The Emerald Crown (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 3) Page 6

  She said a silent prayer to the Brother Gods, in case any were listening to her plea. Let Wolfram win, and let him figure out what had happened to her. He could hunt Hamid down on the road, recover Soultrup, and free Nathaliey at the same time. But already despair was settling in as she considered the possibilities of escape and found them very low.

  Vashti got her attention with another slap on the side of the head. “How did you do that?” he demanded.

  How did she do what? Make the hillside collapse? She wasn’t about to admit she had no idea what he was talking about, but thought it might be a good opportunity to provoke him.

  She didn’t turn in the saddle to look at him, but kept her tone lofty, thinking Chantmer-like thoughts to make her words arrogant. “If you are expecting cooperation, you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “Oh, you’ll cooperate. My master will make sure of that. But we had your hands bound, and I felt nothing. Somehow you told the paladins to rescue you. How?”

  Ah, that. She hadn’t, of course, but she could see why he might think so. Instead, Wolfram’s arrival was the logical conclusion of Marissa and Geord returning to tell him their discovery about the unprepared state of the enemy camp. Wolfram had arrived intending to cut down as many marauders and footman as he could. Nobody, so far as she could tell, knew that Nathaliey was a prisoner.

  “I can communicate with them any time I wish,” Nathaliey lied.

  Vashti grabbed the hand that had been pinned to the mud with the marauder’s sword and twisted it. She winced, but refused to struggle.

  The hand was still throbbing, but she had natural healing ability thanks to her years of training in the order, pulling out her own blood, recovering, and repeating the process. Already, the wound was closing over, though the bone and muscle were throbbing, and a normal person might never have been able to use that hand again.

  “Nobody can do that,” Vashti said. “Not even my master can do it any time he wishes, and his sorcery is beyond anything you can imagine. Certainly nobody from that pathetic order of so-called wizards to which you belong. How did you communicate with the paladins? Tell me or I’ll make you suffer.”

  He squeezed harder when she didn’t answer, and this time she couldn’t help a small cry of pain. She flailed with her elbow, and Vashti bent her hand behind her back, grinding the bones together. A marauder spotted them struggling and came up beside them. He shoved Nathaliey back into place before she could hurl herself from the saddle, then punched her jaw. Her head rolled away from it, and her vision went momentarily black. When her head cleared, she renewed her fight to get free of Vashti’s grasp.

  Hamid turned in the saddle. “We’re going to be in the thick of it any moment, and I won’t have distractions. If that woman doesn’t stop struggling, cut her throat and throw her in the ditch.”

  “But the master said—” Vashti began.

  “You’ll either cut her throat, or I’ll cut yours.”

  “Understood,” Vashti said coldly.

  Hamid’s tone left no doubt that he was serious, and Nathaliey stopped struggling. For now. They were riding up the road through the heavy rain, and came upon a man with a horse as they rounded a corner. It was only a farmer, and the horse was pulling a milk cart, but Hamid gave an alarmed shout that seemed out of proportion to the threat. Once he realized it was just a local and his milk, he snarled at the man to get his cart out of the way so the horses could pass, then ordered the man killed anyway after he’d obeyed. Nathaliey watched in horror as they threw the farmer’s dead, bleeding body into the mud and trampled it with their horses.

  She was still wondering about the marauder captain’s disproportionate response to the man with the cart when they ran into a small company of mounted men, roughly equivalent in numbers to the marauders. Again, Hamid pulled up, expecting a major fight, but it was clear that the opposing force was even more caught off guard, and the captain ordered a charge.

  These were not Blackshields, but regular knights with shields bearing the crests of various realms of the free kingdoms—a wolf, a snarling bear, an oak tree on a field of white—and while the Eriscobans made a fight of it, Hamid’s forces made quick work of them. Hamid cut down two with Soultrup, three more fell to other marauders, and then the entire company was through and riding hard to the north, leaving the surviving Eriscobans behind.

  Nathaliey finally understand the marauders’ haste a few minutes later when they brushed the edge of a column of Eriscoban footmen armed with spears and traveling south at a good pace. The troops carried no baggage and were marching smartly, so they had to be well-supplied from the rear. And it occurred to her that the forces resupplying the Veyrians from the river must have warned Hamid that an army of barbarians was on the march. That would explain the hurry.

  Unfortunately, this was information that Captain Wolfram didn’t possess. If he had, he’d have never attacked the bluff, but waited for reinforcements. Either way, she realized, with belated hope rising in her breast, Hamid had fled the scene, knowing that his army and its reinforcements were doomed.

  The marauders were too few in number to fight the column of Eriscobans, and they cut from the road toward the river as soon as they were spotted. Hamid rode them hard along the bank for nearly a half hour before they came upon a bridge over the Thorft. She didn’t know if he’d intended to cross or not, but the bridge was swarming with Eriscobans, and scorch marks, piles of dead on the banks, and a damaged watchtower, with its witch hat roof still smoldering in the rain, indicated that the Veyrians on their barges had forced their way past.

  Riders spotted Hamid and gave pursuit. There were maybe fifteen men chasing the marauders to start, and a few minutes later Hamid made contact with more Eriscobans, another scouting party riding alongside the main army. A good thirty mounted troops were shortly chasing Hamid’s men, and Nathaliey began to hope that they would force battle. She could get her hands loose in the chaos and make her escape.

  But just as the Eriscobans were about to overcome them, Vashti cast a spell over the horses, who surged with fresh energy. They flew across the countryside, sure-footed and unflagging. The rain, mud, and uneven terrain slowed their pursuers, who fell behind and eventually vanished.

  An hour later they came upon a hamlet of three or four mud-and-thatch houses. A woman poked her head out at the sound of horses. Nathaliey tried to shout a warning, but a marauder was already dismounting to take care of her. He dragged her out and killed her. Hamid’s men broke down doors and murdered the rest while Nathaliey watched in horror.

  Once the occupants were dead, the marauders pillaged the houses for food, while Vashti and Nathaliey waited in the saddle. Hamid came outside, tearing into a loaf of bread so fresh it was still steaming in the cold, damp air. He stepped over the body of the woman who’d been baking it moments earlier without sparing her a glance.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me any?” Nathaliey asked, bitter and sick from the slaughter. Hamid gave her a cold glance with his dead eyes and continued on his way.

  “There will be no food for you today,” Vashti said when the marauder captain was back among his men, giving them short, growled instructions for the road ahead.

  “I wasn’t asking for bread.”

  “No bread today. Or tomorrow. Or any other day. You have eaten your last meal.”

  “So you’re going to starve me to death, is that it?”

  He didn’t answer. The marauders were on the road minutes later, and this time the pace was more measured, as Hamid seemed to think they’d evaded pursuit. The marauders stopped periodically to burn houses, murder, and otherwise spread mayhem as they traveled toward Estmor, safe territory for the Veyrians.

  And as the miles piled up, Nathaliey felt the chance of rescue evaporating. Any hope of escape now rested entirely in her hands.

  Chapter Seven

  It was night when Markal awakened from his stupor, and an owl was hooting in the distance. A fire crackled about fifteen feet away, betw
een the birch where he’d collapsed and the oak tree where he’d left the injured griffin. Yuli’s slender figure crouched in front of the fire, and she turned a chunk of sizzling venison on a makeshift spit. The smell was wonderful, and Markal’s stomach groaned in anticipation.

  Ageel sat a few paces behind his mistress, his back to the oak tree, one wing tucked, the other stretched out as if it were painful to move. The griffin spotted Markal rising to his feet, cocked his head, and stared with that intense, eagle-like gaze.

  “Don’t worry, he’s already had his supper,” Yuli said without rising or glancing at Markal. Sharp ears, that one.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Where do you think the rest of the deer went? Down Ageel’s gullet, bones, hide, and all. A griffin is not a picky eater.”

  “What about you?”

  “I had a bit of liver, but I’m not really hungry.”

  “And you won’t be until I look at that ankle. You went out hunting on that thing?”

  “Not much of a choice, was there?”

  And how exactly had she brought down a deer, anyway, hobbling about on an injured ankle, with no bow that he could see, or a griffin to do the hunting? He hobbled over, thinking to ask, but the sight of the sizzling venison put it out of his mind.

  Yuli used a forked stick to pick a bit of meat from the end, which she passed to him. He blew on it until it was just below tongue-scalding temperature, then gobbled it down. He picked off another piece from the end, but the rest was still too raw for consumption.

  “It might be a little overcooked,” she said, “but they say you flatlanders like your food burned.”

  “Actually, I’m going to wait on the rest of it. Don’t want to get worms.”

  “You’re safe from worms. This deer seemed healthy enough.”

  “All the same, I prefer it . . . well, not burned, but more cooked than that.”

  “It’s not like I never cook my food,” she said. “Fish, for example, taste better cooked. Especially the heads.”

  Markal raised an eyebrow. “Yes, raw fish heads are a little much, aren’t they?”

  She shrugged. “It’s only a preference. I’ll eat it either way.”

  He was still ravenous, but even the little bit he’d consumed was a relief. And his body had recovered some of its strength while he slept.

  “Show me your ankle,” he said.

  “I’d rather not have you touching me.”

  “Don’t be stubborn. Off with your boot.”

  She thinned her lips, sighed, and unlaced her deerskin boot. She winced as it came off. The ankle was purple and swollen.

  “You should have been soaking this in a cold stream, not hiking around hunting deer.”

  “Naturally, I would have preferred that.” She grimaced again as he took her foot in his hands. “Do you have to?”

  “It’s going to hurt,” he said, shifting the ankle to make sure the bone was sound. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “A little pain doesn’t bother me. I don’t like to be touched, except by my mates.”

  “You have more than one?”

  “Not at the same time, no. And only a few weeks a year. We aren’t flatlanders, you know. We can’t all crowd into the same house, filthy and smelling each other’s body odor.”

  “Only a woman and her griffin, I imagine.”

  “I have three at the moment, but yes. Griffins smell much better than humans. Especially than flatlanders.” She sniffed at him. “You must have bathed recently—you’re not as rancid-smelling as I thought you’d be.”

  “What about children? Don’t they live with their parents?”

  “When absolutely necessary. My son moved out when he was seven.”

  “Seven? Moved out where?”

  “Oh, it’s not like that. He lives with his father, who is an excellent trainer. It was time for the boy’s solo riding. Anyway, I didn’t have time for the child, not with all of the moving about I have to do organizing the flocks. Up and down the mountains, both sides of the range, all the way south to the. . .” Yuli broke off and frowned. “Never mind that. What the devil is taking you so long? Can you heal it or not?”

  Markal smiled. “I’ve already repaired the torn muscle and the stretched ligaments.”

  “Then why are you still touching me?” she demanded. “Go see to my griffin. He’s in pain, and he can’t fly.”

  “I need to manipulate your ankle or it will stiffen up and you’ll walk with a limp for weeks to come.”

  “I can move it myself, you fool. Let go of me.”

  Markal was losing patience. “Sit still and do what I say. You’re not in charge here, I am.”

  Yuli folded her arms and gave him a cross look as he kept moving her ankle around. Already, the swelling was going down, although it would be tender for a while. It had only taken a little magic to heal her ankle, in what was, after all, a minor injury rendered serious largely by her need to put weight on it. When he was satisfied that her ankle wouldn’t go stiff, he released her with a nod.

  “What about Ageel?” she said.

  “Give me a minute. That’s going to take more effort. A little more venison will help. Do you have wine?”

  “Wine? Where the devil would I get that?”

  “Water?”

  “There’s a brook a few hundred paces in that direction.” She gestured behind her.

  “You have a waterskin, I presume? Fetch me water.”

  “I thought you wanted me to stay off the ankle.”

  “Not anymore, I don’t. Now it helps. And I need to drink after all the blood I lost.”

  She pulled her boot back on, and was still grumbling when she recovered the empty waterskin from near the griffin and set off, hobbling. Markal removed the spit of venison from the fire and blew on it while keeping an eye on the animal, who stared back.

  “You’ve already eaten, and now it’s my turn,” he told the animal. “Unless you’re hoping for a piece of me, and not this venison, in which case my answer is an even more vehement no.”

  Ageel squawked. Markal was no expert in griffin talk, but the griffin sounded more curious than hungry or suspicious. He picked off a piece of meat, blew on it, and took it gingerly between his teeth.

  “Needs salt. And vegetables. Even a turnip or two would be nice. Potatoes even better.”

  “If you have any of those things, feel free to cook them up,” Yuli said, emerging from the woods with a full waterskin. “Otherwise, eat your venison and be grateful.”

  “I’m plenty grateful, believe me.”

  He took the waterskin. The water was cold and mountain fresh, and he was so thirsty that he kept drinking and drinking until it was nearly drained. He handed it back and started in on the venison again.

  “Where are your riders?” he asked between mouthfuls.

  “Huh?”

  “Your companions, your flock. You went down, but nobody has come searching, at least not that I’ve seen.”

  “Ah. Because nobody was expecting me to return. I was flying north, toward the king’s highway, when I spotted something. They’d given me word that a lone sorcerer—one of the two we spotted a few weeks ago leaving the stone circle—was coming north. I thought I’d do some hunting before I continued my journey.”

  “Which is when you were caught in the ambush.” Markal nodded. “What were you doing? You said you fly up and down the mountain range?”

  Yuli was still standing above him, and she folded her arms with a scowl.

  Markal took another bite of venison and tried a different angle. “Are you someone important among your people?”

  “I am Yuli Flockheart.”

  “Should that mean something to me?”

  “You don’t have flockhearts?”

  “We don’t have flocks.”

  “You know what I mean. Chieftains, clan leaders, lords of the air.”

  “Are you some sort of queen?”

>   “We don’t have queens or kings. I am the flockheart.”

  “I see,” Markal said, although he didn’t. “Is that what the green stone and the silver chain represent?”

  “This is the emerald crown.”

  “So you have a crown, but you aren’t a queen. You are a flockheart.”

  “Yes.”

  He had eaten about three-fourths of the venison, and it was sitting thick and heavy in his stomach, which also had a bunch of water sloshing around. The remaining chunk was undercooked, in any event. He rose to his feet with what was left, and approached Ageel.

  “A peace offering?” Yuli asked. She shrugged. “It won’t hurt. Keep your fingers clear, though. His beak is sharp.”

  “Sharp and big.”

  He’d already had his hands on the beast once, but Ageel looked more alert now—injured yes, but no longer impaled with crossbow bolts. Yuli approached first, and wrapped her hands around Ageel’s neck with her fingers gripping fistfuls of white feathers.

  “Now listen here,” Markal said, still at a safe distance. “We know each other already, so nothing funny, right? We’re good friends now, you and I.”

  Yuli snorted. “Don’t get carried away. Ageel knows as well as I do that you’re no kind of friend.”

  He ignored her. “I’m touching your wing first. Don’t be alarmed. I’m only going to help the pain go away.”

  The injury to the wing had been the least dangerous of the three wounds in the short term, but carried the most risk now that the bolt was out of the stomach and the shoulder was no longer bleeding. If the delicate wing bone was badly shattered, he didn’t know if he could bring it together. The master could, surely, or possibly Narud—but they were miles away. What about the hermit at the stone circle? Could he and Yuli get the injured griffin there, and if so, would the hermit help?

  The first time Markal touched the griffin it had been trembling with fear and pain. Now, a rumble started deep in its chest. A warning. It sent a shiver down Markal’s spine, but he kept his voice calm and continued to speak in soothing tones.