The Blood Curse (42 page)

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

“T
HE ANCHOR STONE’S
right where it should be,” Serril said, tapping the
x
on the map. “Easy to find. Far as I can tell, no one’s been there for months. No scents. No footprints. Nothing. I had a good scout around, saw some wolf tracks on this first range of foothills, but not many. Maybe one or two loners. There’re a lot more wolves in the second range, on the other side of the river. Several packs, I reckon.”

Innis examined the map—the short range of foothills between them and the anchor stone; the river; then a second, longer, range of foothills extending west. It looked like a thumb and forefinger, with the river running between them.

“There are people in that second range of hills.” Serril pointed. “Here.”

“People?” the prince asked.

“Bandits. Or maybe outlaws. They have shaved heads, ’cept for a—I don’t know—a
mane
down the middle. I found their camp, way back in the hills. It was pretty big, quite a few families, but crude. Primitive. They either didn’t know about the curse, or didn’t care. Doesn’t look like anyone tried to flee. There’s lots of bodies. And I mean
lots
. Some of the men are still alive, running in a pack, down by the river.”

The place Serril indicated was three-quarters along the forefinger of hills. Innis measured distance with her eyes. How many leagues away was that? Twenty? Thirty?

“I reckon they’ll have killed each other by the time we reach the river, but... they’re not the only people out there.” Serril looked around the circle of faces, took a deep breath. “There’s a party of Fithians.”

Innis stiffened. The warm, smoky air in the barn seemed to take on a brittle quality.

“Six men and a young boy, and a wagon. Here.” Serril planted his finger on the map. “I reckon they’ll reach the anchor stone at least two days ahead of us. So we need to plan what we’re going to do. We have four shapeshifters—”

“That’d be suicide,” the prince said.

Serril looked at him. “You got a better idea?”

“I’ll burn them.”

Innis jerked her head round to stare at Prince Harkeld.

“Can you?” Rand asked.

“If I have to.”

Innis shook her head. She’d seen the prince’s nightmares.

“It would be safer,” Prince Harkeld said. “I could do it from a distance, not like the shapeshifters. They’d have to get close. The Fithians will
slaughter
them.”

“As I understand it, you burned a Fithian once before,” Rand said. “Cora said—”

“I told her I’d never burn anyone alive again. That what she said? Well, I’ve changed my mind. If it’s them or us, I’ll do it.”

Innis shook her head again.

Rand studied the prince for a long moment, his gaze assessing, shrewd. “Cora said she promised we’d never ask you to do it.”

“Well, you’re not asking; I’m volunteering.”

“Flin...” Innis said. “Last time—”

He turned to her. “Don’t.”

They matched gazes for a moment. She knew him well enough to hear his unspoken words.
Don’t tell them
.

The prince looked tough—the grimy clothes, the dark stubble, the dagger at his belt—but she remembered the way he’d cried in his dreams. That distress had been private, something he’d not known he was sharing. What had Cora called it?
A violation of trust.

Innis looked down at her hands. This argument was his. She wouldn’t interfere.

After a moment, the prince spoke again: “I’m doing it. You think I’d let the shapeshifters try to take on
six
Fithians when I can kill them half a furlong away?”

“I think it will be harder than you realize to burn a man to death in cold blood,” Rand said.

“You killed Malle,” the prince said flatly. “Serril killed Bode. Petrus killed Gretel. It’d be easier than that.”

Innis glanced up, and saw Rand’s face twitch in a spasm of pain and then stiffen. She looked at Petrus, at Serril. Petrus’s expression was almost identical to Rand’s. The black beard hid Serril’s jaw, but the muscles in his cheeks were tight.

For a moment no one spoke, and then Rand said, “Very well, the Fithians are yours.”

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

I
N THE MORNING
, Bennick helped Karel down from the wagon. A frost lay on the ground. “Try not to put any weight on that leg,” Bennick said. “Don’t want the stitches to pull out.”

Karel leaned heavily on Bennick, hating that he had to. “Any chance of a stick, or a crutch, or something?”

He felt Bennick shrug. “Jaumé, see if you can find something.”

Karel limped awkwardly across the yard, Bennick taking most of his weight. How many ribs had he broken? Every single one, it felt like. They stabbed and grated with each breath, each slow, lurching step.

By the time he’d gone to the privy and limped back across the yard, Karel was shaking, gasping for breath, close to passing out. He looked at the wagon, and almost closed his eyes in despair.
I can’t climb up into that
.

“Hard to believe you killed Bly at the Hook,” Bennick said. “You couldn’t kill a flea now.”

“I gutted him,” Karel said, gasping, shaking. “And I’ll gut you, too, if I get the chance.”

“I saved your life, lapdog,” Bennick said, his voice amused. “Where’s your gratitude?”

“Rut you.”

Bennick laughed. Around them, the yard was a quiet bustle of activity. The horses were being harnessed to the covered wagon, the packsaddles buckled into place. It looked as if the open wagon was to be abandoned here; it had been pushed to one side. Jaumé hurried towards them, several sticks clutched in his arms. “Will these do?”

Two were walking sticks, and one was a stave. Karel chose the stave. It was strong and sturdy and he could lean his full weight on it without it buckling. Then, Bennick and the princess helped him climb up into the wagon. It hurt as much as he’d feared. For a moment he lost track of where he was—the world narrowed to the struggle to breathe, the struggle to cling to consciousness. When the wagon came into focus again, they were rattling out through the gate.

The princess had tucked his blankets around him. She was holding his hand. “It hurts a lot, doesn’t it?” she said.

“Sometimes.” His voice sounded rusty. “It’s better now, though.” Better, but not a lot. He tried to find something to concentrate on, something that would take his mind off the pain. “Would you mind telling me how you got here again? I don’t remember it all.”

Karel remembered even less than he’d thought. He forgot how much breathing hurt as he listened to Britta describe her journey. She’d tried to throw herself out of her cabin window? Been manacled to the floor? But it was her account of almost drowning in the river that appalled him the most. He’d
seen
that river. Seen the foaming cascades, seen the fierce chasm the river flowed into. She’d jumped into
that
? He couldn’t comprehend the courage it had taken—or the desperation.

When Britta finished, he stared at her. She’d almost succeeded in killing herself twice. “Britta...” He was at a loss for words, horrified.

She was even braver and more resourceful than he’d thought.
Terrifyingly
brave and resourceful.

“What?” she said.

Karel tried to find words that would express his pride in her, and not his terror at how close she’d come to death. “You didn’t need me to rescue you. You’re capable of doing it by yourself.”

She pulled a face and shook her head.

Karel tightened his grip on her hand. “You have to escape, Britta. Soon.”

“We will.”

He shook his head. “No.
You
have to escape.”

“What?” Her expression became horrified. “Leave you? No!”

“You have to.” He said the words as if they were an order. “You have to leave me and
go
. Head west, get ahead of the curse. I know you can do it—”

She pulled her hand free. “No.”

“I’ll create some kind of diversion—”

The princess placed her hand over his mouth. Her face was fierce, her eyes bright with tears. “Karel, I’m not leaving you. They’ll
kill
you.” And then she pressed her face into his left shoulder, and began to cry.

“Britta...”

“I won’t leave you,” she said, her voice choked with tears. “I
can’t
.”

Karel held her close, stroking her hair. His ribs ached, his right arm ached, but most of all, his heart ached.
I love you, Britta
.

Her tears were because she was afraid, and because he was her armsman and she didn’t want him to die, not because she loved him.

Karel stroked the princess’s hair, and felt his heart ache, and knew that once she stopped crying, he had to persuade her to escape without him.

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

T
HEY WOKE TO
blue sky and sunshine and a foot of snow. Oily curse shadows lay on the snow, puddling in the dips and hollows. “Be extremely careful,” Rand warned. “If any of that snow gets flung up... if you inhale it...”

Harkeld helped hitch the horses to the wagon and lead them from the barn. Everyone mounted. Justen and Petrus flew overhead. The wagon rattled across the yard, negotiated the bend into the road—and halted. Rand, driving it, jumped down. “That didn’t feel right. Something wrong with the back wheels.” He strode back, crouched, peered under the wagon.

“For the All-Mother’s sake, be careful,” Serril said, dismounting. “That snow...”

Harkeld watched as both mages cautiously examined the back wheels of the wagon.

“Axle,” Serril said, straightening. “Lost a few bolts. Looks ready to fall off. Let’s get it back into the barn, unhitch the horses. We’re going to have to fix it before we can go anywhere.”

They searched for the bolts in the yard, in the barn. Adel found one, and Innis another, but two more bolts were nowhere to be found, and all four nuts were missing. “Must’ve fallen off on the road yesterday,” Rand said, shoving a hand through his hair. “Rut it.”

They went through the barn and the ruins of the farmhouse, looking for tools, looking for something to replace the missing nuts and bolts with. “I’ll fly back to that last village,” Serril said. “There was a smithy—”

“No need,” Adel said. “Look what I’ve found.” He’d been rooting through the clutter of broken farm implements and old buckets in the farthest corner of the barn. He held out a leather bucket. It held a jumble of nails, nuts, tacks, latches, hooks, hinges, bolts, and clasps.

“All-Mother bless you!” Serril said. He took the bucket, emptied it on the floor, and rummaged through the contents. “Here. I think these are what we need.” He crossed to the wagon, slid under it. “Yes. These fit. Rand, where’s that wrench?”

“Shouldn’t we unload the wagon first?” Adel asked diffidently. “The barrels are heavy. What if it collapses?”

“Take too much time to unload it all.” Serril’s voice came hollowly from beneath the wagon.

“No, he’s right,” Rand said. “Better to lose half a day than lose you.”

Serril rolled over, grumbling.

Harkeld frowned at the back wheels. “Are those wheels splaying?” He bent to look more closely.

The wagon gave a tiny half-inch lurch, like a drunk man trying to find his balance.

“Serril, get out from under there!” Harkeld yelled, but the sound of the wagon collapsing swallowed his voice. The back wheels came off. The rear of the wagon hit the ground with a
crack
that made the stone floor shudder. The tailboard fell open. Harkeld scrambled out of the way as barrels tumbled and rolled, splintering, spilling water.

Serril’s legs protruded from beneath the tailboard.

“Get it off him! Get it off him!” Adel screamed, hauling at the wagon.

Harkeld grabbed the closest edge, but something shoved him aside. An oliphant. The creature wrapped its trunk around the end of the wagon and heaved.

Harkeld seized Serril’s legs and hauled him out. The shapeshifter lay face down, unmoving. “Is he alive?” But even as he asked, he saw Serril’s head twitch slightly.

Innis crouched alongside him. “Get him off the ground. The water’s cursed now.”

Wood groaned and cracked as the oliphant—Petrus or Justen, he couldn’t tell which—lowered the wagon. Harkeld took a careful grip of Serril’s legs, and together he and Adel lifted the shapeshifter and carried him to the back of the barn, staggering under his weight.