restored Nathan as a wizard, but it was Nathan’s gift, and Nathan’s heart now! Not Ivan’s.
Some lingering part of the chief handler’s spirit brought back memories of tormenting monstrous bulls with branched horns, spiny boars with razor tusks. Ivan had wrestled each beast himself before turning them loose in the arena against their victims.
As Nathan dreamed, his hands flexed, and he smelled blood and dust in the air. He poked and prodded three sand panthers until they lashed out at him with fangs and claws, but Ivan just laughed and drove them away. In the dream, Nathan saw the sand panthers turn on him, snarling. They bounded closer, ready to tear him apart—
He woke up, sweating. He clenched his hands, appalled at what his heart remembered, and he realized that a part of him had enjoyed the torture. It was not a real part of him, though, just some leftover contamination from the chief handler’s heart.
“Stay away from me. Get out of my head!” With an effort, he dro
ve Ivan’s presence away, and the dead man faded to whispers in his mind and in his heart.
Shaking, knowing he would never go back to sleep, Nathan went to the small desk and took out his life book. He opened it to the last few blank pages, where he would write down his real thoughts, his real adventures. That was what he wanted to remember.
CHAPTER 40
The silver whirlwind of the sliph swept Nicci away from Orogang. She had been so desperate to leave, had tried repeatedly to summon the sliph, to no avail. But now she couldn’t leave the city, not in the middle of the battle! If Nicci wasn’t there to help the outnumbered Hidden People, Utros’s army would conquer the ancient capital. All of the people would be slaughtered.
Yet the sliph had her, filled her, carried her along. Nicci struggled to stay where she was, but she couldn’t break free. The molten silver rushed into her mouth and nostrils, plunged into her lungs, abducted her. She didn’t want to go! She felt as ineffective as a small child battering at an adult in frustration.
Nicci lost track of time and distance. She was helpless, and not in gentle hands. This rebellious sliph was malicious. In transit, Nicci experienced the primal fear of suffocating, drowning. She tumbled along, disembodied.
Finally, after an infinite yet unknown amount of time, she hurtled back to the real world, and there was nothing calm about their arrival. The sliph burst out of her well at the temple in Serrimundi, and the metal froth boiled up over the lip, dumping Nicci onto the ground.
She sprawled onto the flagstones, retching to purge the substance from her lungs, mouth, and nose. She scrambled to her knees, glaring back at the well, and shouted, “Why did you take me? I did not wish to travel now!”
Orogang was on the other side of the land. Even without General Utros to lead them, those thousand regimented soldiers would make short work of the gray-clad refugees. She thought of Mrra and her sand panthers against the ancient warriors, and all those poorly trained Hidden People who fought for their lives, defending the ruins of the city that had been their home.
Heart of Black Ice (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles Book 4) Page 23
