Oathblood (43 page)

“Then again,” the leader continued, “if I were to rid myself of you troublesome little creatures right here, no one would ever know what I had done until spring. And by then, of course, it would be too late, I would be well away, and at least part of my plans would have been salvaged.”

Once again, Kira interposed herself between the man and her twin, although this time she made no effort whatsoever to look frail and pathetic. She felt detached from herself, and she watched everything he did as well as what he said, trying to predict what he was going to do in the next moment. What could she say or do that would make him leave them alone? She
knew
that all she needed was to buy enough time—

“You won't get a ransom without us alive,” Kira said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Father isn't stupid, and he isn't going to send ransom money without seeing us alive. You know that if you get rid of us, your men will know that, too, and they'll figure there's nothing to get a share of. They won't like that, and there's twenty of them and only one of you, and you've been awful mean to them.”

“Threatening me with the revolt of my own men?” The man sounded surprised, and his voice lost that faint trace of cruel amusement. “You're more dangerous than I thought.” His tone hardened and took on an edge Kira would only recognize later, much later, when she encountered another man the world called “fanatic.” “As it happens, ransom is the least of my interests. My intention is to prevent your filthy outland sister from sullying the purity of the Blood Royal by wedding the Prince of our land. Ransom is secondary, and always has been, a mere convenience to offset certain expenses. If I need to change my plans to exclude the ability to ransom you, I would not hesitate to do so.”

“You can‘t—” Meri began, then clapped her own hand over her mouth.

He leveled his gaze on her and she shrank to hide behind Kira. “I can, foreign child of a foreign whore,” he said conversationally. “And although I would prefer to do so without taking your lives on my soul, I am beginning to think you are too dangerous to leave on this side of eternal judgment.”

 

Jadrie moved in past the man relieving himself, creeping along on her belly like a rabbit under cover of the brush, freezing every time she heard a twig snap or thought she might have disturbed a branch. The hiss of liquid on snow covered her little mistakes, though, and it probably didn't hurt this man was still thinking more about the state of his stomach than about possible enemies. Now she was grateful for all of the hours spent learning to do this very thing, grateful that Tarma had taught her so well she could creep up on a dozing deer without waking it. Only when she was past the kidnapper and between him and the camp did she stand up.

Then
she began sneaking through the scrub the way a common child would—moving slowly, but not slowly enough, and disturbing plenty of twigs and branches on the way. Sure enough, the man saw her movement, then saw only a child trying to escape, and cursed, leaping to exactly the conclusion they wanted.

“Get back here, you brat!”
he spat—but not so loudly that he would alert anyone else. Jadrie knew why, another lesson in reading the state of an enemy camp. The leader of these men tolerated very little in the way of weakness, and nothing in the way of failure. This man and his fellows were already in disgrace because of their illness, and the leader's temper was in no fit state to be disturbed. The men were afraid of incurring further wrath, sick, and not thinking very clearly. This man, confronted by a harmless child running off, would not admit that he could not catch her himself. He would not raise a hue-and-cry, because that would cause the leader to punish all of them for allowing the child to escape in the first place. He would not want to waste time going back quietly for help—time in which the child
could
escape. He was like a coursing-hound with a rabbit starting up just under his nose; all of him focused on pursuit to the exclusion of everything else.

And
that
was what made this whole plan possible. Tarma and Warrl had already taken care of the sentries, but there was a camp full of men to be eliminated before the partners could effect a rescue. Jadrie had already played this ruse twice; this was the third time, and it continued to work.

At the first word, she looked back over her shoulder, and broke into a run. Reacting just like a hunting hound, the man remembered only that if the leader discovered the girl had slipped past him, he would be in horrible trouble, and sped after her.

She led him on a path she had already scouted, and to a destination of her own choosing, over the hill and into the valley on the other side. She looked back over her shoulder from time to time, but he wasn't putting on any unexpected bursts of speed.

Even if he does,
she thought, panting,
there's always Warrl.
Warrl, who was running alongside him, invisible in the darkness. Warrl, who could make a single leap and tear out his throat before he could shout....

But that wasn't where she was leading him; Warrl was only her backup. When he was far enough from the camp that no sound he would make could alert the other kidnappers, he learned that it isn't wise to run into unknown territory after even the most tempting of targets.

It was a lesson he would never profit by, however, though perhaps his ghost would be comforted by the fact that his teacher was the famous Need.

While her mother cleaned Need's blade, Jadrie went back in search of another victim, glad that it had been too dark for her to really see the end-game of each stalk. She wasn‘t—quite—ready for that. Better not to think about it for now.

Better concentrate on narrowing their odds. At some point—soon—the odds would be with them. She went back into the scrub and headed for the welcome yellow eye that was the campfire.

As she slipped through the brush, Warrl appeared beside her. She didn't start, perhaps because she had attuned herself so closely to these scrubby woods and her erstwhile partner that she had anticipated him before he actually arrived.

:Another,:
he said in her mind.
:This way.:

She followed him, as she had done the last two times. She suspected that he might be fiddling with the minds of their enemies, too subtly for detection. They certainly were drinking an awful lot of water, with the attendant requirement to go rid themselves of it. And they weren't thinking, either—or they would have noticed that three of their number had gone out and not come back yet.

But maybe Warrl wasn't doing anything. After being so sick, the men were surely very thirsty. Maybe it was just sheer luck.

Maybe she wasn't going to argue the point.

This time she lured her quarry to Tarma; that was her choice, when she had one. Tarma was only braining the men with a stout log; it was her mother, under the influence of Need, who was wreaking sheer havoc on the hapless enemy. Now Jadrie really understood some of the comments that Tarma had made in the past about the sword, and she was altogether glad that
she
wasn't going to inherit such a troublesome treasure. Granted, Need's abilities could come in handy, but the idea of an inanimate object that was so downright
bloodthirsty
made her feel more than a little sick herself.

The man looked up as she deliberately broke a twig, and sighed instead of cursed. “Little one—don't run,” he said with weary patience as she looked back at him. “There is nowhere to go, not even a shepherd hut for leagues and leagues. You are sick, you will die of cold. Come back to the wagon—”

She ran, glancing back. He shook his head and lumbered after her, still calling to her.

“I will catch you sooner or later,” he promised. “Then I will have to carry you back and lock you in. Do you truly wish to be locked in?”

She was a little ashamed at leading this fellow to an ambush, even if he was an enemy. He seemed to be the only one who was treating her friends with any sort of kindness.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a dull
thud
and the sound of someone crumpling into the brush and hitting the ground.

“Hated to do that, but better me than Keth,” Tarma whispered. “At least we know we saved the one decent one. Now go get me another, kitten, you're doing fine.”

 

Kira swiftly drew her tiny knife from her boot, and stared at the leader, menacing him as best she could. He looked down at the slender blade in mild surprise.

“Stay away from us,” she told him. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“What a pity I need to kill you, child,” he said. “You prove more entertaining by the moment.” He regarded her as he would have examined a particularly interesting insect, and she felt very much like a poor little bug that was about to be squashed.

I can't kill him
—
maybeifI hurt him, Meri can get away
—But she knew with a sudden sick feeling that she couldn't even manage that; maybe if she'd been older, bigger, maybe if she'd seen and done more, but not now. Not when she was too small to take him bare-handed, not when it wasn't a daydream, not when she knew what human blood looked like. Her hand started to shake.

I'll just keep him occupied long enough for Meri to run.
That was all she could manage.

He stepped toward her a pace, with his hands spread wide. He wasn't holding his own knife; he wasn't even trying to grab her. What did he think he was doing?

His next words told her. “So—let me see what you are made of. Let me see if a foreign child has half the courage of a Jkathan child.” His sardonic smile told her that he really didn't expect her to show even an ounce of courage. “Come at me! Do what you will! I will not even stop you! A child of
my
people would be at my throat like a mad dog by now!” His eyes taunted her. “What? Have you no stomach to make good on your threats?”

She brandished her knife at him, backing up into the brush, which crackled beneath her feet. Meri backed up with her, crazily staying behind her, even as Kira screamed silently at her to run while she had the chance.

He advanced, another slow step, then another. He laughed. “Use that little blade, girl!” he taunted.

She tried—she tried to force herself to stab at him, and she couldn't. She just couldn't.

Why is he doing this? To get me to come within reach so he can just break my neck?
She continued to back up, as he loomed between her and the camp, dark and menacing against the glow of the distant fire.

It struck her that he was enjoying himself. He
liked
seeing the terror on her face, liked feeling so completely in control of the situation.

“You're nothing but a big bully!” she shouted angrily at him. “You just want people to be afraid of you so you can feel important!”

“Little girls should not taunt their elders,” he admonished her. “And there are plenty of people who will fear me in the days to come. Think how privileged you are to be the first to taste that terror!”

In answer, she made an abortive rush at him, slashing her knife toward his face, but darted back when he reached out to seize her as she had expected he would.

At this point, she really wasn't thinking anymore. She was observing and reacting, at a level of analysis that was almost instinct, knowing that if she did
this,
he would respond with
that.
As long as she could keep this game going, they would live a little longer. As long as she could observe and react, she wouldn't crumble under the weight of her fear.

But it seemed that he was getting impatient, tired of the game, wanting to bring it to its conclusion.

“What? You dare not strike, even when you know I will kill you? Even when I swear not to defend myself?” A cruel chuckle emerged from his lips. “What a pity; I had even come to like you, a little. Oh, it would not have
saved
you, but I would see that you were properly buried and not left for scavengers. But since you haven't the courage of a jackal, it is fitting that you go to feed them. It is too bad that you have no stomach to use a weapon against another—”

He broke off his sentence to stare stupidly at the length of shining, pointed steel protruding through his chest.

“Fortunately,” Kethry snarled,
“We
don't have that problem.”

And as he fell, Meri and Kira ran to Tarma's outstretched arms.

“Come on, kittens,” she said as she gathered them up. “Let's go home.”

 

Children, kittens and puppies tumbled over one another in a shrieking, joyful mass in the middle of the nursery, a large room lined with shelves upon which resided the battered but beloved toys of a houseful of children. It was just as well that the toys had all been put away, for no doll or wooden horse could ever survive the melee of bodies in the middle of the room. At the moment, it was difficult to count how many there were of each species, but there was no doubt of how happy they all were. Warrl reclined at the sidelines, an indulgent and benevolent presence standing in for adult authority.

“Well, I don't think they're going to kill each other, and I do think your Midwinter present is a success, Tilden,” Kethry laughed, as three of the mastiff pups together broke from the mass and attacked Warrl's tail. Warrl ignored them, and after a few futile attempts to make the tail do something, the pups galloped back to the larger pile. Even the Archduke's eldest girl, the quiet scholar who considered herself an adult at thirteen, had joined in the romp.

“I was afraid you might be annoyed when I descended on you with more livestock,” their old friend replied, eyes twinkling. “But I could hardly have given the girls their pets and not have brought identical offerings for your brood.”