Judge (34 page)

Jon returned, still in battle gear but minus the blood, accompanied by his taciturn, battle-bruised subordinate, Selwin. They rode to the Agocii camp, dismounted a safe distance from the tents, and commanded their destroyers to wait.

At the entry to the largest tent, thick-bearded Agocii guards sneered at their arrival, as if greeting defeated foes instead of the battle’s victors. Haughty wretches—still armed with swords and bad tempers. Kien exchanged a wary glance with Jon as they entered the tent.

Infinite, protect us, please. And make the Agocii chieftains conciliatory! Speed along these negotiations for Ela’s sake. Truly, he had to cease thinking of her for now. Duty.

Arrogant in gold-etched armor and elaborately detailed robes
and cloaks, the pale Agocii chieftains sat in a semicircle on a cushioned mat within the tent. An evidently symbolic tray of bread rested before them, with writing implements arranged on a low table nearby. All seemed ready for immediate talks. Until the Agocii leaders saw Kien, Jon, and Selwin.

The chieftain wearing the most gold tugged at his elaborately braided beard in obvious agitation. “Has Istgard’s prime minister considered us so unworthy that he sends three raw-green youths to bargain in his stead?”

The tribal chiefs’ motions reflected his own nervousness—all three unraveling and rebraiding sections of their silvered beards. Kien suppressed a frown. Really, the Agocii seemed inordinately obsessed with their beards. A true mania. Likely denoting . . . status. . . .

Oh, wonderful. Kien’s empty stomach sank as he cast a sidelong glance at Jon and Selwin’s recently shaven faces—each showing variants of afternoon-whiskered shadows. No beards and certainly nothing braided.

Wild with frustration, Kien muttered to Jon, “Unless we find some other Agocii-recognized claim to status, apart from beards, these talks are going to take all week!”

Jon hissed beneath his breath. “Beards? What about beards?”

He was going to shove his brother-in-law, then flee the tent. Now! Gritting his teeth, Kien knelt on one of the unoccupied cushions. Be patient. Placate all parties. Begin from a point of agreement. Bargain through differences and conclude terms of surrender, allowing the defeated to retreat with honor. Without bloodshed. Then find Ela. Infinite, help me!

He smiled at the unhappy fray-bearded chieftain-losers, planning his strategy.

Her eyelids too heavy to open, Ela returned to consciousness, surrounded by the stench of decay. Still alive. Why?

Her heartbeat wavered uncertainly, rapid and feeble with
distress. And her breath rattled painfully in her throat. Harsh to her ears. She could do nothing except breathe. Hurt. And wait.

Thoughts flickered. Tremulous as near-extinguished lamp flames.

Summoning the last wisps of her strength, she sought her Creator. His voice. She needed to hear His voice. Infinite? I’m dying. . . .

I am here.

 35 

A
s they left the negotiations and hurried through the late afternoon sunlight, Kien muttered to Jon, “Remind me to beat you later, when we’re both off duty!” After he’d found Ela.

Wholly without remorse, Jon said, “You implied that, victory notwithstanding, we had no status as far as the Agocii were concerned. We had to do something to improve our bargaining position. You
are
regarded as a Siphran lord, and as Istgard’s rightful king. Even the Agocii honor royalty—beards or no beards—so why not mention it?”

Kien cast a wary over-the-shoulder look at Selwin, who was likely listening. “Your comments were recorded.”

“My comments accomplished our objective—to swiftly facilitate negotiations for terms of surrender that wouldn’t offend the Agocii. What better way to raise the status of a beardless ‘raw-green youth’ than to introduce him as an uncrowned king?”

“You’re right.” And he was. “However, you’ve almost guaranteed my censure before the Grand Assembly. I’d intended to persuade the Agocii of my previous ambassadorial rank.”

“Ah!” Jon tugged at his cloak. “I forgot about the censure. I apologize.”

Too worried about Ela to remain upset with his brother-in-law, Kien nodded. “I hope quite a few of the representatives will agree with your point of view simply because we succeeded. The
Agocii are breaking camp.” Indeed, around them, their bearded former enemies were bellowing threats at each other while packing gear—and casting them renewed looks of scorn. Kien shook his head. Fine. At least he was freed.

As they approached the destroyers, Scythe whickered deep, plaintive vocalizations of distress. “I’m hurrying.” Kien tore off his outer garments, lashing his military gear onto the war collar, then swiftly draping himself with plain non-military attire. When he lifted Scythe’s chain-leash and fastened it to the war collar, Scythe trembled with the unspoken indication that they were about to leave the Agocii camp. Grabbing his agitated destroyer’s reins, Kien said, “Commander Thel, with your permission, I’m going to search for Ela. Off duty. Will you tell the king and the prime minister?”

“You don’t need my permission. But you’re going alone?”

“Yes. I’ll have Scythe,” Kien pointed out.

Selwin stepped up now, his face unreadable. Glancing from Kien to Jon, he asked, “Permission to speak, sir?” At Jon’s nod, the subordinate-commander addressed Kien, each syllable so sharply clipped that Kien had no trouble reading condemnation in the man’s words. “Sir, the city is not secured. Siphran orders, which might be considered reprehensible in the Tracelands, are still in effect. It is advisable for all Tracelanders to remain outside the city.”

Selwin’s warning verged on a threat. Kien stared. This man would report his actions. Before Kien could snarl a reply, Jon said, “Your point is taken, Selwin. But Judge Lantec is entering the city, off duty, to locate a friend who might be in danger.”

“Thank you, Selwin, for your concern.” Kien turned away and mounted Scythe. The destroyer quivered, a gigantic heap of monster-anxiety. Kien shoved his feet into the collar rungs. “Go—no trampling anyone!”

Scythe bolted for Parne, gusting irritated breaths of warning, as he cut around Siphrans, Tracelanders, and Istgardians too slow to flee from his path. Kien yelled, “Clear the way! Move!”

Just as Scythe neared the breach in Parne’s wall, Kien saw a horseman charge toward them. “Bryce!” Reluctantly, Kien reined in the agitated Scythe. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you, sir.” Even as Kien started to send him away, Bryce said, “I’m a free Siphran, and I believe you might need my help. Lead and I’ll follow.”

From this vantage point, Kien heard screams lifting above the breach. Smoke billowed high and thick beyond the rubble. Had the Parnians decided to set fire to their city? Kien argued, “You could die in there!”

Bryce smiled. “I could just as easily die at home, my lord. Lead on. You won’t change my mind.”

“I am not your lord!”

Bryce waited in silent disagreement.

Scythe exhaled a tormented destroyer complaint, so distressed that Kien couldn’t ignore it. Ela was surely dying. “Stay alive, Bryce!”

“You also, sir.”

Kien unsheathed his sword and turned Scythe into the rubble-strewn breach. “Go! Carefully—”

The destroyer thundered through debris. Splintering timbers. Sending stones flying. Confronting sheer mounds of rubble. Scythe scattered everything in his desperation to reach Ela. Looking behind him, Kien saw Bryce’s little horse doing its valiant best to keep up. But Bryce was forced to choose his path more carefully and eventually disappeared from sight amid the wreckage.

Kien hesitated and pulled Scythe to a walk, the decision clawing his thoughts like a live beast. He couldn’t leave Bryce behind. He’d lost servants before—friends, all—and it seemed he’d still not recovered from their deaths.

The instant Bryce rode out of the rubble, his sword readied, Kien goaded Scythe ahead. Infinite! Spare Ela, please. Protect her—

Spare no one who lifts any sort of weapon against you!

The reminder poured into Kien’s thoughts like burning oil,
making him gasp. He could not afford a mistake here. Kill one innocent citizen by accident, and he’d be forever condemned in the Tracelands.

He saw the Parnians now. Wraithlike shells of mortals peering from windows and doorways, and over the edges of walls. Frail creatures with haunted dark eyes—some despairing, some furious.

To fend them off, Kien yelled down each street, “Parnians, obey your Creator! Go to the wall! Surrender and live! Put down your weapons!” Why did they stare at him so oddly? Didn’t they want to escape Parne? The streets stank of putrid flesh at every turn—so overwhelming that Kien was grateful he’d eaten nothing since dawn. Worse, some of the bodies looked . . . hacked. Had the Parnians resorted to cannibalism? Kien shuddered.

Bryce echoed his cry. “Put down your weapons! Go to the wall! Surrender and live!”

The tactic worked. Scythe rushed through the city as if he knew each turn within the twisting paved streets and courtyards. His wall-shaking hoofbeats caused the Parnians to retreat in panic. “Obey your Creator! Go to the wall! Surrender and live! Put down your weapons!” The Parnians who dared to remain seemed transfixed by Kien’s words.

Why?

By now, Scythe was thundering toward the highest point of the city—a magnificent building that could only be Parne’s temple. Kien glimpsed echoes of East Guard’s fallen temple in those glorious columns. Had East Guard’s temple looked like this—gilded and shining in the sunlight on Temple Hill? Drawing all eyes to itself?

Scythe charged through the open gate, scattering the few souls within the temple’s court. Kien yelled, “Obey the Infinite! Put down your weapons and go to the wall! Surrender and live!”

They gaped at him, but Scythe was already turning, charging along a stone street that led beyond the temple toward a maze of whitewashed homes, larger than most, built against Parne’s
wall. Hooves thudding against pavings, the monster warhorse entered a stone courtyard, which was framed by ravaged gardens and decorative stone alcoves. But the destroyer paid no heed to the gardens’ remains. He circled a stone-rimmed well in the center of the courtyard and whickered in distress. Kien was about to turn and look for Bryce. Until he realized that Scythe had reached their goal.

She’s in the well? Oh, Infinite . . . no . . . not a well!

Sickened, Kien tugged Scythe’s mane. “Are you sure? She
cannot
be down there.”

The destroyer tightened his circle, then halted. Bending his huge dark head, Scythe nosed at the well’s wooden cover, shoved it partially aside, then leaned into the well and released a destroyer-cry. Just as he’d summoned Ela to the wall the last time they’d seen her.

“She’s in the well. . . .” Merely looking into that confining darkness brought Kien’s memories back in a nauseating rush. Swallowed alive. Trapped in darkness.

He descended the war-collar rungs, almost screaming at Parne’s citizens, “Why a well? Why not a prison? Why not a barred hole in the wall?”

Swallowing hard, Kien leaned over the encircling stone rim and yelled down into the musty blackness, “Ela?”

Did he hear a faint sound? A cry? Scythe bumped him, clearly distraught. Kien straightened and sucked in a deep, hopefully calming breath.

He was going down into a black, probably slimy pit. Let it be dry. It
had
to be dry. No need to panic. “Fine!” Fine. If he repeated the word often enough, perhaps it would be fine. Kien sheathed his sword, dragged the wooden cover completely away from the well, and reached for the ropes built into the windlass above. Were they strong enough to support him? And long enough to pull up Ela? Where was Bryce? He should have been here by now.

A scuffling on the nearby stones raised every hair on Kien’s
head. As he whipped out his sword again and turned, Scythe verified the threat by rumbling a furious warning.

Kien watched a man approach—gaunt but not quite as scrawny as the wraiths in Parne’s lower streets. “Are you the owner of this well?”

“Leave!” the Parnian commanded, his voice resonant—the tone of authority. “You have no business here!”

“Indeed I do!” Kien snapped. “Parne’s prophet, Ela Roeh, is in that well, and I—”

To his horror, the man unsheathed a sword and charged him.

Scythe swung about, bent his big head in an arc, grabbed Kien’s assailant, and flung him away. Screaming but still alive.

Spare no one who lifts any sort of weapon against you!

The words cut through Kien again, a warning this time. Kien called to Scythe, “Stop!”

The destroyer groaned, but halted. Azurnite blade glittering deep blue in the afternoon sunlight, Kien approached the Parnian. “Who are you? Why should it matter if I free your prophet?”

“She’s no prophet!” the man cried. “She’s a traitor, cursed by the Infinite!”

Cursed by the— Seething, Kien left the thought unfinished. He shifted the Azurnite sword and beckoned his enemy. “Stand. You’ll have to stop me from saving her.”

“My lord!” Bryce yelled from the courtyard’s edge.

His eyes still fixed on the hostile Parnian, Kien called, “I’m here, Bryce! Stay back.”

In Kien’s thoughts, Fightmaster Lorteus snarled from a past lesson, “Any foe, however weak, however wounded, can
kill
!”

Thank you, Lorteus. I haven’t forgotten.

Deliberately, Kien taunted his opponent with the truth. “I’m going to save her. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to kill me.”

The Parnian charged, sword lifted, clumsy and undisciplined as any civilian would be.

Kien braced himself and swung the Azurnite blade flat against the man’s sword to deflect it without breaking the blade.

Then, as ordered, he put the man to death, stabbing the Azurnite through his heart. The Parnian gasped and dropped like a stone.

Kien paused to be sure his opponent was truly dead. Military judge or not, the necessity sickened him. Yet there’d been no doubt this man was an enemy. Infinite, bless You for removing all uncertainty! Kien swiped his sword on the dead man’s robe, then turned away.

Bryce met him and muttered, “Parne’s priests are a savage lot. I had to kill two, sir. We’d best be alert for more.”

Priests? Kien stared back at the dead man’s bloodied elaborate blue and white robes. Had Parne’s priests turned against Ela? He hurried to the well. “She’s in there,” Kien told Bryce. “Scythe is sure of it, and I thought I heard her. But she might be unable to help us pull her out. I’m going down after her.”

Even as Kien spoke, Bryce hurried to his horse, planning aloud. “We’ll tie a cradle, sir, then I’ll keep watch while you go down.”

“A cradle?”

Bryce unfastened a leather-wrapped roll from his doughty little horse. “With Aeyrievale’s cliffs and chasms, all officials carry and use rope cradles.”

“My thanks to Aeyrievale,” Kien murmured. Blessing the Infinite for Bryce, he helped unroll mesh and ropes, following Bryce’s lead in tying knots.

Bryce tested the ropes and wound an end around the windlass, then hesitated, eyeing the mournful Scythe. “I presume your destroyer will cooperate? He’d speed matters.”