ARC: Sunstone (24 page)

PART FOUR

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I

Procella warmed her hands around the soup bowl, making sure to keep her eyes lowered as she sipped the hot broth.

The inn was practically empty, but a woman on her own could never feel completely safe in Wulfengar, and Procella wasn’t exactly unknown in the borderlands. She had pulled her nondescript cloak closely around her shoulders and wore the hood up, hoping she could remain unnoticed. She hadn’t eaten all day, and she didn’t want to fall off her horse through lack of nourishment.

The west border of Wulfengar loomed temptingly close, only half a day’s ride away, but as she’d walked through the small hamlet Yenston, she’d overheard talk of the presence of an army outside the westernmost fort on Isenbard’s Wall. Rumours were that the Wulfengar lord of the Lowlands was planning a raid on Setbourg. No doubt they were taking advantage of the unease caused by the Incendi, she thought, as she’d listened to the town traders gossiping about the increasing fires and strange sightings of flaming figures in the night. Most of them scoffed at such notions, but Procella knew the truth that lay behind them.

She finished her broth, her eyelids drooping, and wished she could just rent a room for the night and rest. But Hunfrith still hunted her, and the Incendi were also literally hot on her trail. She had to keep going west until she could find a place to cross the Wall. She had to get to Heartwood. Only then would she be safe.

And maybe not even then. As she sipped her ale, she wondered how Dolosus – Imperator at Heartwood – had reacted to the apparent Incendi threat. After the Darkwater Lords had been vanquished and the Arbor destroyed its own defences, they had not been rebuilt. The fortified Temple had been demolished, and the tree now stood in an open area, ringed only by a simple wooden fence. Around this complex a trading settlement had grown and developed into a small town. Dolosus and the Custodes who used to man the defences now merely controlled the traffic of those wishing to visit and pay their respects to the tree rather than protect it. True, Dolosus ensured that the Custodes were still trained for battle, as it was difficult for everyone for whom the invasion existed in living memory to completely throw off the fear of another threat. But it would be difficult – if not impossible – for them to ward off a direct assault on the tree.

She stared into the fire, musing on the events of the invasion over twenty years ago. Chonrad had descended into the labyrinth, found the fifth node and communicated with the Arbor, which had told him it did not need defending and could look after itself. It had then proceeded to destroy the stone walls surrounding it. So what did that mean for the Wulfengar and Incendi threat? Would the Arbor be able to protect itself again?

Procella loved the Arbor – had spent most of her life defending it – and the thought of it now being defenceless sent a chill through her. The memory of what had happened all those years ago had faded, and she could no longer feel as strongly the thrill of when it had burst forth from its confinement and doubled in size, defeating the Darkwater Lords in the process. Every day, people went to Heartwood to touch the holy tree and feel its Pectoris beating. It remained tall and strong, and there was no doubt from its size and the energy that radiated from it that it was special, more than just one of the many oak trees that grew in the land. But she couldn’t imagine that it would respond in the same way to another attack. It felt like a dream, a myth to keep the younger generation in line if they threatened to forget the old ways.

Her eyelids drooped. She couldn’t exist forever without sleep. And anyway, it was early evening and it would be better if she rode in the darkness. It was going to be difficult enough to get across the Wall without having to do it in broad daylight.

Her breathing slowed, and she dozed.

She wasn’t sure what jerked her awake. The lanterns in the inn had been lit and through the open doorway she could see the daylight had faded, although it wasn’t completely dark. The innkeeper had even lit the fire without waking her. She’d been curled in the chair, and she straightened, a little stiff from the position she had taken, blinking as she looked around.

Everything looked the same – a couple of customers at the bar, a young girl sweeping the floor, noises and mouth-watering smells emanating from the kitchen, the twitter of birds outside. And yet her senses prickled. The fire leapt in the hearth. The shadows seemed darker than normal, stretching towards her like giant claws. In spite of the fire, a cold breeze ran through the inn.

What had awoken her? She rose slowly to her feet, years of battle training snapping her out of her slumber, honing her senses. Her gaze focussed on a corner of the room, and for a brief moment she thought she saw a man standing there, dressed in a grey cloak, the hood over his face. Cinereo? She caught her breath. A warning?

“There she is!”

Her head snapped around. A figure appeared silhouetted at the door, backlit by the setting sun, almost filling the doorway with his huge frame. Hunfrith! Two more came through behind him, henchmen who fanned out at his command, approaching her with sneering grins. Their bare blades glinted in the firelight.

The innkeeper squealed and pulled the young girl into the corner with him. The other guests in the room downed their ale and made a hasty exit.

Hunfrith approached, the two men on either side of him. He adopted a forlorn face. “You ran away. And I was so looking forward to spending some time together.”

Procella drew her sword. “Go fuck your mother, you ugly bastard son of a rancid dog.”

Hunfrith laughed at the guttural Wulfian words, although his eyes narrowed at the insult. “Such spirit.” His gaze bore into her, lust sparking the green orbs. “It will be interesting to see if that fire still burns after every man in Wulfengar has taken his pleasure out on you.”

“I will kill myself before I let any Wulfian scum touch me.” She tossed the sword from right hand to left and back again, reminding herself of the weight, forcing herself to relax. Refusing to let his taunts rile her, she ran through the mental list she made before every fight – weight on the balls of her feet, stance wide, deep breaths, chin up, shoulders loose. Exhilaration flooded her. She had been made for battle. Even the mighty Valens had struggled to best her on a good day, and Chonrad had pronounced her the best knight he had ever met. She would not be intimidated by a trio of jackasses.

Still, the Wulfian lord was exceptionally tall and well-built, bigger than both Valens and Chonrad had been, and he had already almost bested her in a fight. She tried not to look at the bulging muscles in his arms and the width of his thighs, focussing instead on his self-assured grin, and letting her indignation rise to fuel her.

“We will see,” Hunfrith said. He grabbed his crotch and massaged it. “It has been a while since I have seen action. I think I will keep you to myself for a while. I will chain you to my bed and rape you until you beg me to stop. And then rape you a few times more.” The men with him laughed.

Her heart raced, blood thundering through her veins, and she began to feel the battle rage taking her over. It had been a while, and she welcomed the scarlet veil as it descended upon her. Her senses sharpened, and she became aware of every little noise – the scrape of a chair as the innkeeper barricaded himself into a corner; the murmur of the two cooks in the kitchen; the clatter of a mouse’s paws as it ran across the floor to a hole in the opposite wall. Her gaze flicked from man to man, judging their size and strength, noting the way the fellow on her left shifted his weight, signifying a troublesome knee, and how the right eye of the other man was discoloured, suggesting partial blindness.

That man now sniggered and said, “Do not wear her out, Hunfrith, I want her to have some life left in her when I–”

He didn’t have time to finish the sentence. Procella lunged forward onto his blind side, caught him by surprise and jammed her sword in his stomach up to the hilt. Drawing the blade out swiftly, she moved back out of range of the others, swinging the sword around her, to the left, to the right, behind her, to the front, enjoying the weight of the blade, the buzz of adrenalin bringing her body to life. She met Hunfrith’s furious gaze and held it, challenging him.

“He will die slowly,” she announced as the man’s screams rang through the inn. “The bowel will suppurate and the wound will fester. It will be very painful. At least, I hope it will.”

Hunfrith’s eyes narrowed, and the man beside him snarled. Do your worst
,
she thought, hoping that Chonrad’s spirit would stay with her and Valens would lend his strength to her arms. But she said nothing more, waiting for the attack she knew would come.

The man next to the Wulfian lord moved forward. His smile had faded, and he approached her more cautiously, obviously aware her skill was not to be treated lightly. She moved across the room, pushing aside tables and chairs, not taking her eyes off him. He swung at her and she dodged the blow neatly, then did the same the other side. He was testing her, trying to get the measure of her skill and find a weakness. She almost laughed. He wouldn’t find one. He was about half her age, and although he probably had the edge on her when it came to speed, she had fought in more battles than he had teeth in his head.

She let him play for a bit, and then, when she had got bored and he had tired from his constant movement, she darted forward, caught the hilt of his blade with hers as he brought it up instinctively to protect himself, and twisted it, causing the sword to fall from his hand and skitter across the floor. His eyes lit with alarm, but they barely had time to register the fear before she grabbed a fistful of his tunic, knocked aside his raised arm and shoved the blade up under his arm and into his ribcage. Blood bubbled from his mouth, and his eyes widened, then went gradually glassy before he fell silently to the floor.

Procella moved backwards, wiping her sword on a cloth she had picked up from the bar. She threw the bloodied material onto the nearest table and swung the blade around her again, her wrist loose, the pommel keeping the weight even. How wonderful it felt to fight. She had forgotten how good at it she was.

Hunfrith came forward slowly, his blade across his body. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, removing the sweat, and wondered why he didn’t seem angrier. Then she realised – he had sent in the other two so he could watch her, ascertain her style, tire her a little. They had been expendable, although hopefully he hadn’t expected her to dispatch them quite so effortlessly.

They circled, and she watched him carefully. He was taller, younger, heavier and stronger than her, so she wouldn’t win the fight with physical power. She had to be quicker, and she had to be smarter.

He feinted, ducked to her right; they parried and she leapt back. They circled, clashed weapons, and the steel rang as the blades skidded across each other. Again and again they met, moving around the room, lunging, side-stepping, swinging, and thrusting.

He was good – fast and agile for a big man. But Procella had trained with the best, and her reactions were still second to none.

Even so, she was having trouble finding a way through his defences. Because of his height and weight, she knew she couldn’t afford to indulge in a physical lock. She had to keep moving to have any chance of winning this, and so she kept light on her feet and circled him continuously, keeping him off-balance, not letting him widen his stance.

Briefly she wondered why he didn’t just have one of his followers come up behind her and knock her out, but she knew that he wanted to do this himself. Wulfians prided themselves on their masculinity, and Hunfrith would not be able to return to his followers with the news that he had been bested by a woman.

The blow, when it came, took her by surprise, his hand moving so fast she barely saw it before the hilt connected with her nose. The bone cracked and blood spurted, spraying like a fountain over them both, making her cough and splutter.

She stumbled back and tried to wipe her hands on her leather tunic, aware the blood would make the hilt of the sword slip in her fingers.

“Aw, poor little lady,” Hunfrith taunted. “Does she have a bit of blood under her fingernails? Does she want to go wash her pretty little face?”

The patronising taunt got to her more than the blow. She had been lucky throughout her career in the Exercitus and had never broken a limb nor suffered a long-lasting wound, but she had known her fair share of cuts and bruises, and had long since ceased to worry about the sight of blood.

Rage spiralled through her, and with it came carelessness. She swung, missed as he side-stepped, and then he was on her, his weight pushing her so she backpedalled, crashing into tables and chairs until she met an unmoveable one. He bent her backwards, his sword across her throat and his face inches from hers, lips pulled back in a snarl like a dog’s.

“
Pawes!
” he growled, breathing the Wulfian swear word over her like a spell he thought would charm her into submission. “I am Lord of the Plains. You think you can best me?”

She struggled, but the blade bit into her skin, forcing her back. He was too heavy and she could not throw him off.

Panic shot through her. She could not let him win. She could not! She had never been bested in battle, had never been touched by a man other than her husband, other than by Hunfrith with his forced kiss, and she was not going to start now, with this heaving oafish hulk who smelled of fish and whose confidence oozed over her like sap.

He laughed and fumbled at the tie at the top of her breeches. His hips pressed hers into the table, his body crushing hers into the wood, and she could feel him hard against her.

“No!” She tugged futilely at his jerkin, braced her hands against his shoulder, but to no avail. She would not scream; she would not give him the satisfaction. Blood continued to flow from her nose, and she coughed and spat as she struggled. She was losing. Arbor’s roots, she was losing.

And then Hunfrith stopped. No; correction, he was still moving, but he looked as if he had been thrown into deep water, his movements slow and ponderous. Procella blinked, caught her breath as around them the twilight air sparkled with fine dust. She turned her head on the table and only then saw the figure standing to one side, dressed in a grey cloak.