Hunted (Book 3) (21 page)

“Have you seen anyone else down here?” Padra Seffire asked Gerand. “Be quick, boy.”

“No, Padra,” Gerand answered as meekly as he could, which to Gen’s ear came across as just a shade under stubborn haughtiness.

“And Gen still sleeps?”

“Yes, Padra. . .”

Gen interrupted Gerand by grumbling and stirring noisily.

“But I think he is near waking.”

Seffire abandoned the bars and the conversation immediately. “Orvis, Brace, we have to hurry. Get as many soldiers down here as you can.” He incanted his spell and the lock popped. “You two get out,” Seffire commanded after pulling open the door. Volney and Gerand hesitated, unsure what to do. Gen stirred again. “Get out!” Seffire yelled.

Gen steadied himself and kept up his restless act, moving his head back and forth and fluttering his eyelids. Volney and Gerand dismounted the carriage and the Padra incanted again, though Gen couldn’t tell what the spell had done. Seffire’s robes rustled as he ascended the carriage, his shadow returning the brief glow of light behind Gen’s eyelids back to darkness. The acrid smell of the elm’s draught filled the carriage as Seffire unstoppered a vial. Gen opened his eyes briefly and closed them again as if in a waking swoon.

Just a moment longer.

Seffire placed the vial on Gen’s lips. Gen rocked backward and thrust forward with his legs, heels catching the Padra squarely in the chest. The top of the low door of the wagon smashed into the Padra’s head as he shot backward, rotating his body forward while the momentum carried him outside. He was limp before he landed face first on the cave floor. The protective dome of air vanished.

“Seffire!” the other Padras shouted in unison. A deafening battle cry reverberated through the hall, General Harband yelling a knee-weakening command to attack. Gen moved toward the carriage entrance, muscles sluggish. He gathered the swords under his arm and thrust himself through the open door, weapons clanging as he unfurled the cloak and let them fall to the ground.

The other two Padras yelled for help from above as their eyes cast about in fear as they assessed the threat they faced in the dark. Volney and Gerand were as still as statues, the victims of some spell.

Forgoing a weapon, Gen dashed at the Padras. Using Trysmagic, he eroded portions of the floor beneath their feet to throw them off balance and keep their minds far from their spells. With a precise punch to one and a kick to the other, they fell to the ground unconscious. Volney and Gerand snapped from their stupor, and Gen joined them, retrieving the weapons from the ground. Ropes from above cascaded down the hole.

“Let’s go!” Torbrand yelled.

Maewen shot down the first two soldiers plunging down the rope before shouldering her bow and reigniting her torch. Hardman and Torbrand punished the first eager soldiers to shimmy down the ropes with a brutal assault. Once the young men joined Maewen, they dashed away from the hole, and the chase through the cramped cavern began. The cave floor alternated between damp, smooth rock and loose gravel, confounding boots and ankles as they struggled forward in the dark.

“I think we went faster walking,” Hardman commented after Gerand slid and bashed his head into the wall. Gen straightened him up and helped him along, his own bare feet cut and bleeding. He realized the mark of prophecy on his instep would be visisble in better light.

Shouting echoed to them from the tunnel behind. The cave rarely widened enough to let more than two people walk side by side.

We could hold them here forever,
Gen thought.

“We should find the sewer before long,” Maewen reassured from the rear after they had hiked for several minutes, confirming what their noses already sensed. The sounds of pursuit came no closer, harsh, guttural oaths evidencing that their enemies also found the way treacherous.

Rank, dark fluid seeping along the walls and pooling on the floors signaled their proximity to their goal, and as they rounded a corner, the torch revealed a scattering of pale bricks knocked out of the sewer wall intermixed with rocks picked out of the cave to form a squat, wide opening.

Maewen stiffened. “Someone is approaching, more quickly than is natural.”

“A flash skirmisher,” Torbrand identified. “Into the sewer. We’ll have more room to deal with him there. Looks like you didn’t hit one of the Padras hard enough, Gen. Seffire was a fine piece of work, though. He probably won’t remember what table manners are when he wakes up . . . if he wakes up.”

Gen ushered Maewen forward and placed himself at the rear of the retreat, ducking through the low opening last. He remembered vividly the night Samian taught him about flash skirmishers. Magicians on both sides of the war used them, enhancing a warrior’s or creature’s natural speed and strength. The result was a fighter that could slash into an enemy camp to assassinate a general or into the front line of a defense to quickly weaken a point for a breakthrough charge.

While costly to Magician and warrior alike, flash skirmishers proved effective tools in killing large numbers quickly with few resources. If the skirmisher caught them in a cave where only one defender could be brought to bear, he would cut through the lot of them like a scythe on summer wheat.

“Get into the middle of the sludge,” Torbrand ordered. “It will slow him.”

However clean the streets of Tenswater, its sewer presented no improvement over any other. A dark, fetid water—if it could be called that—rose up to the height of their knees, garbage of all varieties carried slowly on a barely discernible current. The cold liquid chilled their legs as they sloshed forward.

“Stand behind us, Maewen,” Gen ordered. “Keep the torch forward so we have light. Those knives will do you no good if the skirmisher has a sword.” Maewen complied, but not before shooting him a look that said, “I know that.”

Gen assessed his options. The spell he had used to trip up the Padras tired him, but he could manage more. A well-placed spell could put a speedy end to the skirmisher, but he could not risk anyone knowing of his magic. Discrete forms of Trysmagic that would delay or momentarily throw off an attacker would be of little use—skirmishers could recover too quickly. Creating an obstruction in the enemy’s windpipe would scream magic, but perhaps disabling a weapon or damaging a leg might give them an edge.

The too-quick staccato of boots on the damp rocks tightened grips on swords and pinned eyes to the entrance into the sewer. Gen’s mind raced, but not quickly enough as a blurred figured darted through the hole and into the sewer water, blackish green spray flinging up behind churning legs. While difficult to see, Gen could tell that the soldier wore the white of the Eldephaere, a long sword drawn and whipping back and forth.

There was no time to think. With a quick effort, Gen used his magic to weaken the sword metal where the hilt met the blade just as the skirmisher crossed the distance to face him. Gen timed his swing, the skirmisher easily blocking, but as he did the blade simply gave way and fell into the water. The skirmisher withdrew several paces and stopped momentarily to regard the hilt. The Church soldier was built like Gen, tall, lean, and fast. He regarded them briefly and sprinted forward with such speed that they could barely follow him.

On his first pass, he bashed Volney in the face with the heavy hilt. The young man fell backward into the water, blood spurting from his nose. Gerand stooped to help him up but received the same punishment as the skirmisher flew by in the opposite direction.

“Clump together!” Torbrand ordered. Gen complied, sidling up next to Hardman and Maewen. Gerand and Volney floated in the water unmoving. Gen swallowed hard. As the blur started at them again, they all struck out, but the skirmisher diverted to the right, flanking them. In a half a moment he had grabbed Maewen by the jerkin and slammed her into the slimy sewer wall. Her head cracked against the stones and she slumped down unconscious. Her torch sizzled out in the repulsive water, and absolute darkness fell. All sound and movement stopped momentarily.

“Mikkik’s curse upon you!” Hardman yelled. Gen felt the general step away from them and heard tentative steps forward. “Can’t see worth a bugger, Churchman? Can you? Well, I’ve the eyes of an owl and. . .” Rapid splashes, three solid thumps, and a heavy splash later, Gen knew Hardman had fallen. At worst, the skirmisher would have taken hold of Destiny.

Unwittingly, Gen realized, their attacker had afforded them the protection of darkness and an advantage to exploit. Closing his eyes, Gen concentrated his senses in the direction of the struggle, the quick breathing of their assailant plain above trickling of the water.

While committing a cardinal sin of sword fighting, Gen took the risk. Swinging both arms above his head, he flung the sword point first in the direction where he heard the rapid breaths. The soldier rewarded him with a painful grunt and the sound of footsteps staggering back away from them. To Gen’s surprise, Torbrand thrust his sword into his former pupil’s hand and hastily felt through his gear, removing a torch and flint.

With two sure strikes the torch flared to life, revealing the skirmisher leaning against the wall bandaging a bad cut to his lower-left abdomen. Even blurred, the pale of his face revealed his weakness, and Gen remembered the bane of flash skirmishers—quickened bodies moved, healed, and bled at an accelerated pace. Hardman lay slumped over a flotilla of garbage.

“If you would have aimed just a touch higher, this would all be over,” Torbrand criticized as Gen returned his sword to him. Torbrand started toward the skirmisher, and Gen was looking to follow when he noticed that Volney and Gerand floated facedown in the water. As quickly as he could, he dragged them out of the sludge and to the slightly raised bank where Maewen lay bleeding from her scalp, face wan. To make matters worse, the sounds of soldiers approaching in the cave grew painfully close.

Gen looked up.
This has to end now.
Torbrand approached his quarry cautiously. The skirmisher made no move, standing stock still until Torbrand shot forward, slicing the fatigued soldier on the arm, blood running out in a steady stream. The former Shadan backed away, but the soldier sprang forward, landing a solid blow to Torbrand’s midsection and ripping the sword from his hands.

Gen concentrated. While experienced Trysmagicians could alter the complex organs of the body directly, to do so required great will and great power. Gen chose the easier path, creating a thick, gooey substance in the empty airway. The celerity with which the skirmisher choked, turned purple, and died surprised Gen. Torbrand’s face showed his surprise, but he did not dwell on it as the sound of hurried boots drew near.

“I’ll heal Hardman,” he said. “You see if you can get those two breathing and then find a sword.” Gen had already thought the same thing. They could not heal or carry everyone before the first wave of soldiers found them, but they stood a better than average chance of beating them off.

Remembering Samian’s training, Gen pumped his friends' chests and breathed into their mouths until they gagged and expelled the smelly water from their lungs and started to stir.

Gen wiped his mouth and set his mind to ignore the awful taste. He found a sword by the time the first soldiers piled through entrance wielding short swords and bucklers meant for fighting in close quarters. Seeing no immediate offense, the leader waited until twelve others joined him. By that time, a tired Torbrand had healed Hardman, who, by virtue of a leather strap, still had possession of Destiny.

Their foes formed a wedge, preparing to charge. Gen glanced at the hungry, anticipatory fire in his companions’ eyes and then back to the Church warriors before them. Perhaps never before in Ki’Hal had a group of soldiers met with such misfortune.

“At last,” Hardman growled, stretching his neck, “a straight fight.”

The Eldepahere were well-trained but wildly outclassed. What Hardman did with brutal delight, Gen and Torbrand accomplished with determination and precision. In moments the three men swept away their resistance like dry leaves before the gale.

“Too easy,” Hardman commented as they crossed to their injured companions.

“I will have to recover before I can heal Maewen,” Torbrand informed them.

“I’ll carry her.” Gen tucked his sword into his belt and hefted the half-elf after donning her gear.

“Can you two walk without help?” Torbrand asked Volney and Gerand. The lack of response from the stunned young men was answer enough. Hardman and Torbrand pulled them to their feet, looping their arms over their shoulders.

“Now we find a place to hole up and heal,” Torbrand said.

“Anywhere but here,” Volney gagged.

The Chalaine, Mirelle, Dason, and Cadaen huddled under piles of blankets for warmth, as the weather had turned unexpectedly cold during the last two weeks of travel.

“It will only be a few more days, I suspect, Highness,” Dason comforted the troubled Queen as the wagon crept along the snow-buried road. If possible, the conveyance chosen for them felt even more dark and cheerless than the carriage Regent Ogbith had designed for the journey to Elde Luri Mora.

The Chalaine regarded her Protector and thought she should feel grateful that Padra Athan had permitted any more of her personal guard to remain with her at all. Wrongly, Athan wrote off Gen’s attack as a consequence of prophetic destiny and Jaron’s as a result of Gen poisoning his mind against the Ha’Ulrich. Since both men had acted while in her Protectorship, she initially thought Athan would dismiss all the Dark Guard in favor of the Eldephaere, but then again, with Chertanne dead, the only person who had ever treated her with egregious disrespect could no longer trouble those loyal to her.

Since they rose that morning, the snow had fallen steadily, the wind sometimes gusting and driving the chill powder through the slim, barred openings on the sides of the wagon. What time it was, the Chalaine could not guess, the sky an immutable gray from sunup to sundown. The snow had drifted up high on the boles of the trees which were thick along the side of the road, slowing the growing caravan in its progress. Athan saw to it that every man-at-arms who could survive a brutal winter march lined up to accompany their ‘wounded’ King and his anxious bride.

Out of the corner of her eye, the Chalaine caught Dason staring at her and she stood and crossed to the back of the wagon to escape his scrutiny. While appropriately noble and caring, the Chalaine noticed another emotion in his eyes—a hope and anticipation—that frightened her. So many emotions and confused thoughts strove within her that she wished Dason as dull and expressionless as Gen had been in his early days in her service. Her love for Gen easily eclipsed her girlish infatuation with the Prince of Tolnor, though she dreaded the thought of telling Dason outright that she felt nothing for him, at best. At the worst, her association with Gen had—in her own mind—transformed her handsome Protector into a babbling, fawning nuisance.

But gazing upon the snow-washed track behind her and the other dark wagon trailing theirs shoved these thoughts away, for within the other wagon lurked the instigator of all her twisted confusion. Chertanne was dead. After Jaron had killed him, Padra Athan had the Eldephaere immediately remove the new King from the festivities under the pretext of ministering to him. A while later the Padra had returned and told the mass of squelched revelers that their King lived but had sustained a serious wound that the Chalaine had healed to the best of her ability. For security’s sake, the entire party left at once despite the late hour. The Eldephaere had executed Jaron by fire just before the caravan got underway, and the Chalaine could not bear to watch.

Once underway, Athan told them that his brethren had cast spells to maintain Chertanne’s body fresh, hinting that there were still options, though the Chalaine saw none save choices between modes of interment. But Athan kept up the farce. Servants delivered three meals a day to the dead man, Church leaders consulted with him regularly, and the Chalaine had been permitted to visit her husband every other day to spend time to heal and condole her ‘beloved’ Lord. For her part, sitting with his corpse only agitated her. Never before had horror and absolute relief had such intimate intercourse in a human heart, though she chastised herself for the relief. Relief to be rid of Chertanne sprung from a selfish, short-sighted root; the horror, more justly, grew from the consequences of his demise that now stared the unsuspecting world in the face.

While no one, including Gen, thought Chertanne would have fared well against Mikkik, no one had any clue as to how the prophecy would get along without him, either. Even more confusing was the question of leadership. How long would Athan pretend that Chertanne still drew breath? Cynically, she realized that Chertanne’s death bestowed a great deal of power upon Athan, for in the King’s absence, the Padra commandeered all of his responsibilities, all under the guise of his being spokesman. Of course, Chertanne had acted as little more than the Padra’s puppet when alive, and of the two, Athan was the stronger leader.

A shout rose, and the caravan stopped to rest and feed the horses at midday. The Chalaine hoped Dason was accurate in his assessment that the end of their trip approached. The long journey through Aughmere wearied her, and she hated the thought that innocent men perished in the cold to protect a dead man. While she had learned that Aughmere consisted mostly of dense wood, she was not prepared for the boxed in, blind feeling of traveling down a road so thick with trunk and branch that only a formidable, choked darkness waited beyond the edges of the road. In places, the trees hunched over the road for long stretches, creating dark sylvan tunnels as cold and forbidding as caves of stone.

While the original plans for the caravan had them passing through major cities and towns on their way back to Chertanne’s stronghold in Ironkeep, Padra Athan ordered that Gen’s leg and the accompanying narrative of the events in Elde Luri Mora travel the circuit instead. To the Churchman’s consternation, General Khairn and Ethris had turned up missing the second night from the Portal gate, and no one had seen Maewen since before Chertanne’s death. The Chalaine quizzed her mother about it, but Mirelle simply returned one of her smiles that told her it was safer not to inquire.

Athan passed nearby with two Puremen to deliver lunch to the corpse. She figured the Puremen who served it also ate it, perhaps using Chertanne’s shroud as a napkin. She suspected those in the robes of servile Puremen walked a little too much like soldiers to be holy men, crediting her ability to perceive such a detail to Samian, who continued to instruct her in the ways of the sword in her sleep.

The Chalaine felt awkward about the training at first. Strutting around a dream Cathedral, sparring with a teacher she could rarely understand, and using a weapon she had only seen in the hands of men brought a blush of embarrassment to her face every night until her steps and strokes fell with more surety. As her confidence and skill grew—with an alacrity she found startling—she found her nightly instructions a great release, especially since in dream her stomach was not sour or expanding.

Once the horses were fed, the caravan proceeded forward, heavy flakes swirling in a whistling wind. Cuddling up to her mother, she fell into a deep sleep until Dason woke them all with a shout.

“We’ve arrived!”

They crowded around the bars to stare out, finding nothing but a white plain surrounding them. The lack of trees allowed the bitter wind to ply its full biting power, and soldiers around them wrapped raw faces with whatever cloth they could find and walked with arms folded and faces to the ground.

“How can you tell we are there?” the Chalaine asked. Dason cocked his head to reply, but Cadaen butted in before him.

“The land around Ironkeep is kept free of trees for at least two miles in every direction, though I have heard they have extended that area under Shadan Khairn. With all that wood you could bring an army in from any direction, though it would be difficult going if the forest is as dense as it appears. It shouldn’t be long now, Chalaine.”

The Chalaine remained at the bars, surveying what she could in the obscuring snow. Before long, a regiment of horse soldiers added to their numbers. Inside an hour, people started to line the road, cheering the return of their King and undoubtedly wondering where he and his father were. The weather and the lack of anyone important to see likely rendered the event a little less festive than it was intended to be, and before long the caravan rolled through an immense gate and into Ironkeep proper.

“But there was no city! Is the entire city inside the wall?” Dason asked, astonished.

“There is no city, inside or out,” Cadaen explained. “This place was chosen as the location to build Ironkeep because there are several Portals that converge in this general area. This is purely a military complex with some areas dedicated to Portal pass-through for trading purposes. The Shadan lives on the Ellenais shard, though I doubt Athan will let us winter there. There will be few creature comforts here, though we are the first non-Aughmerians to come within these walls in at least a hundred years. Not even ambassadors are permitted to enter here.”

“Well, if I were to attack it, I would simply bring along torches,” Dason commented. “I thought Ironkeep would be primarily iron, but it appears mostly wood banded with iron. A good blaze would fell this place in a day.”

“Each spring they treat every inch of every beam and plank with some substance so it won’t burn,” Cadaen explained, clearly fascinated by what he was seeing. “I hope they give us a chance to wander about when the weather clears up. We could use some good intelligence about this place.”

But Cadaen’s wish was not to be granted. To the Chalaine’s dismay, Athan’s graciousness ended as soon as they disembarked from the carriage and entered the dour, formidable hall. The Chalaine barely had time to gaze at the cavernous room before Cadaen and Dason collapsed to the floor as a result of some spell from any one of the multitudinous Churchmen thronged about them.

“Athan!” Mirelle barked. “Just what do you think you are doing?” The Eldephaere wasted no time dragging the unconscious men from the room.

“I am removing potential threats to the prophecy. While I do not have direct evidence that any of them have done anything that merits detention, the Dark Guard do not hold a high place in my trust at the moment. Captain Tolbrook and the others will join them as soon as they arrive, as well, and the rest of Rhugothian soldiers will be sent home as quickly as possible. Fear not, however. Your guards will be unharmed, though I’m sure I have affronted their honor rather gravely.” The Chalaine gritted her teeth and bit back an acerbic accusation as Athan continued. “As for you, Mirelle, I am afraid that you, too, have garnered my mistrust, and therefore you will be confined to your quarters, under guard, for the duration of your stay.”

“Word of this will get out, Athan, and there will be a price,” Mirelle warned him.

“I am only doing this for your protection, of course. The road, as I recall, was particularly inhospitable to you, and your new King could hardly stand by and see his mother-in-law put in peril.”

“And what of me,” the Chalaine jumped in. “Are you going to lock me up, as well?”

“For now. At least until we can deal with the issue of Chertanne.”

“
Deal with the issue?
He is dead!”

“Keep your voice down, Highness. There is hope yet.”

The Chalaine couldn’t fathom what trickery Athan possessed that could revive her dead husband, but she hugged her mother before soldiers escorted Mirelle out a side door, and the bulk of the Churchmen left to attend to other duties. Only Padra Athan and two Eldephaere remained behind. The Church soldiers were both tall, blond, grim, and exactly identical in their appearance.

“These two,” Padra Athan announced, indicating the two stiffly bowing soldiers, “will be your new Protectors. They are loyal to the prophecy first and then to you, unlike some of your previous guards. Their names are Adrenne and Bradden, twin brothers of a devout woman who lost her husband recently in one of Joranne’s explosions in Mikmir. They are your countrymen, so I thought them a good match for you. I have also arranged for a new handmaiden for you. She should be . . . Ah, yes, there she is.”

The Chalaine turned toward the rear of the hall. An unveiled woman with raven black hair and dark eyes approached them, escorted by two veiled girls in plain brown dresses. The unveiled girl was confident in her bearing, though she approached the Padra tentatively after bowing to the Chalaine. Her eyes darted about quickly as if searching for someone.

“Lady Khairn, this is Mena, one of Torbrand’s daughters. Where is your veil, Mena?” Padra Athan asked.

“I thought my father would be here. He commands me never to wear it in his presence. Is he nearby, your Grace?”

“I am afraid your father turned up missing a couple of weeks ago. You will wear your veil as is custom among your people.”

Mena curtseyed. “Thank you, your Grace.”

“Show the Chalaine to her chambers. She will be kept there for her safety for the next several days as we work out all the details to guarantee her security and that of the Ha’Ulrich.”