The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (52 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

H
ARKELD SCRAMBLED OUTSIDE
, gripping the sword, holding his left hand out to give them light. Mist billowed around his legs. Petrus ran to the nearest tent, his naked skin pale in the firelight. The mage ripped open the fastenings, jerked the flaps open.

Harkeld thrust his hand into the tent.

Petrus looked inside. “Rand! Hew! Wake up!” His voice rose to a shout. “Innis, get over here!”

Harkeld moved aside, making room for her. Innis crawled into the tent. He peered in after her.

Rand and Hew lay face-up on their bedrolls, wrapped in blankets, open-mouthed and asleep.

“The sword!” Innis cried. “The sword!”

Harkeld thrust the hilt at her, staring into the tent, straining to see whatever it was she saw.

Innis grabbed for something and swung the sword. A creature materialized in her hand. A baby, his eyes told him, dangling by one ankle, decapitated. An instinctive cry of horror filled his throat.

Innis tossed the small body aside. It landed near the entrance, belly-up.

No baby had such massive balls and crimson cock. Harkeld barely managed to control his recoil. His gaze jerked from the body and found the creature’s head. A large, moist, red-lipped mouth in an old man’s face. Eyes as black and shiny as obsidian.

Revulsion rose in him.
One of those things was kissing me?

Innis swung the sword again, tossed another small, naked body aside. She dropped the sword and bent over Rand.

Harkeld eyed the second body. The creature’s cock was just as red and distended as its fellow’s.

He glanced at Petrus. “I didn’t see those until she killed them. Did you?”

“No.”

“They’re both alive,” Innis said. “But Hew’s in a bad way.”

Petrus nodded, and jerked his head at Harkeld. “We need to check the other tent.”

Harkeld scrambled outside and ran with Petrus to the last tent.

Petrus tore the flaps open and crawled inside. Harkeld dropped to his knees and thrust his flame-covered palm into the tent, peering in. “How are they?”

Cora and Katlen lay on their bedrolls. Petrus crouched between them, his expression frantic beneath his tousled white-blond hair. “Katlen’s dead and I can’t wake Cora. Innis!”

Harkeld moved hurriedly aside.

Innis scrambled into the tent, sword in hand. “Get back, Petrus.”

Petrus pressed himself against the end of the tent.

Harkeld watched Innis, but his eyes made no sense of the skirmish. She grabbed something that wasn’t there, hauled it into the air, chopped with the sword—and suddenly a creature dangled in her grip, limp and headless.

This time he did recoil as she flung it towards him. He didn’t want the thing touching him.

Innis grabbed again, raised the sword again. Petrus crammed himself further back against the end of the tent. Harkeld winced.
If I was naked, I’d be afraid of that sword too
.

But the sword swipe came nowhere near Petrus, and another headless creature hung in Innis’s grip.

There was a moment of silence, and then Harkeld swallowed and said, “Is that all of them?”

“All I can see.” Innis tossed both sword and creature aside and bent over Cora.

Petrus peeled himself away from the back of the tent and knelt by Katlen. He touched her throat, grimaced, shook his head.

Harkeld reached for the sword. There was no blood on the blade. He prodded the nearest creature cautiously, then levered the blade under the body and lifted it. The creature was almost weightless. No blood spilled from that severed neck, but the body was slowly deflating, like a wine bladder that had lost its stopper. The engorged cock was becoming flaccid, the plump testicles shriveling. Whatever leaked from the body wasn’t visible. Air? Mist? Vapor? It stank foully. Harkeld backed out of the tent, the body balanced on the blade, and flung the creature away.

“I need to heal them,” he heard Innis say. “Hew first. He’s the worst. Then Cora. Best bring Cora into their tent. They all need to be in one place, so I can see if any more of those things come.”

Harkeld helped them drag Cora out of the tent on her bedroll. She didn’t stir when Petrus lifted her in his arms. She looked lifeless, her face slack, her arms dangling limply.

Harkeld went ahead to Hew and Rand’s tent and parted the tent flaps. Rand and Hew hadn’t moved. They lay face-up, asleep. The air stank. The two creatures Innis had killed had deflated into shriveled pouches of skin. Harkeld picked them up with the sword, unwilling to touch them, and tossed them out into the mist. He chivvied the heads out with the sword. They were shrinking, dissolving. The black eyes seemed to have melted away.

He flinched as Innis uttered a wordless cry at his shoulder. She grabbed the sword from him and scrambled into the tent, reaching for something on Rand’s chest.

Harkeld held his hand out, giving her light, deeply unsettled. There’d been a live creature in the tent? How had he not seen it?

He didn’t see the death blow, but the stink of decay and sulfur came to his nose. He moved back, letting Innis toss the corpse out of the tent.

Petrus crouched and laid Cora down. “I’d best get back up there.” He jerked his thumb at the sky. “I’ll keep close to the camp. If you need help, yell.”

Innis nodded.

Harkeld helped her lay Cora between Rand and Hew. Then he fetched candles and lit them.

“Thanks.” Innis touched his wrist, checked him with her magic. “You need to sleep.”

Harkeld shook his head. “I can’t see those things until they’re dead. This tent could be full of them and I wouldn’t know.”

“I’ll see them.” Innis knelt by Hew and cupped his face in her hands. “The more you sleep now, the less time it will take me to heal you.”

Still he hesitated. One of those things had been feeding on him. He imagined it crouched on him, tumescent cock pressed against his chest.

“Go to sleep. I promise I won’t let any of them get you.”

Harkeld lay down in the cramped space between Rand and the side of the tent.

Innis turned her attention to Hew. Her eyes were narrowed, her expression inward-looking.

The nervous energy that had sustained him began to leak away. Harkeld grew aware of his fatigue. He was as exhausted as he’d been in his dream, limbs trembling, head aching. His eyes blurred. Innis was right. He needed to sleep.

Innis released Hew’s face and grabbed the sword, raising it threateningly, hissing at something.

Harkeld sat up with a jerk, dizzy, blinking to clear his vision.

She hissed again, waved the sword, then muttered, “Stupid rutting thing,” and scrambled across Hew, stabbing at something.

He blinked, missed the kill, but saw the corpse. Innis threw it outside and crawled back to Hew, sword in hand. She glanced at Harkeld. “Go to sleep.”

Harkeld lay back down, his heart racing. Sleep? Impossible.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment to ease their ache, and opened them to find himself lying beside the water lily pond. The sky was blue and sunny, the grass green and soft. He was alone. No Broushka, no serving maid, no Lenora.

He closed his eyes again and lay exhausted, soaking up the sunshine. Gradually his dizziness faded, the ache in his head eased, his limbs stopped trembling. Slow hours passed. He knew when the dream-Innis finally came, he felt her hand in his, felt contentment flowing from that clasp.

H
ARKELD WOKE, FEELING
deeply rested. Someone stirred alongside him. He heard Rand’s voice, and Cora’s, and Innis answering.

Memory returned. His eyelids jerked open. He sat up abruptly.

Alongside him, Rand was peeling off his blanket and Cora sat upright. Hew’s bedroll was empty. Innis sat on it, her face pale with exhaustion.

The tent flaps were open. It was daylight.

“You need to sleep,” Cora said. “Take this blanket and lie down.”

“But Ebril... his grave.”

“We’ll do that,” Rand said. “Cora’s right; you need to sleep. Now. Or you won’t be any use to anyone.”

“We’ll wake you once the graves are dug,” Cora said.

Harkeld crawled from the tent and stood. The day was heavily overcast, no sun visible, but it felt as if it was mid-morning. Hew was at the fire, stirring a steaming pot. A hawk soared overhead: Petrus.

Something lay on the ground at his feet. A smear of jelly? Mucus? He crouched. The substance looked like something from the seashore—a decaying jellyfish, gelatinous, translucent, dissolving even as he watched.

Harkeld glanced around, looking for the creatures’ corpses. No limp, deflated bodies met his eyes; just a dozen or more of the mucous stains.

“Careful,” he said to Rand, now crawling from the tent. “I think these are what’s left of those creatures.”

Rand stood, placing his feet cautiously. “You saw them?”

“Only once they were dead.”

Cora emerged from the tent, her face grim. “Food,” she said. “Then the graves. And then we must press on.”

H
ARKELD HELPED DIG
the graves. The stony soil made it difficult. Grief rose in him as he dug. He’d liked Ebril, had come to think of him as a friend. And now he was dead.

They piled cairns over both bodies and said the words to the All-Mother. Harkeld felt like crying.
Farewell, Ebril. I’ll miss you
.

He and Rand loaded the packhorses. A light rain started falling. Harkeld fished out his cloak and looked around. Cora crouched by the last tent, talking with Innis. Hew circled overhead and Justen stood at Ebril’s grave.
So few of us left
.

“I need to talk with Justen,” Harkeld said, fastening the cloak. “Won’t be long.”

Rand nodded.

Harkeld walked across to Ebril’s grave. “Justen?” he said quietly. He hadn’t spoken to the mage since the morning he’d punched him.

Justen gave him a scant glance. His mouth was tight, his eyes damp.

“I’m sorry about Ebril. I know you trained with him, I know he was your friend.”

Justen’s mouth tightened further. He gave a brief nod.

“I liked him,” Harkeld said. “He was a good companion.”

Justen’s mouth twisted. He looked away.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Harkeld said. “I apologize. It was wrong of me.”

For a moment he thought Justen was going to ignore the apology, then Justen turned his head and looked at him. His expression was hard to interpret. Was it grief, or hostility, that made his jaw so stiff?

“If you wish, I’d like you to be my armsman again.”

Justen blinked, and surveyed him for several seconds with an expression Harkeld had no difficulty interpreting: surprise. “I lied to you.”

“I know.” But he was no longer angry. Justen had been his friend, just as Ebril had.
That
hadn’t been pretence. He held out his hand. “I apologize for hitting you.”

Justen hesitated briefly, then gripped Harkeld’s hand. “It’s forgotten.”

“Thank you.” He released Justen’s hand and glanced at the grave. “I’ll let you say goodbye to Ebril alone.”

Harkeld walked back past the tent where Cora and Innis were talking. He finished loading the packhorses, then turned his attention to saddling the riding mounts. Justen was gone. Innis knelt at Ebril’s grave alone.

Cora was dismantling the final tent. Harkeld went to help her, then hefted the heavy roll on his shoulder and carried it to the packhorses.

“Here,” Rand said, gesturing to a horse. Harkeld heaved the tent onto the packsaddle and glanced back at Ebril’s grave.

Innis was no longer alone. Petrus stood there. As he watched, Petrus pulled her to her feet and hugged her.

An absurd shaft of jealousy stabbed Harkeld in the chest.
Don’t be a fool,
he told himself. What did he care whether Petrus hugged her or not? The real Innis wasn’t the dream-Innis. He had no feelings for her.