Dark Lady's Chosen (30 page)

A man’s agonized scream cut through the silence at the old fuller’s mill. There was a thud as a body hit the wall hard. The wall that separated Cam’s prison in an old wool room from the main mill area shuddered.

“We know you’re Donelan’s spy,” Cam heard Ruggs shout through the wall at his captive.

“What I want to know is—what have you told Donelan?”

Another thud, and the man screamed again. In his prison, Cam dragged himself painfully toward the wall. His broken leg was swollen to nearly double its size, and he knew he could not stand without the wall’s support. But he couldn’t sit by while Ruggs tortured someone.

Not without trying to help.

“I’m not a patient man,” Ruggs said in a deadly tone. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll stop the pain. Toy with me and I’ll still have my answers… even if I have to drag them out of you along with your guts.”

Cam winced at the sound of boots connecting hard with flesh. The prisoner groaned and retched. Cam inched his way along the wall. His injured leg sent flashes of pain streaking through his body. His left arm was worse. The wound where Ruggs had severed his finger had gone bad; Cam knew that by the smell. His left hand was hot and swollen, and as the days passed, the infection had gradually made its way up his arm. Now, his whole body was feverish. A few more days and Ruggs’s hope for a captive to use for leverage against Donelan would be dashed. Cam was quite sure the fever or the poison from the festering wound would take him before long. Still, he inched on, until he found a break between boards big enough to see through.

Ruggs’s captive wore the bloodied uniform of the Isencroft army. He was young, probably not yet twenty. From what Cam could see, Ruggs and his men had already worked the spy over before they got to the mill. The man’s uniform was torn and covered with blood, and his face was swollen and bruised. Blood trickled from the soldier’s nose and mouth. Ruggs gave the prisoner a vicious kick. “What does Donelan know?”

The prisoner moaned. Cam had to lean closer to the break in the boards to make out his words. “The men we caught in town sing sweetly,” he managed. “Donelan has them all—”

“Liar!” Ruggs bent down and dragged the soldier to his feet. He pinned the prisoner to the wall not far from where Cam watched helplessly and slammed his fist into the soldier’s stomach, doubling the young man over. A vicious backhand snapped the prisoner’s head back up, slamming it hard enough against the wall that Cam was amazed the soldier didn’t lose consciousness.

A bitter smile crept over the young man’s split lips. “It’s too late. I was the bait. When I don’t return, they’ll know for sure you’re here. You don’t have much time left.”

Ruggs gave a howl of rage and Cam saw a glint of light as a knife turned in Ruggs’s hand an instant before he plunged it hilt-deep into the soldier’s belly. The point jammed into the wall, and for a moment, Ruggs let the prisoner hang suspended by the dagger beneath his ribs. The soldier groaned in pain and Ruggs could not restrain himself from landing another punch before he pulled his knife free and let the dying soldier slump to the ground.

“Throw him in with the other one. We have work to do.”

Enraged, Cam shuffled closer to the door. Fighting or escaping was beyond reach, but he could at least use his bulk to attack whoever came through the opening. The door opened, and with a roar, Cam threw himself at the two divisionists who dragged the battered soldier between them. His leg gave out on him, and he missed the first man, but he landed hard on the second and clamped his uninjured hand around the man’s thin neck, squeezing with all his strength.

“Whore-spawned bastard!” he shouted as he sank his fingers into the man’s neck.

The pommel of a sword came down hard on the side of Cam’s head, making him see stars.

Three men dragged him from the downed rebel and broke his grip on the man’s neck. The divisionists gathered their downed comrade and Cam looked up to see Ruggs framed in the doorway.

“The men Donelan’s captured won’t stop us,” Ruggs said as Cam raised his head to glare at him. “The army’s on their way. We have some surprises waiting for them. We’ll make it clear that some Isencroft men refuse to sell our souls to a foreign king.” He gave a cold smile.

“Make peace with whatever Aspect you honor. When the king’s troops come into sight, I plan to hang both of you from the outer wall as a welcome banner.” Ruggs slammed the door shut behind him and Cam heard the bolt slide into place.

Cam dragged himself over to where the battered soldier lay. There was just enough light making its way into the storage room from the late afternoon sun for him to see how bad the young man’s wounds were. Cam had seen enough of battle to recognize a mortal wound, and the jagged tear left by Ruggs’s knife would have challenged even so fine a healer as Carina.

The soldier turned his head slightly. “Don’t move,” Cam said quietly, drawing himself up into a sitting position with his good arm and gritting his teeth against the pain as he jarred his broken leg. “I’m nothing much to look at anyhow.”

“Cam of Cairnrach?” The soldier’s voice was muffled through swollen lips.

“Yes.”

“The king thanks you for your warning.”

Cam looked at him in astonishment. “Rhistiart made it through with my message?”

“And my mission was to tell you that help is on the way.”

“Please don’t tell me that you meant to let them capture you.”

The soldier gave a weak laugh and sputtered blood. “I was to tell you to watch sharp tomorrow night. That’s when they’re set to attack.” He struggled for breath. “I thought they might want to trade us. Seems they’re not much for exchanging prisoners. Live ones, anyway.”

As the young man spoke, Cam did his best to staunch the bleeding, but the warm blood drenched his hands. “Lie still.”

“Thank you for what you tried to do, there at the door.”

“My sister always said I was the size of an ox. Figured falling on someone could do some damage. I’m afraid that’s the best I could manage.”

“I was proud to serve the king.” The young man’s voice was faint, and even in the waning light, Cam could see the pallor in the soldier’s face.

“You’ve served well,” Cam said, fighting the lump in his throat. With his good hand, he clasped the soldier’s hand tightly as the man began to shiver. “Hang on. I won’t let go.”

“Say a prayer for my soul,” the soldier murmured. “There’s no family to mourn me.”

“What’s your name?

“Siarl.”

“I promise, Siarl.” Cam said. He could feel the other’s grip growing slack. The soldier drew a long, ragged breath and was still. Cam bowed his head. He had never been observant about the Lady. Carina had made offerings for the both of them, and Cam guessed that his sister also said whatever prayers he might have overlooked. But any man who soldiered more than a few battles knew the prayer for the dead. The words came to him now, and with them, the faces of so many

friends who lay beneath the battlefields.

“Let the sword be sheathed, and the helm shuttered. Prepare a feast in the hall of your fallen heroes. Siarl of Isencroft died with valor. Make his passage swift and his journey easy, until his soul rests in the arms of the Lady.” His voice broke. Gently, Cam let go of Siarl’s hand to make the sign of the Lady over his body. He closed the young man’s eyes and laid his hands atop his chest, covering the savage wound.

Cam drew a deep breath. He had no illusions about the likelihood of rescue. But he would honor Siarl’s sacrifice. His hand went to the flint and steel in his pocket. Donelan would have his warning beacon. Siarl would have a pyre worthy of a hero. And Cam of Cairnrach would have his vengeance.

DAY 5

It was past noon when Jonmarc awoke. His body still ached from the attack, but his head was clear and the pain was manageable. He pulled back the covers and shuddered as the cold air struck him. The fire was banked, and its heat did little to warm the room. Jonmarc dressed quickly. He crossed to the heavy drapes that blocked the sunlight and pulled them back.

Pristine snow-covered hills stretched out around Wolvenskorn, down to the thick forest.

Above it all, a bright blue sky was cloudless. A good day for battle. Tonight, one way or the other, the war with Malesh would end.

This was supposed to be our wedding day.
He stared out across the snow toward the horizon, and his fists balled tightly as he struggled for control. Come dawn, both he and Carina were likely to be dead.

He turned away from the window and belted on his sword. He strapped on the single arrow launcher, fastening it to his left forearm and fitting it with a fresh arrow. He left his baldric and daggers on the bed, along with his second sword and crossbow. There would be time enough to arm himself later, when they were ready to ride.

A cold breakfast waited on the nightstand, and a pot of
kerif
simmered on the coals in the fireplace. Jonmarc finished his food and drank down the
kerif
greedily, looking to clear the last traces of the attackers’ drugs from his system. When no one came to fetch him, Jonmarc let himself into the hallway and followed the sound of voices. The
vayash moru
would be at rest while the sun was high in the sky, so he assumed that it was
vyrkin
that he heard.

Yestin and Vigulf the shaman were the only two Jonmarc recognized as he entered the great room. Twenty-five men looked up as Jonmarc walked in. Yestin and Vigulf greeted him and welcomed him to the table. Platters of roasted venison looked well picked over as Jonmarc waved off offers of food.

“I see we’ve gotten reinforcements,” he said to Yestin.

“I know it doesn’t seem like many. But we are fewer than mortals guess. They’ve sent the women and pups into hiding. These are all the
vyrkin
males within a two-day’s ride of Wolvenskorn. I can give you my word that none of my people have sided with Malesh.”

Jonmarc

could see the fierce pride in Yestin’s eyes, even as he noted that the shapeshifter moved with a slight limp, evidence that he was not fully recovered from his injuries. Jonmarc knew better than to comment. Like Yestin, he had no intention of allowing his half-healed wounds to keep him from battle.

“And the
vayash moru
?”

Vigulf answered him. “Nearly thirty
vayash moru
sleep in the crypts below. Word of the uprising has spread quickly. They’ve come from across Principality and even some from Margolan. We’ve promised them we will stand guard.”

Fifty-five
vayash moru
and
vyrkin
, and one lone mortal. The Lady had a morbid sense of humor when it came to picking champions. “No idea how many have gone over to Malesh’s side?”

Yestin shook his head. “Gabriel doesn’t know where some of the
vayash moru
have gone, especially those who belong to Rafe and Astasia. We don’t know whether they’ll watch from the sidelines, or whether they’ve sided with Malesh.”

“Anyone hazard a guess on how many fledges Uri’s made—for argument’s sake? And how many
might
turn out against us if Rafe and Astasia back Malesh? It’s an old habit—I like to have some idea of how big the enemy’s forces are.”

The
vyrkin
shaman gave the barest of smiles. “I, too, like to know such things. For argument’s sake. If they were all to turn against us, we may face a roughly equal number, but they will all be
vayash moru
.”

“Meaning ‘equal’ isn’t really equal at all.”

“They have some advantages. So do we.”

An awful thought occurred to Jonmarc. “Are there other
vayash moru
broods, aside from the Blood Council?”

Vigulf nodded. “There are minor families. Some are indirect fledges, while others owe allegiance to less powerful sires. I don’t think they’ll enter the fight—at least, not yet.”

Jonmarc looked at him skeptically. “Why not?”

Vigulf folded his arms across his chest. “
Vayash moru
, like
vyrkin
, respect an order of dominance. Right now, this is a Blood Council issue. The others will wait on the sidelines until they see a clear winner before they risk themselves. Malesh may have recruited from the other Blood Council broods, but he would not think to ask help from what he would consider to be inferior bloodlines.”

“Yeah, well I’m living proof that street curs are more dangerous than pure bloods.”

“Indeed.”

While the
vyrkin
were up and about during daylight, Jonmarc noticed that the heavy draperies in the great room remained drawn. Torches lit the room, making it difficult to gauge the passage of time. Jonmarc sat at the huge table between Yestin and Vigulf as the
vyrkin
worked out their strategy for the fight.

“We have to hold Malesh off until seventh bells,” Jonmarc said. “We owe Carina that chance. After that, he’s mine.”

The shaman smiled coldly. “We are agreed to contain Malesh without destroying him, and to keep him from entering the Temple of the Lady. Those who fight beside him,” Vigulf said, his elongated eye teeth plain, “can fall at any time and not affect Carina. We will make this a costly lesson.”

Jonmarc looked to Yestin. “You’ve been quiet. Thoughts?”

Yestin smiled tightly. “That today is a good day to die.”

Jonmarc snorted. “I was thinking that it’s a good day to kill the fucking bastard who started this.”

Since the
vyrkin
could move about before sunset, they made ready to leave before the
vayash moru
arose. Even Gabriel had no idea where Malesh had gone to ground, and Jonmarc and Yestin wanted to be in position at the temple before Malesh could have a chance of reaching his objective.

Just before fourth bells, servants brought flagons of goats’ blood in preparation for the
vayash moru
to rise. Jonmarc went to retrieve his remaining weapons from his room. He touched the amulet at his throat that Carina had given him and closed his eyes. It had never been his way to pray before a battle. Until he met Tris, Jonmarc had stopped believing that the Lady was anything but a myth told by those too desperate to accept the fact that they were on their own. A year with a Summoner convinced him that the Lady existed, but he found it impossible to believe such a being could give a damn about the petitions of mere mortals. He’d made Istra’s Bargain out of desperation, and despite what Gabriel said, part of him deeply doubted anyone was listening. But just in case, he had one last favor to ask.