Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (32 page)

“Sara!”

She recognized Lance’s bellow. Her heart lifted.

The general caught her arm in an iron grip as she ducked beneath the tent flap. He didn’t try to keep her in the tent, but pulled her along toward the tangle of legionnaires.

Lance appeared to be fighting four of them at once with his fists. Only, Sara’s heart lurched, his hands were already chained, limiting his effectiveness.

Perhaps she should be thankful for the chains, because none of the legionnaires had drawn their swords. Three of them held the two ends of his chains, trying to tie him down like they might a wild horse, and the fourth had an ugly horsewhip that he swung at Lance’s back and shoulders. The knotted leather hit with a horrid crack and a rent appeared in Lance’s vest.

Lance ignored the blow. He wrapped a fist around one chain and yanked on it. The bearded legionnaire holding it stumbled forward. Lance swung both fists together into the man’s chin. The legionnaire let go of the chain and flew backward. He landed on his rump almost at Sara’s feet.

“Enough!” General Pallax roared.

The legionnaires jumped to attention. Lance stopped swinging too. His lip was split, but the corners of his mouth lifted when he saw Sara. Despite the circumstances, she felt a flood of warmth at seeing him again.

“Report!”

Under General Pallax’s glare, the tallest legionnaire who held the whip gulped and started breathlessly, “He surrendered. Just came up to the gate, showed us his osseon mark and let us chain him. I thought a big one like him would be perfect for the winch, but halfway there he started yelling, asking for some twotch—” He caught sight of Sara and stopped, tongue-tied.

Sara smoothly stepped forward. “General, this man is in my employ.” They would read that as her slave. “We were separated in the woods.”

Lance’s lips twisted, but he didn’t contradict her.

“Remove his chains and release him into my service.”

“No.” General Pallax cut her off. “Look how he holds himself. He is no osseon.”

“He has the bone brand,” the tall legionnaire told him, but he sounded doubtful now too.

General Pallax stared into Lance’s eyes. “Some men aren’t slaves, no matter what chains they wear. That’s why osseons are encouraged to sire children. Often even the fiery ones will buckle down then.”

Lance bared his teeth.

“And sometimes having children just makes them more determined,” General Pallax finished. “Something smells here.” He turned, lightning-quick on Sara. “Is he your lover?”

Did one time make them lovers? Sara wished it did, but tried to look affronted. “Of course not!”

“Hmm. I don’t trust him, not even chained to the winch. He has some plan, you can see it in his eyes.”

All the legionnaires were scrutinizing Lance now. He stared back without a trace of humility or fear. Sara wondered how she could possibly have once mistaken him for a slave.

“He’s not worth the trouble,” the general said. “Kill him.” He turned to leave.

“No!” Sara wrenched free of the general. One corner of her mind thought that he’d let go too easily, that he’d ordered Lance executed to provoke her into action, but she didn’t slow her headlong rush forward.

Lance began to spin two feet of loose chain in front of him, creating a weapon. The metal links whined evilly, slicing through the air. The two legionnaires holding the second chain tried to yank Lance off his feet, but he set his legs and stayed steady. The two remaining legionnaires drew their swords. The bearded one flanked Lance while the tall one coolly waited for the spinning chain to falter so he could plunge his sword through Lance’s heart.

In one of his endless dinner-table monologues, Nir had warned her never to approach a legionnaire on his blind side, that they had drilled so hard and so often that some responses were below the level of thought.

Sara darted in among the men, coming in on the tall legionnaire’s left. She grabbed clumsily at his dagger.

Before she could pull it free, he pivoted and whipped his sword around—but stopped short of running her through. His sword dipped from her chest to her stomach. “Hey, now, none of that.” He grinned at her as if she’d done something amusing.

Until Sara threw herself onto his blade.

The swordpoint bit her stomach, but it wasn’t deep enough. She grabbed the naked blade with her hands as the horrified legionnaire tried to pull back. Palms streaming blood, she took another step, impaling herself, before he yanked it out.

“Unnnh.” Sara fell to her knees on the hard-packed dirt and put her bloody hands over her stomach. She swayed, light-headed. The sunlight felt like a hammer on her head, and her limbs seemed to dissolve. She’d gotten what she’d wanted—a non-fatal wound in a spot where she would still be able to talk—but the pain was a hundred times worse than she’d expected. It roared like a racha beast inside her, eating thought.

Loma, don’t let me faint
. If she did, she and Lance were both doomed.

Voices. Faces above her, looking down.

The tall legionnaire who’d stabbed her could have been staring his own death in the face. He almost gibbered, trying to explain. “She came right at me. I couldn’t—she came right at me.”

General Pallax’s blue eyes flashed with murderous fury as his precious hostage died, but his voice was controlled. “I saw the whole thing, legionnaire. She ran onto your sword on purpose.” Then rage got the upperhand. “Brown-haired twotch.” He kicked the ground, hard.

Somewhere Lance was yelling. “Let me go to her! Sara! I can help her!” Chains clanged, and Sara heard the crack of the whip again, but he still lived.

Sara panted, forcing herself to focus on the general. She beckoned him closer, whispered, “You can still…get your son back… The osseon…he’s a priest… He can…heal me… I’ll help you…if you let…him live.”

Instantly, General Pallax had himself back under control. “Bring the osseon.”

Sara felt sick and dizzy. She tried to focus on the general’s face. Had he agreed? She wasn’t certain.

Then Lance was kneeling on the ground beside her, his hands enlarging the hole in her dress. “What did you think you were doing?” His voice was clipped. She seemed to have made everyone angry with her. “How many times are you going to get yourself killed this week?”

Sara didn’t think that was entirely fair—last time he’d been the one to chop her head off. But it was true that she hadn’t thought before flinging herself into danger. The alternative, to stand by and watch Lance be killed, was unthinkable.

Because she loved him.

The realization ought to have filled Sara with panic. Passion had been her downfall before, but somehow, perhaps because she was on the edge of death, it didn’t seem alarming, only right. Love was different than infatuation. She saw Lance clearly, but still loved him. How could she
not
love Lance, with his rock-solid integrity and his great heart?

“Goddess of Mercy,” Lance prayed, eyes closed.

Then the choir was singing in her head, vibrating inside her rib cage. The smell of wildflowers was so real Sara expected to turn her head and see a meadow. And his hands—no, Her hands—gave off the warmth of a fire, taking away the chill. Sara could feel her blood clotting—

Too soon. Lance wasn’t safe yet.

Sara pushed Lance’s hands away. “Wait.” She stared at General Pallax. “Do you agree? I swear—” cold sweat bathed her forehead. She wanted the warmth back, wanted Lance’s touch, “—I’ll kill myself if you harm Lance.” General Pallax would know now that she and Lance were lovers, but she didn’t care. She just wanted him safe.

The general met her eyes. “Agreed.”

“Now may I finish?” Lance asked sarcastically. He didn’t wait for her reply, just set his hands on her again, and it felt so good Sara wanted to weep.

As the pain receded to a distant shore, Sara found herself gazing into Lance’s eyes. He was there too. It wasn’t just the Goddess; one didn’t subsume the other. She became conscious of his strong, sure hands on her just above her belly button.

Their gazes locked, and she tried to decipher the fierceness she saw in his eyes. Was he angry over her recklessness, or at the deal she’d made?

She touched his cheek. “Don’t be mad.”

“Ah, Sara.” He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again she saw some painful emotion there.

Her heart clenched. Could he feel something for her, after all? Something deeper than desire? But no. She remembered the axe he’d wielded at her execution. He was probably just relieved to have found her, his key to rescuing Wenda.

Sara paced the confines of the small tent where General Pallax had put them, feeling as restless as a caged racha beast. Unfortunately, the simple plan she and Lance had come up with involved waiting until his mother attacked the camp, then escaping over the cliff in the confusion.

She was also worried. Even if they made it to Temborium, how were they going to rescue Wenda? Sara couldn’t bear the idea of seeing her father again, knowing that he’d handed her over to be killed.

The axe… Unconsciously, her fingers crept up to her neck, searching for a scar that wasn’t there.

“Don’t.” Lance startled her by grabbing her hands. He held them away from her throat, his eyes tortured. “Don’t, Sara.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her collarbone where her pulse beat, asking forgiveness for what he had done to the tender flesh there. “Don’t.”

Heat rose in her like the first burst of flavor after sipping brandy. Her hands went to his sandy hair and held him. He strung small, butterfly kisses across her neck that made her want to shatter inside. “Lance.” She was perilously close to tears, but she had to make him understand. “I’m not angry at you for what you did.” Disappointed wasn’t the same as angry.

He didn’t reply, but opened his mouth over hers, sweeping his tongue inside. Heat ignited in her belly, and she moaned—

The guard outside coughed, and Sara pulled back. Lance laid his cheek against her forehead and tucked her in close to his body. “At least let me hold you.”

Unable to deny him, Sara stood in his embrace, soaking up the heat of his large body until finally something relaxed inside her.

Unfortunately, the feeling of peace didn’t last. Desperate for distraction, she sat and played with her refetti. To her delight, she found she could teach her pet tricks and soon had the refetti sitting up to beg, or chasing his own tail at a signal from her. “Isn’t he bright?” she marvelled.

“Yes,” Lance agreed. There was a strange look on his face, but when she asked him about it, he indicated the guard’s shadow on the tent wall, and mouthed, “Later.”

Later never came, but Lance started insisting that she take the refetti along every time she left the tent, even if it was just to use the latrine.

She noticed that Lance had a bulky belt pouch he carried with him everywhere. When Sara raised her eyebrows at him, he showed her a corner of the carved Qiph box. “A gift for your father,” was all he would say. It puzzled Sara greatly, but she reined in her curiosity.

When would the attack come? Sara surmised the Protector was gathering her forces—but so was General Pallax. It had to come soon.

Then, on the second day, the rumors started.

Sara had tried to cultivate friendships with their rotating schedule of guards, but the story of her stabbing herself seemed to have gotten around because they all answered her warily. However, the tent walls were thin, and the guards liked to gossip among themselves.

“Did you hear about Brencis?” one of them asked. “Maximus heard a scream, but by the time he got there all he could see was a trail of blood leading off into the woods.”

Sara and Lance exchanged looks, easily interpreting this as the work of shandies. More patrols were picked off over the next day, and the legionnaires grew baffled and jumpy.

* * *

On the third night just before dawn, Sara woke to someone shouting, “Fire!”

At night, to prevent an escape, a guard was posted in the tent, and Lance was manacled. Despite this unwelcome chaperonage, and a certain amount of frustration, Sara and Lance had taken to sleeping curled together. Now she struggled out of his arms to sit up.

“What is it?” she asked the legionnaire on duty.

The lamp silhouetted the legionnaire’s hawkish profile as he peered outside. He swore ripely. “Stay here.” He unsheathed his sword and left at a run.

Lance and Sara exchanged glances. Rising from their blankets, Sara peeked out the tent flap and saw orange flames against the blackness as they ate at the stockade wall near the cliff. The eerie glow revealed a scene of chaos. Men boiled about everywhere, some armed and armored, some half-naked with swords. A centurion bawled orders and sent men to shovel dirt on the blaze.

Then came a new sound: a rhythmic boom. It came from the gate, from timbers shuddering under the impact of a ram.

“Sara, help me,” Lance called.

She turned and found that he’d cast off the blanket and was straining at his bonds. A long iron chain ran from his wrist, through a spike pounded deep in the ground, to the other wrist. The method had been used for decades to secure osseons.

Sara rushed over and wrapped her hands around the thick chains. They pulled together with all their strength, again and again, with no effect. “It’s no use,” she panted, falling back after several minutes. “You saw the spike, it’s four feet long.” It had taken five blows with a sledgehammer to drive it into the earth.

“Keep trying,” Lance told her. “My father pulled one out the night our family escaped.”

And did your father have two broken fingers?
Sara wanted to ask, but now wasn’t the time. She got down on her hands and knees and loosened the dirt around the spike.

Footsteps ran past outside, but didn’t pause. She heard the howl of a wolf in the distance. Dyl?

Her fingers soon reddened from the rough work, and dirt caked under her nails, but she kept at it, and on Lance’s next jerk, the spike moved a fraction. “It’s working!”

“Move out of the way.” When she complied, Lance stood directly over the spike. He took hold of the chain closer to the ground and pulled straight up.

His face flushed with effort, but it was moving, first three inches of metal showing, then eight inches, a foot—

“General Pallax wants me to—”

Sara’s head whipped around. The hawk-nosed guard had returned. He took in the scene, eyes widening. “Vez’s Malice,” he cursed.

His sword was sheathed. Sara threw herself forward, clinging to his arms. “Hurry!” she yelled at Lance.

The legionnaire tried to fend her off, but wasn’t ruthless enough to use his sword on a woman.

In the next second, Lance heaved the four-foot spike out of the ground and hefted it like a spear. “Out of the way.”

Sara threw herself to one side.

The spike gave Lance the advantage of reach, but his first two feints were easily turned. Then the legionnaire stepped into range and stabbed upwards. Lance barely jumped back in time.

Sara grabbed the stool and threw it at the legionnaire’s hairy legs. He yelped, and while he was distracted, Lance speared the spike through his shoulder. He cried out and dropped to his knees. His sword fell to the ground, and Sara kicked it out of reach.

“Put out your hands,” Lance said harshly. “Once you’re tied up, I’ll heal you.”

For some reason, this terrified the hawk-nosed legionnaire. “No! Stay away!” He tried to back away and jarred his own shoulder. His olive-skinned face bleached white with shock, and he passed out.

Lance caught him before he could fall on the spike still embedded in his shoulder. “Sara!”

Sara tore a strip of cloth from the hem of her dress and used it to bind the legionnaire’s hands. Lance then removed the spike with a quick pull and put his hands on the bloody hole. “Goddess.”

Sara wrenched her gaze away from the sight of Lance healing—his eyes were closed and his expression was almost transcendent—and began to hunt for the keys to Lance’s manacles. She found them attached to the legionnaire’s belt and had Lance free before the Goddess-glow had faded.

Underneath the metal, his wrists had been scraped raw.

“They need to be wrapped,” Sara told him.

“There’s no time.”

Sara controlled her exasperation. Reminded, she looked at his fingers and was surprised by how little swelling there was. Surely bones didn’t normally heal that fast? Of course, arthritis didn’t normally clear up after a few days either… She wondered how long they had before Lance succumbed to another illness.

“Help!” the hawk-nosed legionnaire called, conscious once again.

Sara gagged him with the cloth napkins from their luncheon, then looked around nervously. The sounds of battle should have drowned him out, but…

“Don’t follow us.” Lance picked up the spike and rammed it downward. Sara flinched, but he’d only pinned a fold of the legionnaire’s undertunic to the ground.

Lance grabbed Sara’s hand, and they ducked out of the tent together.

The eastern sky held a slight tinge of gray, but the cold stars still shone down. The stockade fire had burned almost all the way to the cliff, but failed to catch on the wet ground. Some fighting was going on in the gap, but most of the legionnaires were standing in disciplined ranks in front of the gate, waiting for the battering ram to finish its job.

Sara had a dreadful feeling the upcoming battle was going to be a slaughter. True, the shandies were fearsome fighters, but only at close range. What was going to happen when they ran into that line of archers didn’t bear thinking about.

Lance had slowed almost to a stop, obviously thinking along the same lines. “They’ll need a healer…”

“They have a healer,” Sara said with as much certainty as she could muster. “Your mother wouldn’t go into battle without one. Why do you think they’ve waited this long?”

“We don’t know—” Lance started.

Sara spoke over him. “And if they don’t, then someone else will just have to sacrifice their health.” She softened her expression. “Your people need a Kandrith a lot more than they need a healer.”

Lance gave a small shiver. “You’re right.” He pulled her into a crouch, and they darted from tent shadow to tent shadow, heading for the cliff.

The winch’s creaking noise made it easy to locate. “Faster, faster!” the overseer cried. Eight osseons had been woken up and put back to work hauling men up from base camp. Cords stood out on their arms, and their backs ran with sweat in the torchlight.

“Wait until it’s unloaded,” Sara said to Lance. “I’ll try to talk them into giving us a ride down.”

He waited, but she felt his muscles tense. Every legionnaire who made it up was one more soldier set on killing his countrymen. She understood that, even felt some of it herself, but the idea of cutting the ropes and letting the legionnaires fall to their deaths was just as unpalatable to her.

More creaks, then the distinctive hissing slash of a whip. “Faster!”

Sara buried her head against Lance’s back, both so she wouldn’t see and to hold him back.

The platform leveled out, and the legionnaires rushed off. Sara counted ten men with swords, though one seemed to be missing his breastplate.

“What are you waiting for?” bawled the overseer. “Lower it down!”

The winch began to spin, the ropes feeding through the osseon’s hands. Sara ran forward. “Stop!” She appealed to the overseer, a balding, bull of a man with muscles gone to fat. “I’m Sarathena Remillus, the Primus’ daughter. I need to go down. General Pallax has ordered me to safety.”

The overseer frowned. “Where’s your escort?”

“He was killed by an arrow.” She waved a hand indicating the battle, lying without compunction. “The Slavelanders have broken through on the other side. The attack on the gate was a feint. You have to send me down now. You can’t let them get their hands on the Primus’s daughter.” She let her fear show.

“I’ve heard rumors about you,” the overseer said. Sara held his breath while he came to a decision. “Here’s what we’ll do. You get on the platform—haul it up, boys! I can send you down lickety-split if it looks like we’ll be overrun. In the meantime, you send your slave to run and bring back someone with authority.”

Vez’s Malice. “But—” Sara started.

Lance exploded into motion. His elbow struck the overseer in the throat. When the man choked and staggered back, Lance followed up with hard blows to his stomach, knocking him down. Lance knelt on the overseer’s chest. He put one hand on the fat man’s throat and passed a ring of keys to Sara. “Unchain them.”

Sara obeyed. The first man held his hands out to her, brown eyes full of desperate hope. She turned the key in the lock, and the manacles fell away.

“Escape is that way.” Lance pointed.

The osseon nodded his thanks and left at a lope.

Sara moved on to the next in line, who was already holding out his hands. “Hurry.”

Sara hurried, but the fitful torchlight made it difficult. It took her precious seconds to find the lock, and, of course, she had to do it seven separate times. The third man lingered, making her fumble.

“Don’t wait for me, Madaug!” the last man said. He was badly scarred, one eye gone entirely, but he had the same shock of red hair that Madaug did. Brothers?

Madaug just shook his head.

The overseer tried to say something but gargled when Lance applied pressure to his windpipe.

“If you’re going to wait around, I’d appreciate your hand on the winch,” Lance told Madaug. “Sara and I have need of it.”

Madaug looked curious, but didn’t ask. He put his hand to the winch handle, bracing it.

Sara freed his one-eyed friend, who was all but squirming with impatience.

“What are you going to do with him?” Madaug indicated the overseer.

“Chain him up,” Lance said promptly. He hauled the fat man to his feet, keeping one arm around his neck.

Sara worried that the ex-slaves might be bent on revenge, but Madaug just laughed. “He’ll be in a world of trouble when he’s found.” He waited until Lance had manacled the overseer and taken over the winch, then vanished with his brother off into the night.

Lance fixed the overseer with a grim glare. “I don’t like whip-wielding cowards. Make a sound, and I’ll break your neck.” He tossed both whip and keys over the cliff, then hauled on the winch. Within moments the empty platform appeared. Lance pried up two loops of rope connected to the middle of the platform. “Hold these.”

Sara took them with both hands, ready to be pulled half off her feet, but it cost hardly any effort at all to keep the platform up.

Lance gave the winch several spins, unwinding it so that spools of rope dangled over the cliff. The loops Sara held become lines. When the winch was bare, he took the ropes from Sara and stepped onto the platform, swinging his leg over the railing. “Get on.”