The Blood Curse (25 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

B
LOEDEL WAS BUILT
on both sides of a ravine. The ravine marked the border with Sault. The gate guard said that a party of seven horsemen had arrived at dusk the previous night. One of the men had been riding a piebald mare.

Karel tossed him a coin. “How many gates does Bloedel have?”

“Uh... eight, sir. Counting this one.”

“Where’s your market square?”

“Other side of t’ ravine, sir.”

Karel sent armsmen to check the town gates and waited in the market square, trying not to let his edgy impatience infect his mount. Prince Tomas didn’t bother to hide his impatience. He paced the dusty ground, kicking stones out of his way. “How can you stay so cursed calm?” he demanded.

Karel shrugged.
Because I have to.

Prince Tomas’s gaze fastened on something behind him; he stopped kicking stones. Karel turned his head. Lief, returning from the southern gate. The tall armsman shook his head. “Nothing.”

Gunvald, Dag, Solveig, Ture, and Arvid all reported the same news. Karel built a map of Bloedel in his head; only the north-eastern gate remained.

The prince resumed kicking stones.

A buxom housewife bustled past, a gray goose clamped under one arm. Dag’s eyes followed her until she disappeared from sight. “Have you heard the one about the lord and his goose?” he asked.

Prince Tomas swung towards him. “No.”

“Well, there’s this lord, see, and he comes home to his wife and he’s holding a goose. The lord says, ‘This is the dog I lay with every night.’ And the wife says, ‘That’s not a dog, ’tis a goose.’ And the lord says, ‘I wasn’t speaking to you.’”

Prince Tomas groaned and shook his head. “Why do I listen to you, Dag?”

Dag shrugged, grinning.

“Here comes Bjarne,” Solveig said.

They all turned to look. Bjarne rode across the market square. He was frowning.

“What?” Karel said. “They didn’t leave through that gate?”

Bjarne tilted his head in a movement that was neither nod nor shake. “Not sure, sir.”

“What do you mean, not sure?” Prince Tomas demanded.

“I mean that a party of nine left this morning. Nine.” Bjarne swung down from his mount. “Eight men, one riding a piebald mare, and a young lad on a pony.”

Silence met these words.

“Nine,” the prince said, turning to Karel. “Nine?”

Karel turned possibilities over in his head, frowning. “When did they leave?”

“Just after dawn.”

Less than two hours ago.
We’re close!
But was it the right party? Nine travelers, not seven...

Karel shuffled through the possibilities. Why nine? Why now?

“What do you think?” Tomas asked.

“They stayed the night,” Karel said. “Which means that either they put up at an inn—or there’s a Fithian house here.”

The prince glanced over his shoulder. “Fithian house?”

“Bloedel’s large. A border town, on a crossroad. Perfect place for one.” Karel rubbed his forehead, still thinking. If there was a Fithian house here...

“We could look around,” Lief said. “Ask questions.”

“We could,” Karel said. “But we run the risk of alerting the Fithians we’re here.” Was the risk worth it? They were so close to their goal, now.
Two hours from the princess!

If it had been her on the piebald mare.

He shoved his hands through his hair, thinking. Princess Brigitta could be right here, in Bloedel. Or she could be miles away. He lowered his hands, turned on his heel, scanned the market square, the buildings, the rooftops—and made some decisions.

“Dag, Bjarne, Lief, Solveig, ask questions at the inns. Discreetly. Not pushy, not drawing attention to yourselves. Casual conversation, casual questions, that’s all. Gunvald and Ture, you’re with me and the prince. We’re looking for men who keep pigeons. The rest of you, you’re looking for piebald mares. They may have sold it. Check the stables, check anywhere you can think of. Meet back here in one hour.”

The armsmen dispersed. “Sire, Gunvald, take the western half of the town. Other side of the gorge. Ture and I’ll do this side. Be careful. If there is a Fithian house, if they think you’re looking for it, you could end up with a throwing star in your back.”

Karel watched them go.
I hope neither one of them gets killed here.

He shook the thought aside and headed across the market square, examining the sky, examining the rooftops, looking for pigeons, Ture close on his heels.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

“T
HEY ARRIVED LAST
night, stayed at a Fithian house, left this morning with two extra people. A man and a boy.” Karel met Prince Tomas’s eyes. “You agree?”

“I agree.”

“Who are they, sir?” Bjarne asked. “The man and the boy?”

“My guess is the man’s Fithian. The boy?” Karel shook his head, shrugged. “Recruit? Prisoner? We’ll find that out when we catch up with them.”

He swung up into the saddle and clenched the reins in his hand. Seven assassins to deal with now, not six.

The advantage is still ours
, Karel reminded himself. They outnumbered the Fithians nearly two to one. And the assassins didn’t know they were behind them. “Let’s go.” The horse caught his excitement and pranced a few steps.

They rode through the gate at a sober pace. Karel raised his hand to the gate guard. A man with a wooden leg, leaning heavily on a stick, watched them go, his expression sour, as if he dreamed of days when he’d had two legs.

Karel urged his mount to a canter. The road stretched ahead. The princess had traveled this way only a few hours ago.
So close
.

They’d catch up with her soon. Not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but definitely the day after that.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

A
NEW
F
ITHIAN
had joined them. It was easy to find a name for him: Red. Beneath the bright, curly hair he had a face made for smiling. He didn’t look like an assassin. But he carried a throwing knife strapped to his belt, and a sword, and there was a hardness in his eyes when he looked at her, a hardness to his mouth. Yes, he would kill her without hesitation or remorse.

Red had a child with him, a boy no more than eight or nine years old, wearing a miss-match of clothes. The boy carried a throwing knife too, and a small bow. An apprentice assassin?

The boy rode by Red’s side and didn’t speak much, but Britta caught him looking at her several times, his expression quizzical, as if trying to figure out who she was.

Who are you, child? Where is your family?

Harkeld would have looked like this boy, when he was young. The olive tone to his skin, the dark brown hair, the hazel eyes bright with intelligence. Did the child have any understanding of what Fithians were? Did he know he would become a killer if he stayed with them?

When I escape, I must take him with me.

But, no, she couldn’t. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms hung in the balance, tens of thousands of lives. Her own survival was irrelevant, this boy’s survival was irrelevant. All that mattered was that Harkeld lived long enough to end the curse.

I must escape. I cannot be the bait to catch Harkeld
.

Whatever the Fithians planned, it would be cunning. And deadly.

Britta glanced at Plain, riding alongside her, holding her reins. She bent her head and scratched her nose, and carefully fished the broken stone from her cloak pocket.

T
HE ROAD WOUND
its way up a stony hillside. Britta let her gaze drift across the hill, while her hands worked furtively, sawing the rope that bound her wrists to the pommel. She saw stunted thorn trees and outcrops of rock. Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.

A gray thunderhead loomed over the line of hills. It looked like an anvil, squat and asymmetrical. A damp, cold wind swept down from the east, whimpering between the rocks, lifting her cloak, exposing her hands. She jerked a glance at Plain. Had he seen the stone she clutched?

No. Plain was scanning the road ahead, his eyes narrowed against the wind.

The wind grew stronger, tugging at her cloak, uncovering her hands again, flipping her hood off her head. Too risky to keep sawing.

Britta slid the stone into her cloak pocket, but the wind caught the fabric, made the cloak billow like wings around her, and the stone tumbled to the ground.

She almost cried out—and clamped her tongue between her teeth.
Draw no attention
. But she couldn’t stop an anguished backwards glance at the road, at the stone.

A sinewy gray mare followed behind her. Its rider was watching her. Killer. Britta shivered, a shiver that had nothing to do with the wind. She turned her head and stared at the road, but she could still see Killer’s eyes, see the edge of madness, see how much he wanted to kill her.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

H
ARKELD RODE TENSELY
, his hand resting on his sword hilt. Ivek’s curse surrounded them. The sense of danger, of threat, was palpable. He smelled it in the smoke-scented air, tasted it in the back of his throat, acrid.

But the day passed without incident. They encountered roaming flocks of goats, rode through abandoned hamlets, skirted a burning village that Petrus said was Delpy, saw empty farmhouses in empty paddocks. Innis, and later Petrus, flew overhead, keeping close watch on them, while Serril roamed miles ahead, miles behind, scouting.

They halted just before dusk. Smoke smeared the sky. Harkeld dismounted and examined the paddock, the creek, the crooked stone walls, the twisted thorn trees, his hand still on his sword hilt. He felt on edge, certain that at any moment something terrible would happen.

He unloaded the horses and helped pitch the tents. Gretel crossed to him as he was banging in the last stake. “Want to burn some arrows before it gets dark?” she asked.

“Yes.” And maybe it would burn off some of this nervous energy. He raised his voice, “Rand, you remember those cheap arrows Cora bought? You know where the last hundred are?”

“I do,” Innis said. “I’ll shoot, if you like. I was Justen when you did it before.”

They set themselves up in the neighboring paddock. Harkeld stood with his right hand behind his back and his left hand slightly raised. Bode and Gretel were off to one side. Innis was at the opposite end of the paddock, a quiver slung over her shoulder. Behind her, the sky looked like a giant, smoldering fire: swirls of orange clouds, streamers of smoke. “Ready?” she called.

“Ready.”

Innis started as she had in Ankeny, letting the arrows arc up into the sky.
Burn. Burn.
His magic incinerated the arrows, leaving small puffs of smoke and specks of ash drifting down. After he’d burned half a dozen, she began reducing the angle. Soon the arrows were speeding past him.
Burn. Burn.
He wasn’t quite as deft as he was with his right hand, but he wasn’t struggling either.

Innis lowered the bow. “Shall I aim at you?” she called.

He looked at Bode and Gretel. “Ready?”

The fire mages stepped forward and positioned themselves ahead of him and to the right. Bode cupped a hand to his mouth, “Go, Innis.”