Bloodsongs (19 page)

She found the first body before she reached the outermost buildings. A sword wound cut deeply through the man's chest and up through his shoulder. His attacker, then, had been mounted. An expression of pain and despair made a frozen mask of his once handsome face. A shock of sandy-brown hair peeked out from beneath his garrison-issue helm. His lifeless hand still clutched the hilt of his weapon.

Frost swallowed hard. Whoever held the sword that killed this soldier, here was her son's handiwork. Kel na'Akian, he called himself. Kel Cold-blood, born of her loins. She cursed herself, and she cursed Kimon, though he was dead, for they were responsible for their son.

The soldier on the ground was not much older than Kirigi.

She swallowed again and thought of Soushane's people, who would never return to this damned place. With a sigh, she took out the gray leather gloves that were tucked into her belt and slipped them on. Gently as she could, she pried the sword-hilt from the young man's grip, though his fingers were stiff and reluctant to yield. Next, she took his hands in hers, cringing inwardly at the touch of his icy skin, and dragged him into Soushane.

As she passed the smoking remains of the first building, a shrill cacophony and a sudden rush of pinions made her jump. Inadvertently, she dropped the dead soldier and whirled, reaching for her sword. Startled carrion birds climbed for the safety of the sky. There were far more of them than she had imagined from the crest, and they scolded her furiously for disturbing their feast.

The carnage had been horrible to see in the darkness of night when only the uncertain fires showed the faces of the men who fought here. In the full light of day it sickened her. The sunshine stripped away the falsehoods of war. Here were no heroes or villains; here were no soldiers, no captains, no veterans, no recruits. Here was no victory or defeat, no glory.

Here were only dead men, dead women and children. The sun shone on their cold faces, on the hopeless and disbelieving expressions of people who knew with an instant's surety that there would not be another breath, another heartbeat, that death's hand had shut their eyes forever. There was pain, the agony of a sword thrust written plainly in the twist of a mouth. The searing touch of the fire reflected in the gleams of unseeing eyes—if the faces were not charred beyond recognition, and if the birds had not gotten to them yet.

Frost couldn't help herself. She braced her hands on her knees and vomited. She had eaten no breakfast, and there was little in her stomach, but what was there she surrendered.

She could not leave them like that. The birds were already settling back to resume their banquet.

There was no dignity in death. How many times had her teachers taught her that, and how many times had she taught it to others? Dead was dead. Once dead, then dead forever. Yet there was no dignity in living—not for her—if she walked away from this.

It was, after all, her son's handiwork.

Ashur plodded along beside as Frost went through the streets. One by one she dragged the bodies to the center of the town and placed them in neat, close rows. Citizen, soldier, rebel, it didn't matter to her. The children she placed in the women's arms with extra care. There was no way she could always match parent and child, but she hoped that somehow their souls understood the gesture. She sweated as she worked, and the sweat ran in rivulets and dripped onto a cold lip, an unfeeling cheek, a fear-wrinkled brow.

When she could find no others in the streets, she searched the town's grassy perimeter, then the remains of the fields. Some of the bodies were cooked so badly she could barely bring herself to look at them, let alone to touch them. Still, she swallowed the bile in her throat and bent to her task.

It was dangerous to search among the smoking ruins. There were wall remnants that promised to collapse in the next good wind, half-fallen roofs that were instant traps. But she moved purposefully among them. Somewhere in all the smoking rubble there had to be a flame yet burning, some small spark of fire to ignite the pyre.

A low, creaking groan caused her to look up. She leaped back, feeling heat close to her face. A lone standing beam, scorched and char-blackened, crashed to the ground. Sparks and ash and smoke rose in a tight, choking cloud. A hot ember caught on her sleeve, and she hurried to beat it off.

A small blue flame quivered ephemerally along the center section of the beam, then threatened to die. Quickly, she fell to her knees and blew a thin stream of air. The tiny flame brightened. She blew again, nursing the flame. The beam was too big for her to drag, and it was too hot. She glanced around desperately for some piece of rubble and found a broken, half-burned board. It took fire from the beam with only a bit of coaxing.

She had her brand at last. Cautiously, she made her way back to the rows of bodies, cupping one hand to protect her lambent treasure.

Among the corpses she had scattered bits of wood and charred materials that had cooled enough to touch. She doubted it was sufficient fuel, but there was nothing more she could do. She lay her torch to a pile of sticks and splintered boards. Slowly, the fire took hold. From that pile she took more brands and placed them among similar piles until a ring of small fires burned around the bodies. It was not enough, she saw. She took some of the brands and tossed them among the corpses, gratified when the clothing began to burn.

An odor rose thick in the air, a smell that made her sick once more. But her nausea only made her angry, for she realized that despite her efforts this was no decent funeral pyre, that the flames were not hot enough to accomplish their task.

Ashur nuzzled her shoulder, but it did not console her. The anger built as she watched the grisly, futile scene. The fires popped and crackled. Here and there, limbs seemed impossibly to stir, faces turned away. Strands of hair waved and floated on the shifting currents of heat. Garments flapped grotesquely.

The little woodpiles began to collapse, already half-consumed, their purpose unfulfilled.

Frost cursed again. She cursed herself and she cursed Kel. She cursed Kimon and the seed he had planted in her body. She cursed the night they had joined and the day of her son's birth. Clenched fists beat on her thighs. She ran to the closest ruin, drove her fist through the remains of a wall, and tore savagely at the thin, fire-weakened boards. The heat of them scorched her gloves; heedless, she hurled them with a manic strength into the midst of her pathetic pyre and returned for more. Her hands ached until she could barely curl her fingers. But it didn't matter. She cursed, and the cursing drove away the pain.

Then, a howling rose mysteriously in the east, a screaming that chilled her to the bone. She dropped the board she held and stared out beyond the town, uncomprehending.

A sweeping wind of terrific force flattened the last remaining structures. She uttered a choked cry before it blew her off her feet; she hit the ground hard, gasping for breath. An unearthly trumpeting filled her ears, sounding loud even over the whining of the gale. She rolled to her side, searching for Ashur. The unicorn stood face into the wind, head lowered, mane and tail streaming, fighting the element's unrelenting power.

But there was more yet to see and greater cause to wonder.

The sudden wind fanned the pyre, driving the flames higher, hotter, creating a swirling maelstrom of incinerating fury. The stench nearly strangled her; the heat toasted her skin until she covered her face with her hands and peered between her fingers. She could not see the bodies for the obscuring, shimmering blaze.

She fought up to her knees and crawled to Ashur's side. Her hands clutched around his legs and in his thick coat as she pulled herself to her feet. Dark smoke spiraled into the heavens. She clung to the unicorn, locking arms about his neck for support.

As suddenly as it began, it ended. The wind died, the screaming ceased. Only the fire continued as it fed efficiently on flesh and bone. It would burn for hours, perhaps even through the night.

She spat the dust from her mouth, quivering. The steppe winds were unpredictable, often devastating. They appeared without warning and dissipated as swiftly. But never had she experienced one of such force or seeming purpose!

She stared at the pyre. The wind had come, accomplished what she could not, and faded. Had it been a wind at all, or the breath of some god who favored her?

She covered her mouth and nose. The odor was too much to bear, and she was nearly sick again. She swung up onto Ashur's back. “Away!” she managed, coughing as the smoke swirled her way. She leaned close to the unicorn's ear. “By the god of all the hells, away!”

 

She rode long into the evening. The setting sun tugged the curtain of night over the earth, and the colors of day surrendered to gray shadow and gloom. The night breezes blew upon her face with a growing chill. Yet even the sharp gusts could not keep her eyes from sliding shut.

She caught herself as she started to slip from the unicorn's back. A voice somewhere in her head urged her to ride on.
Your son is thing mischief
,
it said,
and mayhem. Ride on! Ride on!
But her strength was gone. Her lids were heavy from the need to sleep. Her limbs felt like great weights. She dropped to the ground, feeling the shock through her knees and thighs. An outcropping of rocks to her left was the only shelter; she curled up among them and hugged her legs to her chest.

She had no cloak to ward off the cold, but her discomfort was short. Sleep claimed her almost at once.

The sunrise brought her gradually awake. Every part of her cried in miserable pain. She feared she couldn't move at all. Every muscle resisted her, stiff and unbending. Her legs burned as if they were on fire from gripping Ashur's saddleless back. Her hips felt bruised; her back and shoulders were unyielding knots of tension and fatigue. Her breasts throbbed, her arms cracked and popped when she tried to lift them. The cold of the hard ground penetrated her bones, made joints inflexible.

She rocked slowly on her back, rubbing the sorest places. With no one to see, she allowed quiet tears. Not since that night when she'd fled Dashrani had she hurt so! She'd toughened herself, she'd thought, made her body stronger.

Had she only fooled herself, or had age imposed some limitation on her?

She refused to accept that. She had pushed herself hard in Soushane, then had ridden much too long without rest. Of course her body protested and punished her.

Nearby, Ashur nickered suddenly and stopped chewing the mouthful of grass he'd been working on. Unmoving, he looked out over the steppe. The flames that were his eyes seemed to burn brighter. Frost forced herself to rise, ignoring the torment that movement brought. From the unicorn's side she gazed out and discovered what had startled her mount.

Far out on the flatland a patrol rode by. The red cloaks of Riothamus's soldiers fluttered against the blue morning. The king himself must be close, she reasoned, and with him a larger force. She grabbed Ashur's mane and urged him back into the shelter of the rocks. She was in no shape for an encounter if she was spotted.

Patiently she waited until the patrol was out of sight. Then, biting her lip, she tried to leap astride Ashur, but grating joints failed her. Instead, she clambered onto a low step where two rocks supported each other and called the unicorn close.

“Hold still, or I'll smack your nose,” she told the beast as she leaned out and gingerly swung one leg over his broad back. A twinge shot through her knee.

She'd been lucky, she thought as she started across the plain. She had few doubts about the king's memory; if the patrol had found her, she would have hanged. With Riothamus in the area her problems were doubled, and time was running out.

She rode stiffly, and each jounce brought a new kind of torture. There was nothing to do but endure it.

By noon, however, her aches and pains had eased a bit. Ashur ran a swift, straight course across the featureless land. Though he showed no other strain, a creamy lather slicked his glossy hide and saturated her breeches. It was but one more discomfort to annoy her.

But the frown she wore had nothing to do with such little complaints. She thought of her son. Five years had not dimmed her memories of him. Even as a child Kel had been calculating and methodical. There'd always been some purpose to his actions, and she was sure that had not changed. Why had he burned Soushane? Why all the other towns and villages? There had to be a pattern; she racked her brain to see it.

Yet what if it was not some purpose of Kel's? What if it was a plan of Oroladian's formulation? It might be the sorcerer who directed her son's actions. But again, to what end? All she felt sure about was that nothing had been done at random.

Unless, of course, Kel or Oroladian was mad. She knew nothing of the sorcerer, but she had talked with Kel. There had been anger in his eyes and hatred and cruelty. But she had not seen madness in them. And unless the years had changed him, her son was too shrewd to become ensnared in the machinations of a lunatic unless there was something tangible in it for him.

But again, there would have to be a purpose, some pattern.

If only she could see it!

By chance, she glanced to her left. A huge cloud of dust drifted on the horizon. Riothamus's army, she was certain. To judge from the patrol and the direction of the cloud, the king was on his way to Kyr. That put her safely out of their path for now.

How long, though, would it be before Illstar sold the information she had squeezed from him? How long before Riothamus followed her to Dakariar? She should have killed the old thief and shut his mouth. But there had seemed no need when only a handful of frightened gate sentries remained to guard the city.

Well, there would be plenty of soldiers to man the garrison now, and with Dromen's tongue to point the way, plenty more to come after her.

But they would come too late. Unless Dromen lied, Kel would be in Dakariar tomorrow night. Ashur would carry her there in plenty of time. Riothamus and his army would only just be arriving in Kyr.