The Pearls (17 page)

“This plan of the warlord's is muck,” Fomo complained. “And watching you, m'lord, having to stick to it, even when we know better ways, fair makes me sick. Better to have killed 'em all and taken the girl straight on through the Hidden Ways. Hard on the men, sure, but quick and tidy. No messing about with false trails and planted evidence.”

Shadrael drew a deep breath, tired of Fomo's chatter that kept prodding the sore spot of his failure with the Hidden Ways. The furies and whispers buzzed inside his head. He craved more killing, wanted to slaughter every living creature around him. In an effort to control himself he tried to
sever
, but there was only rending pain and a flash of vertigo that made him slump forward and clutch at his horse's mane to keep from falling.

Quick as thought, Fomo was off his horse and helping Shadrael dismount. When Shadrael sank to his knees, Fomo scooped up handfuls of snow and pressed them to his commander's burning face.

“Easy, m'lord,” he whispered hoarsely. “Easy now. Let it go out of you. Let it go.”

The snow seared Shadrael's flesh at first, then felt blessedly cool. The furies died down, muttering in the deepest recesses of his mind, and he drew a breath of relief. Full awareness of the world came back to him. He blinked his vision back into focus and drew an unsteady breath.

“You'll do now,” Fomo said, giving his shoulder a little pat. Then the centruin stiffened. “Here!” he rasped out. “What're you looking at?”

Shadrael jerked up his head, his face dripping with melted snow, and saw Lea standing a short distance away. She was staring at him with a troubled face, and undoubtedly she'd seen it all.

Humiliation flared through him, and at that moment he hated her.

“Ain't you ever seen
donare
shakes before?” Fomo asked, his voice harsh and challenging.

“Is he ill?” she asked. “Is he wounded?”

Shadrael could not bear it. He struggled to his feet, despite Fomo's restraining hand, and glared at her. “Go over there!” he said, his voice strained and unnatural. He pointed toward the trees. No longer did he care that he'd told her not to go near the men.

She obeyed, walking slowly toward the trees, pausing once to glance over her shoulder at him. When she was finally out of sight, he lowered his hand and bit back a groan. The pain in his chest was like a knife twisting around and around.

Fomo steadied him. “It'll pass,” he said in reassurance. “It'll pass.”

Eventually, it did. Shadrael pulled away from his centruin's support and turned to fiddle unnecessarily with his horse's tack, tugging at buckles and checking the saddle girth. He felt hollow inside, drained dry, dissatisfied, and restless.

“A bad one,” Fomo said, offering gruff comfort. “Not the worst, though.”

“No,” Shadrael forced himself to say. “Not the worst.”

He remembered it involuntarily, that day in the midst of a ferocious fight against Madruns, when the world had gone black and he'd been so lost in killing madness that he nearly had not emerged again. He'd been told that he'd killed five of his own men who tried to pull him away from hacking his dead foes into pieces. That, he did not remember. Only the queer, shaking aftermath and nausea, the burning, almost uncontrollable urge to keep killing and killing until his body failed him and his brain bled dry.

This, he assured himself, was not that bad. But someday, he feared, he would no longer be able to come back from the madness. Some
donare
died of seizures. Others went slowly insane and had to be killed. Others managed themselves well and lived long, successful lives. Before the destruction of Beloth, Shadrael had walked a sure, very controlled edge. Now, struggling without shadow support, he felt himself teetering, losing his balance. One day soon, he would fall into the abyss.

I need a soul,
he thought, struggling against desperation.
I need it to quell this, to give me a chance of survival.

Contempt for such a weakling thought filled him, and he shoved it away.
There is no going back,
he reminded himself.
What's done is done.

Wiping his face with the crook of his elbow, he slowly grew aware that Fomo was talking.

“Could split the men at dawn, with you and our main force taking the girl on to Ulinia as planned,” the centruin said. “Me and the rest could make big tracks toward Thyrazene, lead those fools a good, long chase.” He paused a moment to give Shadrael a sly look. “Of course, the men would want to be paid up front, but I'd see that they didn't abandon the job.”

Shadrael spun around, striking Fomo in the face with the back of his hand.

The centruin went to the ground, catching himself on one knee and hand. “Commander, I was—”

Shadrael kicked him, knocking him onto his side. “Did I ask you to plan strategy?”

“No, Commander. I just—”

Not daring to use magic to punish him, Shadrael picked up Fomo's dropped whip and lashed him with it. Three vicious strokes, effectively placed.

Fomo flinched under each blow, but he didn't cry out. And when Shadrael stepped back, breathing hard, and flung down the whip, Fomo made no move to rise or fight back.

Had he been a dog he would have been exposing his belly. Shadrael could feel the fear and resentment mingling in the man, a man loyal to him not through any genuine affection or respect but only because Shadrael had once saved his life and more than once saved his career.

Now Shadrael stood over him, trembling in anger, afraid the madness might return, yet not quite caring if it did. He wanted to kick Fomo again, smash his ribs and kidneys and leave him puking in the snow, but fought off the temptation. As yet, he needed the centruin with him, unreliable or not.

“So you'll see the men don't abandon the job.” Coldly he echoed Fomo's words, while the rim of Fomo's eye showed white. “So they'll want to be paid first. Oh, very clever. I suppose you were going to next suggest that I leave the division of our force to you. That way, you could pick the best of the group, leaving me the dregs, take your payment, and scamper off.” He gestured. “On your feet!”

Warily, the centruin obeyed. His scarred face wavered between expressions of appeasement and the desire to draw a dagger and fight.

“Did you think me so ill, so
weak
, that I'd agree to such a scheme?” Shadrael demanded.

“Commander, I—”

“Silence!”

Glaring, Shadrael watched while Fomo slowly straightened himself to attention. The harsh discipline of army training was holding, but Shadrael could see that discipline and training would not control this man forever. Despite his pretenses of concern, Fomo was like a dog, loyal only to strength, and ready to take advantage of any weakness. If Fomo ever,
ever
suspected that Shadrael could no longer utilize shadow magic effectively, he would attack, stealing the girl for himself.

Great Beloth, just keep him useful until I finish this mission,
Shadrael thought. After that, he did not care what became of the ungrateful wretch.

“I wasn't aware that I had to discuss my strategy for this mission with you,” Shadrael said, his voice raw with all he was suppressing. “Especially beyond what you need to know.”

“No, sir.”

“I've given you no permission to make suggestions.”

“No, sir.”

“We'll waste no more time with the Crimsons. No ambush, no leading them on false trails. They don't know which way we've gone. The clues we've planted are enough to give them ideas. If luck shines on us, they'll report back to the emperor or desert.”

Fomo started to grin at that, then hastily wiped all expression from his face. “And if they don't give up?” he asked.

Shadrael curled his fists, and Fomo flinched.

“Is this a discussion, Centruin?”

“No, sir.”

“We'll continue to the top of that hill.” Shadrael pointed, ignoring Fomo's indrawn breath. “If the men keep up a good pace, we should be able to take cover there in the forest well before dawn. Detail two men at the rear to brush out our tracks as we go.”

Fomo hesitated, and Shadrael expected him to protest about how far the men had come and how tired they were, but the centruin wisely did not. “Got two, maybe three men won't make it,” was all Fomo said.

“When they drop, kill them and hide the bodies.”

Fomo saluted. “Shall I bring the girl back to you now, sir?”

“Let her walk.”

Saluting again, Fomo picked up his whip from the snow cautiously, as though he half-expected Shadrael to strike him with magic. Moments later, Shadrael heard him cracking his whip and rasping out commands to get the men started. They groaned and grumbled. By the time Shadrael pulled himself into his saddle and joined them, the men were on their feet but not yet in order. Some were still munching on handfuls of grain, swigging water, ignoring Fomo's commands.

Shadrael drew rein in the trees, watching them, vigilant for any sign of mutiny. The girl was standing a short distance away from the men, staying sensibly concealed in the shadows beneath a tree. Apparently they hadn't noticed her presence yet.

Shadrael looked around, gauging how much moonlight they had left. Sniffing the air, judging the amount of wind, he scowled at the depth of snow. It would not be easy for his men to make the next hill in their present mood and condition. They were worn out from having marched that morning, lain in wait, fought a hard battle, and marched all this time by magic—exhausting in itself. If they weren't allowed to rest soon he'd get nothing from them if they had to fight again, not that he planned for more combat to happen.

If they had to march the whole distance to Vordachai's stronghold without magic converting their steps into league-long strides, the
casna
would be the first to desert. The rest could be kept going, provided he didn't lose Fomo's cooperation. Just thinking about such a long, arduous journey sank Shadrael's spirits, but he fought off discouragement. It was always best to prepare for the worst, while expecting the best. He would rest himself, gauge the right opportunity in a day or so, and if he could suppress the girl's talents sufficiently, he would try again to take them through the Hidden Ways.

By now Fomo had the men trudging forward. Not just any centruin could have accomplished it.

That is why I keep you,
Shadrael thought in approval and kicked his horse forward to take the lead.

As he rode past the girl's hiding place, he gestured. She emerged into the moonlight, floundering a little through a drift of deep snow. When he made no move to pull her up before his saddle, she fell into line behind his horse. The men closest to her murmured lewd suggestions, and Shadrael heard her shocked intake of breath. She did not say a word.

Fomo moved along the line, cracking his whip, and within a short time the men sank into the misery of marching and left her alone.

Their descent downhill proved to be slow and sometimes hazardous. A man slipped off the trail and fell crashing through undergrowth. Shadrael did not rein up or issue orders for anyone to go to his aid. When Lea began to stumble and falter, however, the voice of reason warned Shadrael to take care. He dared not risk her tumbling off the trail and breaking her neck. A dainty thing, as delicate as glass that could shatter in his hands, she could not endure much harsh treatment. Alive, she was an invaluable hostage. Dead, she was only carrion to be abandoned in the forest.

Halting, he had the girl lifted up in front of his saddle. The man who performed this task managed a sly caress that made her flinch and slap at him.

Shadrael's dagger stabbed his hand. Howling, the man stumbled back, catching himself just before he could topple off the narrow trail. A hunchbacked lurker came to his aid, pulling him upright before shuffling over to Shadrael and patting Lea's booted foot.

“Pretty. Pretty,” it mumbled.

She shrank back, and Shadrael kicked it away. “Get back in line, both of you!”

Riding on, Shadrael could feel the girl shaking, either from cold or fear. Clearly she was miserable and tired. Well, so were they all.

Ahead, a pair of scouts barely visible in the tree-dappled moonlight searched out the trail. Behind him, the men stumbled along, swearing to themselves at times, but otherwise quiet.

“I wouldn't have told,” she whispered eventually, breaking the silence between them. “You didn't have to punish me for what I saw.”

Unexpectedly, Shadrael felt ashamed of himself. She was right, but that didn't matter. He quelled his emotions. “The first lesson for a hostage to learn is to keep quiet and do exactly as you're told.”

“Haven't I?”

He did not answer her. If he suppressed her too much, he thought, he might render her unconscious or even kill her.
Take care,
he warned himself.