The Sentinel Mage (49 page)

An oliphant trumpeted. Something wrapped around his waist, jerking him free of the corpses.

Petrus managed—just—to keep his magic from spilling over, to avoid shifting. The oliphant tossed him onto the outcrop. He rolled, pushing to hands and knees. “Dareus!” he cried. “He’s—”

But the oliphant had already turned. It waded through the corpses to where Dareus had vanished, tossing the creatures aside, squealing with urgency.

Around him, corpses began to heave clumsily up onto the outcrop. Petrus scrambled backwards on hands and knees, reaching for his dagger. Someone hauled him to his feet. Prince Harkeld.

Petrus stood, swaying dizzily. Hot liquid trickled down his brow. To his right, a man screamed.

Dareus’s voice rang in his ears:
If the worst happens, get him out of here
.

Petrus turned to the prince, gathering his magic. “Sire.”

Prince Harkeld didn’t hear him. He swung his sword. The blade whistled through the air, shearing a hollow-eyed head from its body.

The ancient warriors seemed to hesitate, to falter in their advance.

Petrus looked up. The sky was no longer utterly black.

Prince Harkeld swung his sword again, splitting a brittle skull in two, sending a withered arm spinning.

“Wait.” Petrus laid his hand on the prince’s shoulder.

The prince shrugged him off.

“No.” Petrus tightened his grip, halting him. “It’s dawn.”

Prince Harkeld paused, his sword half-raised.

Grayness seeped into the canyon. Petrus dimly saw towering cliffs, gaping tombs. The canyon floor seethed with movement—not towards them, but away. The creatures were retreating.

Petrus released the prince. He jumped down from the outcrop, brushing aside the last, laggard corpses. “Dareus!”

The oliphant who’d saved him was there, heaving aside corpses. Innis or Ebril, he couldn’t tell, didn’t care. He waded into the carnage. Blood trickled down his face and dripped from his chin.

The sun wasn’t fully risen; the creatures still stirred feebly. Fingers grabbed at him, fastened weakly on his arms, his legs. Petrus ignored them.

He dug deeper, to where the corpses were charred. Others were alongside him, hauling bodies aside—Prince Harkeld, Gerit, a soldier. Petrus heaved a headless corpse out of the way, and there, sprawled amid a tangle of wizened limbs, was Dareus.

The mage was dead. His neck was bent at an impossible angle, his eyes half-open, his mouth wide as if expressing his surprise.

Petrus sank down on his heels. He wiped the blood from his face.

Somebody exhaled, a quiet, regretful sound.

“Can they heal him?” a voice asked.

“He’s dead,” Gerit said. “No one can heal that.”

Petrus raised his head. He saw drifting smoke, sand strewn with bodies, dawn breaking over sandstone cliffs. The oliphant stood silently, its gray hide streaked with soot. Now that the sky was lighter he could see who it was: Innis.

He stood wearily. Five more minutes. That was all they’d needed. Five more minutes and the sun would have risen, the corpses would have retreated, and Dareus would still be alive.

He glanced at the grim faces surrounding him: Prince Harkeld, Tomas, two of the soldiers, Gerit and Cora.

“How many did we lose?” Cora asked. “Do we know yet?”

“Three of my men,” Tomas said. “And him.”

Gerit swung round to face Prince Harkeld. “This is your fault.” His voice was low, hoarse, thick with emotion.

The prince’s face tightened as if he’d been struck.

Cora frowned. “Gerit—”

Gerit ignored her. He took a step towards the prince. “If you’d used your magic, you sniveling coward, he’d still be alive! He’s dead because of you! “

“That’s enough, Gerit,” Cora said wearily.

Gerit swung towards her, bullish, his head lowered. “Don’t you tell me what to do.”

Petrus stepped up alongside Cora.
Now that Dareus is dead, she leads us.
He was Justen, so he couldn’t utter the words aloud, but Gerit understood the message.

Gerit inhaled a hissing breath. His fists clenched.

“If you can’t control yourself, then leave.” Cora’s voice held quiet authority.

For a moment it seemed that Gerit would contest her assumption of leadership. He stood, hands clenched, face twisted with rage, while smoke drifted around them. Then he made an angry sound of disgust and pushed between the soldiers.

Petrus glanced at Prince Harkeld. He thought he’d see anger, matching Gerit’s; instead, the prince’s face was tight, bitter.

A low moaning note began to whisper from the canyon walls.

Petrus looked around for the oliphant. It was gone.

He pushed past the prince and heaved himself up on the outcrop. Innis was there, dressing. “You all right?” he asked.

She glanced at him, her face pale and soot-smeared, and nodded. Tears glistened in her eyes. She bent her head, buttoning her shirt.

Petrus walked across to her. “Come here,” he said, pulling her close. She inhaled a sob-like breath and hugged him tightly.

Petrus rested his cheek on her hair. It smelled of smoke and charred corpses. They stood for a moment, holding each other. He could feel her trembling.

“You’re still Justen,” she whispered.

“I know.” Petrus released her, stepping back. He smiled crookedly. “Justen would like to thank you for saving him.”

Innis didn’t return the smile. “I thought they were going to kill you.” She reached up and touched his forehead. “You’re bleeding.” He felt her magic flow into him, light, brief, sealing the cut.

Petrus captured her hand as she lowered it. “I’m hard to kill,” he said, wrapping his fingers around hers.

Hobnails scraped on sandstone as someone else clambered up on the outcrop. Petrus released Innis’s hand and stepped away from her. He turned and looked down at the deep drifts of charred bodies. To the right, soldiers were searching for their fallen comrades. As he watched, another man was unearthed from the tangle of corpses. It was the soldier who’d been stung by the scorpion a week ago. A lifetime ago. He was missing both his arms.

Petrus turned his head and watched as Cora approached.

She halted beside him. “Thank you.”

Petrus nodded and resumed his inspection of the battlefield. He counted the remaining soldiers: six. After a moment he asked, “Where’s Gerit?”

“At the river, washing. Ebril’s keeping an eye on him.”

Petrus nodded again. He understood Gerit’s rage. The death—all the deaths—had been unnecessary.
Another five minutes.

The fault hadn’t been Prince Harkeld’s, though.

Petrus sighed and rubbed his face. Stubble rasped beneath his hand, sticky with blood, gritty with ash.

“How are you?” Cora asked. Her graying sandy hair was dark with soot, her face drawn and gaunt. “Can you be Justen for a few more hours?”

“Yes.” He looked to where Dareus’s body lay. The only person still standing there was Prince Harkeld. It was impossible to tell what the prince was thinking. Rage? Regret? Indifference?

Petrus turned away. “I’ll get the shovels.”

T
HEY BURIED THE
three dead soldiers on the southern side of the outcrop, and Dareus on the northern. Tomas had looked relieved at the suggestion. Innis understood why: he didn’t want his men to share their resting place with a mage.

Cora spoke the words over Dareus’s grave: “All-Mother, we give this man to your care, that he may rest peacefully.”

Innis looked north towards Ner. Wind puffed along the canyon, setting the cliffs wailing, swirling the sand. Within a week or two, all traces of the battle would be gone, as if it had never happened. The discarded bodies, the churned tracks, the graves, would all be covered in sand.

“Would you prefer to rest your men now?” Cora asked Tomas. “Or move on?”

Tomas raked his hair with one hand, making it stick up stiffly. He looked haggard, middle-aged, nothing like the laughing young Prince from Lundegaard’s castle. “Go,” he said. “Get away from here.”

I
NNIS FLEW TO
check on the horses, picketed nearly a mile from the outcrop. For once, none of them had broken loose overnight. They stood tethered, stained with sweat, quivering with exhaustion. The air stank with their fear.

When Innis returned, she found everyone dressed in the forest green of Lundegaard’s army.

“What’s this?” she asked, as three of Tomas’s soldiers set off to retrieve the horses.

“Ebril’s idea,” Cora said. “In case there are any assassins hiding.” She’d washed her face. The smudges beneath her eyes were exhaustion, not soot. “With the prince dressed as a soldier, they won’t know who to aim for. Should give us a few seconds’ advantage.”

“You think they’d try an ambush so close to the canyon mouth?”

“No. But I don’t want to take the risk. No one’s got the strength to be a wolf today, sniffing for them. This is the next best option.”

Innis glanced at Prince Harkeld. He looked like one of the soldiers, his uniform filthy, his face exhausted and stubbled and grim, but to her eyes something marked him as not one of them. It was in the way he held himself; withdrawn, alone.

She wanted to hug him, to tell him everything would be all right, that he wasn’t alone.

She knew what his response would be.

Innis turned away from him. “I’ll fly ahead, look for somewhere for tonight.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

“I
HOPE YOU
enjoy the cold, islander.”

Karel glanced up from his breakfast. The armsman seated opposite him was one of the king’s.

“What?” the man said, grinning broadly. “Haven’t you heard?”

Karel feigned disinterest and returned to eating.

“Stupid son of a whore,” the armsman said to his neighbor. “I’ll be glad when he’s gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“Horst. Rikard’s being sent into exile. Ship leaves tomorrow.”

Karel stopped chewing. He stared down at his plate.

“Duke Rikard? Are you certain?”

“He’s not a duke any more. Stripped of his title, stripped of command of the army.”

“What?” someone said, across the table. “Rikard leaked the invasion plans?”

“Left them unlocked in his study, where Lundegaard’s spies found them—or so the investigators tell it.”

“Spies?”

“Dressed as bondservants, they reckon. Slipped into the duke’s study and copied the plans. Stupid whoreson, leaving them lying around like that.”

“Too busy rutting his new wife to think beyond his cock,” an armsman said.

Someone else grunted agreement.

“Who’ll command the army?”

“Count Frankl. Rikard’s with him now, handing over.”

Karel stopped listening. He forced himself to swallow the food in his mouth. It took all of his self control to stay seated on the bench. Rikard was going into exile tomorrow.

Does the princess have to go with him?

A
FTER BREAKFAST CAME
training. Impatience ate at him. The wrestling matches weren’t a distraction; they were chores to get through before he could go on duty. Karel fought with single-minded purpose, winning each bout with brutal efficiency. “Whoreson,” his last conquest gasped, spitting blood. “You nearly broke my rutting neck.”

“Islander!” the training master bellowed. “Out of the arena. Now!”

Karel went.