Strange Attractors (3 page)

‘Let’s check that hill.’ Jarrod pointed to the east. ‘The energy signature emanates from there.’

The macabre landscape assaulted them from every side. Bodies, and body parts, were everywhere, twisted at unnatural angles and covered with crows that took flight when they came near then resettled after they passed. Kali swallowed the bile in her throat as she examined the tracks around the small hill. She waved Jarrod closer, pointing at the ground. ‘What do you make of these?’

Jarrod studied the impressions and frowned. ‘Very large wolf tracks,’ he said. ‘Could it be Lupin?’

‘Possible. And see how they cross here and there?’

‘Two of them at least.’ He sketched another print with a thin stick. ‘This isn’t wolf, though, is it?’

‘Feline,’ Kreshkali said.

‘Scylla?’

‘Too big.’

They exchanged looks but said no more.

‘There were dozens of horses here, all shod. The tracks are too distorted to read.’ Kreshkali swatted a mosquito against her neck. ‘Can you see anything more?’

‘It’s been trampled, crossed and re-crossed. There’s one set of hoof prints that stands out, though.’

Kreshkali smiled. Leave it to a farrier to spot something like that. ‘Which one?’

‘Here. The size gives it away. They belong to a warhorse. The rest of these are light cavalry, but look at this.’

Kreshkali braced her hands on her knees, leaning over. ‘Show me.’

‘It’s the shoeing technique. Three toe-clips, front and back, for extra grip, and heels on the hind hooves, for traction. There’s only one temple I know of that follows that tradition.’

‘Treeon?’

‘You got it.’

‘Treeon,’ she whispered. ‘Can you follow the warhorse’s tracks?’

‘They’re muddled—like a stampede ran past—but we can check the perimeter of the hill. You go left and I’ll go right. Call out if you spot the shoe pattern again.’

Kreshkali headed down the hill, keeping her eyes on the ground. She came up with nothing but Jarrod yelled from the other side of the knoll. When she caught up
to him, he was scanning the horizon, pointing towards the northwest.

‘Anything?’ she asked, knowing his eyesight was remarkable.

‘I can’t see through mountains, Kali.’

She squinted. ‘I can’t even see the mountains,’ she said.

‘Send the Three Sisters ahead for a look. They can’t be that far off.’

‘They?’

‘The tracks are fresh. And look here—Scylla’s prints, definitely.’

Kreshkali agreed. ‘And what about these?’ She pointed to another set of tracks, wolf and feline.

Jarrod studied them. ‘It can’t be,’ he said. ‘Rosette’s in Dumarka.’

Kreshkali nodded. A gust of wind blew her cowl back and she let loose a high-pitched whistle. The Three Sisters arrowed towards her. ‘Will you search that way, my sweeties?’ she asked, opening her arm towards the northwest. ‘Find the Sword Master?’

They answered by shooting out across the sky, black wings flapping hard.

‘He’s headed for the Prieta portal, I’ll wager,’ Kali said.

‘What was wrong with this one?’

‘Maybe there was a legion of Corsanons in his way.’ She scanned the ground again. ‘In their way…’

‘We’ll never catch them on foot.’ Jarrod inspected the terrain. He turned a full circle. ‘We need transport.’

‘I can shift and fly ahead but that would leave you behind.’ She wrinkled her nose at the battleground. ‘Not a good choice. They will come to bury this lot.’

‘That’s the only disadvantage to my tulpa body. It still takes me too long to think up a different species.’

She laughed. ‘I could train a pair of green-broke fillies to precision level before that was accomplished. Come on. With all this death, there must be some loose horses around. Spot any?’

‘I’m looking.’

She linked minds with her familiars.
Horses, my lovelies? Did you see any without riders?

Many colours and many hues. What would you like?

Sound, sturdy and sensible.
She smiled.
Black’s always been my favourite colour, of course.

The ravens cawed out their delight, circling in the distance.
Pines’ edge. Two. One black as should be, the other golden like the sun.

‘Golden like the sun?’ Kreshkali repeated, her voice a whisper. ‘What time are we in?’

‘You found some horses?’

‘The Sisters have. I can’t spot them from here, but they’re at the edge of the woods.’

‘Got ‘em,’ Jarrod said, shielding his eyes as he stared towards the trees. ‘Don’t know how I missed them. One’s as bright as a gold coin. It looks like they could use some help, too.’

‘Injured?’

‘I don’t think so but they’ve managed to get their reins caught up in the brambles.’

‘They’ve managed to lose their riders too. Be careful. We don’t want to be pulling arrows out of each other’s backs.’

They crossed the battlefield with their swords drawn, sheathing them when they reached the horses. The black mare took to Kreshkali immediately, nickering as she approached.

‘It’s like she knows you,’ Jarrod said.

‘I can’t see how, poor dear. She’s Corsanon-bred.
Not bad, though, considering the conditions. Desertwind.’

‘An elegant breed,’ Jarrod said, stroking her arched neck. Her coat was sleek and her black mane long. Her dished face had a thin white stripe down the centre, her brown eyes wide-set and kind.

The mare’s reins were caught at a low angle, anchoring her face to the spines of the blackberry brambles. She was impaled all along her off side, thorns gouging her flesh and scoring the leather of the small military saddle. Kali worked quickly to release the reins, talking in a lilting voice and soothing the animal with a calming spell to ease her stress. Jarrod scanned the woods. There were plenty of victims, no survivors.

‘She’s all right,’ Kali said.

The horse quivered, rubbing her head on Kreshkali’s shoulder.

‘Fine mare.’ Jarrod rested his hand on her crest. ‘Grateful too.’

The other horse was finer still, though not grateful in any obvious way. A tall gelding, the colour of golden poppies, he stood with his eyes rolled back, whites showing, ears pinned and hind legs flying whenever they approached. Jarrod knew they didn’t have time to make friends slowly so he called the horse’s bluff, walking straight up to his shoulder and placing one hand firmly on his withers while the other reached for the reins.

‘Whoa, son. I’m going to get you out of here.’

The horse swung around to bite. Jarrod offered him the flat of his hand, ignoring the aggression. The golden head jerked back; his ears were still pinned, but he didn’t strike again. Jarrod clucked, urging him to take a step forward, acting as if they were old friends
out for a Sunday hunt. Jarrod’s manner anticipated full cooperation, and the horse seemed so surprised that he gave it. The gelding stepped closer to the brambles. The reins slackened but even with the extra give, Jarrod found them hopelessly caught. Before the horse lost his patience, he pulled out his knife and cut the leather, keeping a firm hand on the short lengths.

‘I can salvage the rest,’ Kali said, untangling the long ends of the reins. She was going to secure them to the bridle but handed them to Jarrod when the horse bared his teeth. ‘Cranky bastard, isn’t he?’ she said.

Jarrod stroked his cresting neck and picked long thorns from his mane, ignoring the near hind hoof that flashed out at the mare as she was led past. ‘It’s no wonder. He’s a pin cushion. Look at this.’ Blood dripped down the horse’s flank, turning his golden legs and white socks a dirty brown. Both animals had suffered similar wounds; their eyes were sunken, coats spiked with dried sweat, and their gait stilted.

‘They need water,’ Kreshkali said.

‘We’ll be good as long as they’re sound, and it looks like they are.’ Jarrod watched the horses walk. ‘But you’re right. We need to find water before we go anywhere. I wonder how long they were left like this?’ He continued to stroke the gelding’s neck, talking to him quietly.

‘All day, at least.’ Kali scanned the sky.
Drinking water for the beasts, lovelies? Can you see any?

Her familiars came winging back, circling for some time before shooting off south.
Follow. Not far!

‘It looks like there’s a water hole over that ridge, on the other side of the portal.’

‘It’s the wrong direction, Kali. The tracks all lead the other way—like you said, towards the Prietas.’

‘True, but the Three Sisters say it’s closest. We have
to risk it. These horses can’t carry us when they’re so dehydrated.’

‘It may be contaminated. Or guarded.’

‘Let me check.’
Warriors, my lovelies? Do you see any?

None that live.

Clean water too?

Very clean.

‘Apparently it’s not guarded,’ she said aloud. ‘And fit to drink.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Jarrod led the golden horse, still watching for any signs of lameness in either animal. ‘We best pull their saddles and give them a quick rubdown. No telling where those thorns got to.’

They groomed the horses as best they could with wool swatches cut from a fallen warrior’s cloak. By the time they mounted up, the gelding’s temper had improved somewhat and both animals seemed eager to be away. As the sun dropped towards the horizon they headed out across the field, picking their way around the bodies, following the ravens’ line of flight to the water hole.

Shaea watched the witch and her companion ride away. They were travelling south across the battlefield, searching for fresh water, no doubt. The way they were going, they would find it. The wide rock spring wasn’t far off. They would also find a hundred Corsanon warriors if they didn’t hurry along. Smart as the witch seemed, there was one thing she couldn’t possibly know. Among the dead littering this battlefield, there were no scouts. They’d got away, some to follow the sword-witch on his huge warhorse, and some to take word back to
the city. They wouldn’t be long in sending out more troops, that was certain.

Maybe the three ravens would raise a warning. They belonged to her; Shaea could tell. They were guiding her straight to water, just like they’d guided her to the horses. She bristled, frustrated with her own inaction. She hadn’t dared to challenge them, but it rankled to let them ride away, especially on her brother’s charges. She knew it didn’t matter now that he was dead, but it seemed wrong that the horses should be stolen while his body was still warm.

She’d come to him when she had the burning—a pain in her chest that she’d recognised immediately as a cry for help, a cry from her brother. She’d felt it before, years ago when they were young children. He’d fallen from a scaffolding and broken three ribs and his right leg. She’d been on the other side of the city, begging for food, when it hit her. It burned from the inside out. She’d startled and muffled a scream, her small grubby hands slapped over her mouth. She’d scooped up the pennies lying bright in the stained oil rag, shoved them in her pocket and run all the way across the city to find him. He’d recovered that time but she knew the pain when she felt it again. It was a warning. It meant her brother Xane was hurt. And the way her heart had pounded this morning—like it would tear her chest apart—she didn’t think he had long to live.

He hadn’t. Xane was lifeless when she found him, dead without a mark that she could see, save a small arrow in his neck. A Corsanon arrow.
How could he have been shot by his own?

She didn’t pull it out. The arrow would be dipped in hemlock, or a faster-working poison. It was not worth the risk to touch it. She buried him quickly, wanting to keep the crows from his face. His beautiful, unseeing
eyes were still there, but that was only because he’d covered himself with his cloak. Had he known she would come? Was he saving her from a hideous welcome? How long had he held out, before he slipped away? She would never know.

Once she found his body, her only thought was to bury him, away from the crows and the Corsanon death wagons. There would be no mass burning for Xane, not if she could help it. And she could. She tapped the dirt from her shovel and threw it over her shoulder. ‘Rest well, my Xane.’ Shaea’s eyes filled with tears and she could say no more.

Her twin brother had been a stableboy, apprentice to the master of the Corsanon High Guard. Now he was dead, but she’d always know where his body was. She would have that at least. Shaea looked skyward through the leaves of the white oaks and pines. The sunlight warmed her face, making rainbows of her tears. She had done the ritual, the one they’d promised each other they’d perform if they died apart. He was on his way, alone. She dropped to her knees, choking on the tears. How would she live without him?

They’d been inseparable since birth, as far as she knew. That’s what the old witch Rall had told her. They grew up together in the streets of Corsanon, staying alive any way they could, the hardship of abandonment like a silver cord that bound them to each other. She didn’t remember ever having parents, but of course there had to have been some, at least at first. She understood biology. Parents were necessary. What she couldn’t get her mind around was the fate that had made their lives so brutal.

‘And now this, just when we were on the rise.’ She swiped her eyes with dirty fingers and blew her nose on the hem of her dress. She would pilfer what she
could from the fields before the wagons came. And then she would get away. ‘As far away as I can.’

Damn that strange witch for taking the horses. She’d had her eye on the black mare before they’d shown up. She recognised the horse, and would not have left either tangled up in any case. She would even have taken the palomino if it came to it, in spite of his bad temperament. A cranky animal, that one. Of course who wouldn’t be if they were pierced by briars and desperate for water? Poor wretch. She had the skills to handle him. That was no problem. She simply would have preferred the black—a sweet mare, through and through. Now they were both gone and her options for a quick escape with them.

Who the strangers were—the tall witch with the spiky yellow hair and icy blue eyes, and the young man who came so close to spotting her she shivered at the thought—she didn’t know. It had felt like he’d looked right into her bones, giving her almost no time to conceal her energy. She’d done it, though, and remained hidden. It was a risk, but the proximity was worth it. She’d crept up to them, slow and steady, without rustling a leaf or snapping a twig. She’d got close enough to hear their words, strange accents and all. Most of them, anyway. Some of the conversation was meaningless to Shaea but one thing was clear. They spoke of a portal and it sounded nearby. She closed her eyes. ‘We hunt all our lives for a way out, Xane, and now that you’re dead, I find it.’