Bloodsongs (16 page)

Her sword was half-buried in the mud. She bent stiffly to pick it up, wiped the blade along the fabric of her breeches, and sheathed it.

A sound made her turn. A figure slogged through the watery soup that had once been a street, weaving a way toward her. She touched the hilt of her weapon. Even that small motion reminded her of her aches and bruises. Yet there was something familiar about the approaching shadow.

“Telric?” she whispered hopefully. She hadn't seen the Rholarothan since the beginning of the fight. At the sound of her voice the figure halted, turned in her direction, took another step, and stopped again. A hand rose in supplication, and there came a low, desperate moan. Knees buckled; the man fell face forward.

She limped to his side, rolled him quickly over, and squeezed the mud from his nostrils. The light of the fires showed the tatters of a Keled uniform. Not Telric, then. Nevertheless, something about him stirred a memory.

She knew him, yes. Off duty, he'd been a frequenter of the Broken Sword. She'd seen him often, even told his fortune once. He'd laughed and paid her an extra coin for the amusement. He'd laughed again, but politely, when she'd declined his next offer.

Three deep slashes had exposed his entrails. His wide brown eyes flickered with fleeting life, and she wondered if he remembered her, too. Then they were vacant, reflecting only the flames. He had laughed his last on this side of hell. She prayed he'd have reason to laugh on the other side when Death passed his judgment.

She laid his head down gently and rose again, wincing as pain blossomed through her shoulder. One by one, she began to search the bodies that littered the streets and the spaces between the few buildings that yet stood.

Telric was not to be found.

Behind her, a wall crashed down. Startled, she jumped and screamed at herself when her shoulder protested. Sparks and smoke streamed upward and settled again, a scintillant rain within a rain. From beneath the burning rubble she saw the feet of the two corpses she had last examined.

That, she convinced herself sadly, was why she couldn't find her companion. Somewhere, under all the fiery ruin, Telric must also be buried. She didn't know him well enough to shed tears. Or maybe she was just too weary, too sore. But something hardened and turned cold within her. Telric had loved her, he claimed, and now he was gone.

One more debt to collect from Oroladian.

The anger swelled within her like a palpable force.
I'm coming for you, sorcerer.
She moved through the street, picking her way among the dead. The rain beat mercilessly on her face; the odors of charred stone, burning wood, and flesh cloyed. She drifted through the town and out over the dreary steppe. With each trudging, shambling footfall, she swore,
I'm coming for you! I'm coming!

Ahead, she spied the low ridge where she and Telric had shared the quiet time before the battle. The sky crackled suddenly with brittle thunder and crackled again. Over the ridge, the night split open as a cobalt bolt of frightening power ripped the darkness, illuminating the land with a blue flash.

Frost threw her arm over her eyes to spare her vision, but afterimages lingered.

Then, through the ground came a beating. An unearthly cry trumpeted in the distance, a cry she knew. Her heart raced; she stared wildly, seeking the source. It came from the ridge! She began a limping run, ignoring her pain.

The cadence in the earth grew stronger, closer.

She stopped, brought up short and breathless by a fantastic sight. Two spots of fire raced in the night, trailing red-orange streamers.
His eyes,
she knew,
or what served him for eyes.
Her spirit leaped; she rejoiced, shouting and calling his name, measuring the swift advance of those eyes and the steady pounding of his great hooves.

A black silhouette moved against the deeper blackness. A wild mane lashed the wind. An ebony spike long as her arm gleamed between the eerie light of those eyes.

The beast crashed to a halt before her, kicking up mud and chunks of grass. It reared, and again sounded that call like no other creature of this world ever made.

Then he calmed, gazed at her, and snorted. With an almost playful timidity, he moved closer, slipped his horn under her arm, and nuzzled her side. It hurt, but she didn't care. Frost flung her arms about his neck and hugged ferociously, shedding tears into the tangled mane.

The unicorn stood completely still, and the fires that were its eyes dwindled to a softer incandescence.

“Ashur!” she murmured, disbelieving, afraid to let him go. So much had been taken from her of late.
At last, something lost had returned. “Ashur!”

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

Ashur.

She did not know what Ashur was. He might have been a demon. He was violent and deadly. But there was no evil in him. A god, she once wondered, could he be a god? But there was no ego in him. An elemental, perhaps, a spirit of fire. That might explain those strange eyes that burned with eldritch flame but gave no heat. Or a wind spirit. That could account for his unnatural speed and endurance.

Her hair whipped and streamed behind her as she bent low to his neck. The land passed beneath his tireless hooves as they ran. The rain had ceased; the clouds had broken apart. A pale, luminous moon lit their way.

She laughed to remember how she had teased herself with guesses about the unicorn. Ashur had been a gift to her years ago, a wizard's gift. The dagger Demonfang had been another gift. The same wizard, Almurion, had given her both. Weapons, he had called them.

After a time she had come to understand Demonfang. But Ashur defied reason. There was a subtle power in the unicorn, a mystery about him she had never fathomed. But there was a bond between them, also, a love that made the mystery unimportant. If he was a demon or a god or a spirit, she didn't care. If he was a beast and nothing more, it didn't matter. Ashur belonged at her side, and he had come when she needed him.

How had he known, though?

If Kimon had risen from the grave, it could not have been a more wondrous miracle.

Frost bit her lip and leaned closer to Ashur's neck. His mane lashed her face as she urged him to greater speed. The heat of his muscled body radiated all through her.

Kimon had not risen from the grave, nor had Kirigi. Kel was not free from a sorcerer's charismatic influence. She rejoiced at Ashur's return, but as she rode the anger grew in her again. Oroladian, damn his venomous heart, had much to answer for. And there was Telric's name to add to the tally. All of Soushane as well.

For an instant she was weightless, wide-eyed. She hugged the unicorn with her knees, gripped his mane tighter as he leaped a broad ravine. They struck the far side with a bone-jarring force that sprayed mud and earth. Ashur rushed on, smooth, powerful muscles rippling beneath her, the slick lather of his efforts moistening her thighs. She gave herself to the swift motion and the furious tattoo of those crashing hooves.

The dark silhouette of Kyr rose before her, limned in the moon's ivory radiance. There was no hint of dawn yet in the eastern sky, but it couldn't be long away. Atop the high, solid walls of the city, lights burned in every watchtower. Shadows moved within them.

Frost rode up to the gates only to find them closed. She had ridden fast, but apparently news had already reached Kyr.

Above the gate, a voice challenged her. She looked up. A torch flared. In its brightness she could not make out the man who held it. But she could see the pike he bore and the red gleam of his helm. “Who's below?” the sentry called again.

She thought quickly. The gates were sealed only in times of danger, but once shut it was Kyran law that they remained sealed until sunrise. No one was allowed in or out while they were closed.

She must get inside, though. Once the sun colored the day there would be little chance of finding Dromen Illstar until the darkness gathered again. The man had bat blood in his veins, and sunlight was unnatural to him.

“Just a frightened old woman!” she lied, putting a tremor in her voice. Hurriedly, she unstrapped her sword, clutched it in both hands. “Our farm was attacked and burned, my man and sons murdered. For mercy, let me in!”

The sentry leaned over the parapet. “Your farm burned, you say? Rebels?”

“Some men!” she cried, hoping she sounded desperate and convincing. “I didn't know them. Please, open the gates. They might be following, and I have only my poor husband's sword for protection.” It was an impulse, but she threw back her head and waved the sheathed weapon clumsily. “What can I do? Help me, please!” She set up a loud wailing, rubbing her eyes with the back of a fist.

“You've got a good strong horse, by the look of him,” the sentry called back. “Ride fast and stay ahead of them. You can come back tomorrow.”

More torches and more guards clustered above and looked down at her. “Please!” she begged, lifting an outstretched hand in supplication. “I'm only a poor woman, and I'm so tired. I've ridden far, and the horse is worn.”

She smiled at that lie and thanked the gods for whatever power it was that made ordinary men see a horse when they looked at Ashur. What would they do if they saw, instead, a beast from the myths of ages past?

“Let her in,” someone mumbled.

“She's alone,” another whispered. “There's nobody else out there.”

“Please!” she screamed. Her anxiety was not entirely false. She had to get inside and find Illstar before the sun rose. No one knew where the wily old man spent his daylight hours. But already she began to hate the role she played to achieve entrance. “I have relatives within who will take care of me. They might reward you!”

“You know the law,” the first sentry grumbled to his comrades.

“Damn the law!” someone bellowed in response. “We can't leave a woman out there. Not if rebels are about. You heard what they did in Soushane. We've had the report not more than an hour. Let her in, I say!”

There was a short general buzz atop the wall. Then, a loud creaking drowned that. Gears ground noisily, and huge chains clanked. Ponderously, the heavy gate parted, but only a crack. “Get inside and be quick about it, or the officers will have our heads!”

It was wide enough for Ashur, but Frost slid to the ground.

Most men saw only a horse when they gazed at the unicorn, but there were a very few men with better instincts. She seldom had ever taken him into a large city, and there was no need to do so now. She whispered in his ear, then slapped his rump. A thick lump filled her throat as he sped back into the night.

He would be close when she needed him. She knew that now, as she should always have known it. All those years of worrying and wondering about his fate had been pointless. Ashur would always be close.

“Get in, woman!” a voice hissed.

She hurried through the narrow gap. Three men met her, fully armed. She noted the quality of the polished leather armor, but it was too soon to abandon her role-playing. She threw herself at their feet, hoping she had never met them in her descroiyo guise. “Thank you, lords! You have spared me. My family lies dead, but I am spared. Your gods are gods of goodness and mercy. Bless you, lords!” She kept her head low, her face covered with her hands, and she lavished them with praises until they looked away in embarrassment.

“That's quite a sword,” one sentry observed, trying to bring an end to her flattery.

“I plucked it from my husband's body while they burned our crops.” She rubbed at her eyes as if brushing away tears and hugged the blade closer to her breast. “I'll give it to his brother, who lives on the street of tanners. He'll have to look after me now. That's Keled law.” She pretended a sigh and started to leave them.

“Wait,” one of the sentries called. She stopped but did not turn around, still fearing recognition. The sword slid partly out of the sheath. “There's unrest in the streets tonight. Soushane was also burned. Most of the garrison was slaughtered trying to defend it. Honest folks have shut themselves in their homes, but without soldiers to patrol the city, criminals have run riot.” The sentry came up beside her, and she quickly put the sword back in its sheath. The man's voice softened somewhat. “You've been through enough tonight. Two of us will accompany you to the house of your husband's brother.”

She thanked them profusely, suppressing a scowl, and led them through familiar streets to the Broken Sword. A few of the local urchins knew the city better than she; it had been her first task on coming here to learn the maze of roads and alleys. Possibly one or two of the garrison regulars knew it as well. A couple of gate sentries, though, barely offered her a challenge.

At a certain corner she turned quicker than they and melted into the shadow of a doorway. They passed her, unseeing for a brief moment, then stopped in confusion. She was out of the shadow and running soundlessly back the way she had come before they even turned around. It was impossible to suppress a grin as she slipped away from them.

If there was turmoil in the streets earlier, the lateness of the hour had quelled it. Nothing but an eerie quiet greeted her as she made her secret way to the Rathole.

The streets began to narrow; a familiar stench spilled from the alleys. Twice the hush of night was disturbed by some small animal's digging in the garbage. Behind closed shutters she glimpsed the dim dancing of lamps and tapers, but no voices strayed without. She wondered at news that could send an entire citizenry cowering in the gloom of their private dwellings. The garrison, the city's police force, might be slaughtered; thieves might roam the streets unhindered; rebels might storm the countryside. But the walls were high and strong, and a courageous heart had no reason to fear.

Yet Kyr was tomblike.

She reached the crossroad formed by the alleyways where the night before she had stood with Telric. The memory of him made her shiver, then steeled her with a fierce hardness of purpose.