The Treason Blade (Battle for Alsaar Book 1) (29 page)

Jusa
swallowed and nodded soberly.

Varyk nodded.
“Then come with me and secure the tunnel behind me. If all goes well I will
enter through the front gates upon my return.” He did not wait but turned and
walked back toward the fortress and the tunnel. A flash of lightning was
followed by the crack of thunder. The clouds crept farther across the moon as
the first drops of rain began to fall.

*

Ishar patted
the wet, slick neck of her mare. She and every other Raanan were soaked to the
skin from the constant rain that had started hours earlier. Their clothes hung
heavy from the steady falling downpour. The rain showed no signs of easing as
the warriors made their way toward
home,
instead it
showed signs of becoming a constant companion. Ishar glanced toward Traevyn
with concern. He rode upright in the saddle but only just. His head hung down
and when she rode close, Ishar saw his body shivered. She knew if she were to
reach over and touch him she would find his fever had not abated. Traevyn
refused to stop and rest, citing they had no time to waste. They had to return
to the holding. Though she had seen Lysandr tighten his lips, no Raanan had
argued against continuing. They each recognized the truth of Traevyn’s words.

Neither Ber
nor Glyndwr carried a fever and though Gavin did, it was lightly felt. All of
the men held themselves stiff and weary in the saddle. Two days of riding were
tiring; more so when one had been nearly full of constant pouring rain. Earlier
in the morning, the rain had caught up with them and during the day had moved
slowly ahead. But this was a large storm, the clouds spread out before them and
far behind. There was little hope they would see the end before reaching the
holding. And now, winds had added themselves to the mixture. Ishar shivered as
a cool breeze whipped through the group. She was grateful for the overthrow
Davaris had given her. Though now wet, it provided a layer of protection
against the stiff wind picking up from behind. She shivered again and moved her
horse close to Traevyn’s.

He glanced
toward her. His eyes were exhausted and full of pain. “What?” Traevyn asked
wearily as he tried to control the shudders that racked his body.

Ishar reached
up and pressed her palm to his neck. Heat radiated. She compressed her lips.
“You need to stop,” she argued. “We are close enough to the holding that we
should not have to worry about any attack from the Tourna. I can ride on alone
if I have to,” she added.

The rain
gushed from the sky, onto his soaked head, dribbled down his hair and neck and
into his clothes. He blinked water from his eyes. “It is all but a flooding out
here,” he said hoarsely, “and there is no shelter close. I have no desire to
stop and stand out in this downpour when I can continue on and finally find
some place warm and dry.” He shook his head. “We continue on. Together.”

Ishar
recognized the wisdom of his words. She just hated that he was hurting because
of her: defending her, riding to protect her. Ishar nodded in defeat at his
obvious insistence, Traevyn would not be deterred. “We should be there within
the hour.”

He nodded but
barely, as if his body hurt with the simple action. Ishar frowned but kept her
silence as they continued on with a steady firm pace.

*

Varyk let
down the cover to the tunnel. He heard Jusa slide the bar across, locking it
down. Varyk stood and peered through the bushes. The rain fell steady and brisk
and the volume seemed to increase with every minute. The first spring storm had
finally arrived. A deluge would not be far behind. He rose and slipped out into
the open and moved out across the darkness of night.

By the time
he had sneaked to the edge of the village, the rain came down in sheets. Varyk
crept forward, looked around, then stood and walked toward the encampment. He
reasoned with soldiers spread around the village and in the camp, Ryen’s men
would not be likely to challenge a man moving between the two with outright
brashness. It proved to be a correct assumption. Though he saw several guards
as he made his way into the encampment, a casual wave of his hand produced the
same gesture in return. The rain also made it difficult for his Raanan clothing
to be noticed. Once in the camp, Varyk moved from tent to tent searching for
Ryen’s. He headed for the center and found what he was looking for: a large
tent with several guards at its entrance.

Varyk stooped
down behind the closest tent and studied the situation. For several minutes he
watched as no one entered or left between the men on guard. The sky cracked
open with a clap of thunder and the rainfall became worse, pounding the ground
in torrents. The guards stepped closer under the overhang and hunched their
heads down. Varyk looked up at the sky, at the water gushing down and moved. He
would not have long. The deluge could slow at any moment and his movement might
easily be noted. Varyk crept to the back of the large tent, crouched down, and
slipped silently under a flap.

He was in
darkness. He listened and heard movement more to the front of the tent.
It must be divided into sections
, he
thought. There was probably a place for Ryen to rest somewhere in the handmade
room he now found himself. He lifted himself up quietly and tried to
instinctively feel for a waiting opponent. Varyk moved toward a glimmer of
light showing between the fringes of two flaps. He let his fingers brush open
the covering a bare space and voices floated to his ears.

“Address the
entire dispatch to Gaza. He will know how to get the other messages where they
need to go. Send Toma. He is one of our fastest and surest riders. We will have
to pray the Lute do not stop his progress. Tell him if he is stopped and
questioned he must say he sends tidings of good news regarding the peace.
If they search him?
Well. We can only hope they do not.”
There was a pause. “Do you have all of that, Haskin?”

“Yes, my
lord,” a low voice replied. “Will there be anything else?”

“No. Get
these sent and retire. I think we will all need our strength for tomorrow and
the coming days.”

From within
his hindered view came a tall, thin man dressed in Haaldyn clothing. He carried
several leather satchels slung over his right shoulder. Haskin, Varyk mused.
This could not be the Ryen he had heard such great things about. Beyond his
fair coloring, there was nothing of Ishar in his face and no regal bearing. The
Haaldyn made his way out through the flap lining the entrance. Then there was
only the patter of rain beating down on the tent with a steady rhythm. Already
the gush of water had eased to some degree. Varyk heard a sigh and a grunt and
the slid of a chair moving. Footsteps approached and he stepped aside and
waited.

A moment
later, a man entered with a candle in hand. Varyk moved quickly and slid his
dagger around from the back and pressed the blade tight against the throat of
the man he hoped was Ryen. The man was as tall as Varyk though slightly more
broad, with long red hair sprinkled with gray pulled back at his neck by a
metal catch.

The man went
still. After a pause, he stated casually, “I assume you want something besides
cutting my throat since I still live.”

“Are you Ryen
of the Haaldyn?” Varyk stated stiffly.

“Who is
asking?” was the gruff reply.

Varyk frowned
at the man’s arrogance. “I am Varyk of Taryn, the holding you now stand before
with such meager forces, yet such strong readiness for war.”

At the
mention of his name, the man went stiff. “You are a fool,” he muttered
fiercely. “You have come all this way to kill me as you did my daughter? You
will not find me so easy a kill and my men will never allow you the chance to
make it back within your gates. They will see you die in front of all in the
holding and the people in the village will still be made to suffer.”

“I did not
come to kill you,” Varyk said softly.

“The blade
would indicate otherwise,” Ryen answered angrily.

“The blade
only opens an opportunity for dialogue I was afraid would be missing if I had
tried to simply enter unarmed. You would argue against this?”

Ryen was
silent for a moment. “What dialogue is needed between us?” he spit out. “I have
nothing to say to the killer of my daughter.”

Varyk felt
his own ire rising but smothered his growing irritation. How could the man be
so certain his daughter was dead? It did not make sense. He tried reasoning
with Ryen. “What if I were to tell you your daughter is not dead? That she
rides even now with my men on a mission to the west to halt a plot to destroy
the peace we both want quite desperately? What would you say to that?” Varyk
only prayed that his words were true and Ishar lived.

Ryen’s tone
was implacable. “I would say you lie to protect yourself and to prevent a war.”

“If you truly
believe I have killed your daughter, what good would it do for me to risk
coming here?” Varyk reasoned. “As you said, it is very likely I would be caught
either entering or leaving and what good would it do to buy myself some time?”

Ryen’s reply
was quick. “You wish to buy yourself time until your Lute allies arrive. You
know Wyn will more than likely side with you because of his daughter and I will
be forced to contend with assaults from two sides.” There was a bitter tone to
Ryen’s voice as he continued. “I would not listen to some of my council when
they argued against this alliance, saying none of you could be trusted. I
defended you, and now my daughter is dead.”

“She lives,”
Varyk insisted. “I swear to you, Ryen. Your daughter lives. All I ask
is
you give us the time to see this truth before you bring
folly down on all of us. Once blood is shed there will be no easy way to undo
what has been done. My men will return in the next few days, and with Ishar.
You have my pledge on it, I swear.”

Ryen sneered.
“What good is your pledge, I wonder? You can continue your lies all you want. They
will help you none. I know the truth. I have an eyewitness to your deception.”

Varyk was at
a loss for words.
A witness?
He opened his mouth to
counter the remark and felt the point of a sword stick into the center of his
back. He stiffened.

“I find I
dislike the sight of my father with a knife at his throat,” a woman whispered
low. “Remove the dagger.
Now.”

Varyk
hesitated and hissed as the sword tip went deeper. The woman apparently had no
problem skewering him with the weapon. He released the tension on the blade and
held both of his hands up. Ryen turned and angrily ripped the dagger from his
right hand. For a moment Varyk wondered if Ryen might kill him with it so great
was the anger in the man’s deep green eyes. With the sword at his back, Varyk
realized he had no defense.

“Father,” the
woman spoke softly. Her tone sounded concerned.

Ryen held the
dagger readily and walked around. He set the candle on a metal stand and took
the sword from the woman. “Serine, go fetch the guards.”

Varyk turned
and studied the woman. She had to be one of Ishar’s sisters. Her features were
very familiar with long red hair braided down her back, tall statue and intense
green eyes that now seemed more focused on Ryen than Varyk.

She addressed
her father. “Perhaps you should heed his words. They might bear some wisdom,”
she cautioned.

“You think I
might have wisdom in my words, yet your actions give your father the ability to
kill me without hearing and listening to my good judgment,” Varyk ground out
through clenched teeth.

Serine
frowned. “I will not stand by and watch you hold a sword on my father, sir, no
matter how intriguing I find your words.” She glanced back to Ryen. “Still,
before you go to war, should you not consider what he has to say?”

Ryen flicked
his gaze her way. He looked back at Varyk. “You are not a warrior and I will
forgive your innocence of knowledge in these matters. This man cannot be
trusted.”

At his words,
Serine went rigid with anger. “I may not be a warrior, but I am a healer. I see
what happens when a man lets emotions rule his head instead of his intellect. I
am the one who attempts to put back together what is left of the man when the
war you start is finished.” She took a step closer. “I only ask that you think
instead of just reacting. It is what my sister would want you to do.” Serine
stepped back and gave a low nod of her head. “I will see that the guards come.”
She stepped back through the flap of fabric and disappeared from sight.

Ryen caught
Varyk’s eye, and shrugged. “Our women are a touch too spirited at times.” He
kept the blade ready.

A moment
later three soldiers entered. Ryen nodded. “How goes the rain?”

“The downpour
has eased to a steady fall, my lord,” one soldier answered, confused.

Ryen nodded
and pointed to Varyk. “See to him and bind him. Kill him if he moves.” He
looked back at Varyk as the soldiers quickly found rope and bound the Raanan’s
wrists. “I wish I could allow myself the luxury of time my daughter believes I
have, but I find I cannot.” He looked toward a soldier. “Has the rain slacked
enough that you can see good and clear to the holding?”