Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) (16 page)

“And what about you, Kara?” Joseph asked quietly. “Where are you going to go from here?”

She threw the arrow down onto the pile beside her. “I don’t have anywhere to go,” she said matter-of-factly. “My brother is dead. He was the last real family I had. Everyone else I know is either dead too or rotting in a Llewyllian prison.” She clenched her hands. “Where
would
I go?”

“Come with us,” said Kendril.

Joseph looked over at the Ghostwalker in surprise.

Kara gave Kendril a startled glance as well, but quickly shook her head. “I…can’t.” Her voice hardened. “There are still some things here I need to see to.”

The Ghostwalker slung his rifle back on his shoulder. “Avenging your brother? You want to get back at Sir Reginald?”

She was silent a moment, staring at Kendril. “Yes,” she said finally.

“Then come with us,” he said again. “You can’t touch Sir Reginald right now. Even if you could, you’d never escape with your life. The best chance you have to destroy him is to help us stop this ambush. If Bathsby falls, then so will Sir Reginald.” He shrugged. “Either way, it’s your choice.” He turned back to his mule, and tightened the last few straps.

“Kara,” said Joseph in a quiet voice, “you don’t have to let this rule your life. You’re a free woman now. You can start over again, maybe in Calbraith, or Merewith. I’m sure that—”

The thief looked over at him sharply, cutting him off. “I’m sorry, Joseph. I won’t let Sir Reginald get away with what he has done. He
has
to pay, and I’m going to make sure he does. I’m coming with you.” She looked over at Kendril and Maklavir. “All of you.”

A sudden sadness came into Joseph’s eyes, but he said nothing.

“Right then,” said Kendril briskly. “Let’s get going.”

Chapter 10

The road south twisted and turned for miles, the trees becoming scarcer and the ground more uneven as they went. Rocks of all sizes began to dot the landscape, breaking across the surface of the land in all directions. By late afternoon the trees had all but disappeared, save for a twisted stump here or there. To the south the white-capped Shadow Mountains were quickly wreathed in dark clouds, and thunder rumbled in the far distance. The air turned cold, and a steady breeze whipped across their path as the four travelers continued relentlessly on.

The Dagger Hills proved to be a desolate, barren environment. The ground rose into steep hills and fell again into sharp valleys, covered with moss-covered rocks and long grass. Occasionally a lone eagle could be seen circling in the sky far above, its lonely cry echoing over the broken landscape.

Around mid-afternoon Joseph came hurrying back from the other side of a nearby hill, the wind buffeting his greatcoat as he rode.

“Something wrong?” asked Kendril as the breathless scout came up to them.

Joseph nodded. Sweat steamed from his mount. “I’ll say. You guys might want to take a look at this.”

They rode quickly to the top of the hill, shocked into silence by the sight before them.

It was a small settlement. Or had been, at one time. The stockade wall that had surrounded it was thrown down in several places, scorched with fire and hacked into pieces. The few buildings that had stood inside were nothing more than a pile of ashes, tossed about by the steady wind that cut over the rocky ground. Here and there a broken weapon lay on the ground, but there were no signs of life.

“Looks like the army stopped here last night,” said Joseph. “They buried most of the dead in graves on the eastern side, over there.” He pointed towards the base of a small hill.

Maklavir looked slightly ill. “Who would do something like this?”

“The Jogarthi,” said Kendril in a low voice. “I doubt they left any survivors.”

They rode silently down into the midst of the ruined buildings, staring at the wreckage all around. Several carrion birds croaked loudly at their approach, scattering into the air as they came near.

Towards the far edge of the town several pointed stakes about six feet high had been jammed into the ground. They were covered with dried blood, flies swarming over their surface. In front of them was a smaller stake. A bird’s skull was stuck on its top.

Maklavir shuddered in horror. His face was almost green. “What in Eru’s name is this?”

Kendril pulled Simon to a stop. His eyes darted over the stakes in front of him. “Human sacrifices,” he said calmly. “The survivors of the Jogarthi raid were most likely tortured, then impaled here and left to die.”

Maklavir looked as if he was going to be sick. Kara and Joseph both looked over in surprise at the Ghostwalker.

“I thought you said you’d never been to the Dagger Hills,” Joseph said.

Simon snorted and backed up a step or two at the smell of the blood. Kendril gave him a reassuring pat. “I haven’t.” He pointed towards the small bird skull. “You see that? It’s a raven skull. These people were sacrificed to Trelnaru, the pagan god of storms and thunder. The raven is his sign.”

Joseph looked at him curiously. “You know a lot about pagan religions?”

“I’ve seen this before.” Kendril rode up to the bird skull. He looked down at it impassively. “The Jogarthi aren’t the only barbarians who worship Trelnaru.”

Joseph and Kara said nothing. Maklavir looked away, still trying to keep his stomach from turning.

Kendril gave the stake a couple of hard kicks, and it toppled over.

Without another word, the four travelers rode soberly off, the wind howling forlornly behind them.

They didn’t stop, even as the sun began to set in the far west and the shadows grew longer around them.

Joseph led the way, riding ahead of the others to scout the ground. Kendril kept his long rifle out and in his hands, his eyes constantly watching the dark hills and vales around them. Maklavir was uncharacteristically silent after seeing the ruin of the settlement, his purple cape wrapped around him for warmth. Kara came last of all, her fiery red hair tucked back into the raised hood of her cloak.

The sunlight soon vanished completely and night fell over the shrouded hills. Without ever speaking, they continued to travel despite the darkness, the urgency of the situation weighing heavily on each of them. Even Maklavir offered no protest, riding quietly on the back of his great white charger. The skies above were covered with dark, brooding clouds, but Joseph continued to lead them on, his keen eyes picking out the trail ahead despite the lack of light.

The night closed in on them from all sides, like the maws of some monstrous creature. An unspoken dread filled them all, and even Kendril gripped his rifle a little more than normal. As they blundered on through the inky blackness they could hear the wailing cry of wolves far in the distance, calling to each other like lost souls in the night. Aside from that the only sound was the clop of hooves and the unearthly screech of the wind over the rocks. Around midnight a light drizzle began, and the wind became a little colder than before.

It was still a few hours before dawn when the dark shape of Joseph came wearily out of the darkness. They were all exhausted, and gratefully stopped as the scout came riding up. Their hearts lifted, however, when they heard him speak.

“I’ve found them,” came his voice through the darkness. “The whole army’s encamped in a valley not half a mile from here.”

Kendril rubbed his burning eyes. “You sure it’s not the Jogarthi?”

Joseph gave a half-smile. “Please. Give an old pathfinder a little more credit than that. I saw some of the pickets myself. Trust me, they’re Whitmore’s men.”

“Thank Eru,” breathed Maklavir from behind them. “They’re still alive, at least.”

“For now,” said Kendril sharply. “Let’s get going. And no one make any sudden moves. We don’t want them shooting us by mistake in the dark.”

They trotted down the long winding ravine, seeing the light of several bonfires pop into view below.

Kendril snorted angrily. “What in Zanthora are they thinking? Camping in a valley? They might as well
invite
the Jogarthi to attack.”

 Joseph looked up to the right, and scanned the hilltop above. “They must not be too worried.”

“A fool is never worried until it’s too late,” Kendril said under his breath.

They passed forward between the rows of tents, under the watchful guard of half a dozen soldiers. The rain continued to fall in a steadily increasing pattern, dripping off the sides of the tents and hissing as it struck the stones of the campfires. In the valley the campsite was more protected from the howling wind, but the sentries they passed were still wrapped in their cloaks, holding their halberds with gloved hands.

Kara glanced nervously around them as they passed through the encampment, her hand flinching uneasily towards the bow attached to her saddle.

Joseph looked over at her with a smile. “Wishing you hadn’t come?” he whispered.

She frowned. “When you’re a wanted bandit walking into a camp full of soldiers is just tempting fate. I should have stayed out of the camp.”

“The Dagger Hills are no place to spend the night alone,” Joseph returned in a knowing tone. “I won’t let anything happen to you. If anyone asks I’ll just tell them you’re…my sister.”

Kara gave the scout a sardonic smile, but said nothing.

They stopped in front of a large tent. The peacock banners of Llewyllan flapped in the breeze.

The guards outside the tent stepped forward, eying the newcomers suspiciously.

“These travelers have news for Lord Whitmore,” said the soldier who accompanied them. “They request an audience.”

One of the guards looked Kendril up and down, and scowled. “General Whitmore is asleep. What is the nature of your news?”

“A matter of utmost importance for the future of Llewyllan,” said Kendril without moving, “and one I must speak to Lord Whitmore about
alone
.”

The guard bristled at the Ghostwalker’s words. His voice turned cold. “I will talk to the general in the morning, and see if he will grant an audience. You can wait until then.”

“I cannot,” said Kendril severely, “and neither can you. The life of every man in this camp is in danger, and will be until I speak to your commander. Now for Eru’s sake, let me pass.”

The guard hesitated a moment, his eyes sparking angrily, but he finally turned to the second guard and nodded. The man disappeared into the tent.

“One of you may enter,” the guard said. “The others must wait out here.”

“I’ll go,” said Kendril. He hoisted himself off Simon’s back.

The guard nodded, and waved him into the tent.

The other three remained outside the tent, the guards watching them carefully.

Maklavir shook his head, the feather in his cap ruffling in the breeze. “A fine mess indeed,” he muttered to himself.

Lord Whitmore brushed the sleep from his eyes, and quickly tied his robe about him. He gaped as the dark figure of the Ghostwalker entered the command tent.

“Kendril?” he said, his voice filled with confusion. “What in the Halls of Pelos are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

Kendril lowered his hood, his eyes red from lack of sleep. “King Nathan is dead,” he said bluntly.

The color drained from Lord Whitmore’s face. “What?” he whispered.

“He was assassinated,” Kendril continued, his face a stone mask. “Bathsby is in control of Balneth. He has Serentha trapped in the palace.”

Whitmore stared wide-eyed at the Ghostwalker, then sank into a nearby chair, shaking his head. “What? That can’t--”

Kendril stepped forward. His shadow stretched forth in the flickering candlelight. “It gets worse. I think Lord Bathsby is in communication with the Jogarthi. He’s set a trap for you and all your men. He wants the throne of Llewyllan for himself.”

Lord Whitmore had been rubbing his forehead, struggling to come to grips with what Kendril was saying, but now he sprang up out of the chair, his face turning red.

“How dare you! Lord Bathsby has always been a faithful servant of the crown and my friend. I cannot possibly believe what you say to be true.”

Kendril clenched his fists angrily, but kept his voice under control. “Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant,” he said. “Bathsby has betrayed you. If you don’t act fast then you and every man in this camp are doomed.”

The nobleman’s face tightened in rage. “You lie!” he spat. “Guards!” he shouted.

Two men appeared immediately at the tent entrance, their hands on their weapons.

“Who put you in command of these men?” Kendril said quickly, ignoring the guards behind him. “Bathsby? What about the regiments? Did he pick those, too?”

The slightest flicker of doubt crossed Whitmore’s face, but only for a moment. “I will
not
hear this! What you are proposing is ludicrous. Bathsby is no traitor.”

“This valley is a death trap,” continued Kendril relentlessly. “I’ll bet your forward scouts have already reported sighting Jogarthi nearby, haven’t they? Just scattered groups here and there, nothing that they or you are concerned about yet. There are more of them out there than you know, Whitmore, and they’re planning to attack this camp and kill everyone in it.”

“Enough!” thundered Whitmore. His hands balled into fists. He stepped closer, his face just a foot from Kendril’s. “You think I don’t know your type, Ghostwalker? You cultists spread fear, paranoia, and death wherever you go. I don’t know what your purpose is in this deception, but I will not listen to your lies.”

Kendril’s eyes simmered. “Who planned your route?”

Lord Whitmore stopped cold, turning back around. “What did you say?”

“Your route,” Kendril repeated, “Who planned it for you?” He didn’t wait for the reply. “Bathsby did, didn’t he? He suggested the path you should take through these hills, and where you should encamp each night? Tell me I’m wrong.”

The nobleman was silent a moment.

“Sir?” said one of the guards hesitantly, his hand still on his weapon.

“Sergeant,” said Lord Whitmore after a long pause, “I want the regiments formed up, on the double.”