“That’s part of her method,” Torne explained at one settlement. “She seems innocent, but when you are not looking . . .” He spread his hands wide, allowing the settlers to come to their own conclusions. “Do you see this horse, and the coat she wears? Murdered a Green Rider, she did.”
Disturbed exclamations passed among the settlers. Just about everyone in the tiny community stood around the mercenaries and their captive. Visitors came seldom and they were hungry for news.
Karigan guessed these were all very decent folk, and she couldn’t blame them for their accusing, if not fearful, expressions. They had probably been victims of brigands more than once. Seldom did the king’s law pass through these isolated spots, except at tax time.
Torne was an adept storyteller, too. Despite the blatant lies, Karigan didn’t dare breathe a word. Jendara held her close with a dagger tip digging into her back. It was frustrating having people so close who could help her, but they had been turned against her by Torne’s words.
“Bad ’nough with groundmites crossing the borders,” one man muttered. He removed his leather cap and smoothed his hair back. “Don’t need our own kind killing and thieving.”
“Groundmites?” Jendara asked in surprise, echoing Karigan’s own thoughts. “Crossing the borders?”
“Aye,” the man growled. “Killed a family not five miles from here on the Putnal Trail. And not a sign of king’s soldiers anywhere. We sent one of our lads to the city to find help. The rest of us sleep uneasy with what weapons we have close at hand, and keep watch during the night.”
“Wise precautions,” Jendara said. “Groundmites crossing the borders . . .”
“Aye, worse still, some of our hunters found the carcass of an unnatural creature and its spawn.” Karigan snapped to attention as she listened. “We wouldna believed it were they not our finest woods folk who found it, and honest to the core. Whatever slew the creature must be even more dangerous. Sank its great fangs into the creature’s belly, it did. Makes you wanna believe the old minstrel tales of Mornhavon and the Blackveil Forest.”
Karigan wanted to laugh out loud. Maybe she ought to name her plain saber “Fang” the way the great warriors named their blades, or carried blades bearing long lineages and ancient names. If they only knew who had really slain the creature!
The crowd babbled about the old evil, ancient prophecies, and the Long War. Karigan became absorbed in her own thoughts. Estral, ever the fountain of information, had mentioned trouble on the borders. But groundmites? She had scarcely believed groundmites would dare leave their dens in the far north after they had been slain and scattered after the Long War with the fear of the League driven into their hearts.
Now she felt no disbelief that the groundmites, legendary minions of Mornhavon the Black, which were not quite human, but beastlike creatures that were terrible in battle, were roaming across Sacoridia’s borders. There was no room for disbelief—not after Immerez. Not after the creature of Kanmorhan Vane. Things were happening in the world, and her beloved Sacoridia no longer seemed very secure.
A tug on her coat snapped her out of her reverie. A little boy with tousled sandy hair gaped up at her with solemn brown eyes. He couldn’t have been more than six years old.
“You really kill someone?” he asked in awe.
Karigan glanced about. The settlers and the mercenaries were too deep in discussion to notice. She then looked down at the little boy. “No.”
“You lying?”
“No.”
“Din’ think so.” He grinned at her brightly, then ran off to join his mother who stood off a ways with a cluster of other women. She put a protective arm about his shoulders and scowled at Karigan.
Jendara and Torne were invited to share dinner with the settlers. Visitors bearing news from abroad were enough cause for celebration. The feast was held outdoors, for no dwelling in the area was large enough to hold more than a small family. Pots of priddle cream were passed around and smoke candles lit to stave off ravenous biters.
However, no one passed Karigan any cream, and she was tied to an ash tree out of range of the smoke candles, her mouth securely gagged with an old rag. As if to augment her misery, the smell of roasting meats drifted all around her. Her stomach roiled. The hard heel of bread Torne had tossed her earlier had done little to ease her hunger pangs.
One of the settlers stood guard a little way off. He seemed more intent on watching the festivities, his notched and rusted blade loose in his hand. She could hear music, mostly a simple pipe and drum, and laughter and clapping from dancing folk.
She allowed a few tears to trickle down her cheeks. If only she still possessed the winged horse brooch or the bunchberry flower.
How she missed the Berry sisters. And Estral, and her father. Where was he now? What was he doing? Was he searching for her, or did he assume her dead? Would she ever see him again? The tears poured down her cheeks now and she sobbed hard, gasping for air through the gag. She was so alone! How did she ever get into this mess? She would never wish for adventure again—she just wanted to go home.
Under different circumstances she might have found the night quite pleasant. A milky moon rose far above the trees, and stars speckled the sky. The laughter of the settlers had a homey feel, but only made her more lonely. She took a deep, rattling breath and blew it out her nose slowly. A soft breeze dried her tears and whispered of summer yet to come. It would have been easy to feel happy here, comfortable, if she hadn’t been tied to a tree and gagged.
I wish I could help you.
The words drifted to her as if upon the breeze. She looked wildly about her and strained to see behind the tree, but no one was there.
I—ish—help you.
Karigan sat up alertly.
I—you—danger—the road. We spoke—ger.
Karigan grunted through the gag, unable to respond.
—no strength—help now. Wish—could—elp.
Karigan squirmed, fighting against her bonds. Was it F’ryan Coblebay trying to communicate with her? Was she crazy to think she heard the voice of a ghost?
not—er—wish—help.
“Mmff fog elp wone ga me anna wheah!” was all she could say through the gag.
There was giggling all around her. Karigan looked up and all the young children of the settlement gazed at her the way they might at some intriguing beast at the Corsa Zoo. In the forefront was the little boy who had spoken to her earlier that day.
“Are you a muhdrer?” asked a tiny girl with her forefinger hooked in her mouth. “What’s a muhdrer?”
“Hush, Tosh,” the boy said knowingly. “She’s not a murderer. She told me so.”
“Maybe she’s crazy,” another boy said. “My old aunt was crazy and they locked her in the attic.”
The rest of the children were duly impressed.
“What’s a muhdrer?” the tiny girl asked.
“Means she killed someone,” the first boy said.
Karigan cleared her throat, and they all jumped.
The boy looked surreptitiously around, then gazed at Karigan with a very serious expression on his face. “You have to promise not to talk. Not loud, anyway.”
Karigan nodded emphatically.
The boy looked around again, then pulled the gag out of her mouth. She took some deep breaths, then said, “I didn’t kill anyone.”
The children jumped again at her voice, but they seemed willing to believe her.
“What are you all doing here? Won’t you get in trouble for talking to me?”
“Dad’s too sleepy. Drank too much cider.” Then the boy pointed to the guard whose back was still turned to them. “You gotta keep real quiet, ’member? Then we won’t get in trouble. We came to look at you.”
Now Karigan did feel like a strange beast in the zoo. “Well, then go away. I don’t like being stared at. It’s not polite.” The Berry sisters would approve.
The children giggled, especially when she made an ugly face. They skipped
away, chattering excitedly among themselves in hushed voices. They had done the forbidden by speaking to her, and were full of it. Only the sandy-haired boy remained behind, and Karigan now saw he held a dish heaped with scraps of food.
“I couldn’t eat it. You can have it.”
Karigan was about to compare herself to a beggar dog, but was too hungry to care. She lowered her face to the dish while he held it, and ate greedily. She licked the plate clean. She wasn’t even sure what it was she had eaten, but her stomach felt full for the first time in days.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
“Dusty.”
“Thank you, Dusty. Thank you.”
He smiled shyly, then without warning, stuffed the gag back in her mouth. He ran off to join his friends. Karigan watched after him with regret. She had been about to ask him to untie her. Except for one trip to the latrine to relieve herself, she had been left tied to the tree in the cramped position.
When morning came and Torne made her stand up, she nearly fell to her knees. He stood by impatiently while she rubbed some feeling back into her legs.
The greatcoat weighed more than before, and the pockets bulged against her thighs. When Torne wasn’t looking, she slipped her hands into a pocket and found it stuffed with what felt like dried meat, cheese, hard bread, and an apple. Dusty and his friends must have filled her pockets while she slept. They didn’t want to see her go hungry!
When she could finally walk without too much discomfort, Torne secured her wrists in front of her. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “One word from you, and Jendara’s knife will slide right into your back. Should I gag you?”
Karigan shook her head. One night of that foul gag in her mouth had been quite enough.
The three of them walked from the settlement with Torne in the lead, Karigan in the middle, and Jendara leading The Horse very close behind. The folk patted Torne and Jendara on the back, or shook hands, wishing them goodspeed. Karigan was wished a good hanging.
The children were there, too, and waved their good-byes emphatically. Karigan winked and smiled at her miniature benefactors in return. An angry father who noted the exchange threw a stone at her, which missed her shoulder by a handsbreadth, but she didn’t care. Even with the animosity of the settlers surrounding her and the grim outlook of days of travel with Torne and Jendara, something good had happened here: she had made new friends among the children when all others scorned her, and when she had been at her loneliest.
When they were out of earshot of the settlers, Torne chuckled. “Suckers. Feed ’em a story and you can get anything you want.” The Horse’s saddlebags were crammed with food. “Maybe we ought to do this sort of thing full time.”
Jendara shrugged her shoulders indifferently. “It’s annoying dragging a prisoner around.” She glanced at Karigan.
Karigan wondered, once again, who the two had been prior to becoming mercenaries.
WEAPONS
Karigan received her answer later that afternoon. The day dragged along until The Horse froze in his tracks, his ears laid flat. He sidestepped nervously and patches of sweat darkened his neck and flanks. Torne hauled on the reins as if he could forcibly drag The Horse down the road. When The Horse stayed anchored to his spot, Torne cursed and threatened him.
“He senses something ahead,” Karigan said, weariness weighing her words down. She could not have cared less if the mercenaries walked into some sort of trouble, but Torne’s hand was on the hilt of his sword and it looked as if he was going to use more than threats to move The Horse this time.
“Go on, Horse,” she said.
The Horse flickered an ear at her, but balked no longer. They walked on and soon discovered what had stopped him. Strewn across the road, and alongside it, was a jumble of bodies.
“King’s soldiers,” Jendara said without emotion.
In a flash, the mercenaries unsheathed their swords. That was when Karigan saw the black bands on their blades which marked the two as swordmasters. As such, they probably were, or had been, either tomb guards, or the king’s personal guards, truly an elite order of soldier. They took oaths which bound them for life to the royal family, and even beyond life. Some were bound to protect the dead in the Avenues of Kings and Queens from desecration, and to guard against potential grave robbers lured by the priceless relics of ages long past entombed with royalty. No too few guards were interred near their wards.
They were the finest swordfighters found in all Sacoridia. Arms Master Rendle had told her that such guards, even without their blades, were human weapons. In fact, they were often referred to as Weapons.
Karigan had been too shocked during the ambush to notice the bands on their blades before. Their status as Weapons explained their ineptitude in the wilderness, but not why they were now scraping around as mercenaries.
Weapons were revered for their skills, and though they did not live in absolute luxury, they lived at least as well as the lower nobility, in large houses with servants to attend to their needs.
Even after retirement, they held honored places in the king’s court. Many often became counselors to the king, or trained the next generation of guards bound to the royal family. Karigan found it hard to believe Torne and Jendara had left Sacor City and their privileges voluntarily.
Crows flew squawking into the trees as Jendara and Torne picked their way among the bodies. Larger carrion birds hopped, wings extended, only a few paces away. The Weapons checked pockets and packs of the dead for valuable trinkets or coins, but the two were out of luck. Whoever had slain the soldiers had done a thorough search already. The breeze shifted and Karigan gagged on the stench of rotting corpses.
“Looks like they were ambushed by groundmites.” Jendara sheathed her sword as if groundmites were no cause for concern.
“The Gray One has been busy,” Torne said. He beckoned for Karigan and The Horse to follow.
Karigan covered her nose and mouth with her hands, and tried not to look down, but she had to look where she stepped. Bodies lay twisted and entwined, and it was impossible to tell where one stopped and another started. Crawling beetles created a sense of movement among the dead.
The silver of uniforms glared in the sun as if to mock the pride and honor with which the soldiers had once donned the colors of Sacoridia. Grim faces bloated in the sun unseeing. Carrion birds had picked out their eyes.
Among the human dead were a few not-so-human remains. Karigan couldn’t tell if it was death that made the skin of these large creatures yellowish brown, or if it was their natural coloring. The skin was covered with patches of mud-colored fur. Open mouths, as if in the midst of howling at the moment of death, were armed with sharp canines. Their ears were pointed and furred like a cat’s. Groundmites.
Three human heads were impaled on lances by the roadside. What remained of a captain hung from a tree, his stomach split and gutted. Two black-shafted arrows with red fletching pierced his heart. Karigan vomited.
It took considerable time to coax The Horse across the corpse-strewn road, much longer than she could bear. She wanted to run, to leave the grisly scene far behind her. But she knew it would return to her in her dreams, no matter how far away she went.
“That horse would never survive a battle,” Torne said, watching the miserable Karigan tug on the reins.
“Greenies are worthless in battle.” Jendara’s voice was full of contempt. “They gallop across the countryside on horses, is all. I’m surprised they even carry swords.”
Karigan felt as green as her greatcoat, and kept walking even after she had come to the end of the carnage. The mercenaries trotted to catch up with her. Behind them, the carrion birds flopped back among the corpses to resume their feeding.
Karigan was sick several more times. Blood and gore clung to her boots and no amount of scraping them on the road seemed to rub it off. When a stream appeared alongside the road, she ran to it so fast that even quick Jendara could not route her. Karigan stood there in the st
ream, her eyes closed, willing the rush of water to cleanse her feet, and her mind.
“Back on the road,” Jendara ordered.
When Karigan opened her eyes, she was staring down the black-banded blade. Torne stood in the middle of the road, his head thrown back in laughter. “A murderer who can’t stand the sight of blood!”
Karigan ignored him and locked her gaze with Jendara’s. “Were you a tomb guard, or a king’s guard, Swordmaster?”
Jendara squinted, as if the glare off her own blade blinded her. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I do not guard the dead.”
“Then why do you betray the king?”
“I do not betray the king, not the rightful king.”
Karigan raised her brows. The only sound was the stream flowing around her ankles. Just what had Jendara meant by that? “There is only one king. Zachary.”
The blow was so fast Karigan didn’t see it coming. Jendara slammed the flat of her sword on Karigan’s collar bone and sent her nerves ringing with its force. She splashed to her knees, cold water soaking through her trousers.
“I serve the rightful king,” Jendara hissed. “Do not forget it.” She grabbed Karigan’s collar, hauled her out of the stream, and shoved her down the road.
Torne was laughing again, or perhaps he had never stopped. Karigan staggered after her captors, dizzy and empty from vomiting repeatedly, but relieved her boots, at least, were clean.
Days came and went—Karigan lost count of how many. Hands tied before her, she trudged along with the mercenaries. She was only able to keep on because of the food Dusty had slipped in her pockets. She nibbled at it when the mercenaries weren’t looking, or were asleep. Even with the food in her pockets, she dreamed of feasting on goose and fresh baked bread, of sugared apple fritters and sharp cheese.
One night while Torne snored on the opposite side of the campfire and Jendara sat at watch with her back to Karigan, Karigan slipped her hand into her pocket. Her mouth watered in anticipation and her stomach rumbled—Torne had given her nothing to eat all day.