Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

  Spider nodded. “Yes. The damage is painful, but not too serious. Though they won’t be trying to fight us tonight, I’d wager.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Jorgeson replied. “They’re a stubborn lot.” He glanced around them. “Can you sense whether the others are coming?”

  “Nothing, my lord,” Roach replied. “Give it time. Even if there is a bond as you believe between the brothers, it will take time for the rest of their party to follow their tracks.”

  “Be ready,” Jorgeson warned. “And stay close to me. I expect to win this. But I also expect to remain alive. One of you is to assure my safety at all times, no matter what.”

  “I’ll guard you,” Spider said, while Roach looked away. Jorgeson did not fancy that either of the blood witches liked his company or were happy about being given to him for his desperate quest, but Spider managed to hide his contempt better than Roach did.

  “Make damn sure you do,” Jorgeson snapped. “Capturing the fugitives is no good to me if I’m not able to present them to the Crown Prince.” And reclaim, if not exactly my honor, at least my freedom.

  Once more, the smugglers and guards melted into the shadows, awaiting new prey. Jorgeson had left his wagon hitched to the horses, ready to go should anything go awry. He learned long ago to plan for contingencies, and to design an escape in case of defeat as well as a path for a triumphant return. Jorgeson fingered the pendant that hung at this throat, an anti-magic charm for which he had paid dearly.

  The wretch who made it for him swore on the life of his hostage child that the amulet was good enough to deflect the power of even an accomplished witch. Jorgeson had tried it by asking Spider to strike at him, while he held the hostage like a shield. The amulet worked, though expedience forced him to kill both the amulet maker and the child, regardless. He wore it always and favored it not only for protection but for how it seemed to make both Spider and Roach even more uncomfortable in his presence.

  “Someone’s coming,” Spider muttered.

  “The hunters’ witches?” Jorgeson felt the thrill of the fight rise in his blood.

  The roar of falling rock cut off Spider’s reply as the mouth of the old mine collapsed. A streak of fire sizzled across the clearing, aiming right for Jorgeson, who leaped out of the way. Muted buzzing sounded in the night like strange bees, and four of the smugglers collapsed, with bloody gouges in the center of their foreheads.

  “Shoot them!” Jorgeson shouted to his guards, who looked around at the darkness, still unable to make out their adversaries.

  The twang of bows came as the buzzing resumed. An arrow flew toward Roach, then deflected against his warding. One of the guards fell with an arrow in his chest, while another clutched at a bleeding shoulder where an arrow had lodged. The buzzing—Jorgeson knew it now to be the whir of slings—sounded again, but none of the stones found their mark this time. To the left of where they stood, away from the mine entrance, fire leaped up from the dry grass, blazing bright and hot.

  Too late, Jorgeson recognized the distraction. When he looked back to the clearing, two men stood with the prisoners, and he knew at once that the taller of the two was Rigan Valmonde.

  “Kill him!” Jorgeson screamed to his witches and marksmen.

  Rigan brought his hands down, and a ring of fire blazed around the two witches and the captives. The other man raised his hands, and a green warding crackled in a cylinder of energy all around them.

  “You should not have come here,” Rigan shouted. “Go back to the city, and take your guards with you.”

  Only two of the smugglers remained standing, and more than half a dozen of his guards. One of those clutched suddenly at his chest, stumbled, and then fell to the ground, gasping twice before he went still. Another doubled over, retching violently, bringing up the contents of his stomach over and over until only bile remained. More witches, or can the two inside the ring keep up their walls and still attack my men? Jorgeson wondered.

  Shouts and jeers sounded from the darkness, dozens of voices strong. They yelled obscenities and cat-called, and for good measure, sent stones zinging through the air from slings and arrows flying toward their marks.

  The rout Jorgeson had envisioned had turned into a debacle, and much as he was loathe to leave with his prize so close at hand, he knew a lost cause when he saw it.

  “Get me out of here,” Jorgeson growled to Spider and Roach. “Whatever it takes to get us to the wagon and clear of this godsforsaken place!”

  They ran for the wagon. Up ahead, Jorgeson saw the dim silhouettes of people standing between them and the road. “Do something!” he hissed.

  Roach uttered a word of power and swept out one hand, knocking everyone out of their way. Curses and cries of surprise sounded as they pounded past, but Roach had used sufficient force to keep those he downed from coming after them.

  The wagon was on a farm lane that led away from the clearing and came out on another road. Jorgeson untethered the horses and climbed into the driver’s seat, putting the wagon in motion even before the two blood witches were fully onboard.

  “Keep them off our tail!” he yelled as Spider and Roach struggled to find a hold. The wagon lunged and jolted on the rutted road, but the horses kept the pace, and for a time, Jorgeson’s concentration was so focused on not landing in a ditch or laming a horse that he had no idea what the witches did to dissuade pursuit.

  They had put several miles between them and the outlaws by the time they reached the road and Jorgeson finally slowed the carriage. “What happened?” he snarled at the two witches, who looked worse for the wear after the harrowing ride.

  “The hunters had help,” Spider replied.

  “I figured that already,” Jorgeson bit back. “Villagers?”

  “Most likely,” Roach said. “My guess, from the slings and bows. Crude, but effective, especially in the dark.”

  “Why didn’t you sense Rigan Valmonde coming?”

  “We did, once he got fairly close,” Spider replied, not bothering to hide the tension in his voice. “I suspect he and the other witch also used a deflection spell. They’re common enough.”

  “And the others? The ones who just fell over dead or puking their suppers? What of them?” Jorgeson relished the chance to take out his foul mood on a deserving target, and his disappointment in both blood witches made them fair game.

  “That’s hedge witch stuff,” Roach answered, derision clear in his voice.

  “Hedge witch or no, they got the better of both of you,” Jorgeson snapped. “Why didn’t you attack?”

  “We did, my lord, but there were too many of them to take on all at once,” Spider protested.

  “I saw nothing.”

  “Not all magic is flash and chant,” Roach responded. “As soon as we realized others were coming, we sent a force against them to keep them back, but you said you wanted to take the fugitives alive, and we didn’t know who was who. All we could do was throw obstacles in their way unless we risked killing them.” He clearly blamed Jorgeson for the rout.

  “Those bloody villagers took up arms against us,” Jorgeson seethed. “I may not be able to find the Valmondes, but I know where their village is.” He turned to the witches. “I want them to pay. Bring down the worst of the creatures on them. Wipe the village from the ground. All of them, kill all of them!”

  “My lord—” Spider protested

  “Just do it,” Jorgeson hissed between gritted teeth. “And then figure out how we will find the Valmondes now that they’ve been put on alert. Because we will find them and when we do, we’ll make them a sacrifice Colduraan will be proud of.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Corran startled awake with a panicked cry. Rigan grabbed his shoulders in a firm grip, anchoring him. “Easy. You’re safe. Everything’s all right.”

  Corran’s wild eyes scanned the room and finally came back to Rigan’s face. “The field. It was an ambush, they set a trap—”

  Rigan nodded, still keeping his han
ds on Corran’s shoulders. “You’re out. You’re safe. It’s over.” He could feel Corran shaking, and his pupils, blown wide with fear, made Rigan’s gut wrench. He did not release his hold until Corran’s breathing slowed and his pulse stopped throbbing so hard the vein jumped in his neck. That Corran did not try to move away told him something of his brother’s state of mind.

  “What happened?” Corran’s voice sounded wrecked; a livid bruise and the marks where fingers had dug into his flesh still clearly showed on his skin.

  “We were in the village. Polly and Elinor were working with the women, while Calfon and I trained the men. Aiden offered to see to their sick, and the ones who were hurt by the monsters. I—I had this feeling something was wrong,” Rigan confessed. “And just when I was going to go ask Aiden about it, he came rushing in and said he’d had one of his visions.” Rigan closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “He said… he saw you dying, near the mine.” Rigan did not care that Corran heard the way his voice trembled. Corran laid a hand on his arm.

  “We were.”

  Rigan took a deep breath. “Elinor and Polly gathered the women and their hedge witches. The men insisted on coming with us—said it was the least they could do since we’d driven off the monsters and dealt with the ghosts. They grabbed any weapons they had and… we all went to war.”

  “I don’t remember much,” Corran admitted. “We got to the field, and we worked the grave magic to send them on, or back into the mine. That went right. And then, everything fell apart.” He shook his head. “Jorgeson’s men set on us, too many of them to fight. And then, I don’t remember anything until I woke up here.”

  Rigan closed his eyes and bowed his head. “It’s probably better that way, although we put on quite a show,” he added with a bitter smile. Corran listened silently while Rigan recounted the battle with the smugglers and Jorgeson’s guards.

  “So Jorgeson got away, and his blood witches?”

  Rigan nodded. “Yeah. By the time we realized they were gone, it was too late and, well, we couldn’t spare the time if we were going to save you and the others.” He looked away and clenched his fist, willing himself to calm down. “It was bad,” he said finally. “They’d beaten you three so badly; I was afraid we couldn’t fix it.”

  “He told them not to kill us,” Corran murmured. “Jorgeson. I heard that part. Said he wanted to question us. Bragged about how he killed Bant, Pav, and Jott.”

  Rigan swore under his breath. “When we find him, we’ll make him pay,” he promised.

  Corran sank back onto the bed. Rigan got him a glass of water and steadied him as he drank. “How long?” Corran rasped.

  “Three days. There were times when I was afraid you weren’t going to wake up,” Rigan said. He knew the strain of the past days showed in his red-rimmed eyes and the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave, and in the wrinkled clothes he’d slept in at his brother’s bedside.

  “The others?”

  “They’re awake. They didn’t remember much more than what you said. Gods, Corran—that was too close.”

  “The villagers—”

  “We’ve warned them,” Rigan cut him off. “They’re ready to fight to defend themselves, whether it’s the Lord Mayor’s guards or Jorgeson’s strongmen.”

  “What about the smugglers?” Corran’s voice was fading rapidly.

  Rigan gave a bitter chuckle. “The villagers had enough of the smugglers. Seems they’d killed some young men who happened upon them, and the shopkeepers are angry about being undercut. So the townsfolk cut off the smugglers’ heads. They sent one in a bag with a note to the Crown Prince to let him know what’s going on, and the others they mounted on stakes along the riverbanks, as a warning to the rest.”

  “Neither of those things is going to end well.”

  “Probably not. But they told me that it felt damn good at the time.”

  Corran groaned as an attempt to sit up failed. “What now?”

  “We’ve been keeping watch to make sure Jorgeson stays gone, and that no new guards show up,” Rigan said. He stretched, muscles aching from his long vigil. “We all figured we should move on again as soon as the rest of you are well enough, since Jorgeson has to know we have a base within a few day’s ride of the mine.”

  “Shit. I liked it here. And we’d only barely unpacked.”

  “Can’t be helped.” Rigan sighed. “We also got a message from Brock—the Sarolinian hunter?”

  “The one who’s part Wanderer?”

  Rigan nodded. “With a wife who’s a witch? Yeah. They said something really big is going to happen, and it has to do with the Rifts and the Balance. They want us to come to them, and they’ll tell us more.”

  Corran shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Although Rigan knew that Aiden had done everything he could for the three hunters after the beating, it had taken all of the healer’s efforts just to keep them alive and reverse the worst of their injuries. Bruises, cracked ribs, and sore muscles would be painful for a while. “Do you think it’s another trick?”

  “No. Aiden and I were able to make contact with them through another dream walk.”

  Corran’s eyes widened. “That’s risky.”

  Rigan grimaced. “Couldn’t be helped, given the circumstances. Aiden connected with Mina. Not enough to get the whole story, but enough to convince him that the request is real, and not a trap.”

  “So what’s the plan? We can’t move out of here and also meet up with Brock and Mina.”

  “Polly had a good idea on that,” Rigan said with a tired grin. “She suggested that we leave whatever we can do without here, and move between several small temples that were desecrated when the Crown Princes seized the monasteries. We figure that if we aren’t seen in the area for a few weeks, Jorgeson will move on, and we can come back.”

  “And in the meantime, we’re taking refuge in the temples of the Elder Gods?”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “What about Brock and Mina?”

  “As soon as you and Trent are up for it, we’ll ride back for the border, along with Aiden and Ross. Calfon will help Polly and Elinor move our stuff to the temple. Polly already scouted it, and says there are chambers in the basement we can use.”

  “Sounds like you were busy while I was… out.”

  Rigan ran a hand through his hair, realizing he probably looked as ragged as he felt. “Don’t joke about that,” he said. “There wasn’t anything funny about it.”

  Corran frowned as he studied his brother. “You look like shit. Is there something else—besides keeping a vigil for three days?”

  Rigan looked away. “Ever since I came back from the Rift, I’ve had dreams.”

  “I know. You wake me up most nights, thrashing and screaming.”

  “Sorry. I don’t know if any of us are going to sleep well ever again,” Rigan said with a sigh. “But this… it’s different. I’ll be dreaming—good or bad—and then everything changes, and I’m alone in the dark, except I’m not really alone. There’s something in the darkness, and it’s watching. It’s aware, and dangerous, and powerful, so powerful.”

  “I keep hearing that Colduraan reigns in the Rift. Do you think it’s him?”

  Rigan shook his head. “No. I mean, it doesn’t feel like when we saw Eshtamon in the cemetery. I don’t have a good way to describe it. But I think it’s biding its time. And when that time is up, something really, really bad is going to happen.”

  Corran squeezed his forearm. “It could just be a bad dream. You’re entitled to a few. Until we know for certain, don’t make it into something bigger than it is.”

  Rigan nodded, although he didn’t really believe what Corran said. He doesn’t know. He didn’t feel it. It’s real—and it’s waiting.

  After another day to recuperate, Corran insisted he was well enough to travel, despite Rigan’s protests. Aiden couldn’t find a reason to overrule him, so while the others packed up enough gear to last them in hiding for a few weeks
, Corran, Trent, Ross, Rigan, and Aiden set off for the Sarolinian border.

  They kept to back roads, wary of patrols, watching for either bounty hunters or more of Jorgeson’s men. A day and a half into their journey, they traveled along a dusty dirt trail that wound through farm fields and pastures. Rigan rode point, and he reined in his horse abruptly. The others stopped close behind.

  “What’s wrong?” Corran asked.

  “Can’t you smell it?”

  Aiden met his gaze. “Blood. Not particularly fresh.”

  Rigan nodded. “And that buzzing—I don’t think it’s the wind.”

  They continued, weapons in hand. The stillness Rigan had found calming not long before now seemed ominous. When they rounded a bend in the road, their fears were realized. Dead cattle lay where they had been struck down by a force powerful enough to claw through their hides, rip open their rib cages, and tear them nearly limb from limb. Clouds of flies buzzed around them, darkening the sky.

  “Sweet Oj and Ren,” Aiden swore under his breath. “What do you think did this?”

  Corran shook his head. “Ghouls wouldn’t kill so many, or leave flesh on the bones. Vestir and higani would have dragged them away and eaten more. I have no idea.”

  “Whatever it was probably won’t stop with one field of cattle,” Ross said grimly. “I know you don’t want to be delayed meeting Brock, but we’d better take care of this.”

  A few miles down the dirt road led them into a smattering of buildings that was more outpost than town. Rigan dismounted and went into the marketplace, a collection of farmers selling produce, fresh meat, and baked goods, and peddlers hawking their wares.

  “What do you know about the field up the road, where the cattle died?” he asked, not in the mood for subtleties.

  For a moment, Rigan thought no one would answer. Finally, a man behind one of the vegetable stands stood up. “Happened two nights ago. No one knows what we did to anger him, but we thought that, after the sheep, he would stop.”