Prisoner (48 page)

Beraht resisted the urge to take a few more steps back. "It would be the most effective," he said stubbornly. "If I'd had a bit more arcen—"

Von Adolwulf's face clouded, jade eyes going dark at the mention of the night he and Beraht had met. "If I were you, Beraht, I would not speak further of that. And no, it's not the most effective. Surely even a mere foot soldier would realize that. Ah, but I forget, you are used to your infernal drugs."

"Sneak in, kill a few generals, they'll go home." Beraht refused to back down as von Adolwulf drew close enough to loom. Barely avoiding rolling his eyes, Beraht tilted his head up and glared right back. "I really can't see negotiations going well if you're going to be the speaker."

Rather than punch or throw or merely grab, as Beraht had expected, von Adolwulf merely threw his head back and laughed. "On that we are agreed, which is why I'm not speaking. As for sneaking into camp and killing generals? Impossible, or very nearly. Just because Kria does not attack Salhara, that does not mean they couldn't. You caught me off guard, Beraht. I do not think you would manage that trick with the majority of the Krian army."

Beraht resisted the urge to wipe the smirk off von Adolwulf's face. Why did he always bring out Beraht's most violent urges? Why had he come to see von Adolwulf? He should known it was a waste of time. "So that's it? You're going to go
talk
with a country that would just as soon cut everyone down, and a Kaiser who would love nothing more than to cut your head off, and you think this is a good idea?"

Von Adolwulf gave him one of those wolfish grins he hated. "Are you worried about me, Beraht?"

Curling his hands into fists, Beraht stepped away before he did something stupid. Giving in to his urge to smash that face in never got him anywhere. "I damn near got myself killed being their stupid Breaker. I'd hate to see all my hard work ruined because someone was dumb enough to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"You, Beraht, are the only one who seems to think me incompetent." Von Adolwulf closed the distance between them, smirking when Beraht back up a step.

Bastard. "That's because I know just how much of a stars-refused bastard you really are! Do whatever you want." Not even certain why he'd bothered coming to see him, Beraht turned sharply on his heel and stalked from the office and through the halls to his room.

Stars he hated that bastard! Raking a hand through his hair, Beraht glared around his room, wanting badly to punch a certain smug bastard firmly in the face, but knowing he would never in a thousand years actually accomplish the deed. Why did he have to be so
smug
and
infuriating
and—and—Beraht swore in three languages as he stomped around his room, pacing in a restless diamond from door to bed to fireplace to window.

Why was he being so stupid? Didn't von Adolwulf see? Stars refuse the bastard, shadow killing was the best way to resolve the entire matter. Talking. When did Krians ever
talk
about anything? It was idiocy. Then again, every last Krian he had ever met was an idiot.

Beraht halted before the fireplace and scowled at the flames. In the pocket of his jacket, the vials of red arcen seemed to burn.

He could show them how necessary shadow killing was. Show that stupid, smug, arrogant, thick-headed, brutal, aggravating bastard that shadow killing had its place. It'd be easy. They wouldn't be expecting magic. Not one lone soldier believed to be hiding away, half-buried in snow in the heart of Illussor.

What would he have to do? Beraht turned away from the fire as his thoughts raced, moving to gather those things he would need as he thought of them. Winter clothing, though he grimaced as he realized he was pulling out not the clothes that had been provided to him since his arrival, but the gear he had taken from Kria. Quickly he stripped out of his clothes and slid into the heavier, cold-weather clothing. He sat down in the chair by the fire to pull off his palace boots and replace them with sturdy winter boots, pulling the lacing tight.

Food shouldn't be too big a concern. He could transfer to that weird temple—Beraht shook his head, disconcerted to think so suddenly of that temple. It seemed so long ago… He snorted softly. The cold was obviously freezing what little remained of his mind.

Disgusted with himself, Beraht reordered his scattering thoughts and retrieved a small travel pack from his wardrobe. Quickly, he filled it with whatever necessities were readily accessible—which were not much, as he dared not leave the confines of his room. Shouldering the bag, he then scooped up his fur-lined cloak from the bed and swung it around his shoulders, fastening it with a plain iron pin. It was heavy, but warm and made to encumber his movements as little as possible. The Krians didn't know much, but they knew how to fight well no matter what the weather.

Ready, Beraht drew a deep breath to steady himself then drew out one of the vials hidden in his jacket. The arcen held the barest hints of red in the firelight. Grimacing, knowing what he was in for, Beraht pulled the stopper free and downed the contents in one quick swallow.

He dropped the vial to the carpet, weaving unsteadily as the arcen hit his system. It was hot and cold, bitter and sour. It tasted like bile, and thinking that did not help. Pressing one hand to his mouth, he forced himself to think calming thoughts and not about the taste in his mouth, the almost painful, tingling sensation flooding his body. Beraht grasped the back of a nearby chair and hauled himself to his feet.

For several minutes he stood there, taking deep slow breaths and letting the arcen settle into his system. He could feel the effects of it all too well and only knew them for what they were because he had always made it a point to understand arcen. It was all he'd ever had.

He ignored the voice that tried to say he had more now. What did he have? A Krian name that would be carved into his Illussor headstone someday? He'd taken away magic, and people wouldn't thank him for that until he was buried beneath that headstone. Ignoring the stubborn voices in his head, he finally released his tight grip on the chair. Pulling his cloak more tightly around him, Beraht called up in his mind the spell he would need, then cast it.

And he vanished.

*~*~*

Could it get any colder? Beraht morosely pondered the merits of taking out a few soldiers to help himself to their tea, but reluctantly conceded that probably wasn't the best idea. Yet.

As much as he hated to admit it, the cold was working to his favor. With the snow coming down, not quite heavy enough to make travel impossible, but enough to muffle his movements, everyone was bedded down or otherwise sheltered. Even Krians, it seemed, could only tolerate so much of it.

It was dark, which made things problematic, but the various fires and the fact he wore Krian clothing went a long way toward solving that problem. Slipping through the camp full of cold and miserable soldiers was almost scarily easy. Especially when he considered the last Krian camp he'd snuck into—

Thoroughly disgusted that he'd allowed thoughts of the stars refused bastards to slip in, Beraht refocused on his mission and wended his way through the tents, making his way slowly through the Cobalt camp toward the tent in the center. The brilliant blue standard was caked with snow and hanging limply from its pole before the large tent of the Cobalt General.

Egon von Kortig—according to everyone, including von Adolwulf, this man had a taste for torture. Beraht wasn't going to feel very sorry about killing him. The dimming spell he used worked like a charm as he bypassed the guards and slipped into the tent.

Inside, a single candle burned. The tent was thick and heavy, enough so that no shadows would be visible to those outside—not that anyone was awake enough to notice him. So he hoped, anyway. This was a lot more dangerous than sneaking into the camp of a single general.

Shunting his thoughts to the side, Beraht focused on the task at hand. He was a shadow killer. He had been trained for it from the very moment he'd shown a talent after helping to kill Krian scouts.

Carefully, slowly, he moved to the cot where von Kortig lay sleeping. He leaned his head down close, listening to the breathing patterns. Wine was heavy on von Kortig's breath, an unexpected bonus. Nodding, Beraht rose back to his full height and carefully grasped von Kortig, slowly turning him to his side so that he faced away. Then with a few whispered words and a motion of his finger, he sliced von Kortig's throat. Beraht grimaced at the wet gurgling sounds von Kortig made and let him fall forward to bleed into his bedding.

One down, two generals and possibly even a Kaiser to go. Making certain his dimming spell still held, Beraht turned and slipped back out of the tent, past the half-frozen guards—stupid arrogant Krians, it was a wonder no one had managed this successfully before—and slowly made his way out of the Cobalt camp and toward the Verdant.

It took him nearly two hours to make his way through the Verdant camp. The soldiers there were far more alert, though Beraht was forced to concede again that even they paled in comparison to the Scarlet. Bastard. He had to slink more carefully to get to the tent of the Verdant General, Ludwig von Eisenberg. Going through the front wouldn't work as it had in the Cobalt camp, so Beraht gingerly worked his way around to the back, waiting patiently for the patrol to pass, then slipped beneath and into the tent.

He stilled as it became obvious that von Eisenberg was only just asleep; he moved restlessly, like a man who had fallen asleep but was too restless to stay that way for long. Beraht waited several minutes then slowly began to stand up.

Shouts and the blowing of horns abruptly shattered the night. Beraht swore. This time of night, he had not expected them to have found any of the dead generals so quickly. Stars refuse them all!

On his cot, von Eisenberg twisted around to his back and sat up. He started to speak, but Beraht wasted no time bolting forward, grabbing von Eisenberg's head with one hand, and raking the fingers of his free hand across Eisenberg's throat with the other. Hot blood gushed over his hands and arm before he finally dropped the dying general.

The tent flaps flew open, soldiers in dark green shouting for their general to come at once—they froze in shock as they registered both von Eisenberg lying in his own blood and Beraht standing over him.

Beraht had used a very precisely aimed razor spell to slit the throats of the two generals. It was a nasty spell, one the Krians loathed with particular vehemence. Using it the way he had, guiding the movement of the magic with his hand, controlled it and burned as little arcen as necessary.

Now he threw the spell out, attacking the men much as Tawn had attacked Iah and Sol. The men cried out in shock and pain, blood spurting and spilling, but they drew their swords anyway, lunging forward. Beraht threw out another spell, knocking one man down, giving him an opening—

—Pain flashed in his head as he exited the tent then all he saw was black.

Beraht woke with a groan, feeling as though his head had been split in half. What in the stars—

"Well, well, the nasty little Salharan-Illussor scum wakes. My men didn't hit you that hard. Weak Salharan blood."

"Stars refuse you," Beraht snarled through the dizzying pain. He'd hoped not to see the stupid Kaiser again until he was slitting the bastard's throat. Stars, what had happened? He'd made it out of the tent, but someone had obviously gotten the better of him.

There was still plenty of arcen in his system, however.

"Heilwig," Benno said. Beraht tilted his head up, immediately regretting the movement and grateful there was nothing in his stomach to toss up. The beautiful, but cold, Heilwig von Dresden stood over him. She held a vial of—stars above where had they gotten cleansers?

"Hold him," Heilwig ordered, and Beraht was suddenly gripped hard by the shoulders, another hand keeping a hold of his throat, making it impossible for him to breathe or talk.

Heilwig grabbed his nose then pulled the stopper from the bottle she held with her teeth. She shoved the vial into his mouth, forcing the thick, grayish substance down his throat. It had the soured-milk taste of a cleanser, but was much more viscous than it should have been. Cleansers were usually thin and watery. This was like drinking syrup—or concentrated arcen.

The grip on his throat released just as his vision began to go black, and in gasping for breath, he was forced to swallow the noxious substance. Dizziness and nausea washed over him as the substance took effect, confirming that it was in fact a cleanser. Concentrated and potent. Beraht's stomach heaved, and he retched violently on the ground, emptying his stomach of things he hadn't thought could still be in it. He heaved until his muscles ached, and his throat was raw, wiping bile and saliva from his lips with the back of his hand. "What—"

With dismay he could feel the arcen already dying in his system. His stomach clenched as it tried to empty itself, not realizing it was already thoroughly empty. The potent cleanser was wreaking havoc with his body.

Instead of answering him, Heilwig merely shoved another vial down his throat. Beraht fought and struggled, but he was weak from the first bout and the hands holding him were far stronger than he.

By the time the second vial had been swallowed, Beraht was barely able to see straight. By the time they'd made him swallow a third, he was all but sobbing in pain, bending over, shudders wracking his body and sweat dripping down his face despite the cold.