The Blood Curse (28 page)

The road turned again. Ahead, Britta saw a pinching in of hillsides. The road turned north, winding its way up the flank of a stony hill, vanishing over its shoulder. The river turned south, falling away from the road in a series of cascades before plunging into a steep gorge. Britta followed the river’s course with her eyes, from road, to cascades, to gorge.

She examined the gorge. It was a deep gouge on the rock. On either side the ground rose in steep, stony ridges. The river flowed swiftly out of sight, foaming around boulders the size of wagons.

Was now the time to use the arrowhead?

Two men leading a long string of packhorses approached. One was elderly, slumped in his saddle, the other was little more than a lad. Grandfather and grandson?

The old man stirred and raised his head. ‘Turn back!’ he cried, his eyes fierce beneath jutting white eyebrows. “Sault has the curse!”

Red stopped whistling. He touched his forehead, a gesture of respect. “We know, father. Thank you for the warning. We’re not going far.”

Not far?

The old man and his grandson passed. The long string of packhorses trailed after them.

Britta stared at Red. Had his words been a lie, to shut the old man up? Or were they the truth? Was Harkeld close?

“Where is my brother?”

Red glanced at her. So did the boy, riding alongside him. So did Plain, holding her reins.

Red grinned. “That’s not something you need to know.” He pursed his lips again, whistled again, a jauntier tune than before.

“How far to the curse?” Britta demanded.

Red ignored her.

Britta didn’t waste her breath asking more questions. Her gaze swung back to the river, the gorge. What if Harkeld
was
close? What if he was over the brow of the next hill?

The answer was easy: if Harkeld was close, she needed to act now. And if Ivek’s curse was close, she needed to act now, too. Once they reached the curse, everything would change. At least here, if she escaped, there was a chance she’d survive.

Britta bent awkwardly to rub her nose with her bound hands. Then, she fumbled with her cloak, drawing it closer around her. She groped the arrowhead from her pocket, straightened, and stared ahead. Red was still whistling. Plain was still holding her reins, his gaze on the road.

Britta clutched the arrowhead tightly, frozen with indecision. If Harkeld was a week from here, there
would
be better chances than this.

But if he was a mere day away, or worse, a few hours...

Five hundred miles. One hundred miles. Or on the other side of the ridge. There was no way of knowing. But what she
did
know, was that the Fithians would use her to kill Harkeld. They’d take his hands and his blood back to Jaegar, and Jaegar would hold the other kingdoms to ransom: death, or subjugation.

She had to act as if Harkeld was close. As if this was her last chance. Because it could be.

Britta took a deep breath. She pressed the arrowhead to the rope, and began to saw.

The coarse strands parted easily. In less than fifty yards, she’d cut through the rope securing her to the pommel. Fifty yards more, and the rope binding her wrists together was severed. Another party of refugees passed them, a man and his wife, with three daughters and a flock of white and black goats.

Fear tightened her chest. Breathing became difficult. In a few minutes, the road parted company with the river. In a few minutes, she had to jump. The cascades seemed to grow in size, the water in the gorge to seethe and boil as it bullied its way past the rocks.
I’ll die
.

But hadn’t that been her vow? Escape, or die. So she couldn’t be used to catch Harkeld.

And perhaps the river changed just beyond what she could see, became wide and gentle?

And perhaps cows will grow wings and fly
.

Escape, or die. That was the vow she had to hold true to.
Had
to. For the sake of the Seven Kingdoms and all the people who dwelled in them. And if she wasn’t such a coward, she would have killed herself when she’d escaped into the forest. The Fithians would have found only her corpse. Harkeld would be safe from her.

But she had wanted to live. Still wanted to live.

Britta clenched her jaw and lifted her chin, but clenching her jaw didn’t dissolve her fear, lifting her chin didn’t erase her indecision. It was still possible to change her mind and take the coward’s way out, to stay seated on the piebald mare and let the Fithians find the severed ropes and the arrowhead this evening.

The gorge snagged her gaze again. It looked like a gullet, overhung by cliffs, clogged with boulders, roaring and spitting spray. There was no telling what lay round the first bend—sheer waterfall or meandering river—but what she could tell was that the Fithians would have to throw themselves into the river to follow her. And once in the river, they’d be as helpless as she was.

Thirty yards to make her decision. Twenty.

Panic rose in her chest. The cascades were too high, the gorge too narrow, the churning water too frightening.

You can do it, princess
, Karel’s voice said in her mind, full of certainty.
I know you can
.

Britta tucked the arrowhead into the waistband of her trews; she might need it on the other side of the gorge. She slipped her feet from the stirrups.

Ten yards. Five yards.

She gulped a breath, and launched herself from her saddle.

CHAPTER SIXTY

B
RITTA PLUNGED INTO
shockingly cold water, clawed her way to the surface, slid over the edge of a cascade and plummeted, plunging deep again. Water churned her, tossed her, pressed her down, pulled her sideways. She was desperate for air. Which way was up?

Britta flailed to the surface and gulped deep breaths. She couldn’t see the road, couldn’t see the Fithians. Her cloak dragged her down, the ties wound chokingly tight around her throat. She tore it off.
Keep swimming away
. Over the edge of another cascade, sliding and falling, plunging deep. The river caught her, tumbled her end over end, sucked her under, seemed to want to hold her in the bottom of this pool until she drowned. She fought the water, clawed at unseen rocks, tried to find a way up, out. Her lungs burned. Panic caught her.
I’m going to die!

She burst to the surface, sobbing for breath, and grabbed for a rock, but the river had her in its grip, pulling her into a long, sliding fall, as if she was caught in a sluice. This time, she didn’t plunge so deep. Water churned around her, blinding her, deafening her, filling her mouth and nose. Britta collided with a rock, and clung to it. Each breath she inhaled seemed as much water as air. She had no thought of the Fithians or the gorge. All that mattered was breathing, surviving, not being sucked under to drown.

But as breathing became easier, coherent thought returned. Britta raised her head, trying to see past the froth of spray. Where were the Fithians? It took several seconds before her eyes sorted the confusion of water into a scene she understood. There, through the spray, was the rocky riverbank, and there, running, were the Fithians. Leader and Red and Plain and Gap-Tooth. Leader’s mouth was open, as if he shouted, but she heard only the roar of water.

Britta released the rock, and pushed away. The river caught her, buffeted her against rocks, dragged her down the next cascade. She plummeted, plunged deep, clawed her way to the surface, gasped for breath. The water turned her slowly over, showing her the sky, the rocky riverbank, Leader.

He stood thigh-deep in the water a scant half dozen yards from her. A snarl curled the lips back from his teeth. He looked more beast than man.

The fury on his face paralyzed Britta for a moment, froze her lungs.
He’ll kill me
.

Leader’s gaze slid past her. He opened his mouth and shouted, gestured with an arm.

Britta jerked her head around. Someone bobbed in the water behind her, hair slick to his narrow skull. Killer.

Panic burst in her chest. Her fear crystalized, became needle-sharp. She clawed frantically at the water, trying to get away from Killer. The river grabbed her, tipped her over the edge of the next cascade, a long slide and then a short drop into deep water. She swam desperately, kicking hard, but the river had her in its grip. It wanted to roll her over, to tumble her left and right. A rock loomed out of the water, as jagged as a broken tooth. Britta struck it hard, knocking the air from her lungs. The water sucked her down. A hand grabbed her ankle, fingers digging in. Britta kicked frantically, striking something soft and yielding. Killer? She kicked again. Kicked and kicked and kicked. The grip on her ankle released, the hand sucked away.

Britta tried to find the surface, but the river pressed her down, jammed her against a rock and held her there.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

J
AUMÉ WATCHED THE
Brothers haul the princess from the river. Her body was small and limp.
She’s dead
, he thought, and was surprised by the grief he felt.

The Brothers laid her on the rocks. One of them bent over her, lifted her arms, lowered them, lifted them again. Jaumé couldn’t tell who it was from this distance, but he knew what the man was doing; he’d seen Nolt and Ash do it in the jungle. The Brother was trying to make the princess breathe.

“Accident?” someone said.

Jaumé looked over his shoulder. A farm cart had halted alongside him. A man and a woman sat on the driver’s box, peering down at him.

“My cousin fell in.”

The woman’s face creased with concern. “Oh, the poor dear.”

“Need help?” the man asked.

“No, thank you,” Jaumé said. “My uncles are soldiers. They know what to do.”

The farm cart moved on. Jaumé turned his attention back to the river. The Brothers looked like tiny dolls at this distance. They were no longer pumping the princess’s arms. They stood in a cluster. Talking?

Jaumé frowned, squinted, counted the men standing on the riverbank. Four?

He scanned the rocks, but saw no one scrambling up towards the road, scanned the river, saw no one in the long tumble of water. He counted the men again. Four.

One Brother was missing.

His heart seemed to clutch in his chest. Not Bennick!

No. It wouldn’t be Bennick; it would be the one who’d jumped in after the princess. The one whose eyes he didn’t like. Krey.

The Brothers picked up the princess’s body and began carrying her towards the road, clambering over the rocks. She couldn’t be tied to a stake any more and used to catch Prince Harkeld.

If the Brothers had no bait, would they decide to turn back?

Jaumé hoped so.

The men moved slowly, choosing their route with care. Jaumé saw red-blond hair. Bennick.

Their slowness, their care, made him wonder. Was the princess alive after all?

She couldn’t be. No one could, after jumping into that river. It leapt from ledge to ledge, spitting up spray, fiercer than surf in a storm.

She was brave to jump into that. Braver than he’d ever be.

The Brothers were close enough that he could make out their faces. Vught and Luit and Doak and Bennick.

“Something wrong?”

Jaumé glanced sideways. Another farmer, another cart laden with possessions. “My cousin fell in. But it’s all right. He’s alive.”

“Give the All-Mother thanks,” the man said.

“Yes, sir. We will.”

The man clicked his tongue, urging his horses forward.

Jaumé peered back down at the Brothers. The ground fell steeply away from the road, a jumble of boulders and great slabs of rocks. The Brothers climbed slowly, pausing to choose the easiest route, passing the princess carefully between them.

She
must
be alive. No one took that much care with a corpse.

Jaumé ran back to the packhorses. He unstrapped a bundle of blankets, tucked them under his arm, curled a rope around his hand, and trotted back to the edge of the road. Bennick liked it when he didn’t have to be told what to do.

Vught scrambled up onto the road, panting.

“Need a rope?”

Vught held out a hand, not bothering to speak.