The Blood Curse (32 page)

Jaumé’s grip on the reins was sweaty. The last time men had attacked them, he’d disobeyed Nolt and tried to see the battle—and earned himself a mark for disobedience. This time, he didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want the soldiers to die. Not if they were trying to save the princess.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. He felt desperate and slightly sick. What should he do?

Bennick would tell him to shut up and stay where he was, but he was pretty sure that Mam and Da would want him to run down the road and warn the soldiers.

If he warned the soldiers, did that mean Bennick would die?

Jaumé imagined running towards the corner, imagined Vught reaching for the big bone-handled throwing knife at his waist—

A troop of horsemen rounded the corner with a clatter of hooves. They took up the road, their billowing cloaks making them seem the size of giants.

Before he could decide whether they were the soldiers or not, an arrow plunged out of the sky. A rider fell from his horse and cartwheeled on the road, arms and legs out-thrown.

Time seemed to freeze. Jaumé stood with his mouth half-open in horror, his eyes unblinking, his breath caught in his throat. But time didn’t freeze for the soldiers. Or for Bennick. More arrows came from the ridge, too fast to count. Horses swerved, three more men fell.

One of the packhorses took fright. It reared, snorting, jerking its reins from Jaumé’s grip.

Jaumé lunged for the reins and grabbed them again.

Riderless horses plunged across the road, but most of the soldiers were still mounted. Someone was shouting orders, his voice a loud bellow. The horsemen swung into the basin at a gallop, swords drawn. The man in front had a dark, fierce face.

Vught took a step forward and gave a flick of his wrist. A Star flashed through the air.

“No!” The voice was the princess’s. It was a shriek, filled with an emotion Jaumé couldn’t name. The packhorse didn’t like it. It reared again, jerking Jaumé off his feet. The reins slid through his fingers, burning. Jaumé landed on his backside in the dirt. He scrambled up and snatched the reins he’d dropped. Across the basin, the Brothers were throwing Stars. The dark soldier brushed one aside with his sword. Behind him five other horses thundered, their riders bellowing battle cries.

The dark soldier bore down on Doak and raised his sword.

He’s going to cut off Doak’s head!

An arrow speared the soldier in the shoulder. He lurched, almost fell, but the sword was still in his hand and he swung it, striking Doak in the throat.

Jaumé eyes winced shut for an instant. When he opened them, Doak was on the ground.

The dark soldier hauled his mount around and charged at Vught. Only two other riders were still in the saddle, slashing at Luit with their swords.

Someone shouldered Jaumé aside. Soll. He had a Star in his hand. The blade sliced through the air towards Luit and buried itself in a soldier’s skull.

“No!” the princess screamed again. She was wrestling with Hetchel, struggling to free herself. She didn’t look calm any more; she looked frantic.

Hooves thundered. The dark soldier was upon Vught. He raised his sword—

His horse went down in a tangle of limbs, hurling its rider from the saddle. The soldier hit the ground hard and rolled several times, his cloak flaring.
He’s dead
. But no, the soldier was pushing up on one elbow, groping for his sword. Blood streamed down his dark face.

“No!” the princess screamed. “Don’t kill him!”

Vught stepped closer to the fallen soldier. He reached for a Star, twirled it between his fingers.

Someone shoved past Jaumé, almost knocking him off his feet. The princess.

Soll snatched at her and missed.

But the princess didn’t run for the road and freedom; she ran towards Vught. “Don’t kill him!” she cried, her voice desperate. “
Don’t kill him!
”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

L
EADER TURNED HIS
head. She saw his surprise, and then his amusement. He looked back down at Karel and kicked him in the head.

“No!” Britta shrieked. She shoved Leader aside with all her strength and flung herself over Karel, shielding him with her body. “Don’t you dare kill him!”

Karel lay motionless. Had Leader’s kick killed him? Britta fumbled at his throat, searching for his pulse, her fingers slippery with blood.
Don’t be dead, Karel. Don’t be dead
. Tears streamed down her face. She was breathless with grief, choking with grief.

Karel was alive. His pulse beat beneath her fingertips.

Hard fingers dug into her hair, into her scalp, wrenching her head up. Leader. His lips flattened against his teeth in a smile. “Know him, do you?”

She tried to jerk free, to turn back to Karel.

Leader’s fingers tightened. “What will you give me in return for this man’s life?”

“Anything!” Britta cried. “Anything!”

Leader’s smile broadened. “Your word, princess. Your word of honor that you won’t try to escape, you won’t try to kill yourself.”

“Yes!” she said. “Yes! Anything!”

Leader released her hair.

Britta turned back to Karel. Behind her, Leader’s boots crunched in the dirt. She heard his voice, giving orders.

Britta blocked the sound. Leader was irrelevant. The Fithians were irrelevant. All that mattered was Karel, that he didn’t die.

A gash sliced across his brow, bleeding freely. Blood pooled around his closed eyes, sluiced down the planes of his cheeks, puddled on the dirt. Britta tried to stem the flow with her hands. What was Karel doing here? He was supposed to be safe in Lundegaard.
Trying to protect me. Because that is what he does. What he has always done
. Her tears came faster, almost blinding her.

Footsteps approached. “You want me to patch him up?” The voice was ironic, amused.

“Keep him alive. We have an agreement, the princess and I. His life, for her obedience.”

“Then I’ll do what I can.” Someone crouched on Karel’s other side. Red. She understood his irony. It was his arrow in Karel’s shoulder. His arrow that had killed the horse and brought Karel down. “How hard did you kick him?”

“Not hard.”

Red slid his fingers through Karel’s bloody hair, probed gently, gave a grunt of approval. “Well placed.” He felt beneath Karel’s jaw for his pulse, then bent his head and listened to Karel’s breathing. He seemed to know what he was doing. Britta’s panic-stricken grief eased slightly. Her breathing became easier, the tears stopped flowing so fast.

Red sat back on his heels. “Let me see.”

She lifted her hands briefly and let him see the long slash.

Red peered close at the wound, then nodded. “Keep the pressure on.”

Britta watched as Red examined Karel’s right shoulder. The arrow was buried deep, the shaft snapped off. Red grimaced.

“Bad?” she asked.

Red glanced at her. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer her, then he shrugged. “The arrowhead’s not barbed. Should come out in one piece.”

He checked each of Karel’s arms, articulating the joints, then moved on to his torso, feeling his way along the ribs, pressing lightly. “Some broken ribs. Nothing we can do about those.”

The tears had stopped. Britta rubbed her face on her shoulder. Blood leaked from beneath her hands and trickled down Karel’s brow. Horses and men moved around them, but she ignored everything except what Red was doing.

Red shuffled sideways, laid a hand on Karel’s thigh. “This will be hard to get out. It’s deep in the bone.”

She opened her mouth to ask what he was talking about, and then saw it. A throwing star. Shock made her blink. She’d seen Karel swipe two throwing stars from the air with his sword, but she’d not seen this one hit him.

It had struck the front of his thigh and gone in deep. The tips of two razor-sharp blades protruded from his trews, the rest of the weapon was buried.

Red took careful grip on one blade, and tugged. The throwing star didn’t move. He grimaced, released the weapon, and checked for broken bones in Karel’s legs.

“Well?” someone asked curtly. Britta started. She hadn’t heard Leader return.

Red looked up. “Hardest thing’s going to be getting the Star out. If we can manage that, he should be fine. Long as his back’s not broken.”

“We’ll get it out.” Leader crouched, and studied Karel’s face. “Not Lundegaardan. Who is he?”

“My personal armsman.”

“From Esfaban.”

“Yes.”

Leader stared at Karel a moment longer, narrow-eyed. “Saw him at the Hook. He’s the one who killed Bly.” He stood, and reached down and grabbed her arm, pinching flesh to bone, pulling her to her feet. “Come on.”

“What? No!” She started to struggle.

“Bennick’ll look after him.”

“But I have to stay with him!” she cried frantically. Karel’s brow was bleeding again, blood streaming down his face, dripping to the ground.

“Your cooperation for his life. That was our agreement.”

Britta dragged her gaze to Leader. His eyes were as cold and hard as granite. There was no humanity on his face. He’d kill Karel in a heartbeat.

She stopped trying to pull free, stood quiet and docile.

A thin smile touched Leader’s mouth. He eased his painful grip on her arm. “Come along.”

Britta cast a desperate glance back. Red’s hand was pressed to Karel’s brow, stemming the flow of blood. Gratitude brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them fiercely back. No more crying.

Horses milled everywhere. It took her a moment to realize it was intentional. Anyone passing on the road would see a mob of animals, not a battleground. It took her another moment to realize that there were no corpses. The only body she saw was Karel’s mount, an arrow jutting grotesquely from its eye. Of Karel’s dead companions, there was no sign.

Leader led her through the horses. A steep outcrop jutted out from the hillside. At its base was a jumble of rock, fanning out, and behind that, hidden in the shadow of the outcrop...

Britta’s breath caught in her throat. She turned her head away, squeezed her eyes shut.

“Who are they?” Leader said.

Her obedience, for Karel’s life. That was the agreement. Britta opened her eyes and looked at the dead men. They lay tumbled, limbs out-flung, as if thrown by some giant force. “I don’t know.” She shook her head. Too many men. Too many faces.

“Look again.” Something in Leader’s voice penetrated the fog of horror in her brain. He expected her to recognize at least one of these men.

Britta took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. The number of dead seemed to shrink. Eleven. Eleven men. She looked at each one in turn, her gaze flinching from face to face, examining them, trying to answer Leader’s question. Who were these men?

They had tanned faces and fair hair. Strong bodies. Callused hands. They looked like soldiers or armsmen.

Britta’s gaze stopped on the last body. Her breath caught in her throat. She stepped forward, pulling free of Leader’s grip, and knelt.

“You know him.” It was a statement, not a question. Leader knew who he was, too.

“Prince Tomas,” she said numbly. “Youngest son of King Magnas of Lundegaard.” A bloody hole gaped in Tomas’s temple. Arrow, she guessed. Britta knelt and touched his hair lightly, touched his cheek lightly.
Ah, Tomas, what were you doing here?

“And the others?”

Britta looked at the dead men again, resting her gaze on each face, trying to see the details that made each man individual. They had come to rescue her. And now they were dead.
I’m sorry
. “To my knowledge I have never seen them.”

She had promised herself no more tears, but it was impossible not to weep silently.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

J
AUMÉ HAD WAITED
with the Brothers’ horses. He didn’t want to earn a mark for disobedience. He watched Vught issue orders, watched Hetchel and Soll drag the soldiers’ bodies from the road and carry them behind the rocks. Vught turned to him and beckoned. “Bring the horses.” Jaumé hurried across to him, listened carefully to Vught’s instructions, and carried them out as swiftly as he could, hobbling the horses, placing them so that they blocked the basin from view. Two wagons trundled past. Their drivers didn’t seem to notice they were passing a battlefield. They were more concerned with the loose horses Hetchel and Soll were rounding up. “Need a hand?” one of them called.