The Blood Curse (20 page)

“Liquor. Made with potatoes. Real strong stuff.”

“Potatoes?” Solveig pulled a face. “Doesn’t sound nice.”

“You want to hear this joke or not?”

“
I
want to hear it,” Prince Tomas said. “Tell.”

“So, three tasks. Drink the scallywater, pull the tooth out of the swamp lizard’s mouth, and tup the ugly whore. Got it?”

Tomas nodded.

“The man decides to give it a go. He drinks a half-tankard of scallywater, then staggers out the back to find the swamp lizard. After half an hour of crashing and screaming, he crawls back inside, and says...” Dag paused, picked up his mug, drank from it, wiped his mouth. “Where’sh the whore with the bad tooth?”

Tomas laughed.

Solveig groaned. “Wasn’t worth it.”

Karel shook his head, grinning, and looked at the map one last time before rolling it up.
Getting closer
.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

I
N THE MORNING
, Bennick went through the packsaddles. He pulled out the rabbit-fur cap Jaumé had worn in Sault, and the boots and the sheepskin jacket. “You’ll need these from now on,” he said, tossing them to Jaumé.

Jaumé piled the clothes at the end of his bed. He remembered how warm the jacket was—and he remembered the old woman’s face and the black puddle of dried blood.

Bennick repacked, and they went out into the yard and Jaumé practiced with his weapons, throwing the bone-handled knife at a mark painted on a wooden post, piercing a straw-filled target with his arrows. Bennick practiced, too. He could stand at the far end of the yard—fifty strides, Jaumé counted—with his back turned and the knife in its sheath, and turn and throw in a single movement, not pausing to take aim. The heavy knife always thudded deep into its target, making the timber shudder. And he could send arrow after arrow into the straw butt, nocking and releasing so swiftly that Jaumé’s eyes couldn’t follow the movement. His arrows always landed within the same square inch. Twice, an arrow landed on top of another, splitting its shaft neatly in two.

Bennick put away his bow and brought out the sword Loomath had given them. He hefted it in his hand, feeling the balance, then held it out to Jaumé. “Try this.”

Jaumé’s heart fumbled a beat with excitement. A sword. His very own sword. He eagerly took it.

Bennick unsheathed his own sword in a smooth movement. “Hold it like this, see?”

Jaumé obediently wrapped his fingers around the hilt. He looked from his sword to Bennick’s, and was disappointed. His sword seemed like a toy alongside Bennick’s.

“What?” Bennick said.

“It’s small.”

Bennick studied him for a moment. “You’d rather have one like mine?”

Jaumé nodded.

Bennick held his sword out to Jaumé, hilt first. “Go on. Have a try.”

Jaumé laid the small sword on the hard-packed dirt. He took hold of Bennick’s sword. It was heavier than he expected. The blade dipped towards the ground for a moment before he steadied it.

“Swing it,” Bennick said.

Jaumé took a deep breath and swept the sword in an arc. The blade wobbled in the air, the tip dragging down.

“Careful.” Bennick grabbed the hilt before the blade touched the ground, his hand wrapping around Jaumé’s. “That’s why you start small. We all did. There’s no shame in a short blade. Not if you can use it properly.”

Bennick took his sword back. Jaumé picked up the little sword and glanced at Bennick. Was he cross?

Bennick winked at him.

Jaumé felt better. He gripped the hilt the way Bennick had shown him.

“Stand like this, your feet apart.”

Jaumé obeyed. He raised the sword, mimicking Bennick, concentrating hard.

A
FTER HIS SWORD
lesson, Jaumé retreated to the stoop in front of the Brother’s house, where he sat and sharpened his throwing knife, and then Bennick’s. Bennick stripped down to his breech-clout despite the cold wind and exercised in the yard, leaping and kicking and twisting his body in the air. The Brother joined him. His name was Ifrem. He was lean, his muscles like hard knots beneath skin the color of old oak. Jaumé tried not to stare at the man’s wooden leg. Instead, he counted the tattoos on Ifrem’s chest. Eighteen daggers. Eighteen battles.

Bennick only had six dagger tattoos. Would he earn another dagger for killing the prince?

Jaumé tested the edge of Bennick’s knife with his thumb. He remembered Bennick’s arrow thudding into Prince Harkeld’s chest, remembered the prince falling. And he remembered the prince climbing into a boat afterwards, brought back to life by witches.
Stay alive
, he whispered in his head, and then he glanced at Bennick and felt guilty.

After the exercises, Ifrem and Bennick wrestled, grunting with effort. Ifrem was almost as good as Bennick, even though he was old and had only one leg. Twice, he threw Bennick to the ground. Bennick didn’t seem to mind. He leapt to his feet, wiping dirt from his face, grinning.

The men gripped hands when they were finished. Both were sweating. They turned and came towards the house. Jaumé scrambled to his feet. He hoped Bennick would ask if he wanted to learn how to wrestle.

Bennick didn’t. He scooped up his throwing knife, tested the sharpness of the blade, nodded at Jaumé. “Good lad.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

T
HE VILLAGE OF
Nime bustled with frantic activity; those inhabitants who’d not already fled were being turned out of their homes. Dust and noise hung in the air. Children cried, dogs barked, donkeys brayed, and hens ran clucking with their wings outspread. Innis saw a gray-haired woman arguing with a mounted soldier, her voice shrill with despair, but most of the villagers were abandoning their homes without protest, piling belongings into carts and onto donkeys. There was fear on some faces, grief on others.

In the market square were four more mounted soldiers. They looked as if they’d been traveling hard for weeks; men and horses were whipcord-lean. Another rider blocked the southern gate.

“You!” one of the soldiers bellowed, trotting towards them. “You can’t take that road.” His uniform was grimy, his face unshaven.

Rand halted. “Why not?”

“We’re evacuating.”

Innis could see Rand thinking through his options. “Who is your commanding officer?”

“I am.”

“And you are...?”

“Captain Jerzy, King’s Riders,” the man snapped. “Turn around and head back the way you came.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, captain.”

“King’s orders. Now turn around or I’ll
make
you turn around.” Captain Jerzy reached for his sword.

Innis tensed, and Petrus and Hedín swooped low.

Rand opened his shirt and took something from around his throat. He held it out to the captain. Innis saw a silver disk, hanging from a chain. Recognition was like a physical slap: she’d last seen Dareus wear that disk.

The captain scowled. “What’s that?”

“Diplomatic seal. From the Allied Kingdoms. Take a look, captain.”

Captain Jerzy kneed his horse closer and inspected the seal, then shot Rand a narrow-eyed glance, and, for the first time, ran his gaze over the rest of them. His eyes were full of suspicion.

“You need to let us pass,” Rand told him quietly. “For the good of Sault and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Captain Jerzy examined them all again. His gaze paused on Gretel, noting her sword, her short hair. Innis held her breath. What rumors had this captain heard? If he realized he was looking at mages...

Will he aid us, or try to kill us?

Innis summoned her shapeshifting magic, let it tingle beneath her skin.

Captain Jerzy’s gaze lingered on Justen for several seconds, then on Prince Harkeld. Was he trying to recognize a prince? Innis slid her boots from her stirrups, her magic spiraling even closer to the surface, stinging over her skin—ready to change into a lion—and the captain turned his head and bellowed: “Let them pass!”

The King’s Rider blocking the gate hesitated, then moved his mount aside.

Rand rehung the diplomatic seal around his neck. “Thank you.”

“Go with the All-Mother’s blessing.” A scowl still furrowed Captain Jerzy’s forehead. Innis realized the expression was mostly exhaustion and strain. How many weeks had these men been riding, trying to empty this corner of Sault, afraid Ivek’s curse would catch up with them?

She found her stirrups, but didn’t release her magic. It hummed in her bones.

“The curse is close,” Rand told the captain. “It passed through Delpy yesterday. And if it’s in Delpy, it’ll be in Hansgrohe, too.”

“Delpy?” Innis saw disbelief on the man’s face, followed by dismay. “Hansgrohe?”

“It’s moving fast. Three leagues a day, westwards. It’ll be here tomorrow.”

Captain Jerzy glanced at the frantic, bustling villagers, and back at Rand. His dismay had become something grimmer.
He knows most of these people won’t make it
.

“Head west,” Rand said. “Fast as you can.”

“We will.” The captain kneed his horse to one side. “Go!”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

A
FTER
N
IME, THE
press of refugees dwindled. The road was clear for long stretches, winding its way up dry hills tufted with tussock. Serril flew a mile ahead, and Petrus and Hedín circled above them. Most of the refugees were clearly harmless—the elderly, families with women and young children—but mid-morning, four men came into view, walking fast. Above them, a swallow swooped and dived as if hunting for insects. The bird’s feathers shimmered with magic. Serril.

Petrus and Hedín glided protectively lower.

Harkeld loosened his sword in its scabbard. He called up his fire magic and let it lie just beneath his skin, sizzling hot.

The eldest of the four men stepped in front of the wagon, forcing Bode to halt.

Harkeld tensed, and half-raised his hand.

“Turn back,” the man cried. “While you still have a chance!”

Harkeld’s gaze jerked between the four men. Who was going to hurl the first throwing star?

“Come along, Da,” one of the younger men said. “We don’t hurry, it’ll catch us.” He took the older man’s arm, tugged him. “We got no time to stop, Da!”

Harkeld didn’t lower his hand until the four men had gone from sight. Serril landed briefly. “There’s only one man between here and the plateau who looks possible. These are the stragglers, now.”

Stragglers, they were. Walking with their few possessions slung on their backs. The poorest of the peasants. The sickest and oldest.

“Do you think they’ll make it?” Harkeld asked Justen, riding alongside him.

Justen shook his head. “The curse’ll get most of ’em.”

Urgency prickled in Harkeld’s chest.
We need to travel faster!
But they were constrained by the pace of the wagon and its six barrels of precious, uncursed water.

The single traveler passed them, a gaunt-faced man with a sword belted at his waist. His glance at them was sharp, curious, but he didn’t pause, didn’t offer either greeting or warning, just hurried past.

Rand ordered Innis into the air. “Follow that one, make sure he doesn’t turn back.”