Winter Warriors (20 page)

The rioting would die down during the night, and their best chance of escape lay in the hour before dawn, when the rioters were asleep and the soldiers of the watch were busy with the aftermath of the chaos.

Escape?

How long before the pursuit began? And how fast could they travel? The queen was heavily pregnant, the child due within days. She could not ride a horse at speed. The threat of miscarriage was too great. That meant taking a wagon. Hard-riding horsemen would catch them within hours.

Perhaps it would be wiser to try to reach Banelion. The White Wolf and his men could not be farther than a few days ride to the west.

He dismissed the idea. That would be the enemy’s first thought. And anyway, what could a few hundred old men do against Malikada’s Ventrian army? Joining Banelion would merely serve a death warrant on more Drenai soldiers.

What, then?

Some deception was necessary. Something that would give them time.

He heard the queen give out a soft moan in her sleep and moved back into the apartment. Sitting down beside her, he gently took her hand. “I will defend you with my life,” he whispered.

*     *     *

Ulmenetha watched him from the doorway. He was holding her hand with great tenderness, and she realized in that moment that the young man was in love with Axiana. Sadness touched her. In a just world they would have met two years ago, when both were free. Even if she returned his love, Axiana was carrying the heir to the throne of two nations. Her life would remain ruled by men of power. And they would never sanction a marriage to a junior officer like Dagorian.

Clearing her throat, she stepped into the room, the children following her, bearing sacks of supplies.

“What now?” she asked Dagorian.

Releasing the queen’s hand, he rose. “Are the children coming with us?” Ulmenetha nodded. “Good,” he said. “We will need a wagon and extra horses. I will find them. The queen must be disguised. No silks or satins. No jewelry. We will leave the city as a poor family fleeing from the riots. There will be many such over the next few days. With luck we will pass unnoticed among them. This will slow down the pursuit.”

“What can I do while you are fetching a wagon?”

“Find maps of the mountains. There will be many box canyons, broken trails, and treacherous areas. It would be helpful if we could plan a route and not move blindly on faith alone.”

Swirling a dark cloak around his shoulders, Dagorian left them.

The youngest child, Sufia, was exhausted, and Pharis led her to a couch, where she lay down and fell asleep. Leaving the children in the apartment, Ulmenetha took a lantern and made her way to the Royal Library on the ground floor. There were thousands of books there and hundreds of scrolls. She searched for some time through the index, locating three ancient maps of the mountains and also a traveler’s diary that told of the trek from Usa to Perapolis in the south. If the Source was with them, they would be following that route for at least part of the way.

Returning to the apartment, she found the redheaded boy,
Conalin, sitting on the balcony. Pharis and Sufia were cuddled together on the couch, fast asleep. She covered them with a blanket, then moved to Axiana.

The queen stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled sleepily. “I had a terrible dream,” she said.

“Rest, my lady. You will need your strength in the morning.” Axiana closed her eyes.

Ulmenetha walked out onto the balcony. The western quarter of the city was ablaze, and she could hear distant screams. “Are you not tired?” she asked Conalin.

“I am strong,” he said.

“I know that. But even the strong need sleep.”

“They are killing one another,” he said, gesturing toward the distant flames. “Robbing, looting, raping. Slaughtering the weak.”

“Does it sadden you?”

“It is what the weak are for,” he said solemnly. “That is why I shall never be weak.”

“How did you come to meet Pharis and the child?”

“Why do you want to know?” he demanded.

“I am making conversation, Conalin. If we are to be friends, we need to know each other. That is the way of things. What is Pharis’ favorite food?”

“Plums. Why?”

She smiled. “That is part of knowing a friend. When you go out to steal food, you will look for a plum for Pharis because you know she likes them. Knowing is good among friends. So where did you meet?”

“Her mother’s a whore who worked Merchant Alley. I first saw Pharis there. Two summers ago. Her mother was drunk and lying in the gutter. Pharis was trying to lift her to get her home.”

“And you helped?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

Ulmenetha shrugged. “You were helping the weak, Conalin. Why did you not just rob her and walk away?”

“That’s what I was going to do,” he snapped. “I saw her lying there, and I knew she’d have coin from the men she’d doxied. But then Pharis came along. She saw me standing there, and she said, ‘Take her arm.’ So I did. Anyway, that’s how we met.”

“What happened to the mother?”

Now it was his turn to shrug. “She’s still around. She sold Pharis to a whorehouse where rich men like to fondle young girls. I took her away from that. I climbed through the rear window one night, and I got her out.”

“That was very brave of you.” He seemed pleased at the compliment, and his hard face relaxed. As it did so, he looked younger and terribly vulnerable. Ulmenetha wanted to reach out and stroke his tangled red hair, to draw him to her. He spoke again.

“Had to pick the lock on her room. And all the while the Breaker was asleep in a chair next to it.”.

“The Breaker?” she inquired.

“The leg breaker. The man who watches out for the girls. Well, they say he watches out for them, but if a girl won’t do what she’s told, he bashes them.” He grinned suddenly. “I bet he was in real trouble the following morning.”

“And what about Sufia?”

“We found her in that wizard’s house. She was hiding under a bed. She was the last of them. Why was he killing children?” he asked her.

“He was, I believe, making blood magick,” said Ulmenetha. “It is a vile practice.”

“There’s a lot of them,” he said softly. “Vile practices.”

“Tell me about you,” she said.

“No,” he said simply. “I don’t talk about me. But you are right, I am tired. I think I’ll sleep now for a while.”

“I’ll wake you when Dagorian gets back.”

“You won’t have to,” he assured her.

Out on the streets the rioting continued unabated. Dagorian had avoided the guards by climbing over the palace wall and dropping down onto the broad Avenue of Kings. From there
he could see several bodies sprawled in death. Rioters moved into sight, swilling looted wine. Keeping to the shadows, he moved down the avenue, then darted across it to one of the wide roads leading to the Merchants’ Acre. Here, he knew, were the haulers who daily distributed the merchants’ wares to shops, homes, and market stalls in the city.

He reached the first to find the buildings engulfed by flames and could see wagons burning on the open ground beyond. Anger swept through him, threatening to engulf his mind. He wanted to draw his sword and run at the rioters, hacking and slashing. His fingers closed around the hilt of his saber. A voice whispered into his mind, cold and calm, dispelling the fury.

“Do not let them possess you, Dagorian. They are everywhere.”

Dagorian leaned back against a wall, his hands shaking with the aftermath of rage. “Who are you?” he whispered.

“A friend. You remember me? I came to you when the demons were rending your soul. And again at the home of the murdered seer.”

“I remember.”

“Know this, then, child: The city is possessed, and the demons are feasting on rage and murder. Every hour they grow stronger. By tomorrow no one will be able to resist them. Do not succumb. Think clearly and coolly. I will be with you, though I will not speak again. Now find a wagon!”

The officer moved away from the wall and ducked down a narrow alley. Smoke thicker than any fog hung in the air, burning his lungs. Holding his cloak over his face, Dagorian ran on. The sounds of screaming came from all around him now, from the burning buildings where people were trapped, from the alleyways where victims had been cornered.

Anger touched him again, but he fought it down.

He came to the wide gates of a second hauler. They had been burst open, and a group of men and women carrying torches were running around the yard, setting the wagons ablaze. Others had thrown torches into the stables, igniting the straw inside. Horses were whinnying in terror. Cutting
across the yard, Dagorian opened the stable doors and ran inside, freeing all but two of the horses. Panic-stricken, the freed beasts galloped into the yard, scattering the rioters.

Moving to the remaining two horses, Dagorian calmed them as best he could and led them from the stable. Fear was strong upon them, but they were used to the sure touch of their handlers, and they accepted Dagorian’s authority. In the yard he tethered them to a wagon untouched by the rioters. The traces and brasses used to hitch the horses were laid over the back of the wagon. Dagorian moved to them.

A rioter ran forward, tossing a torch to the wagon seat. Dagorian spun on his heel and sent a thundering right cross to the man’s jaw. He fell without a sound. Hurling the torch aside, he moved to the traces. A whoosh of burning air seared across the yard as flames burst through the stable’s wall. The horses reared. Once more Dagorian tried to calm them, stroking their long necks, whispering soothing words. The heat was intense, and the rioters moved away. Dagorian hitched the horses and climbed to the driver’s seat. Releasing the brake, he took up the whip and cracked it. The horses surged into the traces, and the wagon moved forward. But to exit the yard they had to drive past the burning stables, and the horses faltered, unwilling to face the flames again.

In the back of the wagon were several empty sacks. With his dagger he sliced two strips from one of them. Leaping to the ground, he blindfolded the horses. Back in the driver’s seat he cracked the whip. Reluctantly the team moved on. He could feel them faltering again as the heat swelled but lashed them with the whip and shouted at the top of his voice. The horses powered into the traces, and the wagon rolled past the burning building and out into the road beyond.

Swinging them to the right, he took them at speed down toward the Avenue of Kings.

Another mob was gathered there, but they scattered as the wagon bore down on them. One man ran forward and leapt at him. His face was a twisted mask of hatred, his eyes staring wide. Dagorian lashed out with his foot, kicking the attacker in the chest and pitching him to the street. Up ahead a group
of men tried to block his way, but the horses were galloping now and would not be stopped. A hurled knife thudded into the backrest behind him, but then he was clear of them, and the palace gates were in sight.

They were open. And no guards could be seen.

Dagorian drove through, then dragged on the reins, hauling the horses to a stop.

Jumping down, he struggled with the wrought-iron gates, pulling them closed.

They would not hold firm against a mob, he knew. Mounting the wagon again, he drove it to the main doors.

The sky was lightening as he ran into the building and up the long, winding staircase. The queen was awake now, dressed in a simple woolen gown of blue edged with white cotton.

“We must go quickly,” said Dagorian. “The mob will soon be here.”

“Go? Where should I go? I am the queen. They will not harm me,” said Axiana. “They are my people, and they love me.” Her slender fingers touched the sleeve of her gown. “And I will not wear this revolting outfit. It scratches my skin.”

“A mob does not know of love,” said Dagorian. “They are outside killing each other, raping and looting. It will not be long before they realize that true riches can be found here.”

“My cousin Malikada will be back soon. He will protect me,” said Axiana.

“Please, my dove,” urged Ulmenetha, “trust me. Your life is in danger, and we must flee the city.”

“The nobility are not given to panic, Ulmenetha. And certainly not in the face of peasant unrest.”

“It is not merely
unrest,”
Dagorian told her. “The mobs are possessed.”

“Possessed? That cannot be!”

“It is true, Highness. I swear it. I discovered the demons while investigating a series of murders. I believe Kalizkan summoned them. I have seen mobs before, and I have been out there among those demented people. There is a difference, believe me.”

“You are saying this to frighten me,” insisted Axiana.

Ulmenetha approached the queen. “What he says is true, my dove. I have known about these demons for some time. I also know that Kalizkan is a walking corpse. He, too, is possessed. You saw the creature at his house. It was a
zhagul
, a dead man. I think we should listen to Dagorian and follow him to the mountains.”

“I will not!” insisted Axiana, drawing back, her eyes fearful. “Malikada will protect me. I will tell him of Kalizkan’s evil, and he will punish him.”

Ulmenetha stepped in close and put her hands on Axiana’s shoulders. “Be calm,” she said softly. “I am here. All will be well.” Her right hand lifted as if to stroke the queen’s brow. Dagorian saw a blue light radiate from her palm. Axiana fell forward into Ulmenetha’s arms. The priestess lowered her to a couch. “She will sleep for several hours,” she said.

“You are a sorceress?” whispered Dagorian.

“I am a priestess!” she snapped. “There is a difference. The little magick I know is used for healing. Now carry her down—and be careful with her.”

Dagorian lifted Axiana in his arms. Despite her pregnancy she was not heavy, and he carried her to the wagon, lifting her to the tailboard. Ulmenetha settled her down, rolling an empty sack for a pillow and covering her with a blanket. Pharis and Sufia scrambled aboard, and Conalin climbed to the driver’s seat. Dagorian stepped up to sit beside him.

Dagorian drove the wagon to the royal stables and there saddled a warhorse of some seventeen hands. “Can you drive the wagon?” he asked Conalin. The boy nodded.