“These will suffice,” the blood witch said when all of the captives had been brought to the wagon. Spider and Roach hung a step behind him like acolytes, drinking in his every word, drunk on borrowed power.
“Then let’s get out of here,” Jorgeson said, unwilling to push their luck. “It’s dark, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be travelers—and I’ve got no desire to meet either soldiers or brigands on the road.”
The next day, Shadowsworn called for a stop after midday. “There’s something I need—over there,” he said, pointing.
Jorgeson stared, narrowing his eyes and raising a hand to shield his vision from the sun. “It’s an empty field.” He saw only a mound and a single tree, surrounded by the tall grasses of a meadow.
“There was a burying ground beneath that tree, long ago,” Shadowsworn replied. “I need one of the bodies.”
“It’s broad daylight,” Jorgeson protested. “Surely someone will see us—and while Aliyev may know of your plans, I doubt Kadar does, and even if he did, no one has told the guards.”
Shadowsworn gave him the self-assured smile Jorgeson had come to loathe. Spider and Roach stood right behind him, mirroring their new mentor’s stance and expression, making Jorgeson regret that he had not killed both of them when he had the chance. “We will make certain you’re not disturbed.”
Jorgeson and two men hiked to the top of the rise, and he tramped down the grass all around the tree. “There’s nothing here,” he called down to Shadowsworn. “No markers, no depression in the ground. Are you sure this is the right place?”
The blood witch nodded. “Absolutely certain. It calls to me. Go to the tree,” he ordered. Jorgeson looked at him dubiously but complied.
“Move around it to your left—there!” Shadowsworn directed, and Jorgeson did as he was bid, though he felt like a fool. “Take six steps in your normal stride forward. Dig there.”
Jorgeson walked six paces and looked down at the ground beneath him that appeared no different from the rest of the field. The two guards looked at him, and he shrugged. “You heard the witch. Dig here.”
He stood back, clinging to the small bit of dignity that he retained by having the others do the labor for him. For a candlemark, the guards dug into the hard soil, and every time Jorgeson questioned the location, Shadowsworn reassured them of its correctness.
Finally, after two candlemarks of digging, one of the shovels struck old, rotted lumber. “Got something,” the guard said. They hastened their work, sending dirt flying out of the hole, until they both stood up and stretched, wiping away sweat from their foreheads with grimy hands.
“Think this is what he’s after?” he asked, with a nod toward the bottom of the hole. Jorgeson moved to stand on the edge of the open grave and looked down.
A weathered skull stared back at him, discolored from years beneath the ground. If clothing or a shroud had once covered the body, it had long ago disintegrated, leaving only bones. Even the wood of what might have been a plain casket was almost completely rotted.
“Must be,” Jorgeson replied. “Bring him up—mind you don’t lose any pieces—and let’s get out of this godsforsaken place.”
Shadowsworn’s magic might dissuade travelers from crossing their path, but Jorgeson felt uneasy with the cool wind that stirred the old oak tree overhead, and the murder of crows that gathered on its boughs, watching them with accusing, soulless eyes. He had never considered himself a religious man, certainly not unusually sensitive to anything supernatural, but the longer he remained outside the city, the more he had seen of magic and ghosts. Like an acquired taste, he found that his senses adapted, honing an instinctive warning that he had learned not to disregard.
“Make it quick,” he ordered. “I don’t think the people buried here like having us disturb them.”
The temperature suddenly plummeted, making a cool day cold as winter. The crows rose in a panicked flutter, flapping and cawing as they formed a shifting black cloud that engulfed the tree and then winged hurriedly away. Though the day had been clear, the area around the old graveyard fell under a shadow, and mist began to rise from the ground. Where before, Jorgeson would have sworn the land had been flat, now, he saw a dozen or more depressions the right size to be old graves.
“We need to get out of here,” he said, wheeling to look for Shadowsworn. “The ghosts are rising.” Jorgeson expected the witches to do something to protect them, to raise their athames and settle the revenants or chant to hold back the spirits until they could escape. Instead, Shadowsworn and the other two witches merely waited at the edge of the copse, arms folded, eyes alight in anticipation.
“Screw this,” Jorgeson muttered under his breath, motioning to the guards to pick up the old corpse and get moving. The air grew thick with mist, heavy like the approach of a storm.
“Run!” he shouted to the guards, angry to lose dignity in front of the witches, but unwilling to come to harm to preserve his pride. He could see the spirits now, rising from their graves, taking form in the mist. The specters reached for them with clawed hands and grasping arms, mouths open and teeth bared. Sepulchral wailing sounded from all around them, and the guards cried out in terror.
Jorgeson could see the edge of the disturbance, and to no surprise, the three witches stood beyond the boundaries of the mist. They watched eagerly, and he cursed silently as he realized that the ghostly attack had not been entirely unexpected.
The fog clung to them, miring them like heavy mud, making the small distance to safety an ordeal to cross. Jorgeson looked behind to see the guards struggling to make headway. The ghosts closed in on them, and he wondered if a sacrifice was part of the bargain to remove the shriveled corpse.
“Get out!” Jorgeson yelled, grabbing the guard who carried the remains and dragging him toward the edge of the mist. He shoved hard, and the man stumbled across the boundary, his steps picking up speed once he was clear as if suddenly freed of an encumbrance.
A scream of pure terror sent a shiver through Jorgeson. He turned back to the second guard, in time to see spectral hands tearing at his clothes, dragging him back toward the tree, out of Jorgeson’s reach. The ghosts’ bony fingers clawed at the guard’s skin, opening bloody gashes, slicing deep.
With strength fueled by sheer survival instinct, Jorgeson hurled himself over the boundary. He dove across the last few feet of fog and landed hard in the dry grass beyond. He absorbed the fall on his shoulder and rolled with the momentum, coming up into a defensive crouch, already drawing a blade from his belt, though it would do little good against malicious spirits.
His eyes widened as he took in the sight of the guard in the midst of a swirl of fog and crimson spray as the revenants ripped the skin from his body in long bloody strips and pulled at his arms and legs as if they meant to quarter him.
“Do something!” Jorgeson shouted at the witches, who had drawn closer, standing at the very edge of the mist, entranced.
“Oh, we will.” Shadowsworn raised a hand and began to chant. Spider and Roach said nothing, but they also raised their hands, palms out as if amplifying the power called by the senior mage. Abruptly, the ghosts turned their attention from the hapless guard to stare balefully at the three figures outside the fog. Jorgeson and the other guard stumbled backward, putting distance between them and whatever was about to happen.
Shadowsworn’s chanted louder and faster, his eyes bright with fervor, expression ecstatic. Spider and Roach stood transfixed, wide-eyed and expectant. The ghosts no longer regarded the witches with anger; instead, their forms twisted and elongated, faces stretching and distorting.
Jorgeson felt the prickle of energy gathering around the clearing, and it suddenly released with an audible pop. The mist vanished, and as Jorgeson and the guard watched in horror, Shadowsworn, Spider, and Roach flung their arms wide and opened their mouths, pulling the wisps of ghostly energy toward them and then, in one fluttering, chill wind, swallowed down the spirits’ essence until nothing remained.
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Before Jorgeson could find his voice, Shadowsworn strode to the body of the dead guard and lifted it into his arms, then dropped his head to the dying man’s neck and fed on his cooling blood.
“What in the name of the gods have you done?” Jorgeson managed when he could speak again. Spider and Roach shook themselves, awaking from their trance, faces still slack with ecstasy.
Shadowsworn looked up from where he knelt next to the guard’s corpse. Fresh blood ringed his mouth, and his eyes shone with barely contained power. “We require energy for the summoning,” he replied. He stood, shaking out his robes, and wiped his lips and chin on a kerchief.
“You said nothing of this kind of desecration—”
Shadowsworn fixed him with a look. “This kind of desecration,” the witch echoed mockingly, “is nothing new for you. Machison and his blood witch bade you do something much the same to work a powerful spell for him.”
“And look how well that turned out,” Jorgeson snapped, too unnerved to watch his tongue.
“My spells and wardings do not fail,” Shadowsworn replied. “And I assure you, we do not want to lack in materials or power when we work the summoning at Thornwood. This is necessary to leash the beast and turn it against our enemies.”
“Go easy on the guards,” Jorgeson retorted. “I’m running out of them. You wouldn’t want to do any of the heavy lifting yourselves.” Mustering the tatters of his dignity, Jorgeson turned on his heel and strode back to the horses, with the guard close on his heels.
They stopped once more at a cemetery, but this time no ghosts rose to attack them. Perhaps the spirits sensed their approach and fled in fear, or maybe the graves were old enough that the souls had passed on. The remaining guards clustered around Jorgeson, putting as much distance as they dared between themselves and the three witches. For once, Jorgeson did not send them away, taking a measure of comfort from their presence.
Several times a day, Shadowsworn called a halt to their journey and sent Spider and Roach into the surrounding area around the road to gather plants, leaves, and roots. Jorgeson knew little about magic, but he had seen enough in his time with Machison and Blackholt to recognize that what the witches’ harvest was poisonous. The two junior witches took on the task with glee, especially when Shadowsworn directed them to trap several kinds of insects and grubs in bottles he provided.
“At this rate, it’s going to take quite some time to reach Thornwood,” Jorgeson chided. “Didn’t you have a deadline for this magic of yours?” He made scant effort to hide the bite in his voice. If he had not already detested Shadowsworn before, he hated the witch more for having seen his fear.
“Patience,” Shadowsworn counseled, in that infuriating tone Jorgeson loathed. “Magic like this has requirements that cannot be shortchanged.”
“What next?” Jorgeson asked though he feared the answer.
“There’s a town of some size not far from here,” Shadowsworn replied. “Large enough to have what I require. The two witches will come with me to acquire the body of a freshly-hanged malefactor, while you and your guards abduct a condemned man on the eve of his execution.”
Jorgeson stared at him, aghast. “You want what?”
“You heard me.”
Jorgeson struggled to leash his anger. “You think you’re just going to walk in there and cut down a body from a gallows and no one will notice or care?”
“They might care, but they will not notice,” Shadowsworn replied confidently. “We will work at night, and our magic will distract them.”
“And how, exactly, is that supposed to work for getting a man out of their jail?” Jorgeson demanded. “Since the guards and I don’t have magic to cover for us? Or are you going to put them all to sleep, like last time?”
An unpleasant smile twitched at the corners of Shadowsworn’s lips. “This village is too large for such a spell. I trust you to figure it out,” he replied. “Do what you have to. Kill their constables, if that’s what it takes. Just get what I need, or there will be consequences.”
Fear curdled in Jorgeson’s stomach, but he bit back his reply and stalked off to rouse the guards. He glanced at the sun, trying to estimate the hour by its position in the sky, a task made more difficult by the heavy clouds. Late afternoon, he guessed. While Shadowsworn might welcome a bloodbath, Jorgeson had no desire to test his small contingent of guards against the town’s constabulary. And despite the witch’s bluster, he doubted Shadowsworn would expend the energy necessary to cut down the body of the hanged man in broad daylight. Which meant that, once again, the witch was goading him, baiting to get a rise.
Do Aliyev and Kadar have any idea what they’re toying with? he wondered. Shadowsworn struck him as a man who looked for the chance to ruffle feathers, eager to cause a ruckus for the sake of being at the center of the attention. Under other circumstances, it would merely be an annoying trait, but coupled with magic, that sort of attention-seeking could be devastating.
Worse, Jorgeson saw no way around giving in to Shadowsworn’s demands.
Cursing under his breath, Jorgeson found the guards who weren’t on watch, eating their rations beneath a tree.
“Holcomb, Sonders, I’ve got a job for you,” he snapped. The two men hurriedly swallowed the last bites of their food and jumped up. “Holcomb—there’s a town up the road. I need reconnaissance. Try not to attract attention. I need to know where the jail is, how many cells, and how many guards. Figure out the best approach to get in and out with minimal exposure. Go now, and come back as quickly as you can.”
Holcomb nodded and set off at once.
“Sonders.”
“Sir?”
“You’re the best lock pick in the group. Once Holcomb gets back, and it’s dark, you’re coming into the town with me. We’ve got a man to break out of jail.”
Several candlemarks later, Jorgeson, Sonders, and Holcomb made their way toward the village of Hoffnee. The village was situated near a swiftly running stream with a large grist mill and a winepress surrounded by grain fields and vineyards. More of Kadar’s lands, Jorgeson supposed.
Holcomb’s recon had proven exceptionally thorough. The jail was at the edge of town, the only stroke of good luck about the situation. He had counted five constables, both at the jail and making their rounds of the town. What a village the size of Hoffnee needed with that many constables, Jorgeson could not imagine, unless the villagers were all remarkably dishonest. More likely, the town’s mayor liked to keep his fellow citizens solidly under his thumb.
If so, the mayor was in for a very bad evening.
Holcomb had even managed to find out about the hanged man and the poor wretch they were about to kidnap. Thieves, both of them, with the misfortune to steal from a well-to-do trader in town after one of them had carried on a lengthy, unsanctioned affair with the man’s daughter. The light-fingered lover had been the first to die, hanged the day before. His brother and accomplice sat in the jail for an extra two days, giving him plenty of time to realize the consequences of their actions.
Jorgeson felt certain whatever Shadowsworn had in store for the convicted man held an outcome far worse than the noose. He wondered if the fact that the hanged man and the convict were brothers would matter to Shadowsworn, whether that connection might provide some extra magical energy boost because of the shared blood. Maybe the witch had known about the men in advance, making Jorgeson and the guards find out for themselves as part of his twisted sense of humor. Gods, he hated witches, and once they reached Thornwood, he would have two more to contend with, including one whom Shadowsworn considered extremely powerful.
Not for the first time, Jorgeson felt certain consigning him to mind the witches was part of Aliyev’s idea of punishment.
“Go,” he told Holcomb once full dark fell and the village quieted. Holcomb ran a few streets to the east where he had seen a granary and made quick work of setting a fire. A few shouts and the sight of flames jumping into the sky brought the constables running, leavi
ng their prisoner locked in his cell.
The man looked up as Jorgeson and Sonders entered. “Who are you?” he asked warily.
Sonders didn’t answer; instead, he glanced around for a key and when he saw none, knelt next to the lock on the cell door and pulled out his lock pick. Jorgeson took up watch in the doorway, in case any of the constables came back.
“You’re complaining about getting out?” Jorgeson asked over his shoulder. “There’s a gallows waiting for you.”
“Did he send you?” the prisoner asked, retreating against the far wall of his cell.
“He, who?” Sonders replied as the pick clicked the lock free.
“Gods have mercy, he did, didn’t he?” the condemned man groaned. “Please, I’m already going to die. You don’t have to do this.”
Sonders and Jorgeson exchanged a confused glance. “You think the man you robbed sent us?” Jorgeson asked.
The prisoner nodded, plastering himself farther into the corner. “Said he’d cut off my balls and shove them down my throat and see me hanged by my prick instead of my neck.” His voice trembled and he had gone a ghastly shade of pale.
“Lucky you, we don’t work for him. Our orders are to get you out and bring you with us.”
The relief on the man’s face would have been funny if Jorgeson did not know the reason behind his mysterious rescue. “Did Jamie get away then? Slip the noose and send you for me?”
“Ah, no.” Sonders stood and pulled the door open. “Come on. Let’s go.”
The confused prisoner hung back, eyes wide. “Jamie’s dead?” he asked, his voice hollow. “Then who—”
Vengeance Page 48
