Hunted (Book 3) (18 page)

When they caught sight of Chertanne dancing near a fire surrounded by nobility, Mirelle left her daughter to attend to “urgent matters,” disappearing into the night. The Chalaine braced herself and strode into the circle of Churchmen and dignitaries who were allowed the privilege of company with the Ha’Ulrich. She noted that several Regents were there, along with Warlords from Aughmere and Dukes from Tolnor.

Torbrand mingled with his Warlords. Disappointingly, though not unexpectedly, Chertanne had wasted no time wading into a nearby cask of ale, and, by the red on his nose and cheeks, the underside of his ample mug had seen more of the stars than the mud. Geoff awaited his Lord’s pleasure nearby, while Fenna, happy and contented, sat nursing a mug of her own on her lap.

All save Chertanne bowed as the Chalaine crossed to her husband. He rose and grabbed her in a wild embrace.

“Minstrel!” he shouted. “A song for the Lady and me! It is time for dancing!”

For the second time in her life, the Chalaine danced with Chertanne, only this time her heart was so heavy that what resulted was little more than a lugubrious shifting about. Fortunately, Chertanne, who could not be parted from his ale even in dance, cavorted so wildly that he slipped and landed on his backside, ejecting the ale to run down a dour Churchman’s cloak.

The company laughed at his antics, and the Chalaine took the opportunity to perform her best impression of concern for his wellbeing.

“Have you hurt yourself, my Lord?” she asked, crouching near him and grabbing his arm to help him to his feet. “Shall I fetch a Pureman?”

“Not unless he has a mug of ale in his hand!” Chertanne laughed hysterically at his own joke and handed the Chalaine his mug. “Go see if you can find him!”

Jaron hissed under his breath, and the Chalaine cast him a warning glance. If anything, retrieving ale exempted her from further dancing, which Chertanne now undertook alone. Fenna met her by the cask.

“It is so good to be home!” she brimmed excitedly. “I feel so much better now. The past few months seem like such a dark dream! Padra Athan said that Geoff and I are to ride to Blackshire come morning. I would like to have remained with you, but he said that you would be well taken care of.”

“Padra Athan spoke with you and Geoff?”

“Yes, when he came for the book Geoff wrote. Geoff tried to convince the Padra to let him finish a few more things, but Athan was so insistent that Geoff gave way. I suppose it won’t matter much, anyway. Have you heard anything about Gen?”

“Nothing new, I’m afraid,” the Chalaine replied, topping off the mug. “If I hear anything definite, I will write to you.”

The Chalaine looked into the green eyes of her former handmaiden and felt tears coming to her own. As much of a trial that the young woman had proved to be in the preceding weeks, the Chalaine loved her dearly. Setting her husband’s drink aside, she embraced Fenna for many long moments, thanking her for her years of devoted service.

“It was an honor to serve you, Chalaine,” Fenna said in kind, wiping tears of her own. “Promise to write and to visit me whenever you can.”

“I will.”

Chertanne’s impatience ended their discussion. “Have you found that Pureman yet, Lady Khairn? It turns out I need a bit more medicine after all!”

After another quick embrace, the Chalaine returned the mug to its owner, who drank deeply and with satisfaction. “Well done, my dear, I believe I shall keep you around a while longer.”

Athan, face guarded, approached the assembly, and all mirth ceased. Chertanne returned to sit on an ample stump that served as a makeshift throne in the sylvan environs. The Chalaine followed and sat by him on the ground, wondering how long it would take Jaron’s teeth to dissolve to powder from such frequent grinding. Athan shushed what little conversation persisted in their immediate party, though the raucous festivities continued unabated all around them.

“With Chertanne’s permission, I would like to address several questions I am sure you all have had since our return. Firstly, the Chalaine is pregnant with the Holy Child. She has lain with Chertanne but once after the moon Trys broke into the sky. Thus we can confirm that the Child was conceived according to the dictates of prophecy.

“Secondly, as some of you have no doubt heard, Gen attacked the Ha’Ulrich on the night of his wedding. I can confirm to you now that Gen is, indeed, the very Ilch.” Gasps ran through the assembly, and Athan paused a moment to let the news sink in. “Chertanne killed him as he tried to sneak back into Rhugoth, and we will, starting tomorrow, show the mark of prophecy upon his severed foot as proof that the designs of Mikkik have been frustrated.”

The Chalaine grasped the
animon
within her dress, comforted by its warmth.

“That’s preposterous, Athan, even for you,” Torbrand spoke up. While shock at this affront rippled among the dignitaries, Torbrand continued. “It is simply irrational, even for one as irrational as me. If the Ilch’s purpose was to thwart the prophecy, he could have ordered Gen to kill the Chalaine and Chertanne months ago. And while it is true that he attacked Chertanne, it was
after
Chertanne and the Chalaine had conceived the Child and
after
my brilliant son stripped Gen of rank and title and gave the woman he was to marry to another man. If Gen were under Mikkik’s orders, why would he have not killed Chertanne and the Chalaine outright, and why would he have waited until after they had conceived the Child? It is ridiculous.”

While the Chalaine could not understand Torbrand’s strange affection for Gen, she could only smile as his logic set tongues to murmuring and heads to nodding in assent. Chertanne even set his ale down for a moment.

“I cannot explain what Mikkik’s plans might be, but even the Chalaine knows it to be true, don’t you? Why don’t you tell them how you were deceived?”

The Chalaine saw the challenge in Athan’s eyes, defying her to keep to her word.
So you think the weak little Chalaine will not go through with her blustery words. You asked for this, Athan. Remember it.

The Chalaine rose to her feet, and with the most believable conviction she had ever thrown behind any lie, said, “On the contrary! Gen is the most genuine person I have ever met! He attacked Lord Khairn because he had affronted Gen’s good character beyond toleration, and Gen was honor bound to confront him to defend his good name. I would no more believe that Gen is the Ilch than I would believe that you are. Everyone here is well aware of Gen’s unimpeachable moral character. It is a shame that you should foist such a dreadful slander on one who has done so much to aid the prophecy. Why, I doubt there is anyone alive that has helped it along more than he.”

The Chalaine thought Athan endured her tirade admirably, despite the fact that her argument had clearly put the majority against him.

“Then I offer this as proof,” he said, signaling to a group of Eldephaere who brought forth the box the Chalaine had noticed outside of Athan’s tent. The group contracted around the box as the Church soldiers pried the lid open. There, on a mat of straw, lay Gen’s freshly amputated leg, the mark of prophecy plain upon its instep.

“Will you deny, Chalaine, that this is the leg of your Protector?” Athan prompted.

“I cannot say. I have never seen his naked leg, and the last time I saw my Protector, he had both of his.”

“Because you healed what we had done!”

“How could I have done that? You said he was dead. I cannot restore limbs to the dead. Besides, if I had seen Gen dead, I would be in my tent mourning, not celebrating here. I believe you have the wrong man. You may have captured and killed the Ilch, but it was not Gen.”

I doubt he’ll ask my opinion again.

Athan ordered the box away, the Chalaine noticing the slight trembling of his hands as he addressed an unconvinced audience. “It is Gen, the very one. Before he died, the Pontiff Belliarmus examined Gen personally and found it to be so. I will not contradict him. I certify that the leg you have just seen is Gen’s.”

“And what has the Ha’Ulrich to say?” said Ulodean Mail, an imposing Warlord of Aughmere. “His word is law, and I will follow.”

Chertanne wrinkled his nose when he realized someone had addressed him specifically. He set his mug down and stood, hitching up his loose pants. “I, Chertanne Khairn, Lord of Ki’Hal declare Gen to be the very vermin Ilch, just as Athan has shown you. He set his foot against me from the beginning and tried to end my life, which no one save those affiliated with evil would undertake! He deceived the Chalaine, and she is yet confounded by that deception.”

“I beg your pardon, My Lord,” the Chalaine interrupted. “But I am in my right mind and suffer under no spell.”

“Do not contradict me!” Chertanne growled, shoving her to the ground. The Chalaine landed hard, turning to see what Jaron would do and finding him arm extended and sword rammed through the left side of Chertanne’s upper chest. No one moved, gaping in shocked disbelief as Chertanne crumpled and slid off the bloody blade. The thud of his body hitting the ground thawed frozen tongues and feet. Jaron dropped his blade and raised his hands as Chertanne’s guard and the Eldephaere closed upon him. Athan sprung to Chertanne’s side immediately, taking time only to yell for Jaron to be left alive.

The Chalaine stared in wonder and sadness at her Protector, who regarded her softly and with resignation. “I cannot live and see you treated like this, Highness. Not for the world. Gen is right. He was always right.”

“Chalaine!” Athan screamed frantically. “Help him!”

The Chalaine picked herself up and wormed her way through the group of men clustered around their King. He lay on the ground unblinking and pale. Trembling, she grasped the limp hand and concentrated.

“I cannot help him,” she reported to a sea of expectant faces. “I cannot raise the dead.”

Maewen doubted she had ever traveled in company with two people less like herself. While she found humans generally intolerable, some few, such as Gen, she could stomach. Torbrand Khairn and the retired General Harband each possessed such a penchant for violence and irreverence—exacerbated by a criminal self-assurance—that their own kind feared and shunned them. How could she, accustomed to solitude, patience, and long wisdom, endure their endless blather, pointless bragging, and manic emotion?

The First Mother had asked them to aid Maewen in a bid to free Gen, but every day the temptation to sneak away on her own in the night mounted. Both Torbrand and General Harband had been in Chertanne’s camp the night Jaron killed Chertanne, and once Mirelle had informed Maewen of Gen’s plight, Maewen had Ethris use the hair she had recovered from the floor in Elde Luri Mora to create a brand so that she could track Gen’s whereabouts. The First Mother instructed her to search out Torbrand and the General and ask their assistance. Both accepted eagerly, and—while Maewen knew of Torbrand’s obsession with Gen and Harband’s devotion to the First Mother—she suspected both wanted to help just for the opportunity to bash in a few heads.

The former Shadan and former Rhugothian General had an instant and unfortunate bond that drew out the worst qualities of the other. In the wild she could minimize the consequences of their impulsiveness; if she ever had to lead them into a city or an inn, she had little doubt they would invent some excuse to start an altercation within minutes, and she would be forced to disavow any knowledge of them.

At the very least, Torbrand’s appearance would attract little attention, though handsome and striking. General Harman Harband (or Hardman, as he like to be called), could easily pass for the Ilch in any play that depicted the Apocraphon. His lean skeletal frame, though not in its prime, still moved with power. His face lacked any padding, weathered skin stretched taut against the skull. Small cavernous eyes peered from darkened sockets with a juvenile hunger, and light gray stubble capped his head. Most frightening, however, were sharpened foreteeth and fingernails, both the color of yellowing parchment, and the wicked spiked war club that hung from a thick, well-worn belt that held up tight black leather pants. He wore his long sleeved white shirt open nearly to his navel.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, lass,” Hardman complimented her. “I thought for sure they would take him to Ironkeep, but there they are. A nifty bit of tracking to find them so precisely. Looks like they’ll set up camp for the night.”

She hadn’t bothered explaining the branding Ethris had performed upon her, content to let the two rascals credit her tracking abilities. They hunched behind thick trees on a low hill some two hundred yards from the main road. An evening haze hung over a shallow valley which was starting to give way to farmland. Elsen, a town a couple of miles on, housed a Portal that led to the city of Tenswater, a Church Protectorate shard rich with Portals. Nations had fought over control of the small shard so bitterly that the Church had intervened for the sake of peace, placing it under its jurisdiction. Most importantly to the caravan carrying Gen, the main Portal to the Church’s headquarters, Mur Eldloth, lay within the city.

Hardman scratched his beard. “I wonder why they do not press on to Elsen? They can’t be more than a mile or two out. The Church has a small fighting order there that could provide them more protection and, for us, more fun.”

“The Church wants this little parade kept quiet,” Torbrand answered. “Gen, according to them, is supposed to be the Ilch and, more importantly, is supposed to be dead. The more they avoid company and questions, the better. They are doing the right thing, strategically. Unfortunately, such a light caravan will provide little sport. I don’t think there are more than thirty men down there.”

Hardman grunted his agreement. “I’d hoped for at least fifty. Well, which flank do you want? We’ll have this over before full dark.”

“No!” Maewen objected, trying to keep her countenance. “I think you are forgetting something.”

“Yes, of course!” Hardman exclaimed. “Thank you, elf. They have a Padra or two down there. Magic is so unfair and unsporting.”

“That’s not much of an issue,” Torbrand piped in. “We wait till dark. Use bows to assassinate the Padras. They’ll send a token force up the hill to investigate. We kill them and then clean up the rest. We’ll be done before midnight.”

“An excellent plan,” Hardman concurred. “Let’s eat.”

“The Padras are not what I meant,” Maewen interjected as they went for their packs. Both turned toward her with annoyed looks. “While the Padras and the soldiers are obstacles to consider, the main issue is the carriage.”

“The carriage?” Hardman questioned. “Oh, you mean that the carriage door will likely be locked. No worries. There isn’t a door that Destiny can’t break down.”

“Destiny?” Torbrand asked quizzically.

“My club,” Hardman explained a bit sheepishly.

“You named your club? I confess that I have been tempted to name a sword or two after some of my more unfriendly wives, but I never went through with it.”

“It’s a family tradition.”

“I see.”

“Gentlemen!” Maewen interrupted. “The lock on the carriage is not the problem. Your poor human eyes cannot see the protecting runes inscribed upon the sides and the door, but mine can. Remember, Lord Khairn, the many protections cast upon the Chalaine’s wagon. It survived a solid knock from the helmet of the abomination and a tumble over a cliff. If that wagon is similarly protected, then Destiny will do us no good, and killing everyone will just leave us with a carriage we can’t open.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Torbrand asked. “We are a day from the Portal into Tenswater and then barely an hour to the Portal to Mur Eldaloth. I do not want to risk a trip to the Church’s home shard. As long as we can drive the carriage, we should be able to get it back to Ethris and have him undo the magic.”

Maewen said, “That, I would suggest, is our contingency plan, though I fear they may be able to magically track the wagon, as well. I have an alternative, but what I am about to propose will require such precise execution that we may need something to fall back on.”

“Say on,” Hardman prompted, curiosity piqued.

Maewen sat down. “Portal crossings have a single danger: if the Portal is closed before an object has completely passed through it, the object will be split in two. We need to be in position near the Portal Mage on the Elsen side as they drive the carriage through. It will be moving slowly enough that if the Portal is closed at the right moment, the inside will be exposed and the carriage rendered useless. We need to sever the very rear of the carriage, which will expose the insides and chop the rear wheels in half.

“While I cannot be certain, I am confident that they will do one of two things, go to a Church stronghold within Tenswater, or make a dash on foot for the Portal to Mur Eldaloth. In either case, Gen and his companions will be more accessible, and the city gives us more places to hide and a wealth of Portals to use for our escape. Two of us will go through the Portal ahead of the caravan. One will stay behind to interrupt the Portal Mage.”

“How will they reopen the Portal if the Portal Mage is dead?” Hardman asked.

“I never said we would kill the Portal Mage,” Maewen answered. “There is no need. We need only distract him momentarily, and I might add that if whoever stays behind to do the distracting does not appear to do so innocently, he will likely find himself in a great deal of trouble from the Church, or even worse, the Portal Guild. Our best chance to recover Gen will be directly after they remove him from the carriage. If the Padras have time to establish a ward, or if reinforcements arrive, this will be for naught.”

Torbrand regarded her coolly, though a hint of excitement bloomed in his eyes. “Since you say ‘
he
will find himself in a great deal of trouble’ may I infer that you will not be the one staying behind?”

“That is correct. The General and I will go through a few hours early to scout and to acquire weapons so they we can arm the young men once we have released them. You will stay behind. Like it or not, you are the least recognizable of our little party in these lands. I confess I have thought of no good way to deal with the Padras. We must not harm them if we can avoid it.”

“So to summarize your plan,” Hardman began, tone carrying a hint of mockery, “you want to slice open the carriage in a Portal by distracting a Portal Mage and then engage in a pitched street battle with the Eldephaere in Tenswater while trying to avoid the magic of the Padras?”

“And don’t forget avoiding the Tenswater militia,” Torbrand added.

“Yes.”

“That is the most insane, desperate plan I have ever heard!” Hardman exclaimed.

“I love it,” Torbrand voted.

“I do too!” Hardman concurred.

“This one is even more foolhardy than the one she and Gen concocted to attack an entire Uyumaak company by themselves,” Torbrand reminisced. “I am still angry you didn’t invite me along.”

“Elves must live so long that they bore of a straight fight,” Hardman said. “One can hardly find that kind of creativity anymore, Maewen. You are to be congratulated. I would have to be pig drunk to come up with something like that. Torbrand, how are you going to distract the Portal Mage? Maybe you should dress up like a woman and. . .”

“I’m going to scout about,” Maewen announced, though the men hardly noticed her departure as they schemed. By the time she returned, both had fallen dead asleep without bothering to set a watch. She woke them well before dawn, wanting to arrive at Elsen at sunup so she and Hardman could scout Tenswater.

The road, soft and damp in the late autumn, led by fields freshly harvested. Low stone walls marked field borders, small farmhouses puffing smoke into the chill air. Snow would come soon, and Maewen wanted to get into Rhugoth before the real cold and blinding winter squalls descended on Kingsblood Lake. Hardman and the Shadan rode with the expressions of children in a hay wagon on the way to the fair. The tracker ignored their brightness of spirit easily, a dread of their task settling in as Elsen, sleepy and small, emerged at the foot of a low line of hills. The thought of battling humans rather than Uyumaak discomfited her, and the magic of the Padras gnawed at the back of her mind, the one asset of the enemy all their strength at arms had no answer for.

“I would have thought the town would be a worthier size, considering where the Portal leads,” Torbrand commented.

“Unfortunately,” Hardman explained, “or fortunately, depending on your point of view, Tenswater can provide a greater variety of goods and services at a cheaper price than these little towns. The farmers are forced to cross into Tenswater to barter their goods at low return, actually impoverishing the town more than prospering it. Besides, there is little of interest to travelers passing this way. I’m sure the Portal Mage has seen nothing the size of the caravan behind us in a good while.”

The road from the hill descended gradually, paved stones replacing dirt as they crossed through a low gate flanked by town militia sharply dressed in blue and gray. The three travelers kept cowls up and heads down as they sped through without a challenge. Despite its irrelevance, the citizens of Elsen demonstrated pride in their village, the roads and buildings clean, well-maintained, and inviting. Their horses’ hooves echoed through the sleepy street, only a few shutters having opened an eye to the day.

The road led straight to the Portal, the boundaries marked by two slim pillars flared inward and toward each other at the top. A modest though comfortable house stood nearby, although the dark of the windows and the lack of smoke filtering through the chimney evidenced that the owner had yet to rise.

“I will part ways with you here,” Torbrand announced. “I will breakfast and then start to work into a state in which I can aid our plan. While I will not take the part of a woman, I can certainly manage drunk and disorderly. After my little disruption, I will try to move through the Portal as quickly as I can, though you may have to spring me from a holding cell first.”

“Good luck, my friend,” Hardman saluted. “We shall see you soon.” Torbrand rode back toward the center of town while Hardman rousted the Portal Mage with a few wood-splintering knocks on the door from Destiny. Maewen gritted her teeth, assuming a lesson on subtlety would find little to stick to in the head of the brutish General. The only advantage, Maewen surmised, was that when the scrawny, young Portal Mage did emerge from the door, he was so indisposed and intimidated that he simply opened the Portal without bothering to collect payment or force Hardman or herself to sign the customary ledger.