The Dark Ferryman (61 page)

“I think,” Tiforan answered dryly, “if you had the confidence of Lord Diort, I would have been informed of it before starting out. Therefore, you do not know because you are not supposed to know, and I intend to leave it at that.”

Even in the half-light, he could sound haughty. Nutmeg decided to take a stab at his arrogance. “You won’t take her without a fight.” Whether it was Lariel or even Tressandre that the Galdarkans pursued, she knew they were not up to the task. Did they not have female soldiers within their nomadic ranks? Barbaric to think they might not and could underestimate capturing either woman with only a man or two. Behind her, she could hear someone stumble and catch himself at her words, and she smiled in satisfaction. She thought she caught a wink from Rufus as they followed a curve in the tunnel and a new tile panel began to glow in response to their presence.

Rufus made a signal for silence and passed it to all three of them. Tiforan made a tsking noise but held his tongue even though the expression on his face looked as if he had been sucking a particularly tart berry. She slowed gratefully when he brought them down to a walk, and then she thought she could hear voices.

“. . . you’re still bleeding.”

“I can’t be. That must be sweat.”

“It’s too cold in here to sweat.”

“I’m not cold. I am burning up.”

Her heart leaped. She knew the voices. Dropping her mount’s reins, Nutmeg wheeled her short legs into a run, dimly seen tunnel ahead of her or not. “Rivergrace!” she cried even as Tiforan raced after her to stop her, his hand catching and losing its grasp on her skirt. “Sister!”

“There. Tight?” Rufus asked her, as he knotted a last strapping into place and frowned at Rivergrace. Grace put her hand on his forearm, unable to believe that her old friend had survived and returned to find her, and murmured, “Thank you.”

He rubbed a rough finger along her cheek. “Little flower, little one. Rufus never forget.”

“We put you on a pyre in honor.”

“Like chief. Grateful, but I not dead.” He grunted as he wiped his hands on his apron and stood. “Crawled off, healed.”

She hugged him.

Tiforan, the envoy of Abayan Diort, looked annoyed at the whole proceeding. Sevryn stood with his back braced to the tunnel as Nutmeg ministered apple vinegar to his cuts in cleaning, the Bolger’s packs having yielded a field kit of remedies and bandaging. Tiforan had already handed over an ointment for Rivergrace’s wounds. “Is the bleeding stopped?”

“For now, clean and dry.”

“Excellent.” He unsheathed his sword, swung with the flat of the blade and knocked Rufus flat upon his back. Tiforan addressed the now unmoving Bolger, “I will tell my lord you served us well. My mission could not have been completed without you.”

Even as Nutmeg and Sevryn launched themselves at the Galdarkan in one move, the horses panicked and fled down the tunnel. All the Dweller and the half-breed accomplished was to block and tangle each other. Lyat took out Sevryn with a well-placed blow on the back of the head, pinning Nutmeg under his limp form with no chance to fight free before Tiforan had her tied and roped to Rufus. Grace made not a move except to fall back and cling to the tunnel, swaying with the effort just to stay on her feet.

Rivergrace’s eyes fluttered. “What . . . ?”

“A little something extra in the Bolger’s ointment. Nothing harmful.” Tiforan didn’t even seem bothered by the loss of the horses, merely flicking a finger at Lyat. “Carry her.”

The scribe moved to catch Grace as she wilted helplessly and he hoisted her over one shoulder.

Nutmeg’s mouth curled in contempt. “You wanted her all along!”

Tiforan paused in his binding of Sevryn. “My lord is not the ignorant soldier he’s been taken for. He knew the offering of Lady Rivergrace was bait or pawn, intended to disservice the lady. Daravan hoped to put off interest in that which he valued most, but at the same time, if taken, would cause the most disruption. Therefore, Diort takes the bait. We will see why this lady is of value to the Warrior Queen and to Daravan.” He tugged one last knot tight at Sevryn’s ankles.

Tiforan nodded at Lyat, and the two left even as Nutmeg shouted after them until she grew hoarse and they had disappeared from sight.

She quieted only when the ominous drumming grew ever nearer and she could tell then, it was the boot stamps of hundreds.

“I’m disappointed in famed Dweller hospitality. There should be enough roasted—whatever that is—to feed everyone.” Lara rested her hands lightly on her mount’s withers and looked down at Bregan Oxfort who had clearly seen much better days and a Dweller who, by the looks of him, had to be related to Nutmeg Farbranch. That sturdy family clung to her as troublesomely as firestick burrs.

Oxfort, dirty and disheveled, his face barely scrubbed clean, gave her a half bow which was as discourteous as it was body weary. He looked, frankly, as if he had been dragged behind one of his caravans. Her eyebrow arched at him.

“You are late, Highness, for your war.”

“Unavoidably delayed.”

“Then take my advice and go not at all, for there won’t be anything left to save but yourself.”

Bistane’s horse took a leap forward as if his rider’s legs had tightened about his flanks. He reared to a stop just short of Oxfort. Bistane leaned down a little, eyes narrowed at the trader. “Do you suggest Lariel is cowardly?”

“No,” Bregan told him wearily. “It’s the truth. We saw the Jewel of Tomarq shattered and Istlanthir murdered . . .”

Lara turned her head abruptly to the rear of her troops. “Tranta, can you hear?”

Tranta Istlanthir brought his horse to the forefront, just behind Lariel, and answered quietly, “I do.” He squeezed his eyes hard shut a moment, before opening them to stare at Garner. “You would be, if I’m not mistaken, Sevryn’s man there?”

“I was. It was not,” and Garner’s voice shook openly, “not a good death, m’lord. Not a clean one, but a very hard one. His body . . . his body and soul seemed torn apart . . . and little was left but shreds for the kites to fight over. You could not even tell,” and Garner swallowed hard, “that a man had died there.”

Tranta cleared his throat twice. “He Returned, then, as some Vaelinar do. Gods help him.” He cleared his throat a third time. “Who killed him?”

“Quendius, with a most unnatural arrow,” Bregan informed him. “The same he used to strike the Jewel. How it shattered it, I couldn’t tell you, but it did.”

“As Osten died,” stated Lariel. Her horse turned in a restive circle, and she brought her mount around so she could face them again. “We know all this, or most of it. It explains none of why you are here and why you would accuse me of dalliance to my advantage.”

Bregan put his hand up and came to stand by her knee and stroke her mount’s neck quietly. “Lariel, with the Shield gone, a navy came to Smuggler’s Coast and landed an army there for Quendius. It marches to Ashenbrook, and there is a small chance we can get there before it, but not much of one. We deserted it and were gathering strength before trying to find a way to warn you.”

Her face paled. Her hair lay tumbled about her shoulders and she brushed it back in a glinting of gold and silver. “What army?”

“The Raymy. We ran in front of it, myself and a few hundred caravan guards, allied to Quendius before we knew of his foul treachery, and I . . . I bolted at the first opportunity, and took Garner with me to keep myself alive.” Bregan rubbed the horse’s neck as if he could not bear to meet Lariel’s eyes. “Stories of old don’t do them justice. They eat their own dead and wounded, as well as any they might fight. They’re not human but perhaps of a reptile breed. They will sweep across our lands like an unstoppable plague.”

“Then we must stop them.” Lara gathered her reins. “You mentioned a small chance to get there first. Tell me what it is.”

Garner pointed down the tiny, winding stream to the foot of the mountain. “Through the caves.”

“Mounted or on foot?”

The two men traded a look. “Mounted,” ventured Bregan. “Although led, in some places, where we’ve been. The main tunnel is vast, but I can’t say about the other tunnels, and we must see if there’s a way to pace them without being seen.”

“Fair enough.”

Garner kicked his fire apart, picking up his pack and Bregan’s and tearing the spitted coney in two. He tossed one section to Bregan. “We’ll eat on the run,” he said. Tranta leaned down to give him a hand up.

Bregan stood with one hand full of greasy dinner and the other still on the horse’s neck. Lara’s horse sidled away from him at the smell of the meat as Bistane kneed his mount over. Bistane smiled ruefully before kicking a foot out of his stirrup and offering his hand as well. Bregan swung up, saying, “I need to be in front. There are tiles, placed tiles, and I need to read them as we move.”

“By your leave, Highness,” Bistane said, and he gravely moved his horse to the fore of the group.

Just inside the lip of the cave, the group halted. Lara opened herself to the many threads that had created the mountain, winding in and about it, and let the pathways flood her. “Old,” she said, “older than the Mageborn, almost older than the mountain itself. The Mageborn took what they found and used it. It is not a Way such as we would weave with the elements, but a backward thing forced on the elements. The tunnels are entwined with magic that is near extinguished, a prideful and spiteful magic, but useful. An evil and ravenous worm ate away the stone, and the Mageborn followed in its path to do their own workings. We need to be careful not to get lost here, either in the flesh or in the soul.” Lara twisted about in her saddle. “Any who do not wish to ride with me are excused. The Raymy are a formidable foe.” Her gaze swept across the assembled horsemen and women. Not one reined out of line. Her face relaxed into a very slight smile. “Then,” she said, “pray our tashya are both swift and courageous. And we half as stubborn as any Dweller.”

"MAY ALL YOUR TEETH FALL OUT but one, so it can rot and you still have toothaches!” Nutmeg shouted, her raspy voice echoing down the tunnel. Tiforan and Lyat, long gone, could not possibly have heard her, but she loosed the still potent curse after them anyway.

Sevryn stirred with a moan. She could feel him shifting at her feet. “Damn Galdarkans,” he muttered. “They know how to tie a knot. I can’t reach any of my blades.”

“They took Grace,” Meg told him miserably. She shifted and squirmed, but none of her bonds relaxed at all. She would lie bundled up like a stuffed sausage on a drying rack until something interested in untying her—or eating her—found them. She let out a sullen sigh.

Sevryn squirmed about again before sneezing as dust rose and filled his nostrils. At the noise, Rufus growled. “Noisy, both of you. Bring hunters.”

“Have you a knife?”

The Bolger snorted. “No need. Have teeth.”

Nutmeg felt his heavy form heaving against hers and then a rough tugging and gnawing at her ropes. Strands frayed about her ankles and she gave a little kick, parting them! She rolled. “Get my hands.”

“Rope taste bad.” Rufus let out a low, rumbling chuckle.

“I’ll have them coated with honey next time.” Nutmeg bit her lips and fell silent as the rough edge of his tusk tore at the tender inside of her wrist.

His mouth and flat nose snuffled at her fingers. “Honey taste good.”

Bolgers had a sweet tooth. Who knew? But she would remember, if they ever won free. “Muffins and honey cakes whenever you ask,” she promised him. Her wrists flew apart even as his tusk slipped with a burning rasp, slicing her. She sat up, shedding the rest of her bonds as quickly as she could, parts of her body numb and other parts throbbing in bruised aches. Then she slid her hand over Sevryn and found one of his concealed daggers. She had to put a boot to his ribs for leverage to tug it free. She sawed clumsily with her tingling hands and he shoved off his ropes as soon as he could, grabbing the dagger from her. Rufus had almost chewed himself clear when Sevryn moved to him and knifed away the last of his bonds.

They sat, bruised and bloody, passing around Sevryn’s water flask. Nutmeg wiped her mouth with the back of her hand in gusto. “Beaten but not beat,” she declared triumphantly.

“Farbranch family motto?”

“Aye! And if it isn’t, it should be.” She swept her amber hair back and tied it in a knot at her neck, lustrous and abundant for all that dirt caked it and even a stray splinter of quartz and obsidian decorated it. “Now to get Grace.”

Sevryn took back his flask and corked it. “That won’t be the hard part. We know which way they took her.”

Nutmeg’s eyes widened in question.

“To Diort, in the middle of Lariel’s war. The hard part will be figuring out why Daravan wanted her there and getting her out.”

Rufus clambered to his feet. He jabbed a finger at them. “Blood. Draw hunters.”

“Last thing we want!” Sevryn sprang up and then handed Nutmeg to her feet. “Can you run a bit more?”

“That’s like asking me iffen I can pick apples.”

“Good, then. Running in the dark might be a bit harder. Stay close if you can. We’ll hear you if you trip or fall, but we’ll need quiet.” Sevryn cocked his head to one side. The thrumming, drumming of many footfalls had grown closer to them. “Quendius brings an army of his own. Smugglers, bootleggers, and thieves of the worst kind, I wager. We’ll do well to stay ahead of them.” Sevryn moved to the lead, but Rufus cuffed him aside gently.

“Galdarkan magic caves. Confuse and lose trespassers. But these caves mine first. Not lose me.”

Sevryn thumped him on the shoulder. “I have your back, then.”

Rufus let out a rumbling laugh and took them down the dark, twisting pathways of long-dead Mageborn and even longer dead worms who could eat stone.

“He is regrouping, m’lord Vantane.”

“Good. They need rest, then. Do not let him. Hit him now and hit him hard.”