Dark Lady's Chosen (23 page)

“There he is!”

“I see him, but can we lift him, that’s the question.”

Cam dimly remembered Soterius and Harrtuck dragging him onto a makeshift travois. He awoke in a healer’s hut. There had been voices in the darkness, just outside where he lay.

“Why do you want to see him?” It was Soterius’s voice, skeptical and challenging.

“The Sisterhood sent me. The healer asked for our help. Stand aside, if you want your friend to live.”

Cam recalled an outline of a woman in the doorway, her face lost in shadow. “Hail, Cam of Cairnrach,” the stranger said. “What you seek is almost within your grasp.” She’d healed him then, with a touch as powerful as Carina’s. When the Sister finished, Cam was exhausted, but the pain was gone and a thin pink scar replaced the gaping sword wound.

“Our Sisters told us that you and your twin might seek our help,” the woman said. Her face was shadowed beneath her cowl. “We have the elixir you’ve been searching for.”

“Will it heal Donelan?”

“Nothing will heal him until the mage who sent the sickness is destroyed. But the elixir will give him the strength to endure, although it will not be pleasant.”

“The slavers took my twin, Carina. They’ve got Tris Drayke, too. I have to go after them.”

“Choose, Cam of Cairnrach. You cannot save them all.”

“I’ve never failed her.”

“Then keep your oath to your king and you will not fail her now.”

Later, he’d heard Soterius and Harrtuck in a shouting match with the Sister just outside his doorway. “Like hell. We’re going after them.” It was Soterius’s voice, and he was as angry as Cam had ever heard him.

“The battle is already decided. We’ve felt it in the currents of magic. Your friend’s power is greater than we imagined. He has tamed the spirits of the Ruune Vidaya. You will do best by meeting them in Principality.”

“Lady, they’re not going to Principality,” Harrtuck argued. “They’re going to Dhasson.”

“Martris Drayke can’t reach Dhasson alive. The border has been spelled against him. He will go to Principality. You can rejoin him if you leave now.”

“And if we don’t?”

“The runes were cast. You will die, and Tris Drayke may not regain the throne.”

New voices intruded on Cam’s dreams. Angry voices, arguing just outside his prison.

Groggy, he dragged himself to sit. The voices belonged to Leather John and Ruggs.

“We’ve got to move. We’ve stayed in one place too long,” Leather John argued. “Maybe you relish a fight against the king’s guard, but I don’t.”

“We stay until I say differently. No one knows we’re here.”

“No one except the thief who escaped.”

“You worry about a pickpocket? He’s long gone by now. What’s he going to tell anyone?

And who would believe him?”

“I don’t like it.”

“I’m not asking you to like it. I’m telling you to do it.”

“And what about Donelan?”

“If we’re right and Donelan rides out with the troops next time, we’ll have some surprises waiting for him. Curane’s man sent gold—Isencroft gold—enough to buy all the weapons we need. There’s only one way into this mill, and that’s through that valley out there and across the bridge. If they come in after us, we can pick them off from the hillsides. If they try to make a stand on the flatland beyond the valley, we can attack from the forest. The old witch who gave me the spelled dagger assured me that it would fly true and deadly to the person I named in the curse. And if the witch’s blood magic doesn’t work, well, I have some other ideas on how to kill a king.”

“I don’t like this. We joined up with you to save Isencroft, not to kill Donelan.”

“Donelan’s betrayed you. He’s sold Isencroft’s future to the Margolenses. The princess is whoring her birthright and her claim to the throne. How many times has Margolan tried to invade Isencroft? Three? Six? A dozen? And every time, our people drove them back. Now Donelan wants to hand the crown over to them without a whimper. And for that, he deserves to die.”

They moved off, and Cam could no longer make out their words. His hand reached into his pocket, reassuring himself that the flint and steel were still there. He looked at the dry bales of wool around him. He might not be in any shape to fight, but starting fires was something he’d always been good at. For now, he’d bide his time. And then, Cam decided, he would do Donelan

one final service.

Day Four

Jonmarc Vahanian set out for Wolvenskorn as soon as the sun was bright in the early morning sky. He guessed by the looks the villagers chanced in his direction that they were as happy to see him leave as he was to go. Jonmarc was ready to move on. There was work to be done.

The snow was deep and the road lay untouched. Alongside the road was the forest, a dark, silent presence even in the daylight. Jonmarc squinted as the sun glistened off the snow.

Just off the road, near the forest’s edge, the snow had been disturbed. Even at a distance he could see dark shapes lying still and the broader stain of blood.

Warily, he rode closer. Three large wolves lay dead in the snow. No, not wolves.
Vyrkin
.

The animals’ staring, violet eyes made that plain. He cursed as he swung down from his horse, sword drawn. It was clear from the snow that there had been quite a fight. It was equally clear, Jonmarc thought with disgust, that whoever had done this had been hunting
vyrkin
. The nearest body was shot through the heart with a crossbow quarrel and stabbed through the belly as well. He frowned as he knelt beside the other two bodies. In their necks, nearly hidden by the thick fur, were darts. The
vyrkin
had been drugged, stabbed and eviscerated.

A whimper drew his attention. He looked up, and saw a fourth wolf lying further away in the snow. Drugged like the others, this one was still alive, although from the snow beneath it, Jonmarc could see the
vyrkin
had lost a lot of blood. Blood matted its dark gray fur, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of its mouth. The
vyrkin
raised its head, opening its eyes, and Jonmarc was startled by the pattern of its markings.
Yestin.

Jonmarc took a blanket from his saddlebags and gentled the injured
vyrkin
onto it. He did the best he could with rags torn from a shirt in his bags to bind up the wolf’s wounds, then he drew out the dart and tossed it far from them into the snow. Carefully, he lifted the
vyrkin
into his arms, not surprised to find that it was as heavy as a man. As gently as he could, he secured it behind his saddle. He met the wolf’s eyes.

“Looks like you ran into some trouble,” he said, not sure Yestin could hear him. The wolf blinked, and Jonmarc took that as a sign.

“I’m sorry about your friends. I’ll get you back to Wolvenskorn, and your shaman can patch you up. Hang on. It’ll be slow going in this snow.”

The wolf-Yestin closed his eyes and slumped. Jonmarc wasn’t sure whether the wolf was resigned to the pain of travel or whether Yestin had lost consciousness.

Just as he led his horse back to the road, he saw a group of six men emerging from the forest. He slipped his sword hand behind his cloak to conceal his drawn blade. The men were armed with bows and the man in front carried a sword and wore a collection of daggers in the baldric across his chest. But what drew Jonmarc’s attention and fueled his rage was the man’s wolf-pelt cloak.

“Making off with our prize?” The lead man shouted as the group neared. Their weapons were raised, and Jonmarc had no doubt they were spoiling for a fight.

“You have no business here. Put down your weapons and go home.”

The man with the wolf cloak gave a bitter laugh. “Who do you think you are? Lord Vahanian?”

“Yes.”

At that, the group’s leader’s arrogance was tempered, and he gave a curt hand signal for the others to lower their weapons. He touched his forelock in acknowledgement.

“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord. We’ve been looking to join up with you. The word’s out that you’ve been to war against the biters that have been tearing up the villagers. We’ve come to join your army.”

Jonmarc’s teeth were clenched tightly enough that he could feel a muscle twitch in his jaw.

“The truce has been broken by a few rogue
vayash moru
. The
vyrkin
are on our side, trying to protect the humans. So are most of the
vayash moru
.”

“On our side?” the wolf-cloaked man repeated incredulously. “My cousins were ripped apart along with their sheep by
vayash moru
. You told us to say nothing. You said you’d take care of it. Well you didn’t save Westormere, and you didn’t save Crombey. Now you don’t want us to fight? Just whose side
are
you on, Lord Vahanian?”

“Malesh of Tremont is trying to start a war. It’s a war neither side can win.”

The wolf-cloaked man laughed. “Oh, we can win all right. Biters burn and the man-dogs bleed. There are more of us than there are of them. What I want to know is, why do you defend them? They said you were some great hero. I don’t see a hero. All I see is a traitor.”

“See what you want. Go home now, and you won’t get hurt.”

The man in the wolf cloak gave an incredulous snort. “Won’t get hurt? My cousins are dead—and they’ll stay dead, unlike the biter scum. My mother had kin in Westormere, and they’re all dead—every single one of them. I don’t give a damn about getting hurt, your
lordship
,” he spat. “I want revenge.”

“And I want you to get the hell out of my way and go home before you regret it.”

“Go screw the Goddess.” With that, the wolf-cloaked leader raised his sword and launched himself at Jonmarc. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonmarc saw one of the bowmen level his bow. Jonmarc parried the leader’s wild swing and a dagger flicked from his left hand, pegging the lead bowman in the forearm so that he dropped his bow.

Another quarrel zinged past, narrowly missing Jonmarc’s shoulder. He pulled a short sword into his left hand, pressing the leader back as his two swords scythed dangerously. He pivoted, holding off the leader’s press as he swung into an Eastmark kick, slamming one of the other bowmen to the ground before he had a chance to notch his bow. The leader’s attention was broken momentarily, giving Jonmarc the opportunity he needed. He ran the man through, barely turning fast enough to parry the crazed attack of two more of the rogue hunters as they came at him with a sickle and an axe. Jonmarc dove and rolled, coming up quickly enough to slice into the side of the axeman, who fell with a scream, blood bubbling from his lips.

A quarrel ripped into Jonmarc’s left shoulder and he staggered, barely dodging a lethal swing from the scythe. It missed his belly, but opened up a gash along his chest. The pain numbed his arm and he dropped his short sword. The man with the scythe laughed, brandishing his weapon. Jonmarc heard the archer reload. He charged at the scythe wielder, dodging aside at the last moment as he heard the quarrel launch. The arrow skimmed above his back, catching the scythe man full in the chest. The man fell with an astonished look on his face as blood stained the wolf pelts around his cloak red and he sagged face forward into the snow.

Jonmarc rolled to his feet and came up behind the bowman. In one movement he brought the heel of his left hand against the bowman’s back, launching his hidden arrow. It cut through the man’s cloak and buried itself quills-deep into his back.

A biting pain struck Jonmarc in the neck. He reached up to feel a dart just below his ear.

The sixth man was laughing as he pulled a long axe from a sheath on his back, advancing slowly toward Jonmarc, swinging his blade.

Jonmarc could feel the same drug that had tranquilized the
vyrkin
begin to flow through his veins. The image of his attacker blurred, and Jonmarc stumbled, grasping his sword two-handed. Jonmarc struggled for breath as he shook his head to clear his vision. The axeman was in no hurry, content to let the drug do its work. “We brought the axe to finish off biters,”

the man leered. “But it works just as well on traitors.”

The axe swung, painfully slicing into Jonmarc’s wounded left shoulder, but he dodged the worst of it. The swinging axe put its wielder momentarily off balance, and Jonmarc seized his advantage, scoring a slice that opened a bloody gash from shoulder to hip, though not deep enough to kill. The axe man screamed in rage and set about with his weapon, swinging with his full might. Jonmarc dove to the ground and kicked, sending a shower of blinding snow into the axeman’s face. Jonmarc rolled, neatly slicing the axe wielder’s hamstrings. The man crumpled to the ground, blood turning the snow into a red slush.

Jonmarc staggered to his feet, reclaiming his short sword from the ground with the numbed fingers of his left hand.

“I should leave you for the wolves and the bear to find,” he said, hoping he could fight off the drug long enough to reach Wolvenskorn. “When I get where I’m going, I’ll send someone back for you—if you’re not dead by then.”

The whirl of a blade was his only warning as a small dagger flew toward him, catching him in the thigh. The axeman was dragging himself toward the fallen crossbow that lay an arm’s length away in the snow. Jonmarc lunged forward, catching his attacker through the chest with his sword just as the man rolled with the loaded crossbow leveled at Jonmarc’s heart.

The bow fell from the man’s hands as his body spasmed and he retched up blood. Jonmarc pulled his sword free and the movement nearly sent him sprawling. He staggered toward his horse, and leaned against it long enough to jerk the dagger from his thigh. He could feel warm blood seeping underneath his clothing from his battle wounds, and knew that it would be a race to reach Wolvenskorn before predators picked up his scent.

Jonmarc dragged himself up into his saddle, leaning forward to clutch the horse’s mane, fighting to stay astride as the drug made his head reel. He gave a sharp kick to the horse’s side with his heel, gritting his teeth against the pain as the horse began to move, urging him faster in the places where the wind had blown the snow from the frozen dirt of the road.