The Grand Crusade (46 page)

He flexed his hands and found he could curl them into fists. Bringing his hands up to his shoulders, he gingerly pushed his body from the floor. His arms quivered, so he shifted to a hip and slowly sat up. A wave of vertigo washed over him, and a smaller one came in its wake. He steadied himself against the floor, then reached a hand out, found a stone wall, and inched over to it.

His arms and legs worked fine, though the stiffness in them was something he’d have to overcome before he made any attempt at escape.

That very idea brought a smile to his face, but one that tugged on a split lip.Escape? You don’t even know where you are. You’re hurt, unarmed, and your

friends have moved on.

He shrugged slowly and opened his eyes. He found himself in a small room of stone. The wall opposite the door had a very small window, barred, set very high. Through it slanted enough dawnlight that he could see the door. Rough-hewn, though constructed solidly, it had a simple latch to open it and brackets that would allow it to be barred from his side. In an instant it registered in his brain that the door was most probably open, and all he had to do to escape was

to walk out.

This time he did shake his head ever so slightly. Though he had a little ringing in his ears, it was not nearly enough to disguise the distant sound of snoring from the other room. It might have been four or a half-dozen gibberers who had

brought him down, but more had joined them. He concentrated for a moment and estimated at least a dozen and a half lurked out there, and that was ifallof them snored. There could have been triple that number ofturekadineorkryal-niriout there and he couldn’t have told.

The lack of a lock and restraints on him suggested against intelligent Aurolani leadership, but to assume that was to be even more stupid than he’d been in getting trapped in the first place. He pulled his knees up to his chest and sat back against the wall. He listened hard, beyond the snores to the sounds from outside.

It had been forever since he thought about the time before the conquest, but memories came unbidden. He’d been in rooms like this before. On Vorquellyn they had such way-buildings out in the wilderness. Everyone from weary travelers to artists or poets seeking inspiration used them. Small sleeping rooms like this would open onto a large common room with a fire pit in the center, an open roof to let the smoke out, and enough furnishings to make everyone comfortable on long nights when tales could be shared.

Resolute had loved those nights—nights well before he had ever taken his exile name. He’d loved to go out hiking in the countryside, thinking up stories, remembering other tales. Writing poems.

A shiver ran down his spine. He had forgotten ever writing a poem. In the wake of the invasion, doing that had seemed so self-indulgent. Had he spent that wasted time learning how to handle a bow or a sword, he could have defended his homeland. Were he there and prepared, the Aurolani would have been turned back.

And while he knew that was nonsense, somewhere deep inside him it still felt true. He wondered if part of the trouble he’d had with Will had been that the youth fancied himself a poet, too. Resolute had abandoned that pursuit for something more important and here was the Norrington, the salvation of his nation, wasting his time with poetry and other frivolous pursuits.

Resolute cradled his head in his hands. The fingers of his right hand found the wet blood and traced it back to a tear in his scalp. It would be nothing for anyone with healing magick, but that was nothing Resolute had ever bothered to learn.Another bit of foolishness for which I now pay.

He pulled in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. He had a simple problem that was without solution. At some point the gibberers would decide he had to be restrained or killed, and he could do nothing to prevent them from doing so. If he was to escape, he would have to get out of his prison and pick his way through them. Just one raising the alarm—and he had to assume at least one was awake and on watch—and he would be torn to pieces.

Either I stay here and die, or I go out there and take as many of them with me as lean.

He entertained that fantasy for a moment. Though unarmed, he could kill easily enough. Stiffened fingers driven into a throat would crush the windpipe and leave a gibberer choking out its life. Grabbing one by the muzzle was tricky,

but once he had it, wrenching its head around so its chin tickled its spine wasn’t hard. His kicks could shatter ribs and send them to puncture lungs, and just generally flinging a gibberer into a wall or pillar would do serious damage.

But so would their claws as they struck at him, or even flailed while dying. A gibberer bite could take a chunk out of him. If the blood loss didn’t kill him fast, the blood poisoning would later. Just the mass of them out there would be enough to grab him, get him down, and even smother him—and all that was if they didn’t bring weapons to bear.

How at odds that sort of ending would be with the heroic tales he used to enjoy. His cousins, Oracle and Seethe, would let him pretend to be a hero defending them from hordes. He would duel with shadows and phantoms while they laughed and cheered. Seethe was especially good at describing hideous foes that he would dispatch with elan, but usually not before taking some wound that threatened him. Oracle would then affect to heal him and he would continue the battle.

He started to think that those had been carefree times, but that made him laugh.Everyone describes childhood that way. It was a time before certain possibilities had been closed off. When he had been bound to Vorquellyn, his homeland would communicate its needs to him, and he would fulfill those needs. As with all young elves, he had sampled life and found the things he liked, in hopes that Vorquellyn would match him with his passion. That was supposed to be the way of it, that the homeland would direct one to occupations that made them feel most alive.

And now my passion is killing.

Resolute began to wonder what Vorquellyn would make of him now, but before that dark path could be descended, a tiny sound interrupted him. It came as a light tapping low on the door. He wasn’t certain he’d actually heard it at first. Then he forced himself to focus, and it came again.

It came again, followed by wearily whispered pleas.

“Open. Now.”

Resolute sprang to his feet, then dizzily went to his knees again. He crawled to the door and reached for the latch, slipping it quietly. He opened the door, looking toward the bottom, whence the tapping had come. Even as he opened it, the scent wafting in from the other room told him what he would find.

Despite being prepared, he could not choke off his gasp at what he found.

With all four hands wrapped around his spear, Qwc knelt on the stone floor. Blood had pooled around him. It stained his wings. It pasted one of his antennae to his skull. His head hung low, with his chin on his chest. The little Spritha’s body heaved as he labored to breathe.

“Had to be here.” His words came out tight and filled with agony. “Had to be.”

Resolute’s head came up and his heart sank.Oh, Qwc, that spear stabbed far more than winterberries.

He surveyed the common room. Gibberers, over twenty of them, lay still and

silent. Some had a mask of webbing over their muzzles, or a torn mask hanging from clawed fingers. In brief flickers of firelight from the pit, the Vorquelf saw trickles of black fluid running from ears or eyes or noses. In some places wounds appeared between collarbone and neck, stabbed right down in and deep, or on others they were opened on the insides of the thighs.

The gibberers lay there, growing cold.

Without saying a word, Resolute scooped Qwc into his arms and slowly stood. He waited for his dizziness to clear, then stumbled into the common room. The Vorquelf carefully stepped over bodies and around puddles of blood. He set Qwc down on a bench near where the gibberers had piled Syverce and a pouch of bladestars, then found a bowl. He discarded the water in it, then went to the way station’s cistern and filled it with fresh. He returned to the fire pit, used a longknife to scoop up a couple of cherry coals, and dropped them into the water.

Their hissing sounded preternaturally loud in the abattoir. Resolute dipped a finger into the water, found it warm enough, then tore a piece of a blanket free and wetted it. Slowly and carefully he began to wash the Spritha. He started with Qwc’s head and once both antennae were clean and again erect, the Spritha revived a little.

He looked up at Resolute. “You are safe?”

“We are safe, Qwc.” Resolute smiled at him carefully. “I’ve seen what you did here

”

Qwc shivered. “Had to be here. Resolute has to be free.”

“I am.” The Vorquelf dabbed blood from Qwc’s tiny hands. “Qwc, you had no choice.”

“That does not make it better.”

“Nothing ever does, Qwc.” Resolute smiled. “Nothing but the gratitude of a friend you have saved. Thank you, Qwc. I had been ready to die.”

“Qwc watched Resolute a long time. Knew where to stab because of you.” The Spritha’s voice grew distant. “You saved you, Resolute.”

Another one I’ve trained, even without trying. He wiped down along Qwc’s torso. “No more talking right now, Qwc. You took care of me. I’ll take care of you. And soon, my little friend, we’ll take care of the world.”

Markus Adrogans doffed his helmet and scratched at his head. With his disguise no longer needed, he had stopped shaving his head and his hair was growing back in. It itched. Scratching it did not wholly satisfy that itch, but he was content with even a modicum of relief.

The same was not true with the situation on the ground in the Ghost March.

From Logbal his force had headed east behind the shield of Caro’s horsemen. It only took them three days to reach the frontier with the Aurolani domain. Queen Winalia had sent a legion of scouts with Adrogans, and they had proven most useful. While he suspected her of playing games, the people she gave him clearly had some pride and no small amount of hatred for the Aurolani. Adrogans had them watched carefully, but none of them tried to communicate with the enemy, nor did they act to provoke an attack which would engage Adrogans’ forces.

The frontier had been marked rather clearly. Many trees had been hewn and shaped into crosses, with the lower two portions stuck firmly in the ground and the upper two clawing at the skies. The individuals who had been bound to them ankle and wrist had no support for their backs and heads. As they slowly suffocated, with their viscera pressing in on their lungs, their heads fell back and their shoulders ground in the sockets.

The crucified individuals marked the frontier both in length and in depth. As they rode in, not only did crucifixions stretch as far as the eye could see to the north and south, but the first three miles of Aurolani frontier likewise sprouted them on every hilltop and in every hollow. Gyrkyme scouts confirmed that more waited in the hills much further north and south. As the sun rose that next day, the first thing it silhouetted was yet more victims bound to their trees.

Adrogans had expected to feel the agony in his shoulders and hips. He’d waited for the burning of exhausted lungs to start in his chest, or the dry discomfort of a parched throat to make it hard to swallow. He imagined the sting of sweat searing into eyes or—gods be merciful—the harsh sound of a carrion bird landing, not waiting for the victim to die before slicing flesh with a razored beak and beginning the feasting.

He would have felt all of those things if this scene had been in Okrannel. Pain would have spared him none of it. He would have known the rising panic as breathing became more labored and shorter. He would have felt the burn ofropes against his wrists and ankles.And if some carrion bird decided to help death claim me

But so far from the Zhusk homeland, the power of theyrunhad been blunted. Adrogans had been glad for that in part because it made it easier for him to concentrate. He did not have to devote part of his mind to dealing with the demands of his mistress. Nothing stood between him and planning the next assault.

As much as he liked having his mind clear, however, he also missed Pain’s presence. She reminded him that what he was doing would make so many of his men her wards. They would fight for him, die for him, and endure endless agonies for him. Without her it was always a temptation to forget that and somehow accept that casualties and deaths were just part of war.

A day’s march inside the frontier, his scouts found an ancient tower that had been repaired by the Aurolani, but not much expanded. A legion or so of creatures seemed to be occupying it. The garrison looked to be composed mostly of gibberers, but a fewkryalniriand a couple of giant gibberers seemed to be in command. A small stable held frostclaws and, in the day they watched, a squad went out on patrol but had not returned by dusk.

The patrol’s direction did seem to indicate they were looking to keep peopleinnot out, but the fortress’ position meant that any lumber caravans would have to pass by it. Without knowing how many patrols the fortress had out, or the locations of other towers in the area, slipping the bulk of his forces into the Aurolani domain without notice seemed impossible. Laying siege to the tower was something that could be done easily enough, but if a patrol escaped and warned those at the shipyard what was coming, the Aurolani might be able to bring enough troops in to stop his advance.

And if there is a singlearcanslatain there, alarm could be given even as we array our forces in the field to take the tower down. The warmages under his commandsaid they detected no such devices, but Adrogans dismissed their assurances. Magickal communication, no matter the means, had to be assumed and, somehow, worked around.

Adrogans sent his scouts out and around the tower. They searched for signs of patrols, their circuits, and if their routes seemed regular. When reports came back that it seemed as if patrols moved from one tower to another—based on one set of tracks going out and another coming back—he set up ambushes

along the routes to kill the patrols. He assumed a day’s delay in a patrol arriving from another post might not raise too much concern, but anything longer than that would be trouble.