The Blood Curse (39 page)

No one said anything. He wondered if they were all thinking what he was.

How many of us will be alive in four days’ time?

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

B
RITTA ATE ROASTED
meat dripping with fat and afterwards carefully spread goat grease on Karel’s parched lips. Bennick changed the poultices. “I reckon that broth’ll be cool enough for him to drink. Fetch the billy, will you, lad?”

Jaumé hurried to obey. The broth was warm, fragrant, glistening with fat.

Bennick filled an empty waterskin and lifted Karel’s head. The armsman swallowed a mouthful, then turned his head away.

Bennick tried again—and again, Karel swallowed a bare mouthful.

“Armsman!” Britta said, leaning over him. “I order you to drink!”

Perhaps Karel heard the command. This time, when Bennick pressed the waterskin to his lips, he drank obediently, not one mouthful, but ten, twelve.

“You’ve got him well-trained,” Bennick said. “Like a dog.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

“B
ED,
” B
ENNICK SAID
, with a jerk of his head.

Jaumé obeyed. He lay down on his sleeping mat, wrapped himself in his blankets, and pulled the rabbit-fur cap low over his ears, but he didn’t close his eyes. He kept his gaze fixed on the campfire, on Bennick drinking the bitter tea the Brothers liked.

How could he close his eyes when Ivek’s curse was here?

He almost imagined he could see the curse, see dark shadows creeping across the ground, almost imagined he could hear it, a sound like ants gnawing on grains of dirt. He could definitely smell it. Smoke and blood.

Bennick finished his tea and crossed to the sleeping mats. He picked up his blankets, shook them out, moved his mat close to Jaumé’s, so they almost touched. “Go to sleep, lad. Nothing to worry about.”

And with Bennick alongside him, he found he could close his eyes.

J
AUMÉ DREAMED OF
blood and screams, and jerked awake. The night was dark, the campfire a pile of glowing embers. Alongside him, Bennick’s sleeping mat was empty.

Panic surged through him. He sat up, clutching his blankets. Had the curse taken Bennick?

He saw the hulking shapes of the wagons, saw the low, dark humps of the Brothers on their mats—Vught and Hetchel and Soll, Valor and Fortitude—but no Bennick.

Fingers tapped the top of his head. Bennick’s fingers.

Jaumé’s panic evaporated. He knew what the tap meant.
Go to sleep
. He lay back down on the sleeping mat.

Bennick soundlessly moved away. His sleeping mat was empty because he was watchman for this part of the night, guarding them. Keeping them safe.

Jaumé curled up tightly in his blankets, closed his eyes, and slept again.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

P
ETRUS PATROLLED THE
plateau, searching for danger, for cursed people, for Fithians. The morning was cold, gray. A layer of clouds spread across the sky, too thick for the sun to break through. An hour into his shift, he found a farmhouse close to the road. Petrus circled, examining it. The farmhouse looked like it had been looted; the windows and doors stood open. It also looked like an excellent hiding place for Fithians. An archer, standing at one of those windows, would be able to pick off passersby with ease.

Petrus changed into a sparrow—dropping several feet in the air—and swooped down to land on the sundial in the yard. He settled his feathers, cocked his head, and looked around, alert, wary.

A sound caught his attention, a brittle
crunch
. Petrus hopped around to face this threat, ready to change into a lion and spring—and relaxed.

A dog, that’s all it was. A dog lying in the half-open barn door, chewing on a bone.

The dog was lean, shaggy, larger than a wolf. Petrus looked at the size of its teeth, and decided not to explore the farmhouse in canine form. A sparrow would do just as well. And then he looked more closely at the bone.

It was a human forearm, with the hand still attached.

Petrus recoiled, almost falling off the sundial. He grabbed the air with his wings, caught his balance, steadied himself, but his heart was still beating too fast. He looked at the dog and the bone again, hoping he’d been mistaken... but, no, the bone was a human forearm, and the things at the end were fingers and a thumb.

All-Mother
, he whispered in his head.

Petrus hopped into the air and cautiously explored the farmhouse and yard. The house was empty, cupboards hanging open, crockery lying on the floor. The yard was empty, too. Which left the barn.

The dog still lay in the half-open barn door, chewing on the bone. Petrus flew warily over its head.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness—and then he saw the carcass. Adult, from the size. Male, from the short hair and the large boots it still wore. A rat sat on the man’s head, eating what was left of his face. Two more rats were feasting in the cavity of his abdomen. Rats and dog had been busy; the clothing was shredded, little meat remained on the bones.

Petrus jerked his gaze away. He made himself examine the animal stalls and the loft—found nothing—and darted thankfully back out into the yard.

The dog was crunching on something, rolling it around in its mouth. The dead man’s thumb, Petrus realized.

He felt his stomach heave—and veered fast out of the yard, flying hard, putting distance between himself and the farm. Half a mile down the road, laboring against the wind, he remembered he was still a sparrow. He changed back into a hawk. His vision sharpened, flying became a lot easier. The nausea didn’t alter, though. It sat in his belly.

He had a feeling the memory would stay with him for the rest of his life: the dog chewing the thumb, rolling it around in its mouth, crunching...

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

M
IDWAY THROUGH THE
morning, Karel’s eyes opened—and stayed open.

“I’m here,” Britta said, bending over him. “You found me.”

Karel blinked, tried to focus on her. “Princess?” His voice was weak, hoarse.

“Yes.” She swallowed a sob of relief and tightened her grip on his hand.

His fingers flexed weakly back, returning the clasp. “Where...?”

“We’re in Sault.” Could he feel the rattle and jolt of the wagon? Hear the clop of horses’ hooves and jingle of their harnesses? “In a wagon.”

He frowned. She saw him struggling to form a question, and tried to guess what it was. “You were injured. We’re with the assassins.”

She saw his alarm. His lips parted.

“We’ll escape.” Britta bent her head and whispered the words fiercely in his ear. “We’ll escape before we reach Harkeld. I promise. Now drink this broth. You must get your strength back.”

K
AREL DRANK, AND
slept again, and when he woke an hour later he was still lucid.

“What happened?” he whispered.

Britta told him, watching his face, holding his hand. How much did he understand? His cheeks were flushed. His gaze kept drifting away as she spoke.

Still feverish, but better than he had been.

He listened, and then he slept, and when he woke again, he told her with embarrassment that he needed to relieve himself.

K
AREL COULDN’T WALK
. He could barely stand with help. It took two men, Bennick and one of the new assassins, the one Bennick called Val, to get him down from the wagon.

Watching him, Britta knew that there would be no escape. Not for Karel. She also knew that she couldn’t leave him. Abandoning him with the assassins would be the same as killing him, and killing Karel was something she couldn’t do.

The three men returned, the assassins half-carrying Karel. His face was tight with pain.

Bennick and Val heaved him up into the wagon. Britta helped Karel lie down, and drew the blankets up. He was shaking. His breathing was shallow, a groan in each exhalation.

“Do you have something for the pain?” she asked Bennick, as he turned back to his horse. “Willowbark?”

“Willowbark? You pamper your pets, highness.”

“Do you have any willowbark?” she demanded.

Bennick shrugged. “Maybe. Got no time to brew it now, though. He’ll have to wait until nightfall.”

“But—”

“He may be your dog, but I’m not.” Bennick swung up into his saddle. He didn’t see the way Jaumé was looking at him. “He’ll have to wait until tonight.”

Britta opened her mouth to argue further.

Karel touched her hand. “Leave it, princess. I’m fine.”

She turned to him fiercely. “You’re not fine!” Tears stung her eyes. “You’re hurting.”

The wagon jolted forward. Pain spasmed across Karel’s face. He seemed to stop breathing for a moment.

She took hold of his hand. “Is it the ribs?”

Karel’s face had been flushed only a few hours earlier; now, it was pale. “Yes.”

Britta touched his cheek. His skin was damp; he was sweating. Pain this time, not fever. She tried to think of something to distract him with, but he’d heard her story. “Tell me what happened to you, Karel. After I was abducted. How did you find me?”

“Find you? We followed your trail.”

“No, silly.” She smiled at him. “Tell me it all, from the beginning.”

Karel groaned. He inhaled a shallow breath. She saw his eyes narrow, saw him try to remember back. “I saw them.” His voice was hoarse, tight with pain. “I saw them carrying you away. I tried to stop them, killed one of them...”

“You killed a Fithian?”

He nodded.

“And then what?” she prompted.

Karel’s story unfolded slowly, with ragged pauses. Gradually, his voice became stronger, less hoarse, his grip on her hand less painful. By the time he’d finished, he was no longer sweating and his face had lost its grayness.

“Feel a little better?” she asked, stroking his cheek lightly with her knuckles.

“Yes.”

Britta released his hand. “Here, have something to drink.”

She helped him drink from the waterskin, then tucked the blankets around him and told him to sleep.