The Blood Curse (5 page)

Another shiver crawled over his skin. He pushed away from the railing and strode across the deck, ignoring the mages, and clattered down the ladder to the dark, cramped hold. He lay in his hammock and stared up at the low ceiling. Another month and his task would be done, Ivek’s curse destroyed, the Seven Kingdoms saved.

The Fithians would stop hunting him.

He’d be rid of his magic. Rid of the mages.

One more month. One more month, and it will all be over
.

CHAPTER TEN

M
ID-MORNING, THEY CAME
to a town. Douw was its name. Karel sent the armsmen to ask questions at the gates. Dag returned shaking his head, and a few minutes later, tall Lief. “Nothing, sir.”

Karel waited, striving for patience.
Calm. Don’t fidget with the reins
. But his mount had caught his mood, shifting its weight from hoof to hoof.

A cross-shaped wooden structure stood to one side of the market square. The crossarm was made of two pieces of timber, with rusted hinges and round holes. It took a few seconds before Karel recognized it for what it was: a pillory.

A dog trotted across the market square, lifted its leg against the pillory, then sat and began scratching itself, its tail thumping in the dirt, a grimace on its face.

“You heard the one about Ma Grondal and her dog?” Dag asked.

The armsmen turned their heads and looked at him expectantly. Prince Tomas sidled closer on his horse.

“Well, Ma Grondal was fetching water from the well when the watch captain came up to her and said, ‘Ma Grondal, about your dog, you need to keep him tied up. Yesterday he chased a man on a horse.’

“‘Oh, that can’t have been
my
dog, captain!’” Dag placed his hand on his chest, fingers outspread, a gesture so feminine that Karel grinned.

“The watch captain said, ‘I’m certain it was him, Ma Grondal.’ And Ma Grondal said, ‘But, captain, my dog can’t ride a horse!’”

Karel laughed, turned his head, saw Ture trotting towards them, and sobered instantly.

“Six men and a covered cart, sir,” Ture said. “They took the east road.”

“When?”

“Yesterday, sir. Early afternoon.”

We’re gaining
. Karel glanced at the armsmen, counting them—four, six, nine. Who was missing? Solveig. He scanned the market square. It was hard to lose a man six feet tall with a long, blond plait down his back. “Anyone seen Solveig?”

“Pissing,” Bjarne said, with a jerk of his thumb, and sure enough, there was Solveig, half-hidden in the shade, pissing against a crumbling wall.

“You heard the one about the man who pissed on an ants’ nest?” he heard Dag say, as Solveig hurried back and swung up into his saddle.

Karel clicked his tongue, urging his mount forward. The dog stopped scratching and watched as they trotted past, harnesses jingling.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

B
RITTA SLOWLY WOKE
. The surface she lay on rocked and swayed beneath her. A rattling noise reverberated in her ears. Her eyelids were almost too heavy to lift. She saw brown fabric stretched above her head. For a moment she stared at it blankly, and then understanding arrived. She was in a cart.

She blinked gritty eyes. Her throat was raw, her head throbbing, her stomach aching, but it was daytime and she was awake. They hadn’t drugged her with All-Mother’s Breath.

Because they didn’t want her to die?

Britta closed her eyes and lay unmoving, exhausted, while the cart rattled and lurched its way towards Harkeld.
I can’t just let them take me to him. I have to fight, run away, do something
.

Run away? How could she run when it took effort just to lie here and breathe?

The cart halted. She heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel. A pause. Then the sound of fabric being drawn aside. The daylight came brighter. She had a sense that it was late morning. The cart swayed as someone clambered aboard. A face loomed in her vision. The Fithian with brown curly hair.

An emotion flickered across Curly’s face when he saw she was awake. Relief?

Curly cupped a hand behind her head and pressed the mouthpiece of a waterskin to her lips. Water trickled into her mouth, slid down her parched, painful throat.

Britta drank thirstily. Her stomach churned for a moment, uneasily, and then settled.

Curly gave a grunt, an almost soundless exhalation, and poured more water down her throat. Then he lowered her head, crawled out of the cart, closed the flap.

A few words, spoken too fast for her to hear. Footsteps. The cart lurched forward again.

Thoughts crawled in Britta’s head, slowly coalescing into a solid purpose. She must not let them drug her again.

S
HE DRIFTED IN
and out of sleep, while the cart rocked and swayed and rattled. Bait. Her thoughts kept returning to that word: bait. She was bait, and the Fithians were going to use her. How?

She remembered Jaegar’s words:
Harkeld was always fond of you. He’ll pause his little quest long enough to save you
.

Jaegar was right. Harkeld would try to save her. And the assassins would kill him. And Jaegar would use Harkeld’s hands and blood to hold the other kingdoms to ransom: yield sovereignty to him, or be overrun by the curse.

The movement of the cart lulled her towards sleep. With effort, Britta hauled herself back, focused. How to escape?

It would be easier if she was on horseback, not in a cart. But how could she make the Fithians give her a horse?

Her thoughts looped slowly, pondering this question. After a while, an answer drifted by: Carriage sickness.

T
HE CART HALTED
. The flap drew back. She caught a glimpse of sky. The sun was high. Noon. A Fithian clambered aboard. Not Curly this time, but the one with pox scars pitting his face. As well as a waterskin, he had a slice of bread and cheese.

Britta’s stomach squeezed with hunger.

She levered herself up on one elbow. Pox held out the waterskin.

Britta took several thirsty gulps. Water slopped down her chin.

Pox put the slice of bread and cheese down on the floorboards and turned to go.

Quick, while he’s still here.

Britta grabbed the food, chewed hastily—and gagged as best she could, spilling the half-chewed bread and cheese from her mouth.

Pox turned back, a frown on his face.

Britta retched again. Her stomach obliged with a genuine heave. She coughed, gagged, retched—and lay shakily back on the blanket, hugging her stomach.

Pox retreated from the cart, but the vehicle didn’t lurch forward. The flap opened again. Leader climbed aboard.

Britta closed her eyes. She tried to lie limply, to not tense.

She heard a faint sound, as if Leader breathed out through his nose with impatience, then a rustle, then the noise of someone jumping down from the cart, the crunch of boots on a gritty road.

Britta slitted her eyes open. The mess she’d made was gone; Leader had wiped it up.

T
HE CART STOPPED
again in the afternoon. This time it was Leader who brought the waterskin and food. Britta’s chest constricted at sight of his flat-cheeked face, his cold, gray eyes.
I can’t do it. He’ll know I’m pretending
. And then she saw the bandage on Leader’s right hand, where she’d bitten him yesterday.

The fear dissolved. A tiny sliver of glee took its place.
I hurt him
.

Leader thrust the waterskin at her.

Britta obediently drank.

When she lowered the skin, Leader held out a piece of bread.

Britta shook her head.

Leader’s face became even flatter, his eyes even colder. “Eat.”

Britta hesitated, then took the piece of bread. She bit into it.

Leader watched, narrow-eyed.

Britta chewed until the bread was paste in her mouth. Her fear returned, growing in her stomach, rising up her throat. Now was the moment, now she had to fool Leader.

I can’t
.

She’d duped her half-brother Jaegar, and Jaegar had been as dangerous as Leader, would have killed her just as easily.

Britta heard the memory of Karel’s voice in her ear:
You can do it, princess. I know you can
.

Britta pretended to swallow, to gag. She opened her mouth and spat the bread-paste out, coughing and heaving, hugging her stomach, then sank back on her blankets.

She risked a glance at Leader. He was staring at her, even more narrow-eyed than before. A gob of chewed-up bread had landed on his trews.

“Carriage sickness,” Britta mumbled, wiping her chin. She closed her eyes, trying to look wretched.

There was a long moment of silence. Leader was watching her, she knew. She felt his gaze boring into her. Her skin seemed to stretch tightly with apprehension. If he touched her, she would split open.

Leader made a rustle of movement. Britta flinched. Her eyes opened.

Leader’s back was to her. He swung down from the cart. She saw a wedge of sky before the flap dropped down. The cart lurched forward.

Britta’s tension slowly released. Her skin stretched less tightly, her stomach unclenched.

It took a few moments to realize that Leader had left the waterskin and the rest of the bread.

Bread.

Hunger cramped painfully in her belly, as if her intestines wrapped themselves around one another and squeezed. How much longer would she have to refuse food before they let her travel on horseback?

Britta closed her eyes, shutting out sight of the bread. She held tightly to Karel’s voice.
You can do it, princess
.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A
S DAYLIGHT DRAINED
from the sky, a village came into view. They rode through the gate at a weary trot and halted in the market square. Karel glanced around. Wooden houses, dirt streets. “Gunvald, find us an inn. Solveig, Lief, Bjarne, ask questions at the other gates. Meet back here.”

He dismounted stiffly and led his horse to the well at the center of the square. Hooves clopped on packed dirt as the rest of the armsmen followed.

The well was built of stone and had a small, peaked roof of slate tiles. Half a dozen battered tin cups sat on the rim.

Karel lowered the bucket to the bottom with a splash and hauled it up several times, filling the water trough. The horses snorted and shouldered one another, jostling for space, drinking thirstily.

Karel pulled the bucket up again, set it on the stone rim, and reached for one of the cups. He held it out to Prince Tomas. “Drink?”

“After you.”

Karel snorted under his breath. He might command this mission, but Tomas would always outrank him. He put the cup down in front of the prince and picked up another one for himself. He examined the square as he drank. A large bell hung from a post. Buckets were stacked upside down alongside. He looked at the bell and the buckets for a moment, then realized what they were: fire bell, fire buckets.

Karel drained the cup, and inspected the four corners of the market square. Had the Fithian assassins halted here? Drunk from this well? Had the princess?