Epic Of Palins 01 - Dagger Star (26 page)

She lost track of time and distance, but not the traces that she followed. That kept her moving.

That and the faint sound of goat bells, getting stronger.

Finally she caught a glimpse of movement between the trees. The back of a man in a dark cloak who was holding up a dagger of some kind, chanting in an unknown tongue. Cursing, then—

Red heard Josiah cry out, only to be cut off. As if—

She splashed forward, ignoring the noise she was making. Until an inner sense warned her, and she went down in the muck and crept closer to a bit of dry land up ahead.

The goats had gone silent.

She moved past a fallen tree to get her first clear glimpse of the area. There was an altar there, black and encrusted with moss. Behind the altar was a huge stone statue of a spider, its head cracked off the body, sunk half in the depths of the muck.

The air reeked of blood, mingled with the rot of the bog. The robed figure once again raised bloodstained hands before the statue, his chanting growing faster and more urgent. In his hands, a stone knife dripped thick with blood. Red swallowed hard as the stench filled her mouth.

She stayed down, taking in the five warriors clustered around the altar, pulling a body from its surface to throw in a heap. Part of her recognized one of Auxter’s men. The other part saw the pile of bodies.

Josiah.

Red’s heart stopped. His body was flung to the side, next to Bethral’s. Face white, eyes open, a wide gash in his chest.

Deep within, Red howled. She clamped her mouth, to hold in the pain. Later. Not now.

Ezren’s cries pulled her gaze back to the altar, where the five warriors were struggling with the smaller man, stretching him out, as the robed figure raised his knife again.

Cold fury filled her. She had no chance, but that no longer mattered. All she felt was rage and hate. Old friends. Good friends, who let strength flood into her battered body. Friends who would let her kill two, maybe three of the muckers before they cut her down.

Red closed her gloved hands in the muck, taking precious seconds to search for a weapon, any weapon. Deep within, she snarled, You mucking prophecy, if you are ever going to help me, help me now!

Her hand closed on a hilt.

Red took off running. It wasn’t a sword, of course. She could see it from the corner of her eye, little more than a rusted dagger, its blade pitted with rust and holes. Just a jagged shard, really.

It would suffice.

They were still focused on the storyteller, who struggled fiercely, spewing insults and curses she barely understood. Red watched as time slowed, as her feet found purchase in the muck, moving faster than she thought possible.

Ezren spotted her between the bodies of his captors. His green eyes widened, and for a moment she feared discovery. But then he jerked his head around to face the mage as his captors spread his arms and legs on the altar. “Damn you,” Ezren shouted. He spat in the man’s face. “Go ahead, foul monster, kill me! Kill me!”

The mage never hesitated. He plunged the blade into Ezren’s chest.

Red reached the hillock at the same moment, seconds too late. She launched herself forward and jammed the shard into the base of the mage’s skull. Joy filled her as it crunched through his bones.

The mage didn’t even cry out. His body just collapsed forward, to cover Ezren.

The guards were just starting to react. Red yanked the shard free of the mage’s corpse, and attacked the nearest warrior. She went for his throat, slashing for that soft flesh. She found her target, and she allowed his weight to pull her down, confusing the others and buying her a few precious seconds. As they started to move, Red stood, the dead man’s sword in one hand, the shard in the other.

She screamed then, a battle cry of old, and launched herself at the next one. He fumbled at his scabbard as she moved in, thrusting her sword ahead of her. He dodged the blow, but he didn’t see the shard until it was too late.

Rage filled Red, and she welcomed it. There was no thought beyond the parry and the thrust, and she danced through the warriors with razor-sharp clarity. It felt as though they stood still and waited for her blows.

The bodies on the altar helped her, preventing the others from leaning over and attacking her.

She kept moving, so that it was always between her and them as she fought.

She took one by leaving her side exposed for a moment, and that cost her. The gash scored along her ribs, and burned like fire when she breathed. But so what? These men had killed her heart, and their deaths were hers to claim.

Red slashed again and again, pressing them back. There wasn’t much room on this little island, and she used that to her advantage, letting the altar protect her as much as it could.

One stumbled, trying to avoid putting a foot in the muck. Red was on him in an instant, using the sword and the shard to slip past his shield and slice his gut.

That left one, and Red wasted no time. Her energy was fading fast, and he was the focus of her full hate. A few parries and she knew his measure. She could take him with ease.

A faint voice in the back of her head suggested offering him a surrender, to learn more of their attackers, and what they knew.

Red ignored it, and killed him with a few swift blows.

She stood there, breathing hard, using all her senses to check for more foes, but there were none.

Only the dead.

Red stumbled over to where the bodies lay. She knelt next to Josiah, and carefully set her weapons on the ground next to her. She reached out, drew him into her arms.

His face and lips were pale. Red tried to close his eyes, but they remained half-open, unseeing.

His body was a dead weight, and she cradled his head to prevent it from lolling around. She threw back her head, and keened her grief to the sky. The empty bog, cold and cruel, seemed to absorb the sound.

How long she knelt there, howling, Red could not say. Her face was wet with tears, her entire energy spent in the sounds coming from her throat. But some bit of sanity returned, and she found herself stiff and cold. Swallowing was agony, her throat rough and sore.

She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to draw another breath, but there was work to be done. An ambush to avenge, a betrayer to discover. She gently lowered Josiah to the ground, and scrubbed at her face with the back of her hand.

“Bethral, sword-sister,” Red whispered. She crawled over to where Bethral lay, cold and dead.

She brushed a strand of blonde hair back from her forehead. Bethral’s skin was white, and so very cold.

Red hung her head and grieved, trying to breathe, trying to control the tears. She dashed them away, furious at herself. She needed to get up, to move. She stood, slowly, her body cold and aching.

A few steps took her to the altar. Ezren lay there, his eyes closed, his face pale. The body of the mage was still slumped over him. Red yanked the bastard up and off, letting him drop to the ground.

The stone dagger was buried deep in Ezren’s chest. Red sobbed, gasping for air. “Thank you, Ezren Storyteller,” she whispered. “You allowed me to avenge them, with the gift of your life.”

She reached out her gloved hand, and pulled the dagger from Ezren’s chest. It slid out, coated in his heart’s blood.

There was a rumbling sound from beneath the altar, as if a thousand horses were running toward her. Red staggered back, the dagger still in her hand. What in the name of the Twelve?

Pure light surged up from Ezren’s chest, and exploded into the darkening sky. White and sparkling, it filled the air around the altar, spilling out and around them. The light—no, not light.

It was power—pure, raw power that danced all about them. It took Red’s breath away.

She stood, trying to focus as it seemed to circle the clearing like a shooting star, returning to hover over Ezren. It paused there, growing and churning. Red stared at it in astonishment. She’d never seen anything like it.

Ezren groaned.

Red dropped the stone dagger.

Ezren opened his eyes. As if that was what it was waiting for, all the built-up power poured down into the man, right into his chest.

Ezren cried out in pain, glowing with the power. He put his hands to his chest as if to stop the assault, but the light kept pouring into him until the man glowed as white as the High Priestess’s robes.

The light disappeared, and Ezren sat up, his hand still pressed to his chest. He looked at Red, who stared back at him, stunned.

“What—” Ezren started to say, and then his gaze fell on the dead.

The poor man sucked in a breath, cried out hopelessly. He fell from the altar, flinging out one hand toward the dead. Light flared. Red had to cover her eyes, half-blinded by the whiteness.

The flare died. Red blinked, trying to clear her vision of the spots that floated before it. Ezren was seated on the ground, no longer glowing. But the altar had changed. White marble now gleamed behind him, and the statue of the spider was gone.

Red staggered to the altar. “Ezren,” she said, still seeing spots, “what—?”

“I don’t know.” Ezren’s voice cracked. His hand was pressed to his chest where the wound had been. “What happened?”

Goat bells chimed behind them.

Red spun, bringing up her sword and shard. The blades flashed as her heart leapt in her throat.

Josiah was sitting up, surrounded by five goats, his hand at his chest. Bethral and the others, too, all stirred, sitting up and looking around as if they’d awakened from a bad dream.

TWENTY-FOUR

EZREN shivered, his teeth chattering. Josiah reached out to steady him. He could feel the man trembling under his touch. The goats pressed against them as they knelt on the bit of dry land, silent, as far from the altar as possible, seeking reassurance.

Josiah just wanted answers.

“Betrayed.” Bethral’s voice was bitter. “We were betrayed.” She threw another sword onto the pile that Oris and Alad had started as they stripped the dead.

“That’s possible,” Red said. She stood guard over Josiah and Ezren, looking out into the bog.

Josiah looked up at her. Red was covered in muck, and she had the oddest look in her eyes. Her gloves squished as she tightened her grips on the weapons she held, a sword and the rusted remnant of a blade. “We need to move,” Red insisted.

Ezren wrapped his arms around his waist, still shivering. Josiah reached out, trying to rub some warmth into the man. “What happened?” Josiah asked.

Ezren shivered harder. “I…I—” His voice cracked and wavered.

“Later. It’s not safe to stay here,” Red said. “We were ambushed, that’s all you need to know.”

Josiah frowned. “I don’t remember—”

“Not now.” Red cut him off sharply, looking him in the eye. Josiah’s voice caught in his throat.

Red’s eyes were cold, hard, but underneath…

She was terrified, and the terror lurked just under the surface of her control.

Josiah frowned, but stayed silent. He remembered a warning, and pain, but nothing more. His chest was sore, his tunic ripped open in front, the material covered in blood. Everyone’s was, except for Red.

What had happened?

Oris came over, his arm full of cloaks, which he draped around Ezren. “We’ve found some armor for ourselves, but nothing to fit Bethral. There’s swords and such, and boots to fit you.”

“Can we tell where they’re from? Which barony?” Red growled.

Oris shook his head. “Nothing I can see. They’ve coin, but not much. There’s not much on the mage, either. But the gear is all good quality.” He looked Red in the eye. “Auxter?”

“Dead.” Red grimaced. “All dead.”

Oris closed his eyes but said nothing.

“Oris.” Red’s voice was a rasp, but oddly gentle. Oris opened his eyes and looked at her. “I am the Chosen, Oris,” Red said. “The prophecy is alive in me.”

Oris stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time. Then he nodded. “Aye, Chosen.” His shoulders straightened. “I’ll guard. Take what you can.”

Josiah watched as Red jerked her head in a nod, and walked over to the pile. Bethral and Alad were trying on bits and pieces. Everyone was careful to avoid the altar, gleaming white in the center of the hillock.

Ezren grimaced as he pulled the cloak tight around his body. Josiah took one of the cloaks as well, grateful for its thickness. The goats were warming him, but they were still silent. He reached out to scratch Kavage about the ears.

Bethral was helping Red with a chain shirt. The blonde had no body armor, but had strapped on greaves and bracers. Alad was taking the rest of the pile and putting it on a cloak. But Red said something, and he stopped and stood, leaving the stuff there.

Ezren moved away from Josiah, pushing past the goats, his eyes fixed on the gleaming white altar. Josiah watched, puzzled, as the smaller man reached out his hand, as if to—

“No!” Red was there, and she caught Ezren’s wrist and pulled it back. “Not a good idea.”

Ezren looked at her, dazed. “But there’s writing around the rim. I could—”

“We can’t stay here, Storyteller.” Red gently pulled him away. “We need to go now.”

Ezren shivered again, but he nodded and started to move away. Bethral came up behind him.

“Still cold?”

Ezren nodded. “I can’t seem to get warm.”

“You’ll warm as we walk,” Red said. “I’ll take the lead.”

“What about this?” Bethral asked. She kicked at something on the ground. It slid over by Josiah’s knee, a dagger with a blade that looked like it was some kind of black rock. There was blood on the blade. He reached for the hilt.

“Don’t touch it,” Red snapped. She grabbed one of the extra cloaks, and tore a strip from it.

“Any extra pouches?”

Oris handed her one. Red used the cloth to pick up the dagger, and wrapped it well before stuffing it in the pouch. She handed it back to Oris. “Carry it, but don’t let it touch your skin.”

Oris nodded.

Josiah stood as Red started to move into the bog. “You’re going to have to tell us what happened eventually.”

Red said nothing as she moved past him.

Josiah watched her walk away. There was something terribly wrong. He glanced back at the altar. What ever had happened had scared his kitten. Badly.