The Blood Curse (34 page)

The horses moved again, blocking her view.

So that was where Soll had been: selling the horses, buying a wagon. She looked down at Karel.
To carry you
.

Even though she’d cleaned his face, blood still crusted Karel’s eyelashes and the corners of his eyes. He looked as lifeless as the Lundegaardan soldiers, his stillness the stillness of death. Only the pulse fluttering in the hollow of his throat showed he was alive.

Britta bent her head and whispered fiercely in his ear. “You
have
to live, Karel! Do you hear me? Don’t you dare die!”

There was a stir of movement among the horses; Hetchel and Bennick and Soll were removing the hobbles. Vught brought the wagon closer. “Boy, get some blankets, make a bed for him.”

Karel didn’t stir when he was laid in the wagon. Britta scrambled up after him. “Is he all right?” she asked Bennick. “Shouldn’t he be awake by now?”

Bennick fastened the tailboard. “He’ll wake when he wakes.”

The wagon lurched forward, jolting and rattling. Hetchel trotted past, holding his reins in his left hand. His right hand was bandaged. For a moment Britta wondered why, and then she remembered.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d bitten him, and yet it had been only a few hours.

The world had stopped when she’d seen Karel fall—stopped and turned itself upside down—and when it had righted itself everything had changed. The world was a different place; she was a different person. Her plunge into the river and Vught’s whispered threats were things that had happened to someone else. What was real—the only thing that truly
was
real—was Karel’s hand, warm and limp, lying in her clasp.

They rounded the corner. Britta glanced back, past Bennick and Jaumé leading the long line of horses. Nothing remained of the carnage except the horse’s carcass lying abandoned in the dirt.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

I
N THE AFTERNOON
, Justen glided down to land. “There’s a farm about a mile ahead, with someone still alive. A child.” His expression was grim.

“Cursed?” Rand asked.

Justen nodded.

“How old?”

‘I’d say… about three. Maybe four.”

“Ah, All-Mother,” someone muttered behind Harkeld. He glanced over his shoulder. Serril.

“Do we kill her, or leave her?”

There was a long moment of silence. Harkeld examined the faces around him. Rand driving the wagon, Serril and Petrus and Gretel and Adel on horseback. Everyone was as grim-faced as Justen.

“If we don’t kill her, she’ll starve,” Gretel said. “Which is worse?”

“Starving,” Rand said.

T
HE FARM WAS
a poor place, with a farmhouse built of wood and stone and a lopsided barn. Harkeld dismounted in the dirt yard, dread tight in his belly. Justen landed again.

“Where is she?” Rand asked.

“In the barn.”

Harkeld glanced at the hawk circling above them. Innis. He was glad she wasn’t down here. She didn’t need to see this.

Rand drew his sword, pushed open the barn door, and entered. Harkeld fumbled for his own sword and forced himself to follow.

The barn was dark. He paused inside the door for his eyes to adjust. The stink of putrefaction filled his mouth and nose.

Gradually his eyes made sense of the shapes in the dimness—the empty stalls, the rusting farm implements, the stack of chopped wood, the pile of straw.

The nauseating smell came from near his feet. He looked down and blinked for a moment, not understanding what it was he saw—as if his brain blocked it—and then understanding came. A dead baby. The plump flesh of arms and legs had been eaten away, the belly torn open, but the baby’s face was still there. Mostly.

Harkeld lurched back, banging into someone. Serril. “What?” the big shapeshifter said, and then he saw the baby. “All-Mother.” His voice sounded strangled.

“Serril, why don’t you wait with the horses?” Rand said.

Serril didn’t argue. He turned and pushed out the door.

Harkeld gripped his sword more tightly. “He all right?”

“He has young children.” Rand advanced into the barn, his sword extended. Harkeld followed. He was aware of someone behind him, and glanced back, saw Petrus and Gretel.

“Where is she?” Petrus said, in a low voice.

“Must be in one of the stalls.”

But the stalls were empty except for wisps of old straw and goat droppings dried as hard as pebbles.

“Could have got out that hole easy enough,” Gretel said, pointing with her sword.

“Indeed.” Rand headed for the door. “She must be in the house.”

Harkeld heard a rustling in the straw to his left. He halted. “Rand...”

The healer paused in the half-open door and looked back.

“She’s here.”

The little girl had made a nest in the straw. Harkeld stood frozen as she crawled out. Black curse shadows, yes, and a blood-smeared mouth, but also dimpled hands and hair in lopsided pigtails and a coarse cotton smock stitched with flowers.

He watched, unable to move, unable to swing his sword, unable to kill her, as she trotted past him, hands outstretched for balance, past Gretel, past Petrus, towards the open door and the sunshine.

Rand raised his sword—and then stepped back, out of the child’s way. She disappeared through the doorway.

No one moved. He heard Rand swear softly. The healer sheathed his sword and hurried after the girl. Gretel followed.

Harkeld exchanged a glance with Petrus.
That’s what my face looks like. Shocked. Horrified
.

He rammed his sword into its scabbard and ran for the door, Petrus at his heels.

The little girl was halfway across the dirt yard, tottering towards Serril on unsteady legs, her arms still outstretched, like a child running to her father.

The shapeshifter backed away, but the little girl grabbed hold of his trews in both fists and stood swaying, staring up at him. She uttered a gurgling, laughing sound.

The laugh wasn’t delight; it was madness, bloodlust.

Serril held his sword away from the child. Beneath the tan and the close-cropped black beard, his face was ashen. “Rand, I can’t.”

“None of us can,” Rand said. “I’ll use my magic.”

The little girl uttered the gurgling sound again, swaying on unsteady legs, and buried her face in Serril’s trews and bit his knee. Serril didn’t move. He stood rock-solid, staring down at the child, grief on his face.

Rand crossed to them and reached for the girl’s nape. His touch looked gentle, but it startled her. She stopped biting Serril, released his trews, and ran for the house, tottering, surprisingly fast.

“I’ve got her.” Gretel caught the girl in her arms.

The child began to thrash and shriek. Not with fright, but fury. Madness distorted her face. There was no fear in those eyes, no sanity. She sank her teeth into Gretel’s hand.

Rand hurried to her and touched the nape of her neck. His expression was grim, jaw clenched.

The girl convulsed once and went limp.

“She’s dead,” Rand said. “You can put her down.”

Gretel laid the child on the ground.

Harkeld couldn’t look away. All he could do was stare at the girl. Her parents had been poor, but they’d loved her. Someone had combed her hair and tied it into pigtails, someone had spent hours stitching flowers onto her coarse little smock.

We killed a child
.

The scene had the quality of a nightmare. The sky was too big, the sunlight too harsh. The dirt yard seemed to curve up at the edges, like paper curling in the sun.

“Where are the rest of her family? In the house?” Rand’s voice sounded hoarse. It tore Harkeld’s attention from the child. Were those tears in the healer’s eyes? Rand was a father, too. How much had it hurt him to kill the little girl?

“Yes,” Justen said. “Parents and another child.”

“Put her with them.” Rand rubbed his face, rubbed his eyes. “Did she bite you, Gretel? Is it bleeding?”

Gretel didn’t answer.

Harkeld glanced at her. The fire mage was staring at her hand. It was dark with curse shadows. Darker than it should be.

Gretel turned to Rand, holding out her hand. “Rand...” There was a note of panic in her voice.

Harkeld’s gaze jerked to Gretel’s face. The shadows covering it were thickening, growing blacker.

The sense of nightmare became stronger. Harkeld couldn’t move. His legs had rooted into the dirt. Gretel’s face twisted, her lips pulling back in a snarl.

Someone shoved Harkeld aside. Petrus.

The shapeshifter swung his sword. The blade flashed in the sunlight, sliced obliquely, buried itself in Gretel’s throat.

The impact flung Gretel sideways. She tumbled to the ground. Blood spilled from her throat.

Petrus lowered the sword, let its point touch the dirt.

The scent of fresh blood drifted across the yard.

No one spoke. No one moved. The only sound was Petrus’s breathing, harsh, almost sobbing. The dirt yard seemed to tilt under Harkeld’s feet.
I’m going to fall over
.

Rand stepped forward and gripped Petrus’s shoulder. “Thank you, son. Be careful with your sword. Don’t touch the blood.”

“What happened?” Justen sounded as stunned as Harkeld felt.

“Blood.” Serril’s voice was rough, almost unintelligible. He cleared his throat, spoke again, “Blood or saliva. You think, Rand?”

“Yes.” Rand rubbed his face again, pressing so hard his skin whitened, then lowered his hands. “Get rid of those trews you’re wearing, Serril. Carefully. They’re wet where she bit you.”

Harkeld walked to where Gretel lay. He looked down at her.
My cousin
.

Petrus still stood there, the tip of his sword digging into the dirt. The shapeshifter’s face was as bloodlessly pale as Gretel’s.

“Petrus...” He touched Petrus’s arm, waited for the shapeshifter to meet his eyes. “She would thank you.”

Petrus swallowed, and nodded.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

T
HEY PASSED THROUGH
the village where Soll had bought the wagon. Half a dozen men in dusty, travel-stained uniforms were rousting everyone out of their homes.

“King’s Riders,” Bennick muttered to Jaumé.

“You!” one of them barked peremptorily, when the wagon rattled towards the eastern gate. “You can’t go that way. Ivek’s curse is coming.” He rode forward and blocked the road, forcing Soll to halt.

Jaumé tensed. Were the Brothers going to kill this soldier, too? He glanced at Bennick, at Vught, but neither man was reaching for his sword. In fact, Vught seemed to have shrunk. He sat round-shouldered in his saddle. “We’re fetching m’ sister,” Vught said. His voice was different: the vowels rounder, the consonants less guttural, the tone submissive. “Soll here’s wife. She’s ’bout ready to breech. Can’t get ’er on an ’orse.”

The King’s Rider frowned. “How far?”

“Farm ’bout five miles from ’ere.” Vught nodded east with his chin.

The King’s Rider stepped back and waved them on. “For the All-Mother’s sake,
hurry
. Curse isn’t no more’n a day or two from here.”

“We will, sir.” Vught ducked his head respectfully.

T
HEY FOLLOWED ROADS
that wound up valleys, climbing, always climbing, reaching a plateau as the sun sank towards the horizon behind them. Jaumé peered ahead. He saw mountains in the distance, and smudges of smoke. The sky was hazy, orange-tinted.

They turned off the road into a field with a creek running through it. The wagon lurched over the stubbly ground in a wide half-circle and came to a halt.

Bennick dismounted. “Let’s check him.”

Jaumé jumped down from his pony and hurried after him.

The soldier lay exactly as they’d left him, in the bed of blankets. The princess sat alongside him, holding one of his hands in both of hers.

“Thought you got carriage sick,” Bennick said.

The princess looked at him blankly, and then blinked. “Uh... not in an open wagon.”

Bennick made a sound like he didn’t believe her. He climbed up into the wagon, knelt at the soldier’s side, and touched the back of his hand to the man’s cheek. “Getting feverish. Did he wake at all?”