Stormwarden (18 page)

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Prison of the Frostwargs

The overcast of afternoon broke at sunset. By dark, when the sailors launched the pinnace, Cliffhaven lay like sculpted ebony against a dusky sapphire sky. From the rendezvous point by the starboard davit, Emien studied the view with a fisherman's eye for weather, more irritated than pleased by the change. Clear skies would not favor a concealed landing on a northerly shore.

Chosen for silence and deadly skill with weapons, the
Kielm
ark's sentries would kill for far less cause than trespass. Emien tugged his cloak closer about his shoulders. He distrusted the brash exhilaration which invariably possessed Tathagres in the face of danger. After the disaster of Skane's Edge, the boy hesitated to suggest a change of course. Doubtless the woman would drive him straight at the Kielmark's front gates, should he mention prudence at the wrong moment. Beside his mistress, the sentries were the more predictable risk.

"Are you ready, boy?"

Surprised out of reflection, Emien started. Tathagres paused at his side, her expression brittle as porcelain and her mood black as the cloth which bound her hair. She lifted a hand unfamiliarly bare of ornament and pointed to the pinnace below. "They're anxious to cast us off."

She swung herself over the railing without waiting for assistance. Cautious of her temper, Emien followed her down the side battens and into the cockpit of the pinnace.

He did not speak until she had settled herself on the stern seat. "If the Kielmark stations guards on his northwest shore, they'll see us when we land." The boy indicated the last clouds which drifted, underlit and pale as knotted fleece above the island. "Moon's rising, and this tub carries bleached canvas. We'll stand out like silver in a coal heap."

"Why not row?" Tathagres pitched her tone to wound. "Or don't you trust me to manage the guards?"

Emien banged open the sail locker without answering. With a bucket like the pinnace, the Kielmark needed no guards on his northwest shore. Lacking four stout hands to man the benches, her oars were useless sticks, and for a craft built as heavy as scrap iron she was clumsily rigged as well. Emien guessed by her lines she would be cursed with a lee helm. The crossing to Cliffhaven promised agony enough without Tathagres baiting him.

Emien dragged a ratty headsail out of the locker and discovered five hanks torn off. He swore then in earnest, for baggy canvas meant the pinnace would point like a lumbering bitch. Bilgewater lapped at his boots, warning of leaks in the hull. Radiating anger, Emien stamped forward to find the jib halyard. If Tathagres had lost even a single coin in her cursed game of cards, the captain had claimed the winning stake after all.

Tathagres leaned against a thwart and watched the boy fuss with the tackle. "Once ashore you can scuttle this boat if you wish. We won't be needing it again."

"For sure?" Poised with halyard in hand, Emien laughed, his spirits partially restored. "Let it be rocks then, big ones, right through these worm-ridden planks." He did not add that on a lee shore in the dead of night, the rocks might complete their task before the time appointed. At least after Skane's Edge he knew Tathagres could swim.

A stiff breeze blew out of the north and the sails cracked and flogged aloft as Emien made the last lines fast. Later, the clear weather would bring calm; anxious to reach shore while the conditions held fair, the boy cast off promptly. He sheeted in main and jib and the pinnace drew clear of the brig, her lee rail well down and her wake a gurgle of bubbles astern.

The crossing to Cliffhaven began smoothly, marked by the slap of reef points in the wind, and the occasional squeal of blocks as Emien adjusted a sail. Absorbed by her own thoughts, Tathagres made no conversation, and busy with the wayward roll of the pinnace, Emien made no effort to draw her out. He maintained his heading, guided by the cold glitter of the pole-star, until a rising moon rendered the waves in ink and silver and the island fortress reared up off the bow, notched and black against the horizon.

As the pinnace drew nearer, Emien saw the white glitter of ice partially veiled by mist. Breakers crashed beneath, their thunderous impact warning of submerged reefs; spume jetted skyward, then subsided into foam with a hiss like a hag's cauldron, making any landing there impossible. Yet after Skane's Edge, Emien dared not meddle with Tathagres' intent. Grimly he held his course, helm gripped in sweaty hands, until the bowsprit thrust against current lit like fairy lace in the moonlight.

"We'll land there." Tathagres' voice was barely audible above the boom of the surf.

Emien looked where she pointed. A thin crescent of sand gleamed just east of the cliffs. Though hedged by wreaths of white water, the beach seemed free of obstructions. Properly handled, the pinnace might barely thread through, but timing was critical. Emien hauled in the sheets, shoved the helm down, and let the craft jibe. Wind slammed the sails onto the other tack. Unmindful of the line which burned through his palms, he let the jib run free. The pinnace slewed. Then a wave lifted her stern, and the boat careened shoreward with all the grace of a rock shot from a catapult.

Something moved overhead. Emien glanced up. A spear drove past the mast and thumped with a rattle of splinters into the sternseat inches from his knee.

Emien sprang to his feet.

"Hold course!" Tathagres leaned over the gunwale. Poised like a figurehead against the baroque swirl of foam, she raised her hand to the gold band at her throat and invoked a spell. A bright interlace of lines shot through her fingers.

Dread sent chills through the pit of Emien's stomach. Although he knew Tathagres conjured in defense, her sorceries brought no comfort. Her mastery only forced recognition of the depths of his ignorance. Shamed and furious, Emien steadied the pinnace against the heave of the breakers and loosed the mainsheet. Lines smoked through tackle, and the sails banged overhead. Deafened by the report of soaked canvas, the boy dragged the helm amidships, just as a crest flung the bow skyward. Spray flew, carved into sheets by the rail. Then the craft grounded with a crunch that rattled every plank in the hull. Emien abandoned the tiller and leaped overboard just as a second spear arched overhead, aimed with killing accuracy.

Thigh deep in the flood of the breakers, the boy flung himself against the pinnace. The spear hissed down. Tathagres shouted and a flash of red ripped the air. Barely shy of its mark, the weapon exploded with a snap and a shower of sparks. Then the drag of the undertow flung the pinnace sideways. The next wave would broach her, despite Emien's efforts. He called warning to his mistress.

Tathagres gathered herself and jumped lightly as a cat from the gunwale, she landed without mishap in the surf, just as the pinnace tore free of the boy's grip. Sand grated hoarsely across planking. Then the boat capsized, and the crest of the following wave cascaded over her starboard thwart. Emien watched as the sea boomed and broke, smashing the craft to a snarl of slivered wood.

At his side, Tathagres pulled the cloth from her hair, her mood brittle and dangerous. "Get ashore!" She shoved the scarf roughly into Emien's hands.

The boy flinched as if wakened from nightmare. In the moment his eyes met hers, he caught a glimpse of runes glowing red against the gold band which adorned her throat. Then Tathagres turned away, in haste to reach the land. Emien plunged after, hands knotted painfully in cloth which smelled of ozone. Waves mauled the pinnace's planking like bones at his back. He shivered and bit his lip. There could be no escape by sea now. Wary of his own vulnerability, the boy slogged through the shallows toward a shore defended by hostile men at arms. He cursed the fact that he had no sword, nor any training with weapons.

Tathagres walked ahead as if the water was the finest of silken carpets under her feet. Contemptuous of the spears and defended only by sorcery, she paused while Emien caught up, her arrogant air of confidence a challenge no attacker could resist. And yet no weapons fell.

Breathlessly Emien drew alongside. Close at hand, the sheer height and mass of the frozen cliffs overwhelmed him. Yet he repressed his uneasiness as Tathagres leaned close and spoke in his ear. "Stay behind me, no matter what happens. You must not come forward until I have finished with the guards. Disobey me at your peril, for if you stray, I cannot protect you. None who cross my path shall live. Am I clear?"

Chilled and mute, Emien nodded. Gripped by indefinable foreboding, he watched his mistress stride boldly shoreward. She reached dry sand unchallenged, tossed her cloak to the ground, and left it in a heap at her feet. Her hair blew free, and burnished like pearl by moonlight, her skin gleamed against the deeper shadow of the land beyond. In morbid fascination, Emien saw his mistress lift her head and touch the band at her throat with her hands.

Mist arose, translucent as smoke from lit shavings. It twined around her, interlaced like gossamer in the moonlight until her slender body seemed clothed, not in black wool, but some garb out of faery, all shimmer and cling and no substance. The ivory curve of her shoulders, breasts and hips caught the eyes of the concealed guardsmen, and held them helplessly enthralled. Emien felt as if a great weight crushed his chest. He struggled to breathe. Though the spell was not designed to doom him, still his body flushed and sweated and ached. Numbed by the chill water about his ankles, he beheld the vision of lust his mistress wove to doom the guardsmen, and even as his flesh yearned to possess her, his spirit cried out for reprieve; Tathagres' cruelty knew no bounds. In her hands, man's admiration for woman became a weapon to slay, a terrible tool to implement her powers. When the first guard tumbled from his niche in the rocks, Emien bunched his fingers into fists. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He watched helplessly while a second man fell headlong to the sand below the cliffs.

The sentry's body twitched on the sand and settled finally, grotesque and still as statuary in the moonlight. Nothing moved on the beach but the tireless roll of the surf. Emien roused. Shuddering as if the frosts of winter clenched his bones, he started forward and stumbled to his knees in brine.

But Tathagres was not finished conjuring. She lifted arms pale as bone against the rise of the dunes, and softly, too softly for natural hearing, whispered an incantation. The words pierced Emien's ears like a needle sharpened by longing; loneliness opened like a wound within him, until the woman posed on the shoreline framed his sole hope of redemption. But the song Tathagres sang was not shaped for him. Agonized by her rejection, Emien cried out, tasting salt. Only the bitter reflection of his own inadequacy made him hesitate. Her music became discord in his ears. No portion of his being could bend it to harmony, and the pain of that recognition was more than his spirit could endure.

Emien crouched like a beast in the surf, at first unaware that a third guardsman emerged from the scrub, his fingers clamped around a drawn sword and his eyes dark hollows of desire.

Tathagres arched her body, arms extended in welcome. Drawn by her movement, Emien looked up, saw a stranger approach her with the confidence of a lover. The man's muscles quivered under his leather tunic, and his breath came in labored gasps. He reached out and touched her bared shoulder, and the rapture in his face poisoned Emien with jealousy.

Tathagres bent her head, murmured something into the hollow of the guardsman's throat. His fingers shifted, releasing the sword. It fell and struck rock with a sour clank. The man took no heed of his fallen weapon; discipline forgotten, he smiled as Tathagres melted into his embrace and knotted her hands with fevered passion in the hair which spilled over his collar. The man whispered hoarsely. His arms tightened around her slim shoulders. Driven by lust no human could deny, he sought her lips, kissed her deeply and long. Around him the very air quivered as her spell closed over his heart.

Crazed by frustration, Emien hammered his fists against his thighs. He wept as though his heart would break, oblivious to the waves which broke behind him, sending foam swirling and splashing around his boots. Blinded by tears, he saw nothing as the guardsman's arms quivered and tumbled loose. Only when the man's knees buckled did Emien recognize the snare Tathagres had set to destroy the last of the Kielmark's sentries. Her victim swayed and spilled onto the sand. He sprawled dead in the moonlight; incoming tide lapped at his out-flung hands. Horror jolted Emien free of passion. He trembled while Tathagres retrieved the abandoned sword, and her laughter sickened him to the core of his being.

The air crackled, scoured by a brief rain of sparks as the spell dispersed around her. Emien choked, doubled over with nausea. He jabbed his hands to the wrists in icy water, coughing and miserable, until Tathagres arrived at his side.

When his equilibrium did not immediately return, she plucked insistently at his cloak. "I've brought you a gift."

Emien raised his head, discovered the dead guardsman's sword posed above her outstretched hand like a needle etched in light. Though earlier he had craved a blade of his own, the offering appalled him, made him feel less than human. Still he accepted the weapon with unemotional practicality. Tathagres' tricks had eliminated the guards from the beach; but if anyone reported to the Kielmark at the time the pinnace was sighted, their present safety was not secure.

Tathagres snapped as if she heard his thought, "You worry like a pregnant heiress. Get ashore. We have a task before us."

Stung by her scorn, Emien surged to his feet. With his hands clenched tightly around the sword hilt, he sloshed through the shallows. Ahead of him, Tathagres stepped over the guardsman's corpse with barely a pause. Unable to match her callousness, Emien glanced down. Lifeless eyes stared skyward, as if a reason for mortal betrayal lay scribed in the depths of the heavens; the hands lay helpless and open, denied any vengeance for a death which held no honor. Emien regretted the fact that he had lingered. To recognize the guardsman's anguish and not act was to share the inhumanity of the crime.