Winter Be My Shield (36 page)

‘Now you know what you can expect if you try to resist,' the mage said. ‘So let us begin. What do you know about the Ricalani Blood-Mages?'

 

He told them what they wanted to know. Of course he did — anything else would have been idiocy. While he would willingly shed blood to protect Cam or Sierra, he wouldn't sacrifice so much as a drop for Kell and Rasten.

But the Akharians were suspicious of such an easy capitulation. When he fainted they roused him with cold water and shocks. As time wore on it grew harder to make any sense of the questions they asked and he found himself talking in Ricalani or Mesentreian instead of Akharian when he tried to form a reply.

At some point they must have realised they weren't going to get any more sense out of him in this session. He was vaguely aware of the men trooping out in a swirl of cold air, leaving a single servant behind to build up the fire in the brazier and keep an eye on the prisoner. Isidro fully expected the next man through the door to cut his throat, and in his present condition he didn't much care, so long as they came soon.

When another blast of cold from outside heralded the arrival of a second group of men, Isidro realised his ordeal was far from over. His first interrogators had been warriors, lean, fit and hard, although with an air of asceticism that reminded him of the priesthood. These men were softer and rounder and the clothes beneath their winter furs were not the military uniforms of the first group. They were definitely mages, though — Isidro could feel their power prickling over his skin.

They circled around him, prodding at the burn scars and the splints on his arm as they talked to each other in low voices. Isidro was too weary to tease any meaning from their words. When one of them
snapped his fingers in front of Isidro's nose in an effort to rouse him, he managed to focus enough to see the bluish splotches of ink on the Akharian's thumb and forefinger.

Then one of the mages standing behind him grasped the other, intangible scar, the one through which Rasten had drawn the power raised by his rituals. It felt as if someone had plunged a spear into his back, and took him with such surprise that Isidro couldn't bite back on a strangled cry of pain. It set him rigid and shaking in his bonds. The men around him all jumped back, just like a flock of crows that have discovered their prey might still be strong enough to fight them off. They erupted in chatter, making about as much sense as a flock of chortling birds, and all the while it felt to Isidro as if someone was trying to pull his spine out through his skin.

He was fighting to keep from sobbing with pain when he felt another awareness settle around him in a veil of power. The presence felt so strong and so real it seemed to shove the physical realm away from him, giving him room enough to breathe.
Sirri!
he gasped in relief.
Sirri, is that you?

Afraid not.
The voice that answered him was calm and dispassionate, dryer and deeper than Sierra's tones; while her power was tinted with the blue brilliancy of lightning, this fire was tinged with a sooty red glow.
Now hold your tongue
, Rasten said.
If they sense me here, things will go very badly for you.
For a moment Isidro saw a vision of Rasten's tent but then it vanished as he closed his eyes to concentrate on what he could see through Isidro's gaze.

There must be a way to push him out and repel this invasion, but Isidro had no idea how, and what power he had was minuscule compared to what Rasten could raise. The presence in his mind brought on such a wave of revulsion that Isidro gagged and threw himself against the ropes, not caring if the pain in his arm brought him to a faint once again. It was a reaction of pure instinct — he couldn't have stopped it if he'd wanted to — a deep, visceral response to a violation perhaps even more intimate than the ones Kell had forced Rasten to perform on him all those weeks ago. Somewhere amid that fit of panic and disgust, Isidro heard Rasten curse and then felt him withdraw. His abrupt absence brought such relief that finding himself back in the tent surrounded by chattering scholars felt like a reprieve.

It seemed to go on for some hours, as the mages first channelled power into him through the sigil engraved into his back and then stripped it away again, all the while poking and prodding him and even shocking him with the device to study his reactions. Before long Isidro gave up trying to make sense of it and simply waited for it to be over. Rasten never tried to contact him again and for that much, Isidro was grateful.

By the time the mages finished their strange examination, every bone and fibre of his body hurt and Isidro felt as though the world was spinning around him. When a pair of soldiers cut him down, he couldn't stop himself from crumpling into a heap at their feet. He could neither help nor resist as they bundled him into his coat and dragged him back to the dark storage tent where he'd woken. The moment they let him lay down, he curled up on the prickling spruce and let the blessed numbness of sleep sweep him away.

 

After days of hard riding, they'd narrowed Rasten's lead down to only a few hours, though it came at a cost — men and horses both were nearing the limit of their endurance.

At first Sierra had welcomed the frantic pace, hoping the weariness and exhaustion would quiet her mind and silence her worries and fears for Isidro. In reality it did no such thing. Anxiety preyed on her mind and with every breath she imagined some new torment they would inflict on him. After all, the knowledge Isidro had was his only value to them — they wouldn't hesitate to take him apart piece by piece if that was what it took to get what they wanted. Rasten believed the Akharians knew nothing about her, but if he was mistaken and they pressed on Isidro to tell them more …

She had the utmost faith in him to resist with all the strength he had, but she knew his strength was waning. At first she'd felt flashes of his experience and had seen brief glimpses of his surroundings but that had all stopped and now she couldn't feel anything. She wasn't afraid of what he would tell his captors — she was afraid of what they would do to him when he refused.

And Rasten was no help. Since their first exchange after Isidro's capture he had refused to tell her anything more about him unless she halted this chase and accepted the truce he offered. She couldn't accept his offer in a ruse, either — as anxious as she was, her control was
slipping, and Sierra knew there was no way she could hide her actions from him well enough to convince him she had called the chase off.

These were the thoughts that occupied her mind when Ardamon finally called a halt in the pre-dawn gloom. The first light was beginning to stain the sky and Sierra barely noticed Mira's cousin leaning down from his saddle to talk to the scouts at the head of the line. It was only when Cam turned his horse out of line and trotted back towards her that Sierra realised they were arguing about something and gesturing to a trampled path that led off the trail they followed.

‘Sirri,' Cam said, beckoning her to join him. ‘There's something odd down that path. Sounds like it's something you ought to see.'

She turned her horse out of line to follow him without asking what the matter was. Right now, any distraction would be welcome.

As they reached Ardamon, he twisted around in the saddle to glare at them both. ‘Is this really necessary?'

‘From what your scout says, it is,' Cam replied.

One of the men Ardamon had been arguing with had a warding-stone around his neck and as Sierra came close he clutched it in his fist like a talisman. ‘I think it would be best, sir,' the scout said. ‘There's something cursed queer gone on there. More than just the corpse, I mean.'

That snapped Sierra out of her miserable reverie. ‘Corpse?' she said. ‘You're right, Cam. I'd better see it myself.'

‘I'm coming, too,' Mira said. She had been riding beside Ardamon when the scouts came back and had watched the whole exchange from the periphery. ‘If Rasten has been killing our people, I'll have to do whatever I can to identify them and find their kin.'

The scouts led the way down the path — or alongside it, to be more accurate, pointing out tracks and signs in the snow. ‘Lord Rasten's men came this way a few hours ago — turned down this path and then back the way they'd come a short time later. But before that — probably last night — a bunch of sleds went down this way, hauled by
yaka
. They came down this way, but never went back, y'see? They made a camp up ahead. It's still standing.'

‘How many bodies?' Sierra asked the scout.

‘I think it's just the one, miss.' It was the man with the warding-stone who replied. ‘I couldn't make meself get close enough to tell for
sure. There was something in the air that set me skin to crawling …' He reached for the stone again, as though it gave him comfort. ‘Made me wonder if the apprentice had set some kind of trap.'

‘And you wanted to check it out without her?' Cam said to Ardamon.

A trap was possible, Sierra thought, but unlikely. She doubted Rasten would take the risk of giving her a wounded man to feed from. He wasn't going to make things that easy for her.

When she could see the dark shape of a tent looming through leafless trees the scouts gestured for them to stop. ‘You'll want to leave the horses here, sir. They'll spook if you try to take them closer.'

‘As will I,' said the scout with the stone. ‘I'll stay here to hold them, sir.'

When Sierra dismounted and handed him her reins he took them with care not to brush against her fingers.

The trail led to a clearing where two conical tents had been pitched and half a dozen heavily laden sleds had been left in a haphazard line. No smoke rose from the tents and the whole place felt still and abandoned.

Sierra was only a few paces into the clearing when she felt the sensation that had spooked the scout. Some residual energy from the ritual still lingered, tainting the air with a memory of pain and terror. It made the air feel somehow greasy and scratched at her throat like smoke.

Cam matched her stride with his thumbs hooked into his belt and showed no sign of apprehension until they rounded the line of tents and saw the circle of blood-stained snow and the great heap of raw and bloody meat at the centre.

‘By the Black Sun,' he swore.

Sierra sighed. ‘You'd best wait here. I'll make sure Rasten hasn't left us any surprises.'

He didn't argue and reached for Ardamon's arm to make sure he hung back as well.

Sierra created a globe of light and tossed it into the air to float over her head.

Not long ago the heap of cooling meat had been a man. A calm detachment settled over her as she picked out the detail of yellow bone and silvery muscle membrane, all covered now with a fine hoar of frost. The body had been flayed. The little scraps of skin looked oddly pale and flabby and in some places bore a thatch of coarse hair. The dead
man had Mesentreian blood, then. Ricalani men generally lacked the body hair common among southerners.

Sierra turned back to the others. ‘There's no trap. You can come closer. If you want to.'

‘The scout was just squeamish, then?' Ardamon said as he strode across the snow.

‘I didn't say that.'

Ardamon gazed down at the corpse. A muscle in his jaw twitched with the effort of containing himself. ‘How long ago?'

She closed her eyes and opened her other senses to the lingering energy. ‘Not long. An hour, perhaps.'

‘He knows we're gaining on him, then. Well, his men and his horses must be tiring badly by now.'

Mira came closer, covering her mouth with her hand.

‘Mira, you should stay back,' Cam said, gently.

‘No, I need to see it for myself. I've heard so much about him … but it's not real until you've seen it with your own eyes.'

‘I'm surprised the scavengers haven't come for him yet,' Ardamon said.

‘They will,' Sierra told him. ‘The power has kept them away, but it's fading quickly.' She stepped into the circle to peer at a small red lump that lay a few feet away from the body.

‘What is that?' Cam said, circling around for a closer look.

‘A tongue. He probably begged for mercy. Rasten hates it when they do that.'

‘They must have had beasts to pull their sleds,' Cam said. ‘Look, there's a broken tether-line over there.' He pointed to a pair of trees at the edge of the clearing.

‘They probably bolted during the ritual,' Sierra said. ‘He can't have been camping here alone.'

‘No,' Cam agreed. ‘Did the others run off, do you think?'

‘No. Rasten kept them.' Sierra felt ill, but it was nothing to do with the remains at her feet. ‘Can you find out how many there were?'

‘I'll check the tents.'

Ardamon called his men down from the road to help and with ruthless efficiency the tents and all the sleds were pulled apart in search of evidence of their previous owners.

While she waited for the news Sierra turned away, shuffling through the snow to the far edge of the clearing. She felt cold all over, despite her heavy fur. It was only when she cupped her hands over her face to warm it that she realised she was shaking. Rasten was close, so very close … and he had a full charge of power. She'd felt nothing from the ritual — he'd shielded it carefully from her — and all she had to call upon was the little that had come to her from the assorted aches and pains of Ardamon's men. She'd been on a fast since the night Isidro had been taken prisoner, and here Rasten had gorged himself to full.

‘Sirri!' Cam called, waving her over. ‘They're smugglers, not a family of trappers as we first thought.'

He was relieved. Sierra was not. Rasten wouldn't work on children unless he had no choice, but grown men, on the other hand …

Ardamon was examining a mark stamped into a bit of harness. ‘Look,' he said, showing it to Mira. ‘That's the sigil of Lord Endrian of Therasford.'