Blood's Pride (Shattered Kingdoms) (25 page)

Kharl poked his square-jawed head in through the doorway just as Rho reluctantly opened his eyes.

Ingeld replied, smacking his lips loudly and throwing a chewed bone down onto the table.

Rho shut his eyes again.

Kharl elaborated impatiently. ideas
, do you? After what happened at the mines? You don’t think they have some way of getting into the temple?>

Rho asked without sitting up.

Kharl answered, expecting him to commiserate. He walked over to the table and helped himself to the heel of a loaf of bread.

He sat up quickly, and then wished he had not. His stomach fluttered and his mouth felt as it had been stuffed with sand. The wine had been a mistake.

Kharl cast a quick glance towards the door and then added,

Daem remarked mischievously. He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his bare chest.

Ingeld interjected, jamming the point of his knife into the table.

Daem asked sharply.

he sneered, wiping grease from his mouth with the back of his hand.

said Daem slowly, The Book of the Hall
. Hmm?>

Rho poked his head out of his shirt and found his friend staring at him.

swore Ongen lustily, taking a look at Rho’s battered face. He tossed remains of the rib he was gnawing down onto the table.

Rho fumed, as he adjusted the shirt over his shoulders. The fabric was still damp with his own sweat, but had escaped most of the blood; unlike his tabard, which was now soaking in a tub in the laundry.

Ongen leaned back and scratched at the wiry white hairs sprouting beneath his lower lip.

Ingeld announced, relishing every word.

Rho tugged on his boots.

Daem reminded him.

his friend advised. He came over and sat down on the bed.

Rho stood up stiffly.

Daem asked as he followed Rho out into the hall. For once, he was completely serious.

Rho looked back through the doorway at his invitingly rumpled bed.

If it was a joke, it was too grim, even for Rho.

he repeated.

Daem asked.

He clapped Daem briefly on the shoulder and then turned away and headed down the corridor towards Frea’s chambers. He didn’t want Daem to know it was the boy he was going after; he would have wanted to know the plan, then he would have had to admit that he didn’t have
one. He didn’t want anyone else figuring out the boy’s significance before he had deposited him safely back in the Shadar, where he’d be just another dirty little urchin playing in the streets.

Doorways flicked by, each framing the same scenes of guards and lamps and cold meat and hot tempers, until Rho caught sight of Falkar coming out of one of the chambers up ahead.

he called out, coming down the hall to meet him. He glanced at Rho’s bruises and then looked away uncomfortably.

Falkar hailed from a minor but very proud military clan, and a dark swell of uneasiness rolled through his words. he looked for the word,

Falkar winced at his bluntness and changed the subject.

Rho improvised quickly,

Falkar’s silvery eyes flashed over him, skirting the bruises and
puffy eye with repugnance. he said hastily, and then ducked into the next room to continue his task.

Soldiers were already beginning to emerge from the rooms up ahead, pulling on their uniforms as they walked. Rho ducked his head and moved through them as quickly as possible, buffeted by their heightened emotions, until he was able to turn away from the barracks and into some of the less frequented corridors.

He wound his way towards the stables until he reached Frea’s chamber. All was quiet. A torch burned in the bracket outside the red-curtained doorway, and by its light Rho could see a trail of dark spots leading into the room. He knelt down and touched the stain at his feet. It was blue Norlander blood, and it was still wet. He moved closer to the curtain, and now he could hear Frea moving about inside. Suddenly the stupidity of his vague plan became apparent to him. He had no way of rescuing the boy short of asking her to release him, and that was never going to happen. He thought of reminding her of the Mongrel’s ominous warning, but she was so stubborn this was more likely to make her tighten her hold.

No; he had nothing. Disgusted with himself, he continued pacing on down the corridor, trying to think of something. He was so lost in his own thoughts that by the time he heard the soft sounds from the crossing he had just passed it was too late. The point of a blade pricked him between his shoulder blades, covered hands jerked his arms behind his back and he felt his wrists being lashed together.

‘Call for help and you’re dead,’ someone hissed, his hot breath tickling Rho’s ear. There were six or seven of them, by the
sounds of their feet scuffling on the floor. He struggled experimentally, but the bonds held fast and the hand that held the knife at his back stayed steady.

‘Have him go in there and bring Dramash out,’ someone whispered.

‘Why would he come back out, you idiot?’ the man holding him answered, and spittle flecked his face. ‘You don’t let a hostage go; you trade him. This Dead One for my boy.’

‘She’ll never do it.’

‘There are six of us, Omir, and we’re armed. We don’t need her to cooperate.’

‘You’ve only been here two hours, Faroth—’

‘And you’ve been here two years, Omir:
two years
! I remember you swearing that if they ever came for you, you’d kill as many as you could before they cut you down, but here I find you, alive and well! How many of them have you killed so far? Fifty? A hundred? Or is it none?’

‘Wait,’ Rho interjected, ‘if it’s the boy you want, I—’

‘Shut up!’ the man whispered.

They began pushing him back down the hall towards the red curtain. As he was shoved forward his foot caught the bottom and set it gently swinging; he caught a glimpse of Frea’s bed, with the boy curled up in the luxuriant furs at the foot, apparently asleep. Then he saw Frea herself, clutching a blood-soaked cloth to her side while she turned the blade of her sword over the the flame of a lamp on an iron stand. Rho could just make out the round curve of her breast in the soft lamplight and in defiance of every ounce of reason he possessed, his desire for her was aroused all over again.

He knew he should call out to her, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He couldn’t bear for her to see him like this.

In one smooth motion Frea drew back the blade, lifted the cloth and pressed the heated metal against the open wound. The terrible hiss of burning skin and an acrid smell filled the room.

Rho’s captors shoved him through the doorway, shouting, ‘Let the boy go!’

Frea lunged for something on the bed beside her – at first Rho thought she was reaching for the leather jacket, to cover her nakedness, but instead she grabbed the silver helmet and jammed it over her head; only then did she pick up the jacket and sling it over her shoulders. She didn’t bother with the clasps, and the hollow place between her breasts and her taut stomach gleamed between the folds of dark leather.

‘Papa!’ cried the boy, jumping off the bed.

‘Come here, Dramash! We’re getting out of here.’ Rho’s captor stepped out to the side, and now Rho could see he was lame, his left leg dragging. He held a curved sword, the edge none too clean, and notched from rough use. The boy looked at Frea and then back again at the man with the sword. He did not move.

‘I don’t
want
to go,’ he announced. ‘I want to stay here. Mama’s going to—’

‘Dramash! Come here!’ roared the man, and he lunged out to grab the boy, but Dramash deftly ducked out of his way and ran around behind Frea’s legs.

Frea’s imperial knife flew into her hand from its scabbard. The slaves leapt back as one, pulling Rho with them, until
Dramash’s father cut off their retreat with a savage shout. The lame man pressed the edge of his weapon against Rho’s stomach. ‘Give me my son, or I’ll gut your man,’ he threatened.

The silver helmet moved and through the slits Rho saw Frea’s black pupils fix on him. He felt nothing from her: not concern, nor anger, not even disappointment. The only thing he saw in the silver mask was his own reflection.

‘She doesn’t care if you kill me,’ Rho told the Shadari. ‘She’s not going to give you the boy.’

He jammed his shoulder into his captor’s chest and threw his body sideways, hoping to get clear of the sword; that was as much of a plan as he’d worked out so far. He heard the ripping sound of his shirt tearing, and hands reached out to grab him, but they recoiled from the chill of his skin. He tried to turn around, but his head swam and it wasn’t until then that he saw the blood welling up and dripping from the fresh cut across his side and stomach – the wound he hadn’t felt – and he realised that he was falling. He grasped with his bound hands for something to keep himself upright and managed to clutch the door covering, but the rings tore away from the rod with a series of stuttering pops and he and the red curtain tumbled down together in the doorway.

Frea charged at the Shadari, her knife and Blood’s Pride screaming in her hands, and they panicked and scrambled back out into the hallway with Frea right behind them.

He kicked ineffectually at the curtain tangled around his legs while blood seeped from his wound and soaked into his shirt.

‘You’re bleeding. He hurt you.’ Rho looked up and saw the
round eyes of the little boy looking down at him. His small head was cocked to one side and his forehead was furrowed. He looked like he was trying to find the solution to a difficult riddle. ‘Are you a bad man? You don’t seem like one.’

‘Dramash,’ Rho implored him, ‘you should—’

But before he could say anything more, a pair of cold hands slipped under Rho’s arms and pulled him back through the doorway and into the hall. He saw Frea fending off the Shadari – it was six against one, and Frea was wounded, but even as he watched one of the slaves collapsed in a heap against the wall. They wouldn’t be able to stand against her for long.

he remarked to Daem in surprise as his friend pulled him back away from the fighting and propped him up against the corridor wall.

Rho began, but then a spasm tore through him, and he fought for breath.

Daem grabbed up a long knife dropped by one of the Shadari and started on the knot binding his wrists.

A shriek sliced through the air and both men looked up to see the largest of the Shadari men carrying Dramash over his shoulder like a sack of meal – except that the boy was kicking and beating the man with his fists and yelling something about the dereshadi. The others were trying to hold Frea at bay so the man could make his escape down the corridor.

Daem said reassuringly as the knot finally gave way and Rho’s
arms snapped forward, adding a new dimension to his pain. But he wasn’t concerned with that, not yet. He lurched to his feet and threw himself forward, reaching out to grab Frea’s arm, but his head swam and his legs wouldn’t hold him; he collapsed in front of her.