Furies of Calderon (45 page)

Fidelias stopped, panting, as he and Aldrick emerged from the heavily forested regions northeast of Bernard-holt and reached the causeway that led down the Valley and ultimately to Garrison. His feet, though he had wrapped them in strips of his cloak and urged his furies to ease his way, had worsened. The pain alone was nearly enough to stop him, even without the fatigue from too long spent walking, casting back and forth in a fruitless effort to catch the wily Stead-holder.

Fidelias sank onto a flat stone beside the causeway, while the swordsman paced restlessly out onto the road. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why don’t you just zoom us along like before?”

“Because we haven’t been on a road,” Fidelias said from between clenched teeth. “Riding an earth-wave along a road is simple. Using one in the open countryside, without intimate knowledge of the local furies is suicide.”

Fidelias shook his head. “We’re not going to catch him at this rate. He left a half-dozen false trails behind him and waited until we bought one of them before he raised his wave and went.”

Aldrick knelt and unwrapped a bit more of the cloth, assessing the injuries. “Getting worse. There’s more swelling. If you let this go, you’re going to lose them.”

Fidelias grunted. “There’s still time. We need to—” Fidelias looked up to see Etan dancing frantically in the nearest tree. He cast his eyes down the road west of them. “Aldrick,” Fidelias said, keeping his voice low. “Two men on the road coming toward us. Legion haircuts, both armed.”

Aldrick drew in a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “All right.
Legionares
?”

“No uniforms.”

“Age?”

“Young.” Fidelias touched the stones of the road with one foot, reaching out for Vamma. “Using the road to help them run. Moving fast. They’ve got some training in war-crafting.”

“How do we do it?”

“Wait for me to say,” Fidelias said. “Let’s find out whatever we can first.” He watched the pair of young men come running toward them along the road and managed a pained smile as they approached and slowed their pace. “Morning, boys,” he called. “Have you got a minute to help a couple of travelers?”

The young men slowed, and Fidelias took in the details as they came closer. Young, both of them—less than a score of years of age. Both were slender, though one was tall and already seemed to be losing his hair to a receding hairline. They shared similar long, lean features—brothers, perhaps. Both were panting, though not heavily, from their run along the road. Fidelias tried to smile again and offered them his water flask.

“Sir,” panted the taller of the young men, accepting the flask. “Much obliged.”

“You hurt?” asked the shorter. He leaned a bit closer, peering at Fidelias’s feet. “Crows. You’ve really gotten them torn up.”

“The storm forced us off the road last night,” Fidelias said. “There was a flood, and I had to kick my shoes off to swim. Been walking without them all morning, but I had to stop.”

The young man winced. “I’ll bet.” He accepted the flask from his brother with a nod, took a quick drink, and offered it back to Fidelias. “Sir,” he said, “maybe you’d better get off the road. I’m not sure it’s safe here.”

Fidelias glanced at Aldrick, who nodded and made himself look busy redressing Fidelias’s injured foot. “Why do you say that, son?”

The taller of the pair answered. “There’s been problems in the Valley, sir. Last night there was a big uprising of furies—local furies from holders, that is. And my youngest brother spotted what he swears was a Marat scout by our stead-holt—that would be Warner-holt, sir.”

“A Marat?” Fidelias gave the young man a skeptical smile. “Surely your brother was having some fun at your expense.”

The Warner-holter shook his head. “Regardless, there’s been trouble in the Valley, sir. Me and my brothers came home to help my father with a local matter, and it got out of hand. There was a fight, almost some killings. And we saw smoke coming from out east, near Aldo-holt. Put together with last night, and this sighting, we decided it would be best to put the word out.”

Fidelias blinked. “My. So you’re off to warn Garrison of trouble?”

The young man nodded, grimly. “Head back down the road the way we came a piece, and look for a trail to the south. It will take you to Bernard-holt. We’d best not stay here, if you’ll pardon us, sir. Sorry we can’t help you.”

“That’s all right,” Fidelias assured him. “We all have a duty to do, son.” He frowned, staring at the younger of the two for a moment.

Fidelias pulled the second boot from the shorter of the two men and sat down to pull them over his battered feet. “I don’t have time.”

“I’m not sure that was necessary, Fidelias,” Aldrick said. “If word is out, it’s out. Doesn’t seem to be much sense in killing them.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind,” Fidelias said.

“I’m good at killing. Doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

“Every man enjoys doing what he’s good at.” Fidelias tightened the laces as much as he could, wincing in pain. “It was necessary. We have to stop anyone else from getting word to Garrison, or out the other end of the Valley, either.”

“But that Stead-holder has already got through.”

“He’s only one man, one report. The local Count won’t want to commit everything based on that. It will buy us time. If we can keep anything else from getting through, we’ll make sure that Garrison is off guard. Is he dead?”

Aldrick stooped over the barefooted boy for a moment. “He’s gone. You want me to signal the men?”

“Yes.” Fidelias stood up, testing his weight on his feet. They hurt, they hurt abominably, but the boots were a tolerable fit. They’d hold together long enough. “And we’ll have to get in touch with Atsurak again. Things are falling apart. We can’t afford to wait any longer.”

Fidelias stepped over the bodies of the young men of Warner-holt and glanced over his shoulder at the swordsman. “I’m starting the attack now.”

Chapter 28

Kord forced Isana to watch what they did to Odiana.

He had brought in a stool with him, and he sat behind her, within the ring of coals. He made her sit on the floor in front of him, so that they could both see, as though it was some sort of theater event.

“She’s a tough one,” Kord said, after a long and sickening time. “Knows what she’s doing. Survivor.”

Isana suppressed the sickness in her stomach, long enough to say, “Why do you say that?” Anything to take her mind from what was happening.

“She’s calculated. There, see how she fights? Just enough to get a man worked up. Then goes all liquid and helpless once he’s on her. She knows every man wants to think he’s got that kind of power over a woman. She makes them think what she wants to—and she’s barely been roughed up at all.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Isana. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy the thought of you dead. I could be happy with that.” His eyes didn’t waver from the scene before them, glittering with something dark, angry, alien. “But my son is dead because of you. And that mandates something more substantial.”

“Dead?” Isana said. She blinked slowly. “Kord. You have got to understand. This isn’t about you. It isn’t about the hearing or Warner’s daughter—”

“The crows it isn’t,” Kord said. “Because of you we had to go to Bernard-holt. Because of you, we had to run out into the storm. Because of you, we had to watch and make sure no one went running to Gram for help—and sure enough, that little freak of yours did. Because of you, Bittan died.” He looked down at her, showing his teeth. “Well now I’m the strong one. Now I’m the one making the rules. And I’m going to show you, Isana, how low a woman can be brought. Before I finish what the river started.”

Isana turned to him. “Kord, don’t you understand? We could all be in danger. Bernard saw—”

He struck her with a closed fist. The blow drove her back and to the floor, her body helplessly loose and unresponsive. After a disorienting moment, the pain started, rippling up from her mouth, her cheek. She tasted blood on her tongue, where she’d cut herself on her own teeth.

Kord leaned down and seized her hair, jerking her face up to his. “Don’t speak to me like you’re some kind of person. You aren’t any more. You’re just meat now.” He gave her head a vicious little shake. “You understand that?”

“I understand,” Isana grated, “that you’re a little man, Kord.” She dragged in a breath, enough to make the words cut. “You can’t look past yourself. Not even when something is coming to crush you. You’re small. No matter what you do to me, you’ll still be small. A coward who hurts slaves because he’s afraid to challenge anyone stronger.” She met his eyes and whispered, “You’ve got me because you found me helpless. You’d never be able to do anything to me if you hadn’t. Because you’re nothing.”

Kord’s eyes flashed. He snarled, a mindlessly animal sound, and hit her again, harder. Stars flew across her vision, and the dusty floor rose up to meet her.

She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, pain and thirst blinding her, making her unaware of anything else. But when she came to her senses again and sat up, only Kord and his son, Aric, remained. Odiana lay in a heap on the floor, not far away, curled onto her side, her legs drawn up, her hair hiding her face.

Kord tossed a flask down beside Isana. It made a soft, slight gurgling sound, as though it held only a tiny bit of water. “Go ahead,” he told her. “Nothing in that one. I want you to see what happens.”

Isana took up the flask, throat burning. She didn’t believe that Kord had told her the truth, but she felt faint, weak, and her throat felt as though it had been coated with salt. She pulled the cap from it and drank, almost before she realized what she was doing. Water, warm, but untainted, flowed into her mouth. Half a cup, perhaps—certainly no more. It was gone before it had done much to help her thirst, but at least it had eased the maddening ache of it. She lowered the flask, looking up at Kord.