The Blood Curse (26 page)

Innis raised the bow, nocked an arrow.

Harkeld shifted his weight forward, exhaled, focused. He couldn’t see the arrow leap from the bow at this distance, but he saw Innis reach for the next one.
Burn
. A tiny burst of white-hot flame flared alight halfway between him and Innis.
Burn
.

He was slower with his left hand. It hadn’t been obvious before, but it was obvious now. Not a lot slower, but enough that it made a difference. He tried to aim faster, but the harder he tried, the harder it became to focus his magic. The explosions of flame crept across the paddock towards him, each one a little closer than the last. Curse it. His heart was beating fast, his breathing was shallow, and despite the cold wind, sweat was forming on his face.
Too slow, too slow
—

His right hand instinctively reached out and incinerated an arrow, an easy flick of flame that required no thought, no effort.

“Rut it,” he said, out loud. “Stop a minute, Innis!”

Innis lowered the bow.

Harkeld drew his sword and gripped it in his right hand. Now, he wouldn’t be tempted to cheat. “All right!” he called.

She reached for an arrow, raised the bow.

Burn
. Harkeld tried to relax into the exercise, to not focus so intently, to let instinct rule, not effort. For the first few arrows it seemed to work—
burn, burn
—and then he noticed that the explosions of flame were creeping closer to him again. He concentrated harder, tried to speed up.
Burn. Burn.
Sweat stung his eyes. His grip on the sword hilt was so tight his fingers were cramping. The arrows were getting closer. Much closer. Any closer and they’d—

He dropped the sword and used his right hand. There was a loud crack of sound, a bright flare of white and yellow flame, then silence.

At the other end of the paddock, Innis lowered the bow.

Harkeld and Bode and Gretel looked at each other.

“I think we all got that one,” Gretel said.

Harkeld nodded. He bent and picked up his sword, sheathed it, flexed his cramped fingers, shook out his hand. “Can one of you tie my hand behind my back?”

The orange in the sky was fading. Another ten minutes and it would be too dark for this exercise.

Harkeld stared at the smoke stain in the sky while Bode tied his hand to his belt with a leather cord.
I need to not try so hard. Not get tense.
But it was impossible
not
to get tense when there was an arrow leaping across the paddock at him.

Bode stepped back.

So what if I miss one? Doesn’t matter. Bode and Gretel’ll get it
.

Harkeld planted his feet, blew out a breath, and gazed down the paddock at Innis.

“We’re ready,” Bode called.

Harkeld watched Innis reach for an arrow.
Relax
, he told himself.

They practiced while the light faded from the sky. Harkeld kept his attention on Innis, on the movement of her hand reaching back for each new arrow, kept his attention on his breathing, slow and steady.
Burn. Burn.
He was still a little too slow. Bursts of flame crept across the paddock towards him, a gradual advance.
Burn
. An arrow flared alight two thirds of the way up the paddock.

Innis lowered the bow. “That was the last of the arrows,” she called. “Do you want to burn the bow?”

Not with Innis holding it. Not if he was using his left hand. “No,” Harkeld shouted back.

Bode untied the leather cord. “Better that time.”

“Better,” Harkeld conceded. “But still not as good as my right hand.”

“But good enough to save your life. Or someone else’s,” Gretel pointed out.

He glanced at her. “True.” He didn’t have to be perfect with his left hand. Not yet. Just enough to save a life.

They walked back across the paddock together. Harkeld’s jitteriness was gone. He felt tired, not edgy. He glanced around at the dark humps of hillocks and gullies. The curse had emptied this plateau, and the emptiness made it safe. Anyone still alive would stand out. The shapeshifters would see them from miles away.

They clambered over the stone wall into the next paddock, where the horses were picketed. Bode tripped on a rock, putting out a hand to catch himself.

“You all right?” Gretel asked.

Bode climbed to his feet and grunted a laugh. “Horseshit.” He held up a palm dark with dung. “Just wash it off.” He veered away from them, towards the creek.

“Is that safe?” Harkeld asked.

“As long as he doesn’t drink the water.”

Even so, he watched Bode out of the corner of his eye. The fire mage crouched at the creek and washed his hands. Malle and Adel were there, too. They seemed to be talking, Bode asking questions, Malle answering.

Serril and Rand were at the fire. The smell of food made Harkeld’s mouth water.

“How’d it go?” Rand asked, filling a bowl and handing it to Gretel.

“Moderately well,” Harkeld said.

“Flin’s too hard on himself,” Gretel said. “Extremely well, is what he meant to say.”

Harkeld shrugged and sat alongside Gretel. Where was Innis? He frowned and looked around. There she was, putting away the bow.

“Flin.” Rand handed him a bowl of stew.

“... still have no idea how he did it.” The voice was Malle’s. “It’s bound so tightly to the water as to be inseparable from it.”

Harkeld stirred his stew, blew on it, watched as Malle and Adel and Bode sat opposite him. Bode held his hands out to the fire to dry them.

“No luck?” Rand asked.

Malle shook her head. “It’s quite a puzzle. In theory it should be possible to unbind the curse from the water. What can be done can almost always be
un
-done. But I can’t do it, and Innis can’t, and—”

“Bode,” Gretel said sharply. “Your hand!”

Everyone’s attention jerked to Bode, with his hands held out to the fire. The curse shadow around his right hand was thick, dense, black.

“What—?” Bode said, but even as he spoke the blackness flowed up his arm like a tide. He lurched to his feet. “I’ve got the curse!” He swung to the nearest mage, Adel. “Kill me!” he screamed.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

T
HE BLACK SHADOWS
enveloped Bode’s head. He stood motionless for the space of one heartbeat, then uttered a sound that made the hairs on Harkeld’s scalp rise—guttural, edged with insanity. His hands reached for Adel, claw-like.

Adel scrambled backwards, panic on his face.

Harkeld dropped his bowl and lunged to his feet, snatching for his sword.

A sword swung out of the darkness, reflecting the firelight, and cleaved Bode’s skull in half.

Bode swayed, and fell solidly, scattering embers.

Harkeld stood frozen with shock, unable to speak, unable to move. After a moment, he remembered to breathe. The smell of blood filled his mouth and nose.

His eyes fastened on the person who had killed Bode. Serril, his face grim.

Still no one spoke. The only sound was Adel’s gulped breaths, half-sobbing, half-panting.

Harkeld looked for Innis. She stood near him, both hands pressed to her mouth.

An owl swooped down, scattering more embers, and changed into Petrus. “What in the All-Mother’s name just happened?”

“The curse infected Bode.” Rand’s voice sounded rusty. “Somehow.” He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed the heels of his hands to them, as if trying to erase the sight of Bode lying dead.

“He washed his hands in the creek.” Malle pushed to her feet, her movements agitated. “But that shouldn’t have done it! I’ve touched it, and Adel, and Innis and Rand! I don’t see how...” She turned to Bode’s body.

“It started with his right hand,” Gretel said. “I saw it.”

“I did, too,” Harkeld said.

“Then let’s examine him.” Rand lowered his hands. “Serril... thank you.”

The big shapeshifter shook his head.

Rand cautiously approached Bode’s body and crouched.

Harkeld looked at Innis again. Like him, she hadn’t moved. Her hands were still pressed to her mouth.

He crossed to her and hugged her. His arms and legs moved stiffly, as if shock had thickened his joints.

“Promise me you will never touch that water again.” His voice was gritty, harsh. “Promise me, Innis. You’ll
never
touch it again.”

She nodded against his chest. He felt her trembling and tightened his grip on her.

“There’s a small graze on his knuckles,” Rand said. “Fresh.”

“He fell over,” Gretel said. “Maybe five minutes ago. Just before he washed his hands.”

Rand tipped his head to look up at Malle. “Could that have done it?”

“It’s a blood curse.” Malle paced, agitated. “It infects the blood, that’s how Ivek crafted it. But the water’s meant to be
drunk
. No one ever thought it could do anything like
this
.” She stopped pacing, took a shaky breath, pressed her hands to her temples, as if trying to hold her skull together. “I beg your pardon, Rand. Let me think about this. If there was an open wound, a
fresh
open wound... and if water got into the wound... I suppose it’s possible the curse could infect a person’s blood.”

“No supposing about it,” Serril said flatly.

“No.” Rand levered himself slowly to his feet. He looked haggard. He gazed down at Bode and sighed. “Let’s bury him.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

T
HE ASSASSINS HALTED
at dusk in a wide, muddy cleft between two outcrops of rock, out of the wind. Others had sheltered here; the ground was churned with hoof prints and scattered with the blackened remnants of old campfires.

Plain untied the rope that fastened her to the pommel, led her to a spot away from the horses, pushed her down to sit. Britta surreptitiously examined her bound wrists while the Fithians unloaded the horses. Had she cut halfway through the rope?

No. Not halfway. Not even a quarter. Not even—if she were honest with herself—an eighth.

Britta gritted her teeth. Another stone, that was what she needed. A stone that was sharper, one that would cut through the coarse rope like a knife.

Her gaze wandered across the muddy ground. Pebbles. A discarded horseshoe. Charred sticks. Ash. A ring of blackened stones. Barbed twigs from thorn trees. More ash.

Her eyes skipped from pebble to pebble, stone to stone, looking for one that was broken, looking for a sharp edge. Around her, the Fithians attended to the horses. There was an edge of dampness in the wind, as if a squall might come through. The boy was busy building a fire, working with quiet, unsupervised efficiency. Britta watched him for a moment, then resumed her search. There
must
be something sharp here. A stone. A nail. A piece of broken crockery. Anything. Her gaze skimmed across the cold ash of someone else’s campfire, a yard to her left—and halted. Was that a discarded arrowhead?

Britta’s heart beat faster. Yes. An arrowhead, half-buried in old ashes.

An arrowhead would be as sharp as a knife. An arrowhead would cut through rope easily.

She glanced around. None of the Fithians had noticed the arrowhead, and soon it would be too dark for them to see it.

Britta let her gaze slide back to the arrowhead. She stared at it hard, marking its position, then looked away. The boy had lit the fire and was setting a pot on a tripod over the flames.

Should she inch her way across to the ashes and make a stealthy snatch at the arrowhead? Or wait?

Instinct told her to wait. Usually, wherever she sat was where she slept. It would be easy to roll over in the night, sift through the ashes with her fingers, hide the arrowhead in her cloak. If she was quiet enough, careful enough, the sentry wouldn’t notice.

But what if the Fithians decided she should sleep closer to the fire tonight? Or closer to the sheltering overhang of rock? Or—

The boy was watching her while he unwrapped bundles of food, with the puzzled expression he wore whenever he looked at her.

Britta stiffened, and forced herself to relax, to smile at him.

The boy looked hastily away.

She watched him for several minutes, but he didn’t look at her again. Who was he? What was his background? Why was he with the Fithians?