The Healer's Legacy (22 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Mayet felt sorely used. The canvas tent offered no comfort from the cold night. She shivered in the darkness and rubbed at her wrists where men’s rough hands had bruised the tender flesh. The harsh voices of the mercenaries outside carried on the cold night air as they argued. “No lady dresses in rags,” one man said. “She’s only trying to save her scrawny hide by claiming to be high born.”

“Give ’er to me,” said another. “I’ll show you what to do with a woman.”

“When have you ever had a woman?” another snorted amidst a roar of laughter and heavy backslapping.

“What if she’s telling the truth? What if she knows something worth hearing? D’you want to be the one to answer to
him
?”

There was silence and then a disgusting sound as one man spat. “Ah, she’s not worth the trouble. Too scrawny to be any real sport.”

Mayet cringed as heavy steps approached and the tent flap was yanked aside. A burly figure was silhouetted against the opening. She huddled in her cloak, her arms wrapped tight around her.

“Come on,” the big man growled.

“Where are you taking me?” Mayet demanded. She gasped when he gripped her arm and squeezed it till she thought the bone might snap.

“You wanted to see Lord Toril, said you had information for him, didn’t you? Not that he’ll be any too pleased at the sight of you.”

He led her through the group of men gathered outside the tent. They leered at her, grinning maliciously. Mayet tried to remain aloof, but her feet were covered in sores and the man beside her moved rapidly. He half-dragged her toward the center of the encampment.

They arrived at a large well-lit pavilion, surrounded by guards. The man who held her spoke to one of the guards, who abruptly disappeared inside. He returned in a few moments and stood aside, holding the tent flap open. “Enter.”

Mayet stepped up to the opening and the soldier pushed her ahead of him into the tent.

Bright lanterns hung at intervals around a well-appointed space filled with colorful banners and tapestries. At the center of the pavilion, an ornately carved chair stood atop a heavy dais. A broad-shouldered man sat lazily in the chair, his blond hair and beard reflecting the lamplight.

His dark eyes roved over Mayet, taking in her appearance, then he turned to the man beside her and smirked. “I have already enjoyed my evening entertainment,” he said, taking a drink from the heavy gold goblet in his hand.

“Lord Toril,” the man beside Mayet went down on one knee and bowed his head. “This woman claims to be a—a lady of Tem Hold. She says she has news of your woman.” He grabbed Mayet’s arm and pulled her down beside him and her hood fell back. She caught a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye. The man, Jolon, the one who had turned sides in the fight to rescue Tratine, sat on a low wooden bench to one side.

Toril set his cup down with a loud bang and her attention was drawn back to the dais. He leaned forward and his eyes glinted like knives. “What is it you think you know?”

“I know the woman you seek. I know where she is hiding,” she said.

“Is that all?” Toril waved a dismissive hand. “That is old news, is it not, Jolon?”

The traitor, Jolon, stared directly at her, his face pale in the bright lamplight. Traitor? Her mind whirred.

“My Lord Toril,” she said, holding her hands out in appeal. “I also have news of a traitor in your camp.” She did not trouble herself about the young man’s fate. Traitors deserved the destiny the wheel would bring them.

Toril gave her a menacing glare. His fists opened and closed and the muscles of his arms rippled. “There are none among my men who would dare try me.” He swung his head on his thick neck, and surveyed the room.

The Warlord’s voice was quiet, but Mayet heard the danger that lurked behind the calm. The man beside her flinched as Toril’s gaze raked over him. Her father had held such a swaying power. She recalled how, as a child, she had thought his look might crush her into dust. He had wielded his power like a club, but he had also rewarded his allies handsomely. Finally, here before her was a man she understood.

Mayet gave him her most flattering smile. “I see that you are right, Lord. Your strength and power are formidable and none might come at you openly. But the rat that chews at the mightiest oaken pillar may in time weaken it from below.”

Toril leaned forward, his eyes boring into her. “And who is the rat in my hall?”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Wrapped in her heavy wool cloak, Kira gazed out from the top of the wall, waiting for Kelmir to return from his evening hunt. She was restless anyway, and pretending to watch for Kelmir kept her from having to explain to anyone who might be curious how she always knew the time of his return.

A light gleamed in the distance, then another. Campfires. They flared up one by one to become a huge cluster of red and yellow stars that spread out across the land just beyond the river north of the hold. A watch called out and a messenger sped into the main building to carry word to Milos and his captains. Toril’s army had arrived.

Memories of torn and bruised flesh lay cold fingers on her and she shivered. A small fluttering cry tried to release itself from inside, but she choked it down. Probing the forest south of the hold, she moved into Kelmir’s feline thoughts.

Be watchful, Kel
. He paused at his meal and sniffed the air. The wind carried the scent of fire and men upon it and he growled low in his throat.

The forest hummed with the sounds of stealthy industry as Ragnar’s people toiled in the dark making their final preparations for the impending battle.

Kira groaned. Why had it come to this? Why must there be more violence and death? Had the people of this land not suffered enough at the hands of the off-land marauders? Guilt and shame whipped around her. She gripped the top of the wall. It wasn’t her fault, she told herself. Toril was a deep dark well that could never be illuminated. He took what was given him, sank it to the bottom of his empty heart, and came back wanting more.

* * *

Dawn spread its light across the land and a swift breeze sent tattered clouds scudding across a pale sky. Few of Tem Hold’s residents had slept once word had reached them of the army encamped on the northern fields.

Kira stood atop the wall, girded in leather and light chain mail. She hefted the weight of the short sword Ragnar had gifted her. Her years as a healer’s apprentice had not prepared her for war or taking of another’s life. Her time with Toril had done nothing to dissuade her that killing was wrong. Yet, here she was, preparing to join her friends on the battlefield. To defend their lives. And her own.

Milos pursed his lips. “I don’t want you in the battle.”

Kira sheathed her sword. She wanted no part in killing, but she would not remain behind while others protected her. She would fight for her freedom. “You will need Vaith’s eyes, and for that you will need me beside you on the field.”

“Against a small group and with your companions you are a formidable force, but a battlefield is different.”

Kira crossed her arms and frowned, repressing the comment that crouched on the tip of her tongue. She knew that Milos wanted to protect her. As much as she loathed the idea of killing, she needed him to understand she did not want his protection. Not if it meant that others must fight in her stead. “I have the chain mail Master Jarrett provided and the shield and short sword from Ragnar. Just because I do not always carry a warrior’s weapon, does not mean I have never learned to wield one.” She pushed aside the painful remembrance of those hard lessons at Toril’s hands. “And Kelmir will be beside me.”

“We will also have need of your healing skills.”

“Milvari will take charge of the wounded with Master Jarrett’s assistance, and Brilissa and her staff are prepared to do their part.”

“Kira, please.”

Milos reached out for her and she backed away. “I will not stay behind with the women and children. This is my fight, even more than it is yours.”

A horn sounded in the distance and they both turned toward the blaring. Across the flat expanse of frozen ground, a lone horse galloped toward the hold. There appeared to be no rider, but the archers who stood at intervals along the walls threw back their cloaks and reached into their quivers to nock arrows in preparation for an assault.

The horse slowed as it came closer. Something lay slung over the saddle like a sack of grain. The steed stopped and began to graze, cropping the short dry stalks just outside the line of pikes and barriers that now surrounded the hold.

Milos grew pale.

“What is it?” Kira squinted, trying to focus on the distant animal in the early morning light.

“Not what.” His voice was gruff. “Who.” He climbed down the ladder and headed toward the main gate.

As he strode toward the gate, Milos gave orders to the archers on the wall to stand ready and called for Harl to bring his horse. “I need two men to accompany me,” he said.

A short muscular man with gray hair and a grizzled beard approached. “Holder Tem,” the man said urgently. “It might be a trap. Allow me to go in your stead. My brothers and I will bring in the horse and its burden.”

Milos began to protest, but before he could speak two mounted riders arrived leading a saddled horse. The man mounted his horse without waiting for the holder’s response. He gave Milos a crooked smile. “It has been some time since this farmer went to war, but I have not forgotten how to swing a blade.”

“Ride in Troka’s light,” Milos told him before directing the gate to be opened.

The men galloped out of the hold, and the gate swung shut behind them. Kira stayed on the wall, watching the riders leave. They skirted the pikes and spread out in a line. The gray-haired man sidled slowly up to the grazing horse and took hold of the reins that dangled from its neck as the other two men kept watch. He raised the covering from the horse’s burden and dropped it again before leading the animal back to the hold.

No riders attacked from Toril’s encampment, no arrows flew, and the men returned without incident. Kira held her breath when the gates opened to allow them back inside. With a shake of his head, the gray haired man dismounted and handed the horse’s reins to Milos. Kira hurried down the ladder.

Milos lifted the cloak and dropped his head. Jolon hung limp over the saddle, his shirt covered in dark blood. In death, his blond face seemed even younger than his years.

“It seems you were right about trusting him,” Milos said. “He is no longer Toril’s man.”

Kira’s throat tightened at the sight of Jolon’s broken body. She reproached herself for asking him to go. He had been too eager. Now, one more death was charged to her. She lowered her head and made the sign of the circle. “May Troka gather and keep him.”

“Take him to Master Jarrett and Brilissa.” Milos laid the cloak back over Jolon and gave the reins to Harl. “Tell them the rites will have to wait until we are finished with this day’s sorry work.”

Kira watched Harl lead the horse carrying Jolon’s body toward the stables and hope waned. “Jolon must have been discovered with the Demon’s Claw. It appears we face the full strength of Toril’s army.”

“It does, indeed,” Milos said.

“Then let me go to him,” Kira hissed.

“No. This was a clear message. Even if you were to go to him now, he would not be merciful.”

Kira opened her mouth to argue, then clamped it shut. Milos was right. Any hope she had harbored that Toril could become the man she had once thought him to be, died when she saw what he had done to Jolon. Mercy was not one of Toril’s qualities. Power his only advisor. The flame of anger the only light in the darkness of his heart.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Mayet sat at the heavily laden table, trying to look alluring despite the dirty rags she wore. Bright pennants fluttered in the brisk morning wind outside the open tent flaps. She had spent a hungry night in a cold cheerless tent and had been brought to the warlord’s pavilion this morning without explanation. Her guard pushed her into a chair at the end of the table and stepped back. Hunger scratched at her insides, but she had been offered no food or drink, so she sat in silence.

Across from her, the warlord ate heartily, breaking his fast with mounds of freshly cooked venison, fresh fruits, and dark ale.  Mayet’s mouth filled with saliva and her nostrils flared wide at the scent of seasoned meat, but she kept herself in check, breathing in a natural way as the muscular man ate his fill, his handsome bearded jaw moving as he chewed.

He glanced up at her, stabbed his knife into the table, and licked his fingers. “You must be hungry.”

Mayet tilted her head. “A bit, my Lord.”

“Please feel free to partake.” He waved his hand over the table. “I would not want you faint on such an important day.” His lip curled in a half-smile.

“My thanks to you.” Mayet surreptitiously wiped her hands on her skirt before reaching for a plate of meat. She was starved, but she moved casually, doing her best to maintain the manners of a proper lady. There were no utensils set at her place, so she picked up the meat and held it daintily between her fingers. Her stomach urged her to stuff the food quickly into her mouth, but she resisted, taking tiny ladylike bites and chewing them well. No other food, not one delicacy she could recall, had tasted as good as this plain roasted meat now did.

She finished the first piece and reached for another, but the guard stepped from behind and grabbed her by the wrist. Toril’s icy blue eyes locked on hers.

“Tell me once more about the hold’s defenses,” he said quietly.

The guard tightened his grip and Mayet whimpered. “As I told you, they have had little time to prepare. Only what time it took to build the barriers, and not all of those are complete.”

“Yes, my spies have told me of the weakness at the southern walls. Strange, one would think that the holder has no knowledge of fighting tactics. Why is that?”

The guard squeezed again. “Ow! Why are you hurting me? I have told you all I know.”

“How many men defend the hold and what weapons do they carry?”

“I’m not certain of their number,” Mayet gasped. “But they have only bows and swords. Tem Hold has no catapults or other machines of war.”

“Tell me again why you sought me out.”

Mayet whimpered. “I wish to be your ally. I ask only that you consider allowing my son to take control of Tem Hold and the region surrounding it.”

“Yes, but think of my position. You come to me in rags and tell me you are the rightful holder’s widow, Lady K’Tem. You offer me information that I have already gleaned from my spies, and you ask a favor of me in return.” Toril stared into her eyes. He sneered at her and held up a fist.

The man dug his fingers deeper into her flesh and Mayet sank down in her chair. There were tears in her eyes. “But what about the traitor? That man Jolon? I warned you about him.”

Toril opened his hand. The guard loosened his grip, but his fingers remained wrapped about her wrist.

“Ah, that is true. You did warn me of the rat in my midst.” The warlord picked up his knife and toyed with it. The cruel blade glinted as he turned it this way and that, admiring his reflection in the shiny metal surface. “We must remember to show our appreciation to those who aid us, must we not?”

Mayet heard running footsteps outside the tent and a soldier rushed inside. The man knelt quickly and bowed his head. His words came out between panted breaths. “Lord Toril, please forgive the interruption, but I have urgent news.”

Toril grasped the knife tightly in his hand and glowered at the man. “What is it?”

“The camp steward sent me. The men, my Lord. They are ill.”

“What men? How many?”

The panting man seemed to shrink lower, cringing into himself. “I know not yet how many, Lord. More than a hundred, so far.”

Toril stood. His hand moved with the speed of a striking snake and the knife stuck in the ground at scant distance from where the messenger knelt. “Go back and find out how many are ill and from what cause,” he roared. “And send me my generals.”

“Yes, Lord.” The messenger leaped up. Eyes focused on the floor, he backed rapidly out of the tent and disappeared.

Toril whirled about and Mayet felt his eyes burn into her. “What do you know of this?”

Mayet shook her head, but remained silent.

Toril snapped his fingers and the guard who held her slapped her hard across the face. Tears filled her eyes. Her cheek stung and she tasted blood.

“I asked you a question,” Toril snarled.

Mayet’s lower lip trembled and she swallowed hard. “I—I know nothing of any illness, Lord Toril. I swear it.” Her voice was high and squeaky.

“We shall see.” He scowled at her, then turned to the guard. “Take her from my sight, but keep a close watch on her. We may need a key to pry open the hold gates.”

The guard loosened his grip. “But, Lord,” he said. “If she has come here to betray them, of what use will she be?”

He ogled her meaningfully and his lip curled. “Never underestimate the value a man may place on even the lowest of women.”