Duskfall (42 page)

The ship bucked, cresting over a wave. He tried to yank his arm out of the man’s grip but failed, just as the other rammed into him from behind. Then everything was tumbling, end over end, snow and sea and ship, and he was falling.

The water was so cold, like ice, and he couldn’t breathe. He tried swimming, but felt another sharp pain, this time in his shoulder. He swallowed seawater, gagged, swam, stopped, and then it was done. The sound of waves, the men shouting, the ringing in his head was gone. There was nothing left but a distant chill.

* * *

Cinzia watched the men run off down the path, trying to understand what had just happened. One moment their leader had been talking to Knot, the next, everyone was fighting. Cinzia had been swinging Jane’s pack at anything that moved, and then, just as quickly, the green-robed men took off, faster than Cinzia thought possible. Unnatural.

Cinzia, Kovac, and Jane were left standing. Lian was on the ground, unconscious.

“We have to get Knot,” Kovac said beside her. “He’ll freeze if we don’t get him out.” Cinzia nodded. Knot had been defending himself against two attackers by the riverbank, but they had finally overcome him and pushed him into the freezing water.

“Where’s Astrid?” Cinzia asked. The girl was nowhere to be seen. Had the men taken her too? Had she run away?

“Doesn’t matter, Priestess.” Kovac sheathed his sword and started jogging downstream. “She’ll find us or she won’t.”

“Of course,” Cinzia whispered. She looked back at Jane. “Will you be all right, with him?”

“He’s coming round,” Jane said, kneeling on the ground beside Lian. “We will be fine. Go.”

Cinzia grabbed her pack. She had flint, steel, and tinder. They would need to warm Knot once they got him out of the river.

“Follow us as soon as you are able!” she shouted over her shoulder.

Cinzia did not wait to hear Jane’s response, and rushed after Kovac.

D
ARKNESS FELL, BUT
W
INTER
’
S
captors showed no sign of slowing. They sprinted along the riverbank, a pace they’d kept up since that morning when they’d taken her. Their endurance seemed inhuman, but it wasn’t the only thing about them that bothered her. None of the robed men had said a word, not since the man who had called himself “the Tokal” had spoken to Knot. And while she had seen them take food out of their robes to eat as they ran, and a few take sips from waterskins, otherwise they had all kept running, switching her from shoulder to shoulder throughout the journey. Each man accepted her without complaint, tossing her onto his back, holding her legs over one shoulder and her torso over the other.

The Tokal, obviously the leader, ran at the head of the pack. Occasionally one of his companions would run ahead, perhaps to scout. No words were ever exchanged that Winter could hear.

They wore the same robes as the men who had attacked at her wedding and on the road to Navone. But these men seemed different, somehow. More disciplined. More coordinated. Faster. The Tokal had told Knot that he was different than a normal man.

Winter’s bound feet and hands had grown numb hours ago. A long strip of thankfully clean cloth gagged her mouth. She must have lost her dagger back where they had been attacked. She did not have her pack, her supplies, nothing but the clothes she wore and her mother’s necklace of black stones around her neck. And her pouch, of course. Her pouch of
faltira
, still on her belt, underneath her shirt. She had tried getting to it, but the man carrying her shook her roughly when she squirmed. Not that it would matter if she could reach the pouch; she wasn’t even sure
faltira
worked, now.

The men’s shoulders dug into her as they ran, and Winter’s neck ached from trying to keep her head still. She would have tried to convince them to let her run on her own if she thought keeping up with them was a remote possibility. Her body hurt so much that she wondered whether it might be more comfortable for them to drag her.

Winter didn’t know what value she could possibly have to anyone, except for her psimancy, and she wasn’t even sure she had that anymore. She would have thought Knot would attract the most attention, or Astrid. Winter was nothing. A poor tiellan girl from a small fishing town in northern Khale. She had nothing to offer anyone.

Except, perhaps, Knot.

Knot’s fate—or that of Lian, or Astrid, or even the priestess and her sister—was a mystery. She wondered if they were dead. If they’d survived, there was no way they could catch up to this pack of tireless, silent men.

And Winter wasn’t sure they would want to. She hadn’t exactly been pleasant company. That was painful to think about. She needed to focus on something more constructive. Why hadn’t the frost worked when the men attacked? The first possibility was that the crystal had been a dud. She didn’t know whether it was one of the crystals from Mazille or one she had stolen from Knot. Neither were reliable sources.

Or the frost
had
worked, but Winter was somehow being blocked from using the power. Kali had never mentioned such a possibility, but neither Kali nor Nash had told her everything they knew about psimancy. Perhaps they had even
possessed
something with this power, and hadn’t told Winter about it in case she ever decided to use her abilities against them.

But, in the end, Winter
had
used psimancy against them. She had killed Kali. They would have used that kind of blocking power then, in Navone, if they had it.

Of course, there was another option. Winter might have burned herself out. That frightened her more than anything. And she deserved it. She knew what she had done in Navone. She knew what she was capable of. She knew what the dark voice whispered to her when she was alone.

Murderer
.

Either way, the craving still raged. Had the bonds not stopped her, Winter would have reached into her pouch long ago, not caring whether a crystal gave her power or not, not caring whether it would help her escape. She would have taken one because she
needed
to take one; it was all she thought about. The craving to feel just one more burn.

What is wrong with me?

She had been captured by a group of unknown, powerful men. She had no idea what these men would do to her when they arrived wherever they were going. Her companions catching up to her was all but impossible, assuming they even cared to do so. Assuming they were even still alive.

And yet all she could think about was putting another crystal in her mouth.

She was, Winter admitted to herself, pitiful. And perhaps slightly insane.

You decided to go a few days without frost
, she thought to herself.
Now is as good a time as any.

Perhaps it was stupid to deny herself of the one power she truly had, when she might need it most, just to prove a point. But if she could get out of this on her own somehow, without frost, she could finally stop worrying. She could live her life knowing that frost wasn’t necessary. Helpful, but not necessary.

The man carrying her slowed. Winter thought he would pass her off to another; they seemed to have some unspoken system of when to slow and who would take her next. But, this time, the man actually stopped. Perhaps they were finally taking a rest.

Winter craned her neck, trying to get her bearings. It was dark, but she saw the deep pine forest to her left. To her right was the river. She couldn’t see it—it was more of a black empty space—so much as hear it, rushing in the night.

Her captors stood in silence. She wondered what they were doing. There were ten of them. She had counted more than once while they carried her. But no one spoke or moved. They all just
stood
there, looking at one another. Winter’s skin crawled.

One of them—Winter thought it was the Tokal, though she could not be sure in the darkness—moved away, and the others followed. Up ahead, Winter saw lights. Lanterns, bright orbs of glowing yellow.

As they approached, Winter realized they were walking towards some sort of dock, stretching out onto the blackness of the river.

At the end of the dock was a boat.

Smaller than her father’s fishing boat, but sturdy and well-crafted, built for river-running. A single sail was lowered on the mast. The river current would be enough to carry the boat downstream, she realized, if that was their bearing.

The men approached the dock. Up ahead, another man waited, carrying a lantern. He was older and stooped over, with a large black beard. The man spoke as the group approached him, with the clipped accent of Roden.

“I hope you are who I was sent to meet,” he said, eying them warily. Winter didn’t blame him. The men looked strange enough in their large robes, even without the bound and gagged woman one of them carried over his shoulder. Winter found herself hoping that this strange boatman would notice her and contact the authorities, ask her if she was all right, tell them to put her down, anything. The boatman’s gaze lingered on Winter, just for a moment—a moment bright with hope—but then he looked away.

The Tokal spoke. “We are.”

“Very well, come aboard,” the stooped man said.

The Tokal turned to look at Winter. His face was inches from hers, and she twitched as he reached a hand to caress her cheek.

“I’m afraid we must part ways for a brief moment, my dear. But fear not. We shall see one another again, in Izet. We have great plans. You will play an important role in what is to come.”

Winter jerked away from the man’s touch. She would have loved to tell him to go stick his prick in an angry wasps’ nest. But the Tokal had already sprinted off towards the forest with three other robed men.

“The river’s swift tonight,” the boatman said, “and my bones bespeak a tailwind. If that be the case, we may arrive in Izet early as dawn.”

No one responded as the seven remaining robed men walked onto the boat, silent as stones. The boatman’s gaze lingered on Winter once more, briefly, and then he turned away.

“I can tell you all are a silent bunch so I won’t question you. We’ll be off. Raise the plank there, if you would,” he said, nodding to one of the green-robed men. The man did as he was bidden, and Winter heard the sound of an anchor being drawn up.

She was alone. Knot could not save her. If she wanted to escape, it was up to her. There were only six robed men left. Six was better than ten, to be sure. Winter looked at the boatman once more. His lingering glance… perhaps there was something there she could exploit. If she could just get him alone.

Slowly, the beginnings of a plan—without frost—began to form in Winter’s head.

A
STRID RAN THROUGH THE
undergrowth, feeling the caress of the leaves, the night breeze through her hair.

Running was maybe an understatement. She moved faster now than any man could sprint. She hadn’t been quite as fast during the day, and the green-robes had developed a freakish lead. But now the sun had set, and she quickly gained on them.

Astrid loved running at night. She was faster, her skin tougher and more durable. She could see further, hear more, feel the cool air and the mist of the river on her skin better than she ever could during the day.

There were less-fun changes, too. Her fangs pressed against her lips, pricked her tongue. She’d never really gotten used to them. She developed claws, long, retractable, hardened razors that extended half again her fingers’ normal length. Which, of course, wasn’t all that long to begin with, considering she had nine-year-old-girl fingers. But the visual effect was disturbing. Even to her. Even after all these years.

As a general rule, Astrid avoided looking at them. She avoided looking at herself at all.

The green-robes slowed up ahead, close to the river. Astrid reined in her pace to match, finally coming to a halt. She had followed them at a distance, stealthy as could be. If they’d harmed Winter during daylight, Astrid wasn’t sure she could have stopped them. She hadn’t been able to do much against them that morning. Whoever the green-robes were, they were fast, and they fought with uncanny coordination. That, combined with the threat of the sun, had forced Astrid to be cautious.

She hated being cautious.

But she’d come all this way. Might as well do it right.

Astrid liked Winter, for the most part. Stubborn girl, but strong. And Knot liked Winter, which was enough for Astrid. Bringing Winter back to him would hopefully solidify his trust in Astrid again. Trust she didn’t deserve, but trust that it was necessary to re-establish.

With her enhanced vision, Astrid saw that there were dark stains on the men’s robes. A good sign; sweat was a mortal weakness. Hopefully it meant these men would not be too difficult to take down, if she could catch them by surprise. Their silence was strange. She should be able to hear a good part of what they said to one another, but she heard nothing.

Astrid narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like this silence one bit.

The men walked down a small dock protruding into the river. Someone stood on the dock, waiting for them.

“I hope you are who I was sent to meet,” the man said.

“We are,” one of the green-robes—the one with the stupid name—responded. He approached Winter. Astrid tensed, preparing to move in, but then the Tokal and three other robes sprinted off into the forest.

Astrid grinned. All the better.

The remaining robes followed the man down the dock, one of them still carrying Winter over his shoulder. Astrid smiled. The boat was an enclosed space. She was fond of enclosed spaces. Slim chance of getting surrounded. She licked her lips at the familiar pang of hunger—real,
true
hunger. She needed to feed. She had tasted blood in Navone, but the last time she had truly fed had been weeks earlier. This might be her chance to skewer a few fish with one spear-thrust, but she’d have to time everything right.

Astrid moved slowly towards the shore. When the last of the green-robes had boarded the vessel, the stooped man unfastened the lines and followed them. In seconds, the boat moved away with the current of the river, slow at first, but picking up speed.