Dark Lady's Chosen (10 page)

fool. We might even get in a lucky shot if he comes himself.”

Leather John did not reply immediately. “The guy in there,” and Cam assumed Leather John meant him, “he knows about Curane.”

“Does he now.”

“Are you sure of him, Curane that is?” Leather John’s voice lacked the bluster it had held the night before. “I don’t trust him. He’s not Isencroft. Maybe Curane’s using us.”

“What a fine revolutionary you are!” Ruggs mocked. “Interrogate one prisoner, and you start spouting his lies. I don’t dare have you question him again—you’d be signing up for the king’s guard.”

“You know that’s a lie. I just want to know why you’re so sure Curane’s being straight with us.”

There was a long pause, as if Ruggs were considering his next words. “Curane’s got the Margolan army—and their king—bottled up in a siege. He thinks his hocuses can magic up a way to kill King Martris, and he’s got a solution to your traitor princess and her mixed-blood bastard.”

“Oh?”

“Curane’s got a man on the inside of Drayke’s palace. Well-placed. Wouldn’t tell me who.

While Drayke’s off to war, Curane’s man’s to make sure your princess doesn’t live long enough to birth the brat. He’s almost gotten her a couple of times, but she’s been lucky.

Just had a courier from Margolan a few nights back. Said the court is feeling less friendly these days toward their new queen. Imagine,” Ruggs said with relish. “Murder the princess, and we solve a host of problems. No heir. No joint kingdom. Donelan will have no choice except to break the alliance.”

“Curane gets the Margolan throne for Jared’s son and we get what we want. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Cam could hear scraping sounds, as if something large and heavy were being moved in the outer room. “Now if you’re through with your questions,” Ruggs said. “I have some questions of my own for your prisoner.”

The light in the storage cell had grown quite dim. Cam took out his bolo and waited for the door to open.
I can’t run and I can’t fight, but I might get in a lucky shot.
The door opened, and Cam saw a short, powerfully-built man silhouetted against the light. He let the bolo fly with all his might, swinging his good hand with full force. The unwieldy blocks sailed through the air, smashing into the doorpost as Ruggs ducked out of the way.

“Bring him out.”

Two guards hurried into the makeshift cell, each grabbing Cam roughly under the arms.

They dragged him out and forced him onto a wooden table, securing his wrists above his head and his legs to the bottom with a rope across his ankles. At Ruggs’s signal, the guards threw the table up on one end, so that Cam hung upside down, with his head beneath one of the sluices that once carried water from the river into the mill.

“I want to know what Donelan knows about us,” Ruggs said, stepping into the light where Cam could see him. He had the look of a man from Southcroft, with a broad face and a shock of dirty red hair.

“Go to the Crone.”

“Leather John tells me you’ve been spying on us for a while. Pity about the boy. I don’t much like informers.”

“Go screw the Dark Lady.”

Ruggs nodded, and one of the guards stepped forward with a large bundle of rags. He wrapped them around Cam’s head and stuffed them into his mouth. Cam heard the groan of old wood being pried free, and heard the distant sound of gears turning. A gush of ice-cold water covered his face, soaking into the rags and filling his nose and mouth. Cam twisted and jerked against the ropes that held him.

“All I want to know is—what does Donelan know about us?”

The icy water knocked the breath from Cam, and the flood across his face made it impossible for him to breathe. Instinct took over and Cam bucked against his bonds, arching and straining. Desperate for air, he sucked in water, gagging from the force of the torrent.

His vision grew red and his head swam.

“Give him a chance to speak.”

The water stopped. Cam sputtered and retched, gasping for air.

“Nothing to say? Pity.” The water started once more. Cam jerked hard enough he felt his shoulder dislocate. His heart was racing and his lungs burned as if he’d swallowed coals.

Every nerve seemed to be on fire, every sense screaming for air. Ruggs punched him hard in the stomach and Cam lurched forward, taking in a full mouthful of water. He began to shake uncontrollably. The water stopped again.

“What does Donelan know?”

Cam groaned. Someone yanked the sodden gag from his mouth. “Abyss take you,” he managed.

The water began again. Cam jerked against the ropes hard enough that blood started down his wrists. The shaking turned to spasms as his body fought for life. The freezing water poured over him, choking and smothering him as it filled his nose and mouth. Ruggs landed another blow to his gut and a second to his side. Cam lifted off the table straining against the ropes, enough that water filled his lungs, squeezing out air. He opened his mouth to gasp for breath and water filled it, too. This time, the water did not stop until light and darkness seemed to blend together, as if consciousness were a flickering candle. Cam’s heart hammered, blood pounding in his ears.

Ruggs bent down near his ear. “Give me a number. Just a number. I’ll make it stop. Tell me how many of us Donelan thinks there are.”

“Four… hundred.” Cam’s voice was a hoarse whisper. Drops fell from the sluice and Cam flinched.

Ruggs straightened. “There. He can be reasonable.”

“Should I start the water again?”

Cam waited to die.

“Not today.”

Ruggs jerked away the rags. Soldiers turned the table roughly on its side. Cam puked water and blood, violently expelling both from his nose and mouth. It was another minute until the shaking stopped. The soldiers cut him down, and Cam tumbled to the floor, falling hard on his broken leg. He lay still in a pool of vomit. Ruggs’s boots came into view.

“You may not be as expendable as I first thought. Funny about the water cure. After the first time, it goes much faster.”

Soldiers jerked Cam to his knees, barely managing to drag him across the floor. He lost consciousness as they descended a rough stone staircase into the lower level of the mill.

When he awoke, his sodden shirt was stuck to his skin and he was shivering with cold in the darkness. The floor was made of stone, and no light filtered in. The air was colder here, and the stench of pig dung heavy. Cam sucked in great gulps of air despite the stink.

I broke. No matter that I lied. They broke me. And if they do it again, I won’t be able to hold
out.

“Good to know you’re alive. It’s been a while since they threw you in here,” a voice said.

“Thought they tossed in a corpse.”

“They nearly did.” Cam’s voice was rough, strange to his own ears. “Where am I?”

“Near as I can tell, we’re in what used to be one of the dung pools. It’s a round stone room with one door that’s locked.”

“Who are you?”

“I was unlucky enough to be squatting here when the brigands came. They threw me in here and forgot to kill me, I guess. Or perhaps they meant to let me starve. It’s been two days and no food. There’s a trickle of water comes down that wall—it’s probably all we’ll get.” The voice was quiet. “Caught a glimpse of you when they threw you in here. From the way they worked you over, I’m guessing you’re a bit more important than a squatter.”

“Just a soldier in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
I wasn’t important before I knew their
plan. Now, they can’t afford to let me go. Donelan’s spy in Margolan is a traitor. Kiara’s in
grave danger. Curane’s behind it all. And I’m the only one who knows.

DAY 2

“I’m not certain I understand you, Lord Vahanian.” The village elder stood. “We have lived in peace with our
vayash moru
neighbors for generations. Why should we fear now?”

Jonmarc took a deep breath. “There’s a small group of
vayash moru
—led by Malesh of Tremont, one of Lord Uri’s brood—who have broken the Truce. They want to provoke a war.

They’ve already destroyed Westormere and Crombey. Our best guess is that your village is next.”

“How can we stand against
vayash moru
?” The speaker was a man a dozen years or so older than Jonmarc, a merchant by his clothing.

“The other two villages weren’t prepared. They had no idea they’d be attacked. I have a force of
vayash moru
and
vyrkin
who want to defeat the rogues and preserve the Truce.

They can’t move until sundown—and neither can Malesh. We’ll just need to defend ourselves until Lord Gabriel and the Dark Haven guard can arrive.”

“How is that possible?”

Laisren was right. This is crazy. I’m supposed to be the defender of vayash moru, not
showing mortals how to destroy them. What choice is there? I’m also sworn to defend Dark
Haven’s mortals.

“You don’t have to fight them. All we have to do is hold them off. At most, it will be a matter of minutes before Lord Gabriel and my guard can get here. But in those minutes, Malesh’s brood could wipe out a village the size of yours—if you aren’t prepared.”

Jonmarc paced as the council deliberated. Mead’s Ferry was a tiny village, notable as a target only because it was the closest grouping of more than a few families. They were herders and farmers, with a few merchants who scratched out a living selling to the traders and travelers who passed by on the road. The sun was already low in the sky. There was barely enough time to prepare, even if the council ruled in his favor.
Gabriel told me I was
wasting my time. I should have slept longer, saved my strength for the battle tonight. But I
had to try.

“Lord Vahanian.” The village elder walked toward him. “We’ve reached a decision. We’ll prepare as you advise.”

“We don’t have much time. Let’s get started.”

Jonmarc knew too well what kind of weapons the villagers might have. Mead’s Ferry was much like the village where he had grown up. Knives and slings, handy for hunting game, were plentiful, but of limited use against this enemy. Few men owned swords, and none were trained to use them. Bows, torches and bonfires were the only weapons sure to keep Malesh and his brood at bay, but fire posed as great a threat to the villagers as it offered protection.

The villagers set a ring of bonfires around the green in the center of the town. Inside the ring, Jonmarc and the villagers stacked as many torches and arrows as they could find.

Women and children tipped the arrows with cloth or soaked new reed torches in oil.

Jonmarc kept an eye on the sun. He carried a crossbow, and had a full quiver of quarrels on his back. On his left arm was a single arrow in a hand-made launcher, his close-range, last-chance weapon.

“Light the fires,” he ordered.

The winter evening quickly became warm as summer as the bonfires caught and blazed into light. The bonfires formed a burning fence around the perimeter of the green, quickly melting the snow. “That should keep Malesh’s crew from getting in on the ground,” Jonmarc said. He signaled the archers. “Watch the sky. We can’t make the flames high enough to keep out the
vayash moru
without roasting ourselves.”

From the woods came a distant cry, more chilling than a wolf and wilder than a loon.

Outside the bonfires, shadows began to move. Every villager old enough to hold a bow was armed, arrows drawn, ready to shoot. In the center of the green, the children clustered, whimpering with fear. Clouds moved across the moon, but fleeting dark shapes moved more quickly, and Jonmarc brought down his arm to signal the archers.

“Fire!”

Bows twanged as arrows flew. Most disappeared into the night, but one of the shadows fell, plummeting into the fire. A blazing figure stood among the flames, screaming. Flames burned away flesh and clothing like paper, and the rest seemed to melt as if made from wax.

“Again!”

Another hail of arrows launched skyward. One of the shadows fell in the darkness beyond the ring of bonfires.

“C’mon Gabriel. Where are you?” Jonmarc muttered as he readied his crossbow.

“What’s that?” a woman screamed from the back of the green. Barely visible beyond the fires, the night seemed to have grown darker. Shadows blurred, and a wind rose, heaping snow onto the bonfires that sputtered and hissed. In the moment the archers were distracted, dark

shapes dove from overhead, swooping into the crowd and snatching half a dozen villagers into the sky.

“Hold your ground!” Jonmarc shouted above the chaos. Just beyond arrows’ range, the shadows hovered, holding aloft their terrified prisoners. The sky became a stage, lit by the wind-whipped flames. The shadowed shapes held their screaming captives aloft, dropping and catching them to heighten the terror and gain the attention of the crowd below. Swiftly, the dark shapes drew their victims to them, and the cries halted abruptly. As the captives jerked and grew still, the attackers twisted the bodies in their grasp, ripping off limbs and severing heads, spattering the screaming villagers below with gore before letting the mangled bodies fall to ground.

A crash from behind them made Jonmarc turn, crossbow leveled. Three wagons, hurled with inhuman strength, barreled through the waning bonfires, scattering people and burning brands across the trampled green. “Look out!”

Jonmarc dove out of the way of the careening wagons, but not fast enough. One of the wagons rolled straight for him, taking him off his feet. He rolled across it, falling hard, bleeding from gashes along his left arm and leg. He scrambled up, weapon ready.

“Weapons out! Charge!” Jonmarc shouted, anger silencing his fear. Half of the villagers surged forward with him, armed with torches, sickles and bows. The others fled in terror as the dark shapes dove and dodged through the crowd.

Abruptly, the attackers drew back. Jonmarc leapt across the scattered remains of the bonfire, and glimpsed Gabriel and Laisren across the broad village street, each battling two of the rogue
vayash moru
. His crossbow found its mark, picking off one of Laisren’s opponents before Jonmarc had to dive beneath a wagon to avoid one of the black-clad attackers.