Captain's Fury (48 page)

More of the firehounds followed them, and Tavi dropped back behind Varg. One more got close enough for Tavi to strike, driving it back. Tavi couldn't feel the cold of the swords through his numbed hands, but the mist clinging to the blades was not as thick as it had been. To make matters worse, he could see the front doors to the Tower from where he stood, and the Grey Guard was even now attempting to lift the portcullis that had fallen to close the front door.

Tavi kept on backpedaling, calling to Varg, "We've got to get over the wall!"

Suddenly his arms were seized by large and inhumanly powerful hands. Before he could react, he heard Varg grunt with effort, and then he was flying through the air. He had a split second to realize that the top of the fifteen-foot wall was in front of him, and he hooked an arm over the lip before he could fall again. The stony blades atop the wall cut into his arm in a dozen places. As they did, one of the owl-guardians turned its stony head toward him and let out an ear-piercing shriek, which he felt certain would leave him with a lasting headache.

Provided, of course, that
he
lasted.

He dropped the swords in order to get a better hold of the top of the wall— or tried to. He found, to his surprise, that his numb hands would not release their grip on the blades, no matter how hard he tried to do so.

He gritted his teeth, struggling to reach through the stone of the wall to the earth below, to summon up strength enough to haul his body over the top of the wall, but as he did, his concentration on holding his body's pains away began to falter, and flashes of agony shot through him in a dozen places, like jets of water shooting through the cracks of a failing dam.

Tavi stopped trying to call up strength, took the weapon in his right hand, and with a single, focused stroke, drove it six inches into the stone of the wall, blade parallel to the earth. Then he grunted and lifted his right leg, planting his boot on the flat of the sword. Using it as a solid base for leverage, he twisted his shoulders and hauled his right hand from the frozen blade's hilt. Flesh tore. He bled, but freed of the blade, he was able to use his improvised foothold and roll himself over the top of the wall and off the other side, gathering up more cuts and slashes on his legs, though his armor protected his chest and back from further damage.

The fifteen-foot drop was a bad one, and he landed hard, knocking the wind from him and sending a spear of silver pain lancing along his neck and down through his spine.

Varg's shaggy form appeared atop the wall, and snarls bubbled from his throat as he, too, was wounded. He seized the wall's top with one clawed paw-hand and lowered himself in a more controlled fashion, dropping the last few feet without effort.

All the while, the stupid owl never stopped shrieking. Tavi wearily pushed himself upright. His body was not moving correctly, and though he could not tell precisely why, it stood to reason that he had been injured in the fall. After that first flash of pain, the steely resolve of his mind had asserted control over it, and he couldn't feel any pain now—but the lack of free motion did not seem to be a positive sign.

Varg staggered, crouched again, and had to use one arm to hold himself upright. Tavi could see the Cane's blood dripping on the cobblestones of the street.

Tavi heard men's voices crying out now. They had freed themselves of the tower and would be on the street next.

"Now what?" Varg growled, panting.

"This way," Tavi said, turning away from the direction of the Tower's gate. He tried to set out at a brisk jog, but his muscles didn't seem to cooperate. The best he could do was a hasty shamble—which was probably just as well. Varg looked to be in terrible condition himself. They had not gone far when there was a shout behind them.

Tavi turned and saw thirty or forty Guardsmen, most of them in armor now, round the corner and race toward them.

Hoofbeats sounded from the cross street ahead, and a wagon being pulled by a team of four rounded the corner, rising up onto two wheels for a second as it did. Ehren held the horses' reins, and Kitai sat beside him on the driver's bench.

"There!" Tavi said, pointing. "Come on."

He limped hurriedly toward the wagon, and Ehren waited until the last minute to haul the team to a stop. The horses reared and kicked as they caught Varg's scent. Tavi led Varg in a circle around them and found his mother and Araris in the back of the wagon. Isana looked quite pale, and a bloodied cloth was around her upper arm, but her eyes were open, and she seemed alert. She took one look at the blood all over his legs and his arms, and her eyes widened in alarm. "Tavi!"

Varg's strength seemed to ebb suddenly, just as he began to climb into the wagon. Tavi got behind him, screaming sulfurous curses and pushing at the veritable mountain of muscle and fur. Araris seized one of Varg's arms and pulled. Somehow, they managed to get the Cane into the wagon.

Kitai stood up on the driver's bench, holding a thick sack in one hand. "Aleran!"

Tavi struggled for a second, but with Araris's assistance managed to clamber into the back of the wagon. "Go, go, go!"

The street was too narrow to turn the wagon. Tavi saw that immediately. But when Ehren shook the reins and called for the nervous horses to run, Tavi let out a cry of protest. The wagon would never make it through the group of Knights Ferrous. The blades of the Grey Guard would cut the wagon to kindling as they tried to pass through their ranks.

Kitai reached into the large insulated sack that had been left with the wagon and drew out another coldstone. She lifted it and threw it hard at the side of the nearest building, where it shattered, releasing the fire fury within.

There was a flash of blue as the cold spread into the air—and into the public furylamps that hung at the same level, where it devoured their flame, jumping hungrily from one to the next for a hundred feet in either direction. The street plunged into blackness.

"Yahh!" Ehren screamed to the horses. The beasts charged forward, reckless and terrified—which was, Tavi thought, probably a fair description for what the Grey Guard had to be feeling at the moment. He felt exactly the same way. Men cried out around them, and hooves rang on cobblestones, wheels rumbling as the wagon bounced wildly. There were a couple of cries of pain, then they emerged from the darkness and into another furylit area.

Kitai flung another stone, and once again they were in darkness. It would, Tavi had hoped, hinder any pursuit, slowing the reactions of the authorities— and it was working. At least
something
in the plan had gone right tonight.

After five or six minutes of noisy flight, Ehren slowed the wagon and continued on for several more blocks, changing streets several times, while Araris covered Varg with a canvas tarp. Isana, meanwhile, bound up Tavi's right hand and examined the rest of his injuries with worried eyes.

Ehren pulled into an alley and stopped the wagon. "That's it," he said quietly. "We leave it here. The ship's right through there."

"What about the horses?" Kitai asked.

"My contact will pick them up when he comes for the wagon," Ehren said. "I've arranged for the lamps to be out, so we can get the Cane onto the ship."

Kitai let out an impatient breath, and said, "I'll do it." She came around to the back of the wagon and dragged one of Tavi's arms over her shoulders. "Come on,
chala
. Lean on me a little. Good."

Tavi closed his eyes and let Kitai guide him. She kept up a pleasant stream of quiet orders and encouragement, which was far preferable to paying attention to his own rising discomfort.

He was losing his hold on the metalcrafting, Tavi thought. The pain was growing.

He remembered getting to the
Slive
, and then Kitai's hands stripping his armor.

"Varg," he mumbled. "Tell her to see to Varg first. He got hurt."

"No more orders,
chala
," Kitai replied, her voice gentle.

He drifted in pain and stillness for a time. Then there came a delicious, bone-deep warmth.

Then nothing.

Chapter 37

Isana looked up as daylight briefly flooded the hold through the open hatch above. Demos and Fade came down the stepladder into the hold and approached at once. Demos's presence was muted to her senses, as usual, but what she could feel of him told her that he was at least mildly anxious.

"What's the problem?" Demos asked. "They've started combing the docks and searching ships. We don't have much time."

"Which would have told them exactly where to look for the prisoner," Demos said. "No. We stay in dock until they clear us, then when we leave, we aren't looking astern the whole trip." He turned to Isana. "Now what's the problem?"

Isana gestured at Varg. The Cane was far too large to fit into any of the healing tubs on the
Slive
, so instead he lay in the shallow pool in the hold where the witchmen usually stood their station. "It's the Cane. He's badly hurt, and he won't let anyone touch him. He nearly took my hand off when I tried to heal him."

"He's got to be moved," Demos said. "We have fifteen minutes, give or take."

"He isn't going to let us move him," Isana said. "And if he starts thrashing around, it could kill him."

"If he isn't moved," Demos said, "it could kill all of us." He touched the hilt of his sword. "One way or the other, he's in the river in fifteen minutes." The captain went back up on deck.

Araris grimaced, then departed. He returned a moment later, half-carrying Tavi. The young man nearly fell coming down the stepladder, and he had to lean on Araris to walk the short distance to the pool. Isana's heart ached to see how pale her son's face remained, his eyes so sunken that they looked bruised. He'd looked worse last night, when she'd had to heal dozens of small wounds, three fractured bones, muscles that had all but torn themselves apart with strain, burns on his mouth, his throat, and in his lungs from breathing fury-heated air, and the hideous damage to the flesh of his hands.

Restoring a body that had suffered so much punishment was hideously draining upon the victim. He shouldn't have been conscious, much less standing more or less on his own, but his green eyes, though sunken and weary, were alert.

"What is it?" Tavi asked quietly. His voice was still raw, rough-sounding. Even with watercrafting, there was only so much one could do for burns.

"Varg," she said. "I've been trying to heal him, but he won't let me touch him. We have to move him in the next few minutes, before they search the ship."

Tavi blinked slowly once, and for a second, she wondered if he'd even heard her. "Ah," he said, finally. "All right. Try again."

Isana frowned. "I've tried, several times, to—"

Tavi shook his head. He splashed wearily down into the pool, and sat down on the floorboards, not far from the Cane's head, his feet in the water, his shoulders slumped. He gestured wearily for Isana to proceed.

Isana stepped down into the water again, reached out for Rill, and stepped closer to Varg. She reached one hand toward his chest warily, watching the enormous, dark-furred body for movement. Her fingers got to within perhaps an inch of the Cane's fur before Varg let out a growl. His half-opened eyes never focused, but his lips peeled back away from white fangs, and his jaws opened slightly.

Tavi moved with sudden and shocking speed, for the Cane's head. Before Isana could react, her son seized one of the Cane's upright ears hard with one hand, squeezing and twisting, and clamped Varg's muzzle shut with the fingers of his other hand, shoving the Cane's head back at an almost brutal angle.

Then, to Isana's utter shock, her son went for the Cane's throat with his teeth.

Varg's entire, enormous body stiffened, and his clawed paw-hands half rose from the water—but before they could reach for Tavi, they froze in place, and a low growl bubbled in Varg's throat.

She heard her son, then. Tavi, his teeth still closed over the Cane's throat, snarled like a beast. The sound rose, deepened again, then repeated. Isana realized with a shock that he was
speaking
to the Cane.

Varg's bloody eyes seemed to focus for a second or two, and then the Cane let out a low growl and lowered his claws back into the water again.

Tavi opened his mouth slowly, and straightened. He released the hard grip on the Cane's ear, his hand dropping to grip the fur at the nape of Varg's neck. With the other hand, he kept on holding the Cane's muzzle closed.

He turned his head to one side and spat and snorted, apparently to get fur out of his mouth. "Go ahead," he said quietly, then. "He'll be still now."