The Blood Curse (6 page)

Solveig trotted up, wearily slid from his horse. “They didn’t leave through the northern gate, sir.”

Karel nodded, and gave the armsman his cup.

Next was Bjarne, with a shake of his head. “Nothing, sir.”

Lief rode up, his grin visible in the gathering dusk. “They left through the eastern gate, sir. Cart covered with brown fabric, and six men. Mid-afternoon.”

T
HEY ATE IN
the taproom—thick sausages bursting out of their skins, stewed cabbage, mashed potatoes—and washed the food down with golden ale.

Karel leaned back in his chair, and glanced down the table. Dag and Ture had found a game of King’s Leap. They were making a show of it, jumping each other’s pieces rashly, baring their teeth in mock aggression. The other armsmen laughed, urging the players on. Even quiet Gunvald was leaning over the board, making suggestions.

There was no division between the armsmen that he could see, even though their backgrounds differed markedly. Several were the sons of noblemen, but most were commoners. Bjarne’s father was a stonemason, tall Lief was the son of a baker, and Dag and Solveig came from fishing villages.

In Lundegaard, men were judged by their merit, not their birth. He remembered King Magnas, remembered the way the king had clasped his hand.

“We stand out like seagulls in a rook colony.”

Karel glanced sideways at Prince Tomas, shrugged. “Can’t be helped.”

It wasn’t the armsmen’s high spirits that made them stand out; it was their coloring. One tall, blond man would be conspicuous in this taproom, let alone ten. And then there was Solveig’s long plait of hair. And Bjarne’s beard.

Karel eyed Bjarne. The armsman had washed his beard and combed it and plaited it into two short braids. “It’s Bjarne,” he said. “Without that beard, we’d blend right in.”

Prince Tomas snorted into his ale.

“Think I should tell Bjarne to cut it off?”

Tomas grinned. “Good luck with that.”

Karel grunted and leaned further back in his chair. His relaxation was on the surface, no deeper than his skin. His muscles, his ligaments, even his bones, were tight with tension. He counted the miles separating them from the princess in his head. How many more days before they caught up with her? He glanced around the taproom again, his gaze skimming over the locals—dark-haired, olive-skinned—before coming to rest on the armsmen. As he watched, Ture jumped his way across the board and let out a crow of triumph.

The armsmen laughed. So did Prince Tomas.

Ture began to set up the board again. Dag picked up his tankard, drained it, wiped his mouth. “Did you hear the one about the man on his deathbed? Cocky little bastard called Ture, he was.”

Ture glanced up and grinned, but didn’t pause in laying out the pieces.

“So Ture was on his deathbed breathing his last, and his beautiful young wife, Anka, said, ‘Ture, please tell me... is there anything I can do for you?’”

Ture glanced up again. The wary gleam in his eye told Karel that there really was an Anka.

“‘There
is
something,” Dag said, in a croaking voice. “‘After I die, it would mean so much to me if you would marry my best friend, Dag.’”

Ture snorted and turned his attention back to the pieces on the board.

“Anka took Ture’s hand and clasped it to her breast. ‘My dearest darling’”—Dag’s voice was a high-pitched coo—“‘You have nothing to worry about. We’ve been planning that for a long time now.’”

Even Ture joined in the laughter, grinning and shaking his head.

Karel didn’t laugh. He thought about the look in Ture’s eyes. Was Anka his sweetheart? His wife? Would Ture ever see her again?

His gaze slid over the armsmen’s faces. The men had all volunteered. They knew what they were up against. They knew some of them would die.

And some would live.

He glanced at Prince Tomas, saw the scarred cheek, the missing ear. The prince had faced Fithians before. Faced them and survived—and volunteered for more.
Because he sees this as a heroic quest. Rescuing the beautiful princess
. And then he looked down at his ale and wondered if he was being too harsh. Princess Brigitta had saved Lundegaard from invasion. Perhaps Tomas felt he owed it to her to rescue her?

Or maybe he wants to win her hand?

For a moment he almost hated the prince—then common-sense asserted itself. If Princess Brigitta ever married again, Tomas would be a good husband. A thousand times better than Duke Rikard had been. Tomas was good-humored, courageous, honorable. He’d never bed the princess forcibly, as Rikard had done.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
HE CART HALTED
. From the clink of harnesses being removed, they were stopping for the night. Britta reached for the waterskin, gulped a few mouthfuls, then lay back in her dirty nest of blankets, curled up like a child. Half an hour passed before someone climbed into the cart. She kept her eyes closed.

A Fithian gathered her up in her blankets and passed her down to someone. She was carried a dozen paces, laid on the ground, and left. From nearby came the low murmur of voices and the scent of meat cooking. Her mouth watered. Her stomach tied itself in a knot of hunger. After several minutes, she opened her eyes fractionally. Darkness, a campfire, the shapes of seated men.

Britta closed her eyes again and lay as if asleep. Her long plait was uncomfortably coiled beneath her, digging into her arm.

Her hunger grew more intense with each passing minute, and, matching it, her resolve. She would starve to death, if that’s what it took to get out of the cart and onto a horse.

But she knew the Fithians wouldn’t let her starve; they needed her alive.

Footsteps approached. Two people. They crouched alongside her with a creak of boot leather. The smell of meat wafted to her nose. The knot of hunger in her belly twisted tighter.

A hand gripped her shoulder, shook her.

Britta stayed limp and unresponsive.

Whoever it was made an impatient sound. He took hold of her plait, dragging her head up. Hard fingers gripped her jaw, opened her mouth. A spoon pushed between her lips. Liquid spilled onto her tongue, warm and fragrant.

Broth. Meat broth.

Britta swallowed, a greedy instinctive gulp, and then intellect took over:
No. Don’t eat
.

The spoon pushed into her mouth again. Britta tried to spit the broth out, to gag. Her pretend choking became real for several seconds. She coughed and spluttered, fighting for breath, struggling weakly in the men’s grip, trying to pull away from the hand holding her jaw, the hand holding her hair.

Britta caught her breath, then willed herself to go limp, to pretend she was sliding back into unconsciousness. She sagged, her plait pulling painfully in the assassin’s grip.

The spoon didn’t invade her mouth again. Instead, the two men laid her on the ground, pulled the blankets up around her throat, and left.

The plait was even more uncomfortable beneath her now, but Britta didn’t move. She lay as if dead, savoring the taste of broth on her tongue.

T
HE NIGHT PASSED
with agonizing slowness. Hunger gnawed at Britta’s innards, keeping sleep at bay. The plait grew more and more uncomfortable. It was an iron chain, digging into her arm and ribs, but she dared not move.
Unconscious. I’m unconscious
. Once or twice she thought she heard the faint creak of boot leather as a watchman prowled past, but no one tried to make her eat again. At last, dawn arrived. Faint light filtered through her closed eyelids. Britta lay listening to the sounds of horses being harnessed.

Footsteps approached. Someone crouched and gathered her in his arms, blankets and all. Britta willed herself to stay limp.

She was lifted high, higher—the Fithian carrying her grunted with effort—someone else took her, settled her into... a saddle. An assassin’s arm was tight around her waist, her head lolled against his chest.

Elation fizzed in her blood.
I’m on horseback!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

H
ARKELD STOOD NEAR
the head of the gangplank, waiting. The deck was wet, the thunderheads gone from the sky, but the early morning air was as thick and heavy and humid and full of impending doom as it had been yesterday.
They call this winter?

The horses, hardy survivors of desert and jungle, had been unloaded. Mages clustered around him. Shapeshifters circled as birds in the sky. He could tell who the hawks were by their size and color. Small and dark: Innis. Large, with pale underwings and breast: Petrus. The swooping swallows were harder to distinguish, the flitting sparrows impossible. He knew they were mages by the magic glinting on their feathers, but not who they were. Serril, Justen, Hedín, Oren.

He glanced at the circling hawks again. Innis and Petrus were the last survivors of the mages who’d come to his father’s palace three months ago. The mages who’d turned his life upside down.

Harkeld grimaced and looked away from the birds. His gaze skimmed the mages surrounding him. Three healers, four fire mages, two water mages. How many of them would still be alive next month?

“You know your places?” Rand asked.

Harkeld nodded. He’d go ashore second to last, trailing at the end as if he was unimportant. Thayer, the young, dark-haired healer, would disembark in the middle.
Pretending to be me
. He glanced at Thayer. He seemed unconcerned by his role as decoy.

“Let’s go,” Rand said.

Harkeld watched the mages file down the gangplank. Thayer set foot on the wharf. No one darted from the crowd and tried to kill him. A fire mage disembarked, a water mage, a healer, another fire mage, and then it was his turn. He walked down the long, swaying gangplank and stepped ashore. The noise and smell of the crowd enveloped him. He breathed shallowly, trying not inhale the odor of desperation and fear and people gone too long without washing. Curse shadows surrounded him. Someone buffeted him on his right and he jerked sideways as if burned and almost lost his balance. The mage behind him stepped closer, the shapeshifters swooped low, but no attack came.

They pushed their way slowly through the crowd. Harkeld kept his arms close to his sides; he didn’t want to touch any of these curse-shadowed people. But it was impossible not to. He flinched each time he brushed past someone, flinches he tried to hide, but couldn’t. He imagined the shapeshifters laughing scornfully as they hovered overhead and gritted his teeth, felt his cheeks grow hot with mortification—then noticed that the fire mage ahead of him, Gretel, also shied from the curse shadows.

Once past the press of people, they moved faster, off the wharf, along a side street, into the stableyard of an inn. The horses waited—riding horses saddled, packhorses loaded with the supplies Rand had bought yesterday.

Harkeld went to the bay mare he’d ridden in Ankeny. The horse huffed a breath at him and nuzzled his shoulder. He stroked her neck. Poor beast. She had no inkling of the journey that lay ahead. She didn’t understand Fithian assassins, or curses that sent people mad with bloodlust. She headed into danger without knowing it.

Or perhaps the mare was to be envied? Perhaps it was better not to know what the future held?