Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (12 page)

She roared and toppled its tent pole, then darted off into the shadows as three more legionnaires sprinted by, searching for her.

“
I
don’t
want
a
slaughter
,”
Wenda
had
said
. “
Pallax
has
near
-
infinite
men
to
replace
any
you
kill
.
Just
sow
enough
confusion
that
my
brother
and
the
slaves
have
a
chance
to
escape
.
Above
all
,
do
not
speak
.
Let
them
think
you
a
wild
animal
who
blundered
into
camp
.
We
have
a
narrow
road
to
walk
.
We
can
neither
let
General
Pallax
block
the
Gate
nor
give
him
an
excuse
to
declare
war
,
which
is
what
we’d
be
doing
if
we
attack
his
troops
on
their
side
of
the
border
.”

At the next intersection Rhiain glanced left and saw one way barred by a shieldwall. To the right lay only a single man so she bounded that way. On the verge of mowing him down, she saw he was white-haired and unarmed.

She veered left, and a thrown spear rattled past her head.

“Now!” a man bellowed.

Six legionnaires jumped out of the shadows and ran at her from both sides, spears out.

Ambush
. In moments she would be surrounded, hacked down.

Instead of slowing, Rhiain picked up speed, hind feet overtaking front. She shot through the narrow gap, unscathed except for one graze on her back haunches.

Another legionnaire loomed dead ahead, this one holding a sword instead of a spear. She roared and charged straight at him.

His eyes widened in panic. A swipe of her claws knocked aside his weapon and tore his arm half off. Screaming and bleeding, he dropped to his knees.

And then she was past, hurtling down the next row of tents.

A crossbow bolt zinged a foot over her head.

Anxiety tightened her muscles. Her game had grown dangerous, but she hadn’t yet received a Farspeech confirmation that Lance and the others had escaped. Lance had told her not to endanger herself, but Rhiain worried that he’d only said so because he regarded her as young and inexperienced. She knew Dyl would never leave his friend behind.

And she had to do as well or better than Dyl because she’d stolen his place. She’d never given Dyl Lance’s message. She’d implied Dyl had declined, and then volunteered herself so that she could be the one to set an example for the Gotian rebels.

But now it looked like things had gone wrong before they even reached Gotia. She had to give Lance more time.

Decision made, she went on the attack.

* * *

The sound of a wailing child led Lance to Mara and her useless sister-in-law. They were arguing, still within sight of the palisade walls. In the moonlight Mara appeared exhausted: shoulders slumped, eyes deeply shadowed.

“We have to go back,” the sister-in-law said, tugging at the boy. He screamed louder, obviously unwilling to be separated from his mother for as much as a second. “You can’t walk, and you’re bleeding. The beast will follow the scent of blood and hunt us down. It’ll
eat
my brother’s son.” She sounded hysterical.

Lance set his jaw against the urge to slap the crazy woman. Brushing her aside, he spoke to Mara. “I need to take out the arrow. Hold still.”

The sister-in-law yammered, taking fright at his sudden reappearance. Mara said nothing, but didn’t move as he broke off the arrowhead and yanked it free. Mara stifled a cry and swayed, but he had a hand on her ankle by then and the Goddess poured healing and strength into her. Within moments, she’d straightened.

Wishing he could hoard a little of that strength for himself, Lance unbent from his crouch. Every limb dragged. “We need to get away from the palisade.”

“I won’t go!” The sister-in-law sounded hysterical. “There could be more of those beasts hiding in the dark.”

His ribs still hurt too much to simply sling her over his shoulder, so Lance stiff-armed her and growled, “If you waste Hiram’s sacrifice, I swear I’ll break your neck myself. Now get moving!”

She gasped and stumbled in the direction he pushed her. Which only made him angrier. How could she believe his threat after everything he’d already done to free them?

Mara gave him a short nod of thanks, and the hot bubble of anger inside Lance shrank slightly.

“Let’s get you through the Gate,” he said aloud. And then he would go back for Hiram and Rhiain—and Sara, too, if the opportunity presented itself. The plan called for her and Bertramus to walk out in the morning, complaining loudly about the loss of their slave, but when it came right down to it, he didn’t trust the fat man farther than he could spit.

* * *

Rhiain barreled between the rows of tents. Her breath came in harsh gasps and exhaustion weighted her paws.

The last few minutes had been harrowing. The legionnatires had shaken off their surprise and were hunting her. Still no word from the Farspeaker. Something must have gone wrong with the plan. She hated to fail, but surely even Dyl would have to concede defeat now. She began to search for a gap in the ramparts.

At a shouted command, a shieldwall suddenly rose in front of her, bristling with swords and spears but concealing the legionnaires, leaving her with no target. Rhiain veered around them—

Crossbow bolts from the right. Rhiain yowled as one pierced her shoulder.

Panic rose with the bright bite of pain, but she fought it down. Lance would heal her. Ignoring the fear that he might still be chained inside, she raced back the way she’d came.

More legionnaires leaped out at her from the side. She batted one aside, knocking off his helmet and gained another two cuts. Blood trickled down her flanks.
Scratches
,
nothing
more
.

The palisade wall rose at the end of the row, its sharpened stakes like a mouthful of teeth. A shallow ditch lay before it, serving as both latrine and material for the earthworks. The wall seemed to grow taller as she loped closer, her strides uneven now as the shock wore off and her shoulder throbbed. How much blood had she lost?

She swerved, racing down the length of the wall, hoping for a gap or a lower section. Two legionnaires dashed out in front of her, but scattered under her teeth-bared charge.

“She’s slowing! Cut her off! We’ll corner her.”

Her heart thundered, and her lungs laboured. They were herding her like a sheep.

But she wasn’t a sheep, or even a racha. She was a shandy, not a terrified animal. She could think and understand speech.

So when eight more legionnaires ran out in front of the wall she slowed, pretending to take fright. “Shieldwall!” They planted their shields in the ground, hiding behind them.

The sound of running feet signalled more legionnaires taking up position behind her.

Rhiain threw her head back and gave a shattering roar, then charged. Every stride shot thunderbolts of pain through her shoulder.

Spears poked out of the shieldwall, set to impale her, but at the last second she sprang. Over the spears and shields. Her heavy front paws came down on a burly legionnaire’s shoulders, then her hindquarters, pushing with every bit of her remaining strength even as he collapsed beneath her.

It was enough. She soared over the palisade wall and knew a moment of fierce victory before she stumbled on landing. The bolt twisted in her shoulder, and her leg crumpled. Her roar of triumph turned into a howl of pain.

Chapter Nine

“Out of the way!” a legionnaire bellowed. He and two others ran toward Sara, red cloaks billowing out behind them.

She ignored them, intent on travelling the shortest path to the palisade gate. Since she didn’t know how much longer Rhiain’s distraction would last, she needed to move quickly.

“Stupid twotch.” The left-most legionnaire hit her with his shoulder and knocked her down on his way past.

She fell awkwardly on her side. Pain streaked up her arm, and thunder rumbled up from the ground under her ear. What—?

A hoof crashed down on the flattened turf an inch from her eyes.

Sara felt a brief urge to find out if being trampled would hurt as much as her fall from the roof of the Hall, but restrained herself. She needed to be mobile to escape the camp.

First one, then another horse galloped over her body, hooves striking all around her, but not touching.

Two legionnaires pursued the horses. Sara rolled to the side until they had passed, then climbed back to her feet. Her arm ached, but moved normally when she flexed it. Not broken then. A faint echo of disappointment touched her. She could still have escaped with one broken arm.

Since walking the straight path wasn’t working, Sara changed tactics, creeping from tent to tent and following the palisade wall. Her progress slowed.

Finally, she reached the last row of tents remaining between her and the gap in the wall. She studied it from the shadows. Rhiain had stopped roaring—either dead or escaped—but the gate was still unguarded.

But before Sara could make the last dash, a barrel-chested legionnaire came up, pushing an old man ahead of him. When he reached the gate, he shoved the old man to the ground. He stood between her and freedom.

“Well, old man, the beast is gone, and you’re still alive. One of my men is dead, but the beast didn’t lay a claw on you when it had the chance. Care to explain?”

The legionnaire’s attention was on his prisoner, not the gate. Perhaps she could still sneak by. Sara began to crawl through the grass close to the palisade wall. The dew soaked through her skirt.

The old man pointed to his throat and shook his head.

“Forget it. You’re no more a mute than I am.” The legionnaire leaned closer. “I heard you. Just before we destroyed your drum, you called on the Goddess of Mercy. Your act doesn’t fool me, and I think you know something about tonight’s attack.”

Under his bushy white eyebrows, the old man’s eyes widened. He gazed directly at Sara.

“Let’s see if we can get your tongue working again.” The legionnaire kicked the old man in the stomach.

The old man curled up on the ground, mouth open on a silent gasp.

Sara crawled on. Her sodden dress impeded her movement, forcing her to a slow shuffle. If the legionnaire but turned his head, he would see her.

“Talk.” The legionnaire loomed over the old man.

The old man scuttled sideways and received a second kick as punishment.

The change in angle benefitted Sara. Now the legionnaire needed to turn his head ninety degrees to see her. As she rucked up her skirts, it crossed Sara’s mind that the old man could have pointed her out to distract the officer from beating him.

Was he helping her? But why would he help a stranger, especially when doing so meant enduring a beating?

Perhaps the old man wasn’t a random stranger. She studied his wrinkled face more closely and searched her memories. Ah, yes, this must be Hiram, the Gatekeeper. Sara had met him twice before when she passed through the Gate to Kandrith. The first time he had treated her like an enemy—which she had been at the time. Her memory of their second meeting was much hazier, for it fell during the period of time when only Lance seemed real, but she thought he had argued with Lance about her entering Kandrith.

Why would he aid her escape?

The legionnaire kicked the old man in the kidneys, the force carefully judged to hurt, but not kill. The Gatekeeper writhed, but didn’t cry out.

“Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

Sara reached the gate and crawled through it to safety, still puzzling over the old man’s behavior. Perhaps he was helping her because he thought Sara was working for Kandrith.

If so, the old man was wrong. Sara didn’t care which country claimed an area of land. She took no sides, except for Lance.

Sara stood up, took two steps, then paused in the darkness. Lance had played the slave and endangered himself to free the recaptured slaves in camp, including the Gatekeeper.

If the legionnaire killed the old man, Lance would be disturbed. He would fall quiet and not speak to her. Sara felt her brow wrinkle. She didn’t like it when Lance behaved that way.

If the old man was important to Lance, then Sara decided he was important to her, too. She turned around and slipped back inside the palisade, hugging the wall.

Drawing her belt-knife, she eyed the stocky legionnaire. A breastplate protected his chest, but only a cloak covered his back. As he wound up to kick the old man again, she ran forward on silent feet. His heart ought to be about there—

She struck.

* * *

Mara’s sister-in-law balked at the Gate. “That’s not a gate, it’s a cave! I’m not going in there.”

Lance reached for patience. “It’s a fissure through the mountains. The Gate protects Kandrith. No Legion can pass through it.” He addressed Mara. “The passage is narrow, but don’t be afraid—if my shoulders can fit through it so can yours.”

“I can’t—” the sister-in-law started again.

In the distance, Rhiain caterwauled.

When Mara’s sister-in-law cringed, Lance took ruthless advantage. “The racha sounds close. Quick, hide in here. She won’t be able to follow you through the Gate.” He gave the woman a small push.

With a squawk of fear, she fled into the crevice.

Mara hesitated a moment, hoisting her thumb-sucking son higher on her hip. “You aren’t coming with us?” The whites of her eyes gleamed in the dark.

Lance shook his head. “Rhiain needs my help, and I have business elsewhere.”

She nodded, then disappeared into the dark gorge.

Lance headed for where he’d heard Rhiain wailing at the best speed he could muster—a shambling jog. Even that jarred his ribs and made him grit his teeth.

He could see torchlight ahead. The legionnaires were searching for Rhiain, too, with their spears and swords. Rhiain was a mighty fighter, but if she was injured, outnumbered, cornered—

Goddess
,
lead
me
to
her
in
time
, he prayed.

When he could see the outline of the wooden stakes topping the palisade, he risked a shout. “Rhiain!”

The torches switched direction, and feet pounded the earth toward him.

Rhiain reached him first, limping badly. “Lance?”

“Here.” He held out his hand. “Let me heal you.” His fingers encountered the crossbow bolt. “Hold still,” he warned, then yanked the barb free. She snarled, her claws ripping the earth.

Lance flattened his palm on Rhiain’s warm back. The Goddess filled him. He saw Her hand overlay his own, and he smelled freshly tilled earth and baking bread.

The torches bobbed uncomfortably close, only a hundred feet away. He could see men’s faces lit by orange flames. “See the blood? It’s wounded!” one shouted.

Rhiain quivered under his hand as if ready to attack, but her wound was only half-healed.

“Goddess.” Lance whispered a prayer.

Her presence brightened inside him, almost burning his hands with a surge of power. He sucked in a breath, and then She abruptly withdrew, leaving Lance bereft. He swayed on his feet.

Rhiain nudged him, and together they faded back into the darkness. He hoped the legionnaires were mightily puzzled by the abrupt end to the blood trail.

A few moments later, Rhiain stopped suddenly, lifting her nose and sniffing the wind. “I smell Sara.”

Lance opened his mouth to tell Rhiain she must be mistaken, then shut it. Sara had always been unpredictable.

Rhiain sniffed again. “This way.” She padded closer to the palisade and the torches.

Alarm spiked through him. If Sara had left camp it could either mean she’d wandered off looking for him or that something had gone wrong.

The moon went behind a cloud, and Lance stumbled on the uneven ground. He half fell against Rhiain, who nudged him toward two shadowed figures.

Lance swallowed an exclamation. Rather than Sara and Bertramus, Sara and Hiram walked toward him. Even more astonishingly, Sara had her arm around the Gatekeeper’s shoulders, supporting him. Hiram hunched protectively over his stomach, and blood streaked his face.

Lance silently began healing him, while a legionnaire waved his torch seventy feet away. Only once Hiram could walk again and they’d retreated another hundred feet did Lance dare a whisper. “Where’s Bertramus?”

“Dead.”

Lance waited to hear the rest of the story until the four of them were tucked safely into the lee of the cliff and Hiram lay asleep beside Rhiain’s curled up body.

“...I thought you could heal Bertramus in the morning, but he died,” she finished.

Lance ground his teeth. He wanted to resurrect the man just so he could kill him again.

“Should I have submitted?” Sara asked.

“No! You did right to defend yourself.”

“I would have rrripped out his thrrroat. He was a bad man, and he smelled wrrrong,” Rhiain said, a condemnation.

“But you are...” Sara groped for words. She touched Lance’s clenched fist. “This.”

“Angry? I’m angry at Bertramus, not you.”

Did she feel guilty? Lance studied Sara closely but could glean nothing from her blank face. Once he’d thought her a shallow noblewoman incapable of deep feelings. He’d come to understand that she’d used her blank face as a kind of armour. Was she doing the same now?

“I’m sorry you had to kill a man,” Lance explained carefully. “I’m angry at myself for not being there to protect you.”

Her brow wrinkled—a hopeful sign, though he couldn’t tell if she felt worry, puzzlement or anger.

“We should stay together from now on,” she said.

“Yes.” Lance squeezed Sara’s hand. “We’ll arrange things better next time.” He released her hand—and her fingers tightened.

Lance grinned like a fool, his joy out of proportion to the act, but he didn’t care. Sara’s soul was returning, bringing back the woman he loved. He just had to encourage her to connect to her emotions. He cleared his throat. “Did Bertramus frighten you?”

“No.”

“Did he make you angry?”

Sara pondered for a moment, then said, “He was very stupid.”

“Yes,” Lance growled. He’d warned Bertramus what would happen if he tried anything with Sara. But Bertramus must have been used to dealing with women who were powerless. He hadn’t believed a woman would dare attack him—and he’d thought himself safe from Lance, too. That either Sara wouldn’t dare complain of her ill treatment or Lance wouldn’t dare abuse Bertramus because he was their link to the rebels—

Lance swore. Rhiain cocked one ear, and Sara looked at him.

“I just realized, without Bertramus we don’t even know where to search for the rebels.” Lance wracked his brains. Bertramus had loved to talk about “Chief Fitch.” “Do either of you remember him mentioning a place more specific than ‘Eastern Gotia’?”

“He told the legionnaires he was Bertramus of Tolium,” Sara said.

A trickle of relief slid down Lance’s spine. “Do you know where Tolium is?”

“I’ve never been there,” she said after a pause. “I’ve seen the name on a map.”

Lance held his breath. “Can you remember where on the map it was? Or better yet redraw the map?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a start then.” Lance deliberately ignored the problem of how they would contact the rebels when they arrived and just how he would break the news to Chief Fitch that they’d killed his cousin. They needed the rebellion in Gotia to succeed to keep Kandrith safe, so they would just have to manage somehow.

* * *

The sound of drumming roused Lance at dawn. It was time.

Since they’d completed their part of the plan, freeing Hiram and the other slaves, the wiser course might have been for them to leave under cover of darkness, but Lance felt compelled to see the whole affair through. To stand as witness while his mother made her last Gift.

The four of them concealed themselves in the scrubby stand of pine at the foot of the cliff. Because of her size Rhiain had to lurk farther back, but her hearing was better than theirs.

The legionnaires had given up the hunt for Rhiain hours before and retired behind their palisade walls, but the dawn drumming brought them boiling out: five neat files of eight men each, half the camp’s strength come to reinforce the three-man gate guard.

They marched to the Gate with shields and armour glinting.

The drumming thundered to a conclusion, and Marcus came through wearing a legionnaire breastplate, but holding an iron pole with a key topping it. Lance swallowed an amused snort. Kandrith had never bothered with a standard before, and he suspected the fact they had one now was due to Marcus’s insistence. Though Lance admitted the choice of a key as a symbol was apt; many Kandrithans melted down their slavechains into a key.

Marcus ignored the two crossbows pointed at him. “Attention!” he bawled. “The leader of Kandrith requests parley!”

The tall captain shouldered his way forward. “And why should I speak with a deserter?”

Marcus tensed, but didn’t rise to the bait. “Will you parley?”

The captain sneered again, but acceded.

Marcus stepped smartly aside, and Wenda emerged from the Gate. She wore robes of blood red. Her sightless gaze swept over the legionnaires with cool disdain, then paused on Lance’s hiding spot. She lifted her handless arm—and the manacle clamped to Lance’s wrist fell open. Hiram must have Farspoken to tell her where they would be.

Another wave of her hand shoved back the front row of legionnaires. They grunted in surprise.

“I have a message for Primus Pallax. Tell him to send you home.”

The captain laughed. “That’s your message?”