The Blood Curse (19 page)

Petrus tried to work it out in his head while he flew. If an eighth of a mile took twenty minutes, then three eighths would take an hour, and... He stuck there for a while, wishing he had a slate and piece of chalk, until he realized that if three eighths of a mile took an hour, then three miles would take eight hours. Which meant that the curse was advancing nine miles westward a day. Three leagues. Which was a lot.

With the wind behind him, he flew fast, skimming over the ragged patchwork of fields.

He spied movement on the road ahead. The farmer with the goats. The man had stopped and was sitting on a rock eating his lunch, his goats milling around him.

Lunch. Petrus was abruptly aware of how hungry he was, and even more than that, how thirsty. He put more effort into flying. The sooner he got back, the sooner he could eat. An hour and a half, he reckoned. Maybe less.

He swept over the farmer, flew half a mile further, and then swung back. If the curse was advancing three leagues westward a day...

It’ll catch up with him soon
.

Petrus circled above the man, torn between prudence and altruism. Altruism won.

He glided down to land a few yards from the farmer.

The man stopped chewing and looked at him.

Petrus shifted into himself.

The man’s mouth dropped open. He fell backwards off the rock he was perched on.

“The curse has passed Delpy. You need to move faster!”

The farmer scrambled to his feet and snatched up a wooden stave.

Petrus stepped back a few paces, holding up his hands. “The curse has passed Delpy. It’ll catch you if you don’t move faster. Forget the goats, they’ll only slow you.”

“Ye’re a witch,” the man snarled, brandishing the stave.

“Yes,” Petrus said. “And the curse is—”

The man bent, seized a stone, threw it.

The stone struck Petrus’s chest.
Ouch
. So much for altruism. “You need to move faster,” he told the man, and changed into a hawk and flapped up into the sky. Another stone hurtled past him.

A quarter of a mile down the road, Petrus circled briefly, looking back. The farmer hadn’t moved. He was still standing behind the rock, a stone in one hand and his stave in the other.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

A
HEAD, THE ROAD
forded a boggy stream. An oxcart laboriously navigated the marshy ground. Britta heard the sucking sounds of the animals’ hooves in the mud, the sucking sounds of the wheels. The Fithians drew to one side of the road and halted. Britta’s gaze slid sideways to Pox, mounted alongside her, holding her reins. He was watching the oxcart, not her.

Britta released the pommel. The coarse rope securing her wrists to the pommel was long enough that she could scratch her nose, if she bent her head. She did just that—scratch her nose—then pretended to pull her cloak closer around her, and slipped the broken stone from her pocket. Another glance at Pox. He was scanning the hillside, his gaze skimming over thorn trees and scrub.

Britta clasped the pommel again, making sure the cloak fell over her hands, concealing them.

The oxcart passed, the driver lifting his hand in a wave.

Pox tugged at her reins. The piebald mare started forward.

Britta examined the stone carefully with her fingers. It was blunter than she’d thought, but she found the sharpest edge, laid it to the rope, and started sawing. She tilted her head to the left, gazed listlessly at thorn trees and scrub. Her chin sagged, her shoulders sagged.
Defeated. Not thinking of escape
. But her hands were busy.

A mile passed. Two miles. Three. And still Britta sawed.

CHAPTER FORTY

T
HEY REACHED
B
LOEDEL
in the late afternoon, as the sun was sinking towards the horizon. The town straddled a gorge with a roaring river deep in its gullet. A bridge crossed the river, the tallest bridge Jaumé had ever seen, with legs like stilts that disappeared into the dark chasm.

He glanced at Bennick.
Are we going to cross that?
It looked too spindly, too precarious.

Bennick wasn’t afraid of the bridge. He rode onto it, whistling. Jaumé gulped a breath and followed. The pony’s hooves clattered on the wooden planks. Jaumé peered over the railings and caught a glimpse of white water a long way below.

The Brother lived on the far side of Bloedel. His house had a high wooden fence and a bell hanging at the gate. Bennick rang the bell.

Jaumé looked east. A rough palisade ringed Bloedel and beyond that the ground rose in a broad sweep towards the gray sky. He saw thorn trees and scrub and tussock and rock, disappearing into the distance. A cold, scouring wind swept down from the highlands. It twitched at his cloak and slid into the gaps between his shirt buttons, making him shiver.

He remembered crossing the plateau with Nolt, how cold it had been. Bennick had bought him a sheepskin jacket from an old woman. And then Odil had killed her when she’d tried to steal the pony.

Jaumé screwed his face up. He saw the old woman’s body, the gaping slit beneath her chin, the blood drying black. He heard Bennick’s voice in his head:
Don’t snivel, Jaumé. There’s nothing wrong with dying. We come, we go. She’s with the All-Mother
.

He didn’t want to become a Brother if it meant killing people, even if they were thieves and even if they went to the All-Mother once they were dead.

The gate opened.

Jaumé blinked and stared. The man standing in the gateway had only one leg.

The man ignored him. He frowned up at Bennick, his eyes narrow beneath beetling brows. “What do you want?”

“A place to stay for the night, Brother.”

The man’s scowl didn’t lessen. His fingers moved in a series of rapid gestures.

Jaumé dragged his gaze from the man and saw that Bennick’s fingers were moving, too.

The man stepped back from the gate, and jerked his head at them. “Come in.”

Jaumé followed Bennick into the Brother’s yard, craning his neck, staring around. Like Loomath and Kritsen, this Brother had a pigeon house and a place for stabling horses.

The man bolted the gate and led them across the wide dirt yard. He walked with a swaying gait, one silent step with a leather-booted foot, one sharp thumping step with his peg leg. His face was creased and weather-beaten.

The Brother halted at the stables. Bennick dismounted and had a low-voiced exchange of words with him. What he heard seemed to please him. He turned to Jaumé, grinning, and clapped him on the shoulder. “We made it in time, lad. Vught’s not passed through yet.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

I
NNIS SAT AT
the campfire, hugging her knees, watching Petrus and Prince Harkeld wrestle in the dusk. The bouts were rough, fast, brutal. She winced as the prince took Petrus down hard.
He’ll break his ribs!
But Petrus merely rolled and leapt to his feet, grinning.

Beside her, Rand and Serril were muttering over the map. “Three leagues a day,” she heard Rand say. “That’s faster than we thought.”

“We’ll meet it soon,” Serril said, his voice a low rumble. “Maybe tomorrow night.”

“We need to fill the barrels first thing tomorrow morning,” Malle said.

“Absolutely,” Rand said. “We daren’t risk—”

A loud thud captured her attention. Prince Harkeld lay on the ground, apparently winded. Petrus said something that her ears didn’t quite catch. From his tone, it was rude.

The prince pushed up on one hand, wheezing, and said something back that made Petrus laugh. She watched as the prince stood, as he caught his breath, as he crouched ready to fight.

“No sign of any Fithians,” Serril said. “Spent the whole day looking for ‘em. Must know the face of every refugee between here and the plateau.”

“Innis...” Rand waited until she’d turned her head. “How do you feel? Can you help patrol tonight?”

Innis nodded. “Yes.”

“Take the first shift. Swap with Justen after dinner.”

She nodded again.

Bode stirred the stewpot. “Dinner’s ready,” he bellowed.

Petrus and Prince Harkeld stopped wrestling. They wiped their faces, pulled on their shirts and boots, and came to the fire, sweating and breathless. Innis watched as they grabbed bowls and sat alongside each other.
They’re friends
, she thought, astonished. When had that happened?

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

K
AREL EXAMINED THE
map of Roubos in the firelight. “This mission is the All-Mother’s way of teaching me geography,” Prince Tomas muttered alongside him.

Karel nodded agreement, his eyes flicking over the names of towns and rivers and mountain ranges. “They’re moving faster, without the cart.”

“We’re gaining, though. Couple more days and we’ll have the bastards,” Tomas said.

“Three days,” Karel said. “Maybe four. I reckon we’ll be into Sault before we catch up to them.”

“You reckon?” Tomas peered at the map.

Solveig leaned over to study the map, too, his shoulder nudging Karel’s for a moment. “Cesky Delta. I’ve heard of that. That’s where they’ve got those swamp lizards, isn’t it?”

Cesky Delta? Karel searched the map, and found the delta in the northwest, on the border with Ankeny.

“Swamp lizards?” Bjarne said.

“You know, giant lizards, six foot long. Got hides thick as armor and teeth like daggers. Live in the swamps.”

“Never heard of ’em,” Bjarne said.

“I have,” Dag said. “Heard a joke about them once.”

Prince Tomas looked up from the map. “Remember it?”

Dag grinned. “Course I do.” He put down his mug. “See, this man walks into a tavern up in Cesky and discovers they’re holding a contest. The tapster tells him the details: First you got to drink a half-tankard of scallywater. Second, you got to go out back and pull a sore tooth out of the mouth of his pet swamp lizard. And third, you got to go upstairs and have sex with the oldest, ugliest whore in Cesky. If you do all that in under an hour, you win six whole barrels of scallywater. Enough to last you a year.”

“Scallywater?” Lief asked. “What’s that?”