The High King's Tomb by Kristen Britain
“What of your allegiance to Mirwell Province?” she asked him.
Immerez slashed his hook through the air. “It died with the old man. The boy is a pup, an idiot.”
Karigan didn’t disagree.
“No more than a tool,” Immerez added.
That was interesting. “So he hasn’t joined up with Second Empire’s cause?”
“He complies,” Immerez said.
With “help” from Colonel Birch, I bet, Karigan thought. As long as Immerez was feeling conversational, she might as well try to draw him out. If she survived this and could bring information to the king, it would be worth the effort. “About the one called Grandmother,” she began, “what—”
He struck down on her and at first it felt as though she’d been stung on her head by a wasp, but then warm blood trickled down her forehead and dripped into her eyes. She blinked rapidly, stunned.
Immerez knelt before her, displaying his hook for her in the firelight, showing her the wad of bloody skin and hair on the tip.
“No more questions from Greenies,” he said, his voice low. “Before daylight, you will know what my life is like, one-eyed and one-handed.”
He wiped the hook off on her coat and his face filled her vision like a glowing orb, his features formed by darkness and flickering light. He rotated his head to fix her with his one eye, shadows shifting across his face. He smiled.
Blood blurred Karigan’s eyes and she blinked them clear. He showed her the hook again, turning it carefully and slowly so she might see it from all angles. A sensation like cat paws tiptoed up her back—or maybe it was someone walking over her grave. She’d been here before, had seen it all in the telescope of the Berry sisters long ago, and she knew what was to happen next.
He moved the hook toward her eye.
“No!” she screamed.
A whisper of memory in her mind: The future is not made of stone. She could change what was to come.
Karigan drew her knees to her chest and kicked out, catching Immerez in the belly with her feet. He flailed backward, landing on his buttocks.
A vision of the telescope crashing to the floor, its lenses shattered.
She flipped to her belly to crawl away, only to come eye level with a pair of boots. She gazed up to find Sarge glaring at her.
“I don’t think Captain Immerez is done with you.”
“I’m not,” Immerez said. “I forget how much fight this one has.”
Cold air streamed across the ground and over Karigan’s body. She shivered. Immerez grabbed her hair and hauled her back till she was on her knees.
“Sergeant,” Immerez said. His voice was cool, as if he were giving some common order. “I want her right hand here.” He tapped a stump that had served as a chopping block for kindling. A hatchet was embedded in it.
Karigan cried out and struggled, but Sarge clouted her in the head until she was too dazed to resist. The next thing she knew, her hands were unbound and another soldier had been called over to lock her left arm behind her back while Sarge clamped her right hand to the stump.
Immerez twirled the hatchet into the air and caught it as easily as Fergal had with the throwing knives at Preble Waystation so long ago.
Please be safe, Karigan thought to Fergal and Estora. Please let this be worth it. To her shame, tears poured down her cheeks at what was about to happen.
Immerez tossed the hatchet, but this time he miscalculated his catch and leaped back when it tumbled down and hit the dirt. He picked it up.
“You took my sword hand,” he said, “but I’ve been working hard with the other so it can be just as good. Seems I need more practice, but in this case, I don’t think we need worry about accuracy.”
Karigan struggled, but Sarge and the other soldier held her securely.
Immerez pressed the hatchet blade against her wrist to set up for the cutting stroke. “Not to worry,” he told her, “the blade is sharp.”
Karigan squeezed her eyes shut, waiting, just waiting, a scream building inside her, but still the hatchet did not descend.
“Sergeant,” Immerez said, “remove the glove first.”
Before Karigan could recoil, Sarge stripped Estora’s doeskin glove from her hand, tearing off scabbing flesh and probably some gravel, too. She screamed.
Immerez chuckled. “That injury will not bother you much longer.” He raised the hatchet again and Karigan waited for it to fall.
Instead, the soldier locking Karigan’s arm behind her screamed and released his hold on her. He dropped to the ground, a knife jutting from his back. The hatchet hurtled down and buried itself into the chopping block just a hairsbreadth from her fingertips. Sarge let go of her hand and drew his sword. Immerez cried out in fury and whirled around. Men shouted into the night.
Karigan wasted no time—she crawled away from her distracted captors, crawled away from the light of the campfire and faded, leaving behind only a bloody handprint on the chopping block.
She kept crawling, always away from sources of light—other campfires, torches…Men ran by her, weapons drawn. She just kept crawling into the dark.
She started to give one tent a wide berth, for a lamp glowed dimly within, but then the wind opened the flap as if just for her to see the figure sitting cross-legged on the ground inside, dressed in a scarlet uniform.
Karigan hesitated, not sure she believed what she saw. Beryl?
She glanced over her shoulder. Whatever the disturbance was, it kept Immerez and his men busy on the other side of the encampment. She dropped her fading and crawled into the tent.
It was Beryl, sitting peacefully with eyes closed, her hands upon her knees. Strands of indigo yarn were looped and woven around her like a messy spiderweb.
“Beryl?”
Karigan’s query elicited no response, so she pulled at the yarn. Beryl’s scream made her fall back.
Beryl’s eyes shot open and she gazed about herself as if awakening from a long slumber.
“It doesn’t hurt,” she murmured. “The chains and hooks are gone.”
“Chains and hooks?” Karigan asked. “I see only yarn.”
“Yes, it’s…” Beryl looked at her, squinting. “Who are you? Where’s Grandmother? You’re not Little Girl…”
Karigan crawled closer. “It’s Karigan—Karigan G’ladheon. You know me. Look, we have to get out of here, and quickly.”
Beryl did not move, and continued to gaze at her with the dazed expression. “You’ve a face of blood.”
“I know.” Karigan wiped at it with her sleeve. It was sticky. She gave up and started pulling yarn off Beryl. It was wound in some pattern, knotted in places, but she could not make sense of it. She broke strands with her teeth when she became confounded by knots.
Beryl’s face was wan, with dark rings beneath her eyes, and her forehead creased from great strain. She was thinner than Karigan remembered, but she could detect no obvious physical wounds on her.
When finally she pulled off the last strand of yarn and threw it to the ground, Beryl looked down at herself in incredulity.
“Grandmother said she’d remove the chains and I guess she did.” She patted herself up and down. “I…I don’t hurt.”
Karigan only half listened, trying to be alert to trouble outside the tent. Soldiers still shouted outside but they sounded more distant. She doused the lamp.
“What are…?” Beryl began.
“We have to leave,” Karigan said. “Something’s distracted the soldiers and we have to escape while we can.”
“But…but where are we?”
Karigan helped Beryl rise, which was a feat considering she could hardly stand herself. “Teligmar Hills. Immerez is in charge here.”
Beryl swayed and Karigan shook her. “That’s who…” Beryl whispered. “I couldn’t think, I couldn’t…”
“Never mind all that,” Karigan said. “We’re faded out. We’re leaving.”
The dark outside was immense enough that if they avoided fires and
Snow.
Amberhill, feeling more like an assassin than a gentleman thief, eliminated three of the perimeter guards before they could cry out and raise the alarm in the encampment.
He planned to continue with the stealthy slayings, bide his time till he could aid the young woman, but he saw what the one-eyed man was going to do to her hand and he couldn’t let it happen. He needed to act.
So he positioned himself as well as he could, and as quickly as he could, but his best target was one of the cutthroats restraining the young woman, not their leader. His knife struck true.
From then on he lost track of what became of the young woman. In the pandemonium she disappeared and he had other things to worry about. His foes weren’t like the pirates he met in the woods—these were disciplined warriors. He could tell by the way they carried themselves and guarded the encampment and how immediately they sprang to once the alarm went up, all the while retaining order.
Unfortunately there were quite a lot of them. All the throwing knives in the world would not help him now. He ran into the brush, hoping to disappear into the night without breaking a leg on the uneven ground, but they pinpointed him like hounds after a fox and came howling after him.
He crashed through shrubs and branches, leaped from boulder to boulder and only his excellent balance saved him from a disastrous fall. And still they came rushing headlong after him.
Cold, wet drops pricked his skin, and at first he thought it was raining, then he saw the graying of the night. Snow.
As he descended the side of the small mountain, he realized he would never reach Goss in time. He’d have to turn and fight. He had made a mess of his “rescue”—a mess from the very beginning. He only hoped the young woman could escape while he provided a distraction.
Finally he stopped running, skidded to a stop. He drew his rapier and parrying dagger, took a deep breath, and turned around to face his fate. If he was destined to be sent to the hells this night, he was sure it was as he deserved, but he wouldn’t go down without taking as many of the cutthroats with him as he could.
The silhouettes of the men surged toward him through the dark and he saw the barest of gleaming light on their weapons. Their movement changed the pattern of the falling snow, made it swirl back into itself. He felt only stillness, could hear the snowflakes landing on his shoulders, his head, the branches of nearby trees.
When the cutthroats reached him, they almost plowed right into him. Perhaps he stood so still they thought him a tree. To his pleasure, the plainshield led them—the plainshield who had betrayed him, had betrayed Morry. He’d overheard the men call him Sarge.
“So here is the lady’s hero,” Sarge said. “You’re too late—someone else already rescued her.” He and his men laughed.
“A testament to your competency, I surmise,” Amberhill said in a mild tone.
Sarge growled and raised his sword.
“We’ve business, you and I,” Amberhill continued.
“That right? Do I know you?”
Amberhill dropped the purse of gold at Sarge’s feet. The clinking of coins was unmistakable.
“What’s this about?” Sarge asked.
The wind kicked up, making new patterns in the flurries, sending them this way and that, blowing the hair away from Amberhill’s face.
“It is,” he said, “the price of your death.”
Sarge backed a step and the men behind him grumbled.
“Kill ’im, Sarge!” one cried.
“Silence!”
Amberhill sensed Sarge’s disquiet, could see it in his stance and hear it in his voice.
“You speak in riddles,” Sarge said. “Maybe you are some madman, but it doesn’t matter, for you will be wolf fodder shortly.” His men laughed at this.
When they quieted, Amberhill said, “You cannot kill a man twice.”
“You are mad. You speak nonsense.”
“No,” Amberhill said, a lightness filling him, a sense of not fearing death, “I am the Raven Mask.”
“But he’s—”
Before Sarge could say the word “dead,” Amberhill knocked his sword from his hand and even as it clattered on the rocks, Sarge collapsed to the ground with his throat slashed open. Amberhill’s nostrils flared with the scent of blood.
“Pity,” Amberhill told the corpse. “I’d hoped to feed you those coins.”
The other men backed off, a few crying out. They turned tail and fled in terror back the way they’d come.
Amberhill was aghast. “Huh. Guess they weren’t as tough as I feared. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
He turned and almost fell from his rock. Gleaming sword blades bristled out of the dark, carried by shadows that passed by him in silence. Only the snow powdering their heads and shoulders, and the glint of their eyes, revealed they were living beings.
His legs weakened beneath him and he sat beside the corpse that was steadily accumulating snow and shuddered. None of the shadows stopped to speak to him, or even acknowledged his existence. They were on a mission and Sarge’s men were as good as dead already.
FIGHTING THE HEAVENS
Karigan staggered through the gray, swirling cloud she was caught in. She could not say where she was, or where she was going. She just kept trudging on.
She put her hand to her throbbing head and groaned. Blood loss and the abuses to her body weakened her, and the use of her special ability did not help. “I’ve got to sit,” she told Beryl, and she dropped to the ground where she was, not caring about the snow. Beryl sat beside her and said nothing, and Karigan held onto her arm as much to keep them both faded out as to remain grounded.
The black stallion awaited her on the plains. He lay on the ground with his legs tucked beneath him, but now the grasses were covered in snow. A storm was reflected in his eyes, a turmoil of snow squalls warring in shifting winds.
He wanted her to ride with him into the storm? Was that it?
She shuddered out of the vision. Her hand slipped from Beryl’s sleeve and hastily she grabbed the Rider’s wrist. Beryl was shivering, or was it she herself who shivered?
I am lost, and it will be the death of us.
Beryl remained mute and had allowed herself to be led aimlessly around. It was wholly unlike the Rider Karigan remembered. She blinked into the gray dark and against the snow blowing into her eyes. Her surroundings were indistinguishable from any other part of the small mountain. She strained to hear sounds of pursuit, but only the wind sheared past her ears.
A shape loomed out of the gray ahead of her, and before she could move herself or Beryl, it tripped over them.
“What the—?” he said as he fell.
Karigan let go of Beryl, and before the man could say or do anything, Karigan launched herself on him, pounding her stiff, sore hands on him, but he threw her off, and when she hit the ground, the gray world darkened and closed in.
T he black stallion still waited for her on the snowy expanse of the plains. He gazed at her, waited for her to make some sort of decision.
“Whad you want?” she demanded of him. Her mouth felt full of cotton.
“What is she saying?” someone asked from afar.
“Don’t know. Hold her still until I finish.”
Something, a snowdrift, yes, a snowdrift, weighed her down. She could not move toward the stallion or walk away.
Prick.
“Ow!” The piercing of flesh seared through confusion.
“Don’t move, Karigan,” said the voice from afar. “I’ve got a few more stitches to go.”
Ty? Ty was there on the plains with her? Yes. His hands were busy above her head. Ty sewing. Of course. Ty was excellent at sewing. He always carried needles and thread with him in case a tear in his uniform required mending. He was Rider Perfect.
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The stallion stood and shook his mane. His black hide against the white landscape was like an open window to the heavens. She saw the stars within him, celestial bodies in brilliant colors with dust clouds swirling in storms around them.
“You’re pulling me in!” she cried.
The snow held her down. She kicked and flung out her hands.
“Keep her still!” Ty said.
“I’ll sit on her legs,” someone, a third someone, offered.
“I don’t want to go,” Karigan said. “Salvistar wants me to go to the heavens.”
“For gods’ sakes,” Ty said, “you’re not dying. It’s the shock,” he told the others.
It was too hard to fight; too hard to fight the heavens, to keep from being sucked into the blackness amid the celestial bodies and their veils of sparkling dust. Where would she end up? Would she be allowed to return home?
“So many stars,” she murmured.
Prick, tug.
“I just want to go home.”
Prick, tug.
“There,” Ty said, “I’ve made the last knot.”
Amberhill slid wearily into the chair beside the woman’s cot. Ty asked that they take turns sitting through the night with her to keep watch lest her condition worsen, and Amberhill volunteered for the second watch.
At first he had not recognized her for all the blood that masked her face, but when Ty washed it away, he found a face he could not forget. Who could forget a lady who challenged him with a sword?
“Who is she?” he demanded of Ty.
“Green Rider,” was the simple reply.
It explained her actions that day in the museum and why no one among the aristocrats had known her, but it did not answer his question by half. He learned her name and of course knew of the G’ladheon merchanting clan. Lady, messenger, merchant. Even the Weapons seemed to regard her with some esteem. But who was she?
Obviously someone born with an insane sort of courage.
As he sat there in the dark, chin propped on hand, listening to her breathing, he found himself vexed by her, but he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because she had challenged him at the museum when all other ladies would have swooned in his presence or begged for his favors. Maybe he disliked being deceived. She was a lady, then was not. She was Estora Coutre, then was not. Frustrating!