Sun Wolf 3 - The Dark Hand Of Magic (17 page)

His head snapped up. Opium stepped swiftly away as Purcell appeared around the side of the siege tower with a horn cup of wine in his hand. Startled, the little Councillor dropped the cup, the wine dumping down his front, his hands fumbling nervously. “I—er—I . . . ” He gulped, and then his eyes went to Opium and his narrow, delicate mouth pinched.

“Well . . . !” Even in the darkness, Sun Wolf was aware of what the reflected torchlight would show Purcell—the Wolf’s shirt and doublet parted by those probing fingers, the tender disarray of the girl’s hair and dress. A white square of handkerchief billowed into view as Purcell began dabbing ineffectually at the spilled wine on his gown. “Really, Captain, I do
apologize . . . ” He stiffly turned to go, and the Wolf reached him in two strides, blocking his way, massive and dark against the torchlight.

But what, he wondered, embarrassed, flustered, and furious even as he extended his arm like a barrier to the tower’s wooden corner, could he say without making himself look even worse? Don’t tell anyone would sound absolutely ridiculous. Other phrases flashed through his mind, the stock-in-trade of bawdy theater . . . It isn’t the way it looks . . . Nothing really happened . . . SHE was the one who tried to rape ME . . . 

He was aware that he was blushing furiously.

He settled for the simplest. “You say one word of this to anyone and I’ll break your neck.”

Cringe and whimper as he might around Renaeka Strata, Purcell drew himself up to his fullest height—his dark cap reached just above Sun Wolf’s shoulder—and said with dignity, “What you do when you are off duty, Captain, is no concern of mine. Or even,” he added frostily, “when you are on duty—as you are tonight. But as Treasurer of the Council I feel obliged to dock your pay.”

“You can stuff my pay up your . . . Aah, get a guard or somebody with a horse and take this girl back to the camp.” He turned to gesture to Opium, but she had vanished like a shadow in the night.

He stood for a moment feeling overwhelmingly stupid, anger and frustrated lust eating at his soul, while Purcell gave him a coldly formal bow and walked back toward the lights of the inner ring where the slaves’ voices could be heard quarreling wearily over a supper of corn bread and gruel. The cup Purcell had dropped lay half in the bar of light that streamed from around the corner of the siege tower, an ordinary horn cup from the engineer’s cookshack. The reek of cheap wine lay heavy on the air.

Now why . . . ?
thought the Wolf, and after a moment’s thought strode after that prim, retreating form.

Purcell was climbing into his litter, assisted by one of his half-dozen personal guards while another one, resplendent in the daffodil tabard of the House of Cronesme, held an armload of furs to be tucked about his lap.

The Wolf strode through the group of them, peripherally aware that two were watching him, hands ready on their swords. “Why were you coming to see me?” he demanded. “Did you have information of some kind?”

Purcell’s cold gray eye traveled over him, taking in with slow distaste every untied lace and shirt point, the bared tangle of chest hair and the stains of grease and powders that still blotched his clothes. “No. Good night . . . Captain.” He settled back into the litter, pulled the lap robes up to his narrow chin, and jerked the yellow curtains shut. One of the guards mounted the fore horse, and reined it toward the hard-beaten track that led back to the city.

“And I hope your privy collapses,” growled the Wolf after the retreating cavalcade.

Later, alone once again and walking patrol in the dark, he reflected dourly that neither love nor magic was turning out to be something easily dealt with, no matter how desperately he might want them. He was beginning to have the mortifying suspicion that he was not particularly good at either.

“I should have stuck to breaking heads,” he muttered, shoving his hands behind the buckle of his sword belt and scanning the queer stillness of the dark hills beneath the hanging black of the clouds. “At least I was good at that.”

It was not until the following afternoon that news reached him that Starhawk was dying.

He left the engineering park shortly after sunup, and took the shorter way through the brown morning hills to Vorsal and the siege camps that surrounded it. The air was clear, but felt ominous and strange. Ground-mist hugged the stream beds with their shrunken gurgles of water, but on the hilltops the wind brought him alien smells of sea and wind and sky. He hoped the storm fronts wouldn’t turn today, but it was odds on they would. Moggin had had twenty-four hours in which to rest and regather his forces. He would know about the mobilization, and guess the attack would be soon. Sun Wolf shivered at the thought of trying to work the weather again, exposing his soul once more to the strength of that shadow hand. The books might contain some clue of how to strengthen his defenses, but, when he reached the siege camp, his eyes felt gummed and his head heavy from two nights with almost no sleep. He ordered the Little Thurg, who was the first person he met, to wake him at once if the weather looked to be changing, and fell into Dogbreath’s cot in all his clothes, rolled up, and slept.

And dreamed of Opium.

“Chief?”
The voice was blurred with dreams. “Chief?” But he recognized the touch of something cold and hard on his arm.

His reaction, slamming up out of sleep, was hard and instinctive—grab, twist, slash with the dagger under his pillow. It whipped through nothingness, and as his eyes cleared he saw that Dogbreath, very wisely, had poked him with the butt end of a spear from a distance of six feet.

He slapped the heavy oak shaft aside in disgust. He’d had four hours’ sleep, and felt infinitely worse than he had when he’d stumbled into bed. “What the pox-festering eyeless hell do you want?”

“Message from Renaeka Strata.”
The squad-leader’s thin face was more serious than he’d seen it, at odds with his coat of rags and scrap and the gaudy ribbons in his hair. “It’s Starhawk.”

He had ridden like a man driven by demons, scoured by guilt and fear. She can’t be dying, he though desperately. Not now. Not like this.

It was only last night that he had fully realized how desperately he needed her—what he was willing to do, or not do, to keep what they had for the rest of their lives. The thought of living without her was more than he could bear. With manlike illogic, he cursed Opium for a lascivious slut to ease the guilt he felt, as the thudding rhythm of the horse’s muscles worked its way through his thighs and trunk, and the white road dust stung his nose.

Not Starhawk. Not her.

But years as an expert in death would not permit him to think anything else when he saw the gray, sunken face against the exquisite linen of Renaeka Strata’s pillows and felt the cold, weak flutter of her pulse.

“Curse him,” he whispered blindly, sinking to his knees on the honey-colored tiles of the floor. “Curse him, curse him, curse him . . . ”

“My personal physician bled her last night,” the Lady Prince said softly, close enough behind him that he could feel the black velvet of her bejeweled skirts against his back. “He wanted to do so again this morning, but I ordered him to wait until you could be reached.”

“What about trephining?” he asked softly. “Boring the skull—it sometimes works . . . ”

“Good heavens!” The Lady Prince drew back, startled and appalled. “I’ve never heard of such a thing! Nor, I may add, has my physician, who’s the best in this city. I didn’t hear that Purcell had not told you until the third hour this morning. I sent a messenger to the engineering park at once but you’d gone . . . ”

Her words floated past him, meaningless as the distant clamor of the Wool Market that at this hour murmured even through the tightly closed and curtained windows. He sent one of her messengers back to the camp to fetch Butcher, the troop surgeon, then sank into the healing trance once more, seeking deeper and deeper for Starhawk’s spirit, trying desperately to piece together some means of holding it until somehow her flesh could be healed enough to contain it once again.

Just that,
he prayed—to the Mother, to the coldly clever Triple God, to the Valhalla tableful of his drunken, bearded, hairy ancestors . . . Just give me time.

But he’d had time, his first ancestor would have said to him, with the ironic wisdom of those who have seen their own time feasted, fought, and fornicated away to nothing. He’d had a year.

I never had training, pox rot you! I can’t do this! I don’t know how!

But he stilled his mind again, as Yirth had showed him, and searched the darkness for Starhawk’s spirit, holding the cold flesh of her hand in his, softly calling her name. When Yirth had taught him these spells, she had said that the spirit most frequently responded to the name it had known as a child. He’d long ago forgotten Starhawk’s convent name, if he’d ever known it; she had never told him what her parents and brothers had called her in the shabby little village by the western cliffs. So he called her by the name he’d always known, as pupil, friend, brother-in-arms, and lover, and in time she answered, as she had said she would, from the Cold Hells and beyond.

But when he came out of his healing trance, exhausted, cold, and cramped from kneeling beside her bed, he knew he had very little time left. Whatever was wrong with her, whatever damage the falling beam had done her, would claim her in the end. He felt as if he had piled in a little heap the detached petals of a white almond blossom in the mist of an empty plain, knowing that the wind would rise soon.

Butcher was there when he came out of his trance, a plump, clever little woman with biceps like a wrestler’s and close-cropped, grayish-yellow hair framing one of the most beautiful faces the Wolf had ever seen. She read Starhawk’s pulse, gently felt around the ragged, crescent-shaped wound where the falling beam had struck her, and shook her head. “Trephining only works if you know where to drill,” she told him, folding big, tattooed arms over her massive breasts. “That’s the trick of it. Hell, you’ve helped me do it enough to know there’s nothing but lightness of touch needed in the drilling itself. But I don’t feel anything amiss near the wound. It could mean blood’s leaking into the brain somewhere else, or it could mean there’s something else wrong. The medical faculties of the University here are the worst in the world—with the Trinitarians running them that’s no surprise—but nobody knows much about head wounds, Chief, and that’s a fact.”

There was regret in her bright-blue eyes. The Wolf remembered she had been one of Starhawk’s particular friends during their days with the troop, part of the small squad of fighting women drawn together in the largely masculine camp. But Butcher had seen many of her friends die, some of them hideously, and had somehow adjusted her philosophy to let her live with it.

Sun Wolf wondered what had happened to his own philosophy that had let him carry on after the deaths of more friends than he cared to think about.

But none like the Hawk.

Outside, the gray sky was losing its color. By the waterclock on the terrace it was the tenth hour of the day. Quietly, deliberately, he steadied himself, putting aside his fear of what life would be like without that cool voice and wicked grin, putting aside his guilt over Opium’s scented kisses. “Can you stay with her?”

Butcher hesitated. “How long? The assault hits the road an hour before dawn, so I need to leave for the camp by midnight.” And, seeing the hard glint of the Wolf’s yellow eye, she went on quietly, “I can save those lives, Chief. I can’t save hers. And we’re talking hundreds against one.”

He sighed, and bent his head, leaning one heavy-muscled, shaggy arm on the soft tangle of sheets at Starhawk’s side. “I know,” he said, ashamed of that thoroughly selfish reaction. “You probably want to get some sleep tonight as well.”

She shrugged as he got to his feet, shoving her hands into the pockets of the man’s breeches she wore. “Hell, I’ve gone into battle after staying up drinking all night, that doesn’t matter. Riding back at midnight won’t kill me, unless this curse decides that me falling off my horse and breaking my neck in a ditch is the thing needed to further bollix up the assault. If you have something to do, I’ll wait till then. But only till then—you understand?”

“I understand,” the Wolf said softly. “And yeah—I have something to do.”

He looked down at Starhawk, seeing with hideous clarity the sunken lavender flesh around her eyes, the pinched look of her nose and lips. The curse, he thought. Like the bread not rising or those damn poker hands, like the arrows that won’t hit their targets or the rats that eat the catapult ropes; one misfortune in a chain of misfortunes
that will keep me here at her side through the night and in the morning when I might be helping them survive the assault—or that’ll get me killed by dawn.

And he knew that djerkas or no djerkas, silver runes or no silver runes, he’d have to kill Moggin Aerbaldus tonight.

Moggin Aerbaldus’ house stood in the patrician quarter of Vorsal, next to the hubristic granite palace of some merchant prince, which these days, due to its fortresslike construction, served as the city grain store. The filth here was less than it was in the poor quarters at the base of Vorsal’s hill, where skeletal women sifted patiently through the night soil heaped in the streets for something edible that the rats might have missed, but the stench of decay was the same. The city had long ago run out of fuel to burn the corpses of the dead or space to bury them. They were dumping them over the wall in places, and the reek was a hellish miasma through which all things seemed to move as through palpable fog. On his way up the hill, the Wolf had seen all the commonplaces of siege: the dim-lit taverns where hysterical laughter vied with the drunken ranting of voices screaming about the rich who’d started this war, and dream-sugar addicts sat giggling quietly, for drugs were easier to come by than food and these days one could get drunk on very little; the rail-thin children selling themselves or their siblings to soldiers of the watch for the flesh of rats; and the rats themselves, sleek and fearless as they always were once all the cats and dogs had been eaten, too quick and strong to catch and watching passersby with businesslike intentness.