Redemption (Book 6) (10 page)

Odgar turned. In his hand was a long golden chain, with a large jewel at its end. The gem seemed to be blood-red at first glance, but instead of reflecting the light of the torches it absorbed them into a pool of crimson darkness.

Bronwyn felt her whole body go as cold as ice. What she was seeing seemed impossible, but the evidence of it was right in front of her eyes.

“Behold,” the Great Fang growled, “the blessing of the gods.”

It was a Soulbinder.

Kendril was off his horse before it had even come to a full halt. He patted the sweating animal, tossing the reins to one of the stable hands.

The yard of Stockade was a mess of activity. Militia soldiers ran about on the ramparts, calling down greetings and giving impromptu cheers. Only half of the cavalry company had returned from Hangman’s Hill, but even still there was a large crowd of horses and riders on the grassy yard of the fort.

“Lord Ravenbrook.” An elderly man with a bald head and large gray mustache stepped out to greet Kendril. He wore a battered old Calbraithan uniform that had certainly seen better days. It was patched with the new insignia of the Redemption Militia. At his side he wore a simple basket-hilt rapier. A wheelock pistol was tucked into the sash around his waist.

Kendril smiled. “Colonel Root. Good to see you up and about.”

The Colonel gave a mighty harrumph. “Just a bit of indigestion, that’s all. Can’t eat like I’m still a young lad anymore.”

Kendril pulled off his long, gauntlet-like gloves. He nodded. “Doesn’t help that you won’t stop gorging it down, now does it?”

Root ignored the question. He looked over the ranks of cavalry. “Lot of men missing. Where’s Beckett? He isn’t—?”

“No,” said Kendril with a firm shake of his head. “I left him and half the troop at Hangman’s Hill. Probably be a couple days before they repair the damage and establish the position.”

Root gave Kendril a significant glance. “Is it bad?”

Kendril gave a somber nod. He shifted the dented cuirass, readjusting the steel armor. “Jombards broke all the way through the Wall. I’m still waiting for a final count from Lockhart, but it looks like at least a dozen dragoons dead. Maybe more.”

Root whistled softly. “Colonel Yearling’s not going to like to hear that.”

“No,” Kendril agreed. He glanced back towards the large blockhouse that served as the fort’s headquarters. “Any word from those scouts?”

Root nodded. “Aye. The report’s waiting for you, though I don’t think you’ll like it.”

Kendril scowled. “What I’d like is for all the Jombards east of the Wall to shrivel up and blow away in the wind. But I doubt there’s much chance of that happening.”

Root chuckled, twisting the end of his mustache. “Not unless Eru in Pelos has a miracle or two up His sleeve for us.”

Kendril smiled. “Something tells me we’re going to have to win this war the hard way.” He tugged at his cuirass again, then glanced around the yard at the exhausted cavalry troopers. “Any trouble elsewhere along the Wall?”

Root shook his head, and started to walk across the grass towards the blockhouse. “No, my lord. At least no reports yet.”

“One bit of good news,” Kendril grumbled. He followed close behind Root, frowning as he fidgeted with the straps on his cuirass.

Root glanced over at him. “There’s another message, too, my lord. From Redemption.”

Kendril raised his eyebrows. “Oh? And what would that be? More volunteers from Merewith? They’ll drink what little beer we have left.”

Root chuckled. “No, sir. It’s from the honorable mayor’s office. Marked and sealed for you.”

At the mention of the mayor, Kendril’s face darkened. “Well, well,” he said. “That can’t be good.”

“There’s something else,” said Root slowly. He coughed, scratching his neck. “A little odd, to be honest. There’s—”

“General!” A young man in his teens, wearing an over-sized militia uniform, jumped down the steps of the blockhouse. He gave a broad smile. “You’re back, sir.” His eyes widened as he saw Kendril’s cuirass. “Talin’s ashes! What happened, sir? Are you all right?”

Kendril managed a grin. “Fine. Just bruised. Help me get this off, will you Wilkes?”

Wilkes nodded, running a hand through his short brown hair. “Yes, sir, right away sir.” He moved around behind Kendril and began loosening the straps that held the front and back plate together. “I’ve got water on for coffee,” he rambled as he worked. “Cook’s got some fresh-caught fish he can prepare for supper, too. I’ll have it to you in less than an hour.”

Kendril made a face as the boy lifted the heavy cuirass off him. “That’s all right, Wilkes. I have dispatches to go through.”

Wilkes staggered backwards, holding the cuirass with both hands. “And that strange group from the mainland too, sir. Can’t help but wonder what they’re all about.”

Kendril gave Root a swift glance. “Group? What group?”

The Colonel cleared his throat. “I was going to tell you, sir. There’s a strange lot in from Archangel. They’re demanding to see you right away. Claim it’s urgent.” He pointed over towards one of the blockhouses. “I’ve got them waiting in one of the mess halls for now. Probably just another batch of volunteers from the mainland. I can go handle them myself, if you’d like—”

“No,” said Kendril sharply. “I’ll see to it.” He rubbed his upper leg, wincing slightly. “I’ll head over there now. Wilkes, get Smithy to patch up that armor for me if he can. Then see about getting me a new horse.”

Wilkes’ face fell. “Something happen to Buttercup, sir?”

“Dead,” Kendril said abruptly. “I’ll need another.”

An expression of genuine grief passed over Wilkes’ face. “Yes, sir,” he said at last. “It...it’s a shame. She was a good animal.”

Kendril looked over at Wilkes, as if noticing him for the first time. He put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It was a quick death, lad. She didn’t suffer.”

The young man turned his head away. His voice cracked. “Yes, sir. I’ll see the stable master about a new horse.” He wiped a hand quickly across his face. “And I’ll get that coffee to you in two shakes, sir. Right as rain.” He turned and lugged the cuirass over towards the blacksmith’s shop.

“He’s too young to be involved in all this,” Root said as soon as the boy was out of earshot. “Still wet behind the ears, for Eru’s sake.”

Kendril rubbed his leg again. “There’s many younger than him bearing arms. When the whole survival of Redemption is at stake, we can’t really afford to turn volunteers away.”

“I suppose,” Root grunted. He glanced down at Kendril’s hip. “How’s the leg?”

Kendril quickly took his hand away. “Fine. All healed.”

Root’s mustache bristled. “Four weeks isn’t a lot of time to heal a gunshot wound. You should give yourself more time, my lord. No one expects you to be fighting in the front line after—”

“I should remind you, Colonel,” said Kendril coldly, “that the Jombards don’t care how injured or tired we are. They’re coming over the Wall either way.”

Root gave a slow nod. “Yes, my lord. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Kendril passed a hand over his face. “Sorry, Root. I didn’t mean to be short. I haven’t been sleeping well the last couple of weeks. Guess it’s catching up with me.”

Root gave a good-natured smile. “I suppose even the Hammer of the Jombards is allowed to snap every so often, my lord.”

“That’s good to know,” said Kendril with a grin. He unbuckled the rapier at his waist and handed it carefully over to Root. “Give this to Wilkes too, will you? I need it oiled and cleaned.”

Root took the weapon as if he were handling a baby. “Sharpened too, my lord?”

Kendril gave a brisk shake of his head. “No, not sharpened.”

The elderly Colonel whistled behind his teeth. “Four weeks you’ve been using this blade, sir, and I haven’t seen you sharpen it once.” He examined the glittering, peacock-shaped hilt, turning it over in his hands. The blue and green gems sparkled in the watery sunlight. “It must be true what they say about Balneth steel.” He looked up at Kendril suddenly. “You’ll forgive my asking, Lord Ravenbrook, but where did you ever get such a beauty like this? It looks as if it cost a king’s ransom.”

Kendril got a sudden, sick look on his face, as if someone had punched him in the stomach. “The Queen of Llewyllan gave it to me,” he said quietly.

Root was about to laugh at the obvious jest, but something in Kendril’s expression stopped him. “Yes, my lord,” he said instead. “I’ll see that it’s cleaned for you.”

Kendril nodded wearily. “And have those dispatches ready for my perusal. I want the scouts’ report first.”

Root saluted. “Yes, my lord.”

Kendril turned for the mess hall. He crossed the parade ground of the fort, dodging around horses and cavalry troopers. By the time he reached the steps of the mess, he was rubbing his leg again. With a frown he pushed open the door and went inside.

The mess hall was filled with wooden tables, but this time of day there were no meals being served. Five people sat and stood about the room.

Kendril stopped mid-step. His eyes darted from person to person.

They all wore long, hooded black cloaks and matching black gloves.

Ghostwalkers.

Tomas was there, lounging against the wall to the left. At a nearby table sat Callen, the red-headed Ghostwalker sworn to pacifism and healing. Sitting opposite him was another Ghostwalker, a young, chestnut-haired woman with a blush of freckles across her nose. Standing against the other wall was a lean, wolfish-looking man with unkempt blonde hair and a razor-sharp mustache.

And last of all, there was a tall, black-haired Ghostwalker leaning against the nearest table, his arms folded and his face half-hidden in shadow by a raised hood.

Kendril took a breath. “Olan.”

The black-haired Ghostwalker took a step forward, his arms still crossed. “That’s
Commander
Olan,” he growled. He looked hard at Kendril. “You and I need to talk.”

Chapter 6

“Maklavir?” Kara poked her head down into the hold of the ship. The wooden sides and beams creaked and groaned as the vessel tossed and rolled on the waves. “Are you down here?”

Maklavir looked up from behind a large coil of rope and a stack of wooden crates. “Kara? Oh, yes, over here. Just doing some patching.” He held up a pair of trousers. “I should really just throw them out, but I bought them from a fine tailor in Vorten. I doubt I will see a pair of this quality in Redemption, patches or not.”

Kara smiled. She glided down the short flight of steps that led down from the deck. “Wouldn’t that be easier to do up on the deck? More light to see by?”

Maklavir tossed his head with a diffident air. “All that salt spray? No thank you. I’d much rather squint a bit down here than get soaked above decks.”

Kara ducked, moving down past the tightly-spaced boxes and barrels in the hold. “I just—” she paused for a moment, uncertain what to say. “I haven’t seen you much since we left New Marlin last night.”

Maklavir turned back to his needle and thread. “Well...I’ve been rather busy.” He gave Kara a sidelong glance. “Where’s Joseph, then? Feeling any better?”

Kara shook her head. “Still sick to his stomach.” She moved over next to Maklavir, and sat down on a nearby crate. “I got over it in the first couple hours, but I think he was up all night.” She gave a little smile. “It’s terribly embarrassing for him.”

“Is it?” said Maklavir, unsuccessfully trying to keep the smugness out of his voice. “That’s really too bad.”

“So,” Kara said softly, “I imagine it must have been hard to leave Shawnor so abruptly. It seemed you were really hitting it off with that tavern maid—”

Maklavir threaded the needle, straining to see in the dim light of the hold. “Were we? You know, I can’t even remember her name.” He gave Kara a forced smile. “I can’t for most of them, you know.” He sighed. “Seems as though I have a girl in every town we go to.”

Kara’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but she didn’t respond immediately. She looked down at the trousers Maklavir was repairing. “Are...you all right, Maklavir?”

The diplomat stabbed the needle through the fabric of the pants. He gave another artificial smile. “Why of course, Kara. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

Kara’s eyes followed Maklavir’s movements as he sewed the patch on to the pants. “I don’t know. I guess it’s just that you’ve seemed a little...distant for the last couple of days.” She glanced around at the dark interior of the ship’s hold. “It feels like you’ve been, well, hiding down here since we left Shawnor. And then back at the inn you seemed to suddenly disappear on us, ever since you and I had breakfast together—”

“I assure you,” said Maklavir as he pulled the needle and thread through the cloth, “I am perfectly fine. Couldn’t be better.”

“Okay,” said Kara doubtfully. She eyed Maklavir carefully for a moment.

The diplomat continued to sew, ignoring her.

“So,” Kara said again, “we have some time to kill on the way over to Redemption.”

“That we do,” Maklavir said as he jabbed with the needle again. “And for once we won’t have to dodge marauding cultists, bloodthirsty bandits, or rampaging armies. We should be careful, or we might accidentally end up enjoying ourselves.”

A large, heavy book thumped down on the floor next to Maklavir’s foot.

The diplomat looked up, surprised. “What in Zanthora is that?”

Kara gave a slight shrug. “Got it from the captain. It’s a book of fairy tales, from Llewyllan.” She smiled sweetly. “Has pictures, too. Full page.” She picked up the book, flipping it open. “This one’s my favorite. An ogre.” She pointed to the picture of the grotesque creature and laughed. “Isn’t he absolutely hideous?”

Maklavir gave the picture a cursory glance. “Yes, absolutely horrid.” He gave a confused raise of his eyebrows. “But what does that have to do—”

“Well,” said Kara, closing the book and looking shyly down at the deck, “we made each other a deal, a long time ago. Back in Merewith, in that underground temple, remember?”

Maklavir stopped sewing. He didn’t say anything.