The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (58 page)

“What’s the boat for?” Harkeld asked. The oliphants forded the final channel, water foaming and swirling around their bellies.

“You and me and Cora,” Rand said. “After the anchor stone. If the river looks safe enough. Otherwise we’ll come back here and cross.”

A hawk swooped down and changed into Serril. The foremost oliphant gained the riverbank and went down on its knees, allowing its passenger to scramble down. “This is Arnod,” Serril said. “One of our sailors. He’ll be in charge of the boat.” He made the introductions quickly.

The sailor grinned and nodded. His clothes were Grooten, like Justen’s had been when Harkeld had first met him, with black and white geometric shapes embroidered along the hem of his cloak and the tops of his boots.

The second oliphant came up the riverbank and lowered itself onto all four knees, its movements slow and stately.

“Help me get this boat off,” Serril said.

They untied the ropes, slid the boat off, and laid it to one side. It was a small, sturdy skiff, with oars and a mast and a rolled sail strapped inside. The oliphant stood and stretched and shifted into a man. He was as lean and weather-beaten as Rand, with light brown curly hair cut close to his skull and an impressive set of parallel scars running down one side of his ribcage, as if a lion had clawed him. “This is Hedín,” Serril said. “And you haven’t all met Linea, have you?”

Harkeld glanced over his shoulder to find that the first oliphant had become a woman, dark, petite, attractive—and naked.

He hastily averted his gaze.

“Did you make extra gruel, Cora?” Hedín asked. “You did? May the All-Mother bless you!”

W
HILE THE NEWCOMERS
ate breakfast, Harkeld helped Rand and Petrus and Justen load the packhorses. Petrus was silent, but Rand hummed cheerfully as he worked. The sound reminded Harkeld of Ebril.

“Linea and Hedín will try to get this lot across the river now,” Rand said, tightening a girth as he talked. “Then fly up to join us.”

“You think the horses will make it?”

“With oliphants to anchor them, hopefully they won’t wash away.” Rand patted the packhorse he’d just loaded. “Swim well, my friend.”

The horse tossed its head with a snort.

“And the boat?” Harkeld asked. “How do we get that to the anchor stone? Will Arnod sail it down?”

“Too dangerous,” Rand said, hefting another packsaddle into place. “There’s a gorge with rapids ahead. Serril will carry it. And once we’ve sailed—
if
we sail—he’ll bring our mounts back here and take them across the river. One or other of the shapeshifters will help him.”

“And if it’s too dangerous to use the boat... we cross here, like Arnod?”

Rand nodded, adjusting the packsaddle so that it was evenly balanced. “And sleep another night on land. Innis said the fires worked well last night, so the breathstealers shouldn’t be a problem.”

Harkeld made a final check of the packhorse he was loading. He gave the beast a pat and uttered the same blessing Rand had. “Swim well.”

By the time everyone had eaten, the packhorses were roped into strings of five and the riding mounts saddled. Serril became an oliphant, and they lashed the boat to his back. Harkeld was aware of an itch of excitement in his blood. It was only nine miles to the anchor stone. They’d be there in a couple of hours. He checked his sword and swung up into his saddle.

Cora stood conferring with Rand, low-voiced. At the river’s edge, an oliphant walked slowly into the rushing water, five nervous packhorses following.

Harkeld shifted restlessly in his saddle.
Come on, let’s go
. He pushed back his dripping hood and went over the lessons Cora had taught him—burning arrows, burning throwing stars.

Justen mounted and nudged his horse up alongside Harkeld’s. Petrus and Hew climbed into their saddles.

Cora strode towards them. “Petrus, Justen, Hew... stick close to Flin. If there are assassins, I want them to have a hard time guessing which one of you he is.” She glanced up at Harkeld’s unhooded head.

“Better field of view,” he said.

Cora conceded this with a nod. “Hoods off, all of you. And make your hair as dark as Flin’s. Stubble, too! The more similar you look, the more confusing it’ll be for them.”

Arnod jogged back from helping rope the horses to the second oliphant. He climbed clumsily into his saddle. Rand and Cora mounted.

“Ready?” Cora asked.

The itch of excitement grew stronger. Harkeld glanced at the river. The first oliphant had crossed two channels and was fording a third, all five horses still behind it. The second oliphant was starting out. The remaining packhorses stood tethered on the riverbank, awaiting their turn.

“Do you really think there’ll be Fithians?” Hew asked.

Harkeld turned his head to hear the answer.

“It’s unlikely, given the breathstealers, but let’s take no chances, shall we?”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

M
ISTY RAIN HUNG
in the air. Bennick peered out of the cave and drew back, stopping Jaumé from looking. “A hawk.”

“Hawks can’t hurt us.”

“They can if they’re shapeshifters. No, don’t look, lad. A hawk can see a lizard on a rock half a mile away.” Bennick took out the spyglass and aimed it at the island. He snorted. “Yes. Shapeshifter. It’s landed. Look.”

Jaumé took the spyglass and focused it. The island sprang at him. Black rocks, lapping water, the gray lump of stone at the northernmost end, and... “A dog?” Sniffing the rocks in ever-widening circles.

“Not a dog.” Bennick took the spyglass back. “The prince is coming.”

“They’re looking for him!” Jaumé said, with a thrill of horror. “To kill him.” He told Bennick the conversation he’d overheard in Droznic-Drobil.

Bennick laughed. “It’s a good story.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

T
HE FIRST FEW
miles were much like the previous day—marshland, steaming pools, the occasional stand of trees or outcrop of basalt.

Gradually it changed. The outcrops of basalt became larger and more numerous, and the stretches of open ground between them dwindled in size. Harkeld began to look more frequently over his shoulder.

To their left, the Szal narrowed, pinched between basalt bluffs. The water flowed swiftly, turbulently. Harkeld understood why Serril carried the boat; the river would have swallowed the skiff, and spat it out as splinters.

They left the river’s edge, skirting the basalt. Harkeld peered uneasily up at the looming black pillars.
If I was a Fithian, this is the sort of place I’d choose for an attack
. Two hawks flew with them, skimming over the thrusting rocks. They weren’t birds he recognized. It was hard to trust the vigilance of mages he’d never met. He wished Innis was up there; she must be asleep in Cora’s pocket again.

Half a mile to their right, an outcrop of basalt rose from the ground, gradually increasing in height. As they rode, the outcrop veered towards them and the open ground narrowed until it was barely a furlong wide. It was like being in the canyon again, except that the walls were black, not red, and the ground steamed.

The rain fell more heavily, streaming over his face, making it hard to see, hard to hear. Harkeld’s nervousness grew. How far had they come? Six miles? Seven?
Not much more of this,
he told himself. They’d be at the anchor stone soon.

A hawk arrowed down and landed.

Harkeld reached for his sword, certain something was wrong—but the hawk was Hedín. “We got all the horses across,” the mage said. “One broken hock, a couple of sprains, and some bad scrapes, but nothing a healer can’t fix.”

Harkeld slid his sword back into its scabbard.

“Excellent,” Cora said. “Stay close, will you? And Linea, too. I don’t like this territory.”

“How much more of this is there?” Rand asked, gesturing at the basalt bluffs.

“Another mile or so. It gets narrower first, then widens right out.” Hedín changed back into a hawk, spread his wings, and sprang upwards.

Hedín was right; the strip of open ground narrowed still further. They rode at a cautious trot, wary of steam vents and half-seen pools. “I don’t like this,” Justen muttered, riding so close that his knee almost touched Harkeld’s.

“Neither do I.” The looming basalt on either side was ideal for an ambush—

Something silvery flashed through the rain and buried itself in Hew’s throat. A hawk’s shriek echoed, simultaneously.

Harkeld snatched for his sword, his mouth opening in a shout as his brain caught up with what his eyes had seen: throwing star.

Another silvery blur came from his right. Petrus’s horse reared, squealing.

Harkeld threw himself from his saddle at the same time Justen shoved him. He hit the ground hard, knocking the sword from his grip and the breath from his lungs. He scrambled to hands and knees, gasping, shaking rain from his eyes.
Where’s the rutting sword?

Justen landed alongside him, grabbed his shoulder, and thrust him back. “Stay down!” All around was a chaos of rain and panicking horses and billowing sulfur-scented steam. Something screamed; animal or human, he couldn’t tell.

A throwing star sliced towards them. Harkeld stopped scrabbling for his sword and grabbed for his magic instead.
Burn
.

The throwing star ignited with a flash of white-hot flame. Somewhere a lion roared, deep-throated.

Justen shoved him further back. “Get behind me.”

Harkeld crouched, struggling to fill his lungs. He dashed rain from his eyes. A throwing star arced towards them.
Burn
. And there was another one.
Burn
. Justen jerked back, his shoulder hitting Harkeld’s, as the throwing star ignited less than a yard from his face.

“Did I burn you?” Harkeld asked, still wheezing for breath.

Justen gave a shaky laugh. “No.”

An oliphant trumpeted. Serril. The ground shook as he charged past, the boat ludicrously perched on his back.

Harkeld cast a quick glance around. Hew lay with his arms outflung, clearly dead. He had a flash of memory: Innis, the night Ebril had died.
I can’t heal death. Healers who try that die
.

Petrus was on the ground too, trying to roll to his feet, pain stark on his face.

A small, dark hawk swooped low. A throwing star came out of the mist, catching it in its breast, shearing through flesh and bone, flinging the bird backwards with a spray of blood and feathers.

Harkeld opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Horror emptied his lungs of air. “They killed Innis,” he said numbly, then turned to Justen, almost shouting: “They killed Innis!”

“No, they didn’t,” Justen said, peering through the steam and rain in the direction the throwing stars had come from.

“I just saw it,” Harkeld said. For some reason he didn’t understand, he was shaking.

“That was Linea,” Justen said flatly. “Get down. There’s at least one Fithian still out there.”