Blood's Pride (Shattered Kingdoms) (42 page)

‘Why are you here?’ the mercenary asked again. ‘Why aren’t you back there at the house?’

‘Dramash ran off,’ she panted, still trying to catch her breath. ‘I couldn’t stop him. We have to—’

‘Are the Nomas there yet?’

‘The Nomas?’ she echoed in confusion. ‘No, no one is there – no one knows where we are. Dramash—’

‘Forget about him – I don’t care about him.’

‘But I was supposed to be protecting him! That’s why you left him with me!’

‘
He
was supposed to be protecting
you
!’ the Mongrel shouted back hoarsely.

Harotha stared at her, completely taken aback, but someone shouted her name and she saw Alkar rushing towards them, followed by others of Faroth’s gang.

‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, waving his maimed hand in her face. ‘Dramash is out there running loose – what have you done? What happened to your plan?’

‘You saw Dramash? Where is he?’ she cried.

‘We have him and he’s being taken to Faroth, of course,’ Alkar told her contemptuously.

‘Yes, I—’ she began, but another contraction hit her before she could finish. Involuntarily she snatched at the Mongrel’s arm and dug her fingers into her wrist.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Alkar asked, hurriedly backing away.

Over the pulse pounding in her ears, she heard the Mongrel drawl, ‘What do you think?’

‘She’s not having that baby now?’

‘Not now,’ she gasped out, ‘no, not yet – it’s too soon. It’s just the first pains.’ She let go of the Mongrel’s arm and cringed at the deep marks her fingernails had left in her skin, but the mercenary appeared not even to have noticed. ‘Take me to Faroth,’ she told Alkar, ‘quickly, please! There’s something I must tell him!’

Alkar regarded her suspiciously for a moment, but then he said, ‘All right, come on then,’ and led the way down the street. The Shadari closed ranks around her, hemming her in, and though she couldn’t see the Mongrel, she knew that she was following too. The houses they passed were dark and quiet, but not peaceful; the whole city was holding its breath, and though she saw no fire, the air was riddled with the sharp smell of smoke. Every few moments a voice punctured the dark: a shout, or a scream, or a cheer. Shadari ran to and fro, waving torches, brandishing weapons.

She was hurried through a square where a crowd had gathered around the exploded remains of a downed dereshadi. The mob was cheering on the strong-stomached man who had
taken it upon himself to drag the Dead One’s corpse from the saddle. She snatched a quick look, just enough to be certain it wasn’t Eofar, before she had to turn away. In another square they found piles of stones and Shadari ready to hurl them upwards at any rider within reach. But the real battle was taking place high above their heads.

She touched Alkar’s shoulder. ‘Are we winning?’

‘Most of the Dead Ones are still alive.’

‘On whose side?’

‘Both,’ Alkar answered grimly, ‘and that’s not winning, not as far as I’m concerned.’

She soon realised she was being taken back to the ruined palace. She comforted herself with the thought that Dramash would be safe with Faroth by now, and once she’d told her brother about the visions, she was certain he would help her to protect him.
He hasn’t changed so much that he will ignore a sign from the gods themselves, surely?

They reached the walled courtyard at last. Torches reeking strongly of fish oil danced on spikes stuck into the dirt, making the air feel greasy as she drew it into her lungs. As Alkar hustled her past the sentries at the doorway with a curt word she saw Dramash dancing excitedly atop a pile of rubble. He was gazing up, open-mouthed, at the lights bobbing in the dark sky above. She sighed in deep relief.

She didn’t see Faroth at all until he was right in front of her. ‘I knew you’d come,’ he told her, smiling in a way that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. ‘You were right after all, about the gods. They have given us a sign. I was wrong to doubt them.’

‘Faroth, that’s why I need to—’

‘I wasn’t sure, not until Dramash came back to me, but now I have no doubts, none at all.’ He held up his hand and pushed something in front of her eyes. It appeared to be a coin, but as soon as she leaned forward for a closer look, he snapped his hand shut around it. ‘I know what I have to do, Harotha. I’m glad you’re here to see it. We’ve waited all of our lives for this.’

‘Faroth, wait!’ she called after him as he turned and walked away.

‘Dramash.’ Faroth stepped up to the little hillock of broken stone. ‘Come down here. I need to talk to you.’

‘I can’t see him. It’s too dark,’ he told his father disappointedly, turning away from the dereshadi with a frown.

‘I said come down here!’

He scrambled down and Harotha looked at the two of them standing together, her brother and Saria’s little boy. The presentiment that had been pushing in at the corner of her mind suddenly crystallised, and the blood in her veins turned to salt water.

‘No!’ she wanted to scream, but the syllable came out no louder than a croaking whisper.

Faroth squatted down in front of Dramash and held out the coin he had shown her. ‘Take it,’ he told his son, who obeyed. ‘Do you recognise it?’

‘Wait, Faroth,
listen
to me,’ Harotha begged him. ‘I’m your sister – your
twin
. We’ve always done everything together—’

‘It’s an eagle,’ the boy declared, holding the coin up in front of his eyes. He rubbed his fingers over its surface. ‘It’s got dirt all over it.’

‘Blood,’ said someone else, and a man in rags stepped forward. He’d been standing unnoticed behind Faroth until now. She had never seen him before, but something in his whipcord body and hunched stance screamed malice.

‘Faroth!’ she called to her brother again, and as Alkar tried to block her path she shoved him aside with a desperate sob and plunged forward. ‘Faroth, stop!’ she pleaded. ‘Stop! Listen to me!’ She heard Alkar shouting angrily, and then someone grabbed her arms from behind and held them fast.

‘Easy,’ advised the Mongrel’s low voice into her ear.

‘Stop this,’ she sobbed, twisting around to face her, ‘please! This isn’t your plan – this isn’t what you wanted!’

The Mongrel looked down at her with her silver-green eye glinting like moonlight on metal. ‘What I wanted?’ she repeated coldly. ‘You have no idea what I want. None of you do.’

‘Dramash,’ said Faroth, taking his son by both shoulders, ‘this man’s name is Josah. He has something to tell you.’

Josah looked down at the boy. ‘That’s the coin the White Wolf gave your mother before they took you away. As soon as you were gone, that soldier – Rho – he cut her throat.’ He slipped behind Dramash like a shadow and slid his bony finger across the child’s neck. ‘Cut it, just like that – like butchering an animal. I saw it: he killed her like she was nothing.’

‘It’s true,’ Faroth said, giving Dramash a little shake.

The boy stared back at his father, the colour draining visibly from his face.

‘Faroth, don’t do this,’ she moaned, fruitlessly tugging against the Mongrel’s iron grip. ‘Oh gods, please don’t. You don’t know—’

‘You can’t change the visions,’ said the Mongrel. Something shifted behind her silver-green eye, some emotion, furtive as a ghost. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I – I waved goodbye to her,’ Dramash said haltingly. His wide-eyed face dissolved as Harotha’s eyes swam with tears for the second time that day. ‘I saw her – she said it was all right to go. Rho was with her. Rho—’

‘That’s right,’ Faroth said, jerking him again, ‘Rho – he was the one. Josah saw him – he recognised him right away. Rho is not your friend, Dramash. He murdered your mother. Do you understand me, boy? That Dead One murdered your mother! She’s dead! She’s never coming back!’

‘Faroth!’ Harotha cried frantically, breaking free from the Mongrel at last. She rushed forward and pounded her fists against her brother’s back. ‘Stop it!
Stop it!
’ she screamed.

‘Rho is in the temple right now,’ Faroth continued, ignoring Harotha’s blows. Dramash was still staring at his father, slack-jawed with shock. ‘The Dead One who killed your mother is in there – he
lied
to you, Dramash. He pretended to be your friend when all along he knew what he’d done. Dramash! Do you hear me?’

Faroth stood up and motioned for the crowd around them to scatter.

This time when the Mongrel took Harotha’s arms, she offered no resistance. She had failed. She could not stop what was about to happen.

Faroth tilted Dramash’s head up so he was looking at the temple. ‘There he is, Dramash, your mother’s murderer is up there!’

Dramash turned away from the temple, still holding the coin encrusted with his mother’s blood. With the slow, deliberate movements of an old man he sat down on the sand and looked at the coin, and then he looked back at the temple. When he swung back around to face Harotha, she recognised the expression instantly, and she collapsed into the Mongrel’s unyielding arms in utter despair.

A torch streaked down past Eofar’s shoulder and he jerked his arm out of the way, unintentionally tugging on the triffon’s reins and sending the beast into a dive.
Stupid mistake
, he chided himself; he was flying like a boy who’d never been in the saddle before. Strife’s Bane wavered dangerously in his hand, lashed about by his lack of focus and the shifting winds, as if the triffons on the hilt had decided to fly away in disgust. He tightened his grip on the sword, steadied his mind and pulled the reins taut. He was allowing fear to get to him – fear for Harotha, for his child, for the men under his command … for himself.

Another triffon loomed up in front of him and he scanned the other rider’s saddle anxiously, looking for a scrap of white cloth – thank Onfar for Daem, suggesting that signal; he would never have thought of it himself, and now that the battle had started he couldn’t remember anyone’s allegiance but his own. He was still looking for the cloth when the other rider picked up speed and streaked towards him. He looped the reins over the pommel of the saddle and secured them with a sharp tug, loosened the strap around his waist and stood to meet the
attack. The other rider – it was Kharl – had already drawn his own sword; now he too stood up in the stirrups and both triffons tucked their wings back, allowing their lithe bodies to glide to within a hand’s-breadth of each other. Eofar swung, picturing the path of the black blade in his mind, adding the force of his will to the strength of his arms. The straps around his thighs, his only protection against a deadly tumble from the saddle, dug in reassuringly. The swords clashed once and twice, then scraped apart as the triffons’ trajectories carried them past each other: no hits. He gulped down a breath of night air and snatched up the reins again.

Both riders turned their triffons around.

Kharl replied heartily. He urged his triffon forward.

Eofar watched him approach, feeling his own triffon tense as they picked up speed. Strife’s Bane’s blade pulsed like an extension of his own arm. He was the only one in the battle with an imperial sword; he had no excuse for failure.
It’s just like the tournaments
, he told himself,
count your opponent’s wing-beats. Gauge his speed. Wait – not yet, a little closer.

Just as Kharl’s triffon tucked in its wings, Eofar pulled smoothly on the reins, guiding his beast into a dive underneath the other’s nose, bringing them out again on Kharl’s left side instead of the right. Kharl twisted in his saddle, caught out by the move, and offered only one ineffective swing in Eofar’s direction.

He blocked, but didn’t strike back immediately; he was
waiting for the instant when his angled climb would lift him above his opponent, giving him a clear shot at his back. Kharl saw it coming and changed his grip to block the attack, but he was too late; Eofar felt the blade digging into yielding flesh before he was pulled away by his speeding beast.

He leaned over the saddle and looked down; Kharl’s triffon was spiralling towards a landing spot on the narrow plain between the temple and the edge of the city, but dark figures on the ground had already converged and were waiting for him.

Eofar steered his triffon around to face the temple.

he called out to his men, He scanned the skies, watching the triffons executing the tight little turns that enabled them to stay relatively stationary. The signalmen, spaced out along the line with lit torches, marked out a ragged constellation. They weren’t doing badly; they’d managed to push Frea’s line back to the temple, but their advantage couldn’t last. Frea had so many more men.

Falkar called back, his words pulled into thinness by the distance they had to travel.

A horrible shriek blasted through the noise of the wind and Eofar looked up in alarm. Directly above him, two triffons had become entangled in a deadly mess of wings and claws and were struggling frantically to free themselves, keening eerily as they mauled each other.

He snapped the reins just as one of the triffons, her rider
still strapped in tightly, hurtled past him. The falling beast clipped the left wing of Eofar’s triffon and sent him into a dizzying, panicked lurch. Mountains, temple, stars, sand, all rushed past at a sickening speed until he forced open his tightly clenched hand and gave the terrified creature his head. The beast took a few more wing-strokes to right himself. Once out of danger, Eofar took in a deep breath and looked down at where the other triffon had fallen. he asked, glad no one could see how badly he was shaking.

There was a pause before someone close by answered back,

Arnaf: his father’s personal guard. Which side had he been on? Eofar couldn’t remember for sure. He flew back down the line towards Falkar. he demanded, impatiently turning and gliding back towards the beach.