The Blood King (15 page)

Free her! Tris shouted to the darkness, but there was no reply. His feeling of dread grew steadily stronger. Kait’s image grew dimmer, though her hand was pressed against the glass and her eyes begged for his help.

Show yourself! Tris demanded, but again, no answer came.

He found himself blinking at the light of Royster’s candle as the librarian bent over him worriedly. The fire in the hearth had died, and Tris knew the night was far spent.

“You saw Kait again, didn’t you?”

Tris realized that his hands were shaking. His shirt was wet with sweat, and his heart pounded. “It was so real. I could see her face pressed against the glass. I heard her crying for help.” Haltingly, he found the words to recount the rest of the contact. Royster listened intently, frowning.

“It was real. I’m not a mage, but I’m sensitive to the working of magic. I felt the magic myself, that’s why I came. You say that Arontala laid a spell over the palace to drive out the ghosts that protected your father?” At Tris’s nod, Royster thought for a moment, then moved to the books that lay on a table in Tris’s room. He set down his candle and paged through the yellowed volumes, muttering to himself. Finally, he motioned Tris to join him, and ran his finger beneath a passage in the diaries of the Obsidian King.

“Look here,” Royster said. “This tells about how the Obsidian King, who was a great Summoner, started to draw on the spirits of the dead for power. At first, he drew from them to work magic that helped them. But later, as he turned to the darkness, he drew from unwilling spirits to enhance his own magic. At the end, he slaughtered captives, and then bound their spirits so that he could draw on them for a reserve. He fashioned a great crystal orb in which to capture souls and hold them until he could draw from their life force for his power.”

“The Soulcatcher,” Tris murmured, remembering the glowing red orb in Arontala’s library that he glimpsed the night of the coup; the same red fire in the crystal pendant around Alaine’s neck in the Citadel.

“When your grandmother fought the Obsidian King, the Mages of the Light opened a doorway to the abyss, so that Bava K’aa could drive him into the void, and he would be trapped in the abyss forever.”

“But she didn’t.”

“No. Because of her love for Lemuel, for the mage whose body the Obsidian King possessed, Bava K’aa could not bring herself to destroy the orb. That orb is what you call Soulcatcher. Bava K’aa gave it to the sons of Dark Haven—the vayash moru—to guard. The currents of magic run strong below Dark Haven, and the Flow runs through the foundation of the great house itself. So the Obsidian King remained trapped in the orb, in Soulcatcher, on the edge of the Abyss all these years, waiting to be freed.”

“Then Kait’s spirit is in the orb, for the Obsidian King to feed on when he breaks free?” Tris asked, the horror of it dawning on him as he framed the words. “The spirits he’s trapped in there with him, he’s going to feed on them to get the power he needs—”

“To make the transfer,” Royster finished. “Yes. That is why you must reach Margolan before the Hawthorn Moon. The Obsidian King was bound on the night of the Hawthorn Moon, and only on that night can he be set free. And may the Lady go with you.”

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” GO ON AND have your fun—we’ll hold the border.” Harrtuck grinned and slugged Soterius in the shoulder. As the time came closer for Soterius and Mikhail to leave Principality, Harrtuck moved the mercenary companies to the Principality border. The refugee fighters and the professional soldiers regarded each other warily. But Soterius’s stories of fighting the ashtenerath fighters had been enough to get the interest of the mercenaries, who doubled their evening guard.

“Just wait to open the new casks of beer until we get back!” Soterius rejoined, making an effort to cover his apprehension.

“Once the ashteneratb showed up, Staden’s coun-cil certainly didn’t mind deploying the mercs along the border.” Harrtuck said, with a nod toward the mercenaries who were now camped between the refugee settlement and the Principality border.

“I’m still hoping we don’t need your troops to move onto Margolan soil,”

Soterius said.

Harrtuck quickly sobered. “I’m with you, m’boy. If those fighters of yours kick ass they way you say they will, then I’ve got a cozy job coordinating the merc commanders. While Jared’s expecting an attack, we’ll keep his troops from

‘wandering’ into Principality territory.”

They both knew the other half of the “if.” If Soterius did not succeed in raising a large enough band of strike-and-hide fighters from among the deserters and discontented in Margolan, then it would be up to the mercs to engage Jared’s army, and the effort to put Tris Drayke on the Margolan throne would move from stealth attack to open war. Should the Principality mercs be needed, Soterius knew that Isencroft would also deploy its troops, now held in readiness along its border. Dhasson, bottled up by Arontala’s magicked beasts for months, had its own reasons to wage war against Jared the Usurper should the beasts be dis-pelled. Eastmark was unlikely to remain neutral when Kiara was the niece of Eastmark’s king, daughter to his favorite sister. Nargi and Trevath were likely to enter any war as Margolan’s allies. If the gambit to destroy Arontala and depose Jared by stealth failed, the alternative was war—and the specter of unrestrained blood magic through the power of a reborn Obsidian King.

In the two weeks since the last strike, Soterius had trained his refugee fighters hard. Tadrie and Sahila had recounted the attack of the ashtenerath. After all they had witnessed of the murders and atrocities committed by Jared’s troops, the refugees believed

Sahila’s account of the ashtenerath without ques-tion, and with less terror than Soterius expected. Esme backed up Sahila’s story, and when the healer was through explaining how Arontala created his ashtenerath, the shift in the refugees’ attitude was palpable. Through their tears and grief at the thought of missing loved ones being tortured and altered into beast-like weapons, Soterius had felt a hardening of purpose. Almost overnight, the refugee camp became a base camp for the war. Any men healthy enough to train—as well as the strongest and most fit women—came forward to add to the numbers of Soterius’s fighters.

The rest of the camp organized itself with the help of Sahila’s and Tadrie’s wives. The two women, already leaders among the refugees, used their skills to marshal the refugees. Old women and children mended the armor, tents, and packs Sahila pur-chased from the mercs. Others sewed the black tunics, trews, and cloaks that would provide cam-ouflage. Blacksmiths set to honing the blades of sickles and knives, or to producing hundreds of razor-sharp arrowheads. Boys too young to fight made arrows, filling quiver after quiver, or willingly stuffing and restuffing the targets that the fighters-in-training used in their dawn-to-dusk training.

“As strange as this sounds, I think this has been good for the camp,” Harrtuck observed, looking over the bustling tent city of refugees. “Look at them—they’ve got a purpose. They’re not waiting to die, the way they were when we got here.

By the Whore! All but the suckling babes have something useful to do—and the hope of going home. That’s no small gift you’ve given them, Ban.”

“If it’s a gift, it’s a bitter one. We’ve got to keep a full scale war from happening, Tov. I’ve no desire to see your merc army waging war on Margolan soil.”

“Aye, you’re right there,” Harrtuck agreed. “I’m happy as anyone to be the back-up plan. And I hope to the Lover and Whore that we’re not need-ed to step foot across the border. On the other hand, many a barroom brawl’s been prevented by having the biggest, burliest guards stand where everyone can see them. That’s something I’ve seen with my own eyes!”

Soterius grimaced. “You and Vahanian. Spare me the details. My question is: now that they’re paid for and outfitted, can you keep your mercs from spoiling for a fight?”

Harrtuck nodded. “Principality mercs are the best disciplined, best led mercenaries in the Winter Kingdoms. Nothing like the moth-eaten vermin you’ll find elsewhere. Several of the commanders are from Margolan themselves, and no small num-ber of the troops. They’re taking this personally.

“Hell, I found a couple of the men Vahanian and I fought with ten years ago who have man-aged to keep their heads on their shoulders and the rest of themselves in one piece. Didn’t hurt that they remembered Jonmarc and knew what happened at Chauvrenne. He’s a bit of a legend in some quarters. So having Jonmarc on our side won us points.

“The mercs who knew us then are commanders now, every bit as sharp as you’ll find in the armies of the Winter Kingdoms, and sharper than a few generals, I’d wager. They understand the stakes. You won’t have any problems with them.”

Soterius couldn’t resist a grin as he looked at his old friend. Harrtuck was trimmer than he’d been in years, having lost some of the girth that came from too much ale and a comfortable palace job. He was dressed like the mercs in a quasi-uniform of wool, but where each merc company’s heavy cloak bore its insignia on the shoulders, Harrtuck’s sported Tris’s coat of arms, the insignia of Bricen’s second son, and now, the mark of the Margolan rebellion.

“Ready to start the night’s work?” Sahila and Tadrie joined them, and down the hillside, Soterius could see the rest of his fighters finishing their preparations.

“More than ready,” Soterius replied, and knew that it was true. Despite the stakes, he loved the work of soldiering, and the physical exertion of the task at hand kept him from brooding overmuch about the future.

“Keep a lantern lit for us,” Soterius joked, slap-ping Harrtuck on the shoulder.

“Aye, and a warm mug of ale, too!” Harrtuck replied. He grew serious. “The Lady’s hand be on you tonight, Ban.”

Soterius nodded. “We’ll need the luck of all eight of the Lady’s Faces before we’re through.”

THEY SET OUT two candlemarks later, in the light of the waning afternoon sun. Mikhail would meet them at sunset, at the inn that was the rendezvous point for their contact. Soterius and Sahila rode in front. Tadrie, Pell, Tabb, and Andras each rode with their pods of four fighters. Under their cloaks they wore the leather armor Sahila had bought from the merc units. Each man carried a sword or a battle axe, but after the encounter with the ashten-erath, Soterius had insisted on more distance weapons. So the men now also carried an assort-ment of crossbows and long bows, bolos, and heavy-duty sling shots.

“Who’s this contact of yours at the inn?” Soterius asked Sahila as they rode.

“Alle’s from Margolan,” Sahila said. “Came east following the rumor that Prince Martris had sur-vived, dead-set on joining up with a rebellion. Brought out a group of bards when Jared tried to kill them. The story I heard said Alle slit a couple of guards’ throats when the group was ambushed. Won’t say a word about family, but I’m guessing there’s some blue blood, wrong side of the blanket or not. Joined up with Lemus, the tavern-keeper. The innkeeper’s been running a regular ghost car-riage for the last several months.”

“Ghost carriage?”

“It’s a Nargi term.” Mikhail’s appearance, moments after the sun set, startled them all with its suddenness. “In Nargi, the Crone’s priests persecute and destroy any who get in their way, or who stray from their idea of ‘purity.’ Those with a gift for magic, or for music or art, can find themselves taken for the Crone’s service or dead. Worse if they’re found to be vayash moru, or any of the other things that the priests have decided for the Lady should not exist,” he said with distaste.

“Over the years, brave souls have taken it upon themselves to spirit away as many of the persecuted as they can save. It’s only a fraction of the ones who are imprisoned or die, but it’s a remnant at least. They operate in secret, using false names, hiding

their identities even from each other. It’s said that they have way stations all across Nargi, inns and caves and farmers who look the other way. And so a lucky few disappear from under the noses of their persecutors, as if they stepped aboard a ghost car-riage and vanished into thin air.” Mikhail smiled. “It’s another case where the Blood Council chooses to stick to the letter of the truce and not mind the small details. And more than one of the Blood Council has been known to fund such things pri-vately.”

“So this Alle is helping the fighters?” Soterius asked.

“Alle is one of our best spies,” Sahila said with a grin. “Overhears plenty from the troops that like to get their ale at the tavern. Never supplies a bad bit of information.”

It was barely a half-candlemark’s ride to the inn. Tadrie and the others secured their horses in a barn behind the inn rather than in the stable to stay beyond the prying eyes of guests. Sahila and Soterius scouted both the stable and the front of the inn before they approached the tavern’s back door. They could hear raucous singing in the front room, and the smell of venison and potato pies carried on the cold winter air.

Cautiously, Soterius and Sahila approached the back door. Soterius knew that Mikhail watched from the nearby shadows, ready should there be trouble.

Sahila gave a coded rap on the door, three quick knocks and two slower knocks.

The door opened, and a blonde barmaid stood framed in the light. She motioned them inside quickly.

“We’re looking for Alle,” Soterius said.

Sahila and the barmaid began to laugh. “You’ve found me,” the barmaid said.

She was close to Soterius’s age, with a figure that Soterius did not doubt guaranteed her good tips from the inn’s male patrons. Her blouse was low-cut, offering a tanta-lizing view of an ample bosom, and her full skirt fell just to the calf above low-heeled leather boots. She had shoulder-length dark blonde hair framing a pleasant face, and Soterius allowed that she might be quite pretty if she cleaned up from the sweat and stains of the kitchen. He looked at her blue eyes, and paused. There was something almost familiar about Alle’s face, but whatever association he could make flitted at the edge of his memory and was gone.

“You’re Alle?” Soterius asked as Sahila and Alle continued to laugh.