Well Of The Damned Part 15

"I'd go too," Mikesse said, "but I'm seeing that family to Sohan. Don't expect to run into any beyonders, though, thanks to you. Now that you're the king, shouldn't you be sittin' on your a.r.s.e, drinkin' wine and admirin' the gold rings on all your fingers?"

Gavin burst out laughing so suddenly, he spurted a mouthful of ale across the table.

Daia jerked away, her face a mask of disgust. "Ugh, Gavin. Please!"

"Sorry," he said through his laughter, "but can you imagine it?"

Fyncent used his hand to wipe off the table in front of Daia, then wiped his hand on his trousers. "Kesse's got a point. How's it the four o'you are huntin' a fugitive? Shouldn't you be in Tern while your..." He eyed Daia l.u.s.tily. "...battlers track her down?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Gavin could see her stiffen, but she said nothing. On another day, he'd have encouraged Fyncent to misbehave just for the amus.e.m.e.nt of seeing her teach him a lesson.

"She was taking me to get something she had hidden and attacked Vandra during the night. She hasn't a shred o'decency in her. If she dies afore we get her back to gaol, it'd save me having to hang her."

"We leave at first light, then?" Calinor asked.

"No," Gavin said. "We just stopped for the meal. We'll ride another couple hours afore we camp for the night. Appreciate the help."

"Then we need to drink fast," Mikesse said. "A toast to our new king."

While they waited for their food, they plied him with ale and begged for stories about his ascendancy and the battle against the demon Ritol in its own realm. He exaggerated a little, as all battlers did, but he gave due credit to Daia and Feanna for keeping him alive.

"How'd you two meet, anyway?" Fyncent asked, wagging his finger between Gavin and Daia. "There's a lot o'red battlers walkin' around, thinkin' you should've chosen a man as your champion."

Daia and Gavin looked at each other. He'd thought about the backlash he might get for appointing a woman, but no one had said anything directly to him about it. "Anyone who has a problem with it should talk to me," he said.

"Or me," Vandra said.

Brawna nodded her agreement.

Daia crossed her arms and leaned confidently back in her chair. "I'll duel anyone who thinks I'm not the right horse for the race, starting with any of you."

"Oh, I never said that," Fyncent said, holding up his palms. "Just heard it from bucks who wouldn't've got the job anyway." He chuckled. "But I'll arm wrestle you for a quick tumble afore you ride."

"That will never happen."

"You then?" Fyncent asked Brawna.

The younger girl blushed. She was all of seventeen years old and possibly had never been tumbled.

"Don't mind him," Gavin told her. "He favors strong, tough women, but he's harmless."

"He could show a little more respect," Vandra said. "If he makes the mistake of putting his hands where they don't belong, he'll find himself without one."

Fyncent elbowed Mikesse. "See what I mean? Don't that kind o'talk get you hot?"

Mikesse crooked an eyebrow at him and shook his head.

Calinor set his tankard down and leaned back in his chair. "Tell me more about this former Sister you're huntin'. What was her crime?"

Two barmaids arrived with plates of meat, fruit and vegetables and set them onto the table. Gavin grabbed a leg of chicken before he even had a plate in front of him, and set his teeth into it.

"Murder, to start with," he said. "She also helped Ravenkind escape justice and kidnapped my family."

"And that's just half of it," Daia said. She took a piece of chicken and started to eat ravenously, forgetting her dainty manners. Gavin smiled, proud of her.

Fyncent asked, "There's more?"

Gavin nodded. "You won't believe it, but she's actually two people after a fas.h.i.+on." He and Daia took turns telling the story of Sithral Tyr and the broken soulcele token.

"Sithral Tyr?" Calinor asked, throwing a chicken bone onto his wooden plate in disgust. "I've been lookin' for that wh.o.r.eson for six years. You're tellin' me he's dead?"

"He was dead," Daia said. "I killed him, but his spirit was released from the soulcele token and now lives in Cirang's body."

"That's the strangest thing I ever heard," Mikesse said, crossing his arms.

Calinor nodded. "I'm ready to leave when you are. If that's Sithral Tyr, I want to see him die. Gavin, if you'd give me the pleasure o'runnin' my blade through that b.a.s.t.a.r.d's black heart, I'd be grateful."

"What has Tyr done to you?" Vandra asked.

"He done nothin' to me, but he spent years roundin' up orphans livin' on the streets and sellin' them to slavers who dock near Lavene at night. I met him when he first came to Thendylath. d.a.m.n near got himself killed by some brigands in an alley. He seemed like a decent buck at the time, naive but kindly. I should've let him die."

When the meal was eaten and the flasks were refilled with water, Gavin left a handsome gratuity for the barmaids who had to clean up the mess on the table. The battlers called for their horses and helped the stable hands saddle them up.

Fyncent and Mikesse walked with them outside, shook hands with them all and wished them well.

"There's still time to change your mind about that tumble," Fyncent said.

Daia made a rude gesture with one hand.

"Any idea where she might be headin'?" Calinor asked.

"Let's see if I can find her." Gavin connected with Daia and used the gems in his sword to strengthen his magic. He let his hidden eye float up high above the trees. Though it was night, this type of vision didn't require light. He searched first north, looking for Cirang's dark, turbulent kho-bent haze, then south. Something resembling a haze lay beside a stream not far from the calm white haze of a horse. All animal hazes were plain white, he'd noticed, where human hazes were usually blue, yellow or white with colorful accents. In time, he'd learned to tell horse hazes from deer, fox, squirrel and dog by the way they pulsed, like a heartbeat. The one thing he couldn't do was differentiate between two horses. They looked identical to him.

"South," he said. "She's heading towards Ambryce and has a good lead on us, but she's camping for the night. We'll close the distance, though she'll reach the city well before we do."

"Could we send a bird?" Brawna asked. "If there are any warrant knights or former Sisters in Ambryce, they might be able to apprehend her for us."

"This village has no roost," Vandra said. "We'd have to go back to Calsojourn."

That was something Gavin would change. The Lucky Inn was strategically positioned for all travelers. The only reason the village hadn't grown into a larger city was because the nearest water source was an hour's ride away, and they relied on rain barrels to provide their supply.

While they rode by the glow of Gavin's light ball, his companions reminisced about meeting Gavin for the first time, each telling his tale. Calinor he'd met while fighting beyonders during a storm, when the rift kept opening and letting more of the monsters through. Twenty-four lay dead by the time they were satisfied no more would come that night. They'd shared a skin of wine while Calinor st.i.tched Gavin's deeper cuts and chaffed him about being too aggressive and overeager.

He'd first met Daia when she enlisted his aid finding the kidnapped blacksmith who'd crafted Aldras Gar. It wasn't until she fought Sithral Tyr on the road that he realized how skilled a fighter she was. Tyr had two blades to her one, and she didn't even have a s.h.i.+eld, yet she came away without a scratch, while Gavin had been run through the lung by Tyr's companion, Toren Meobryn.

He'd met Brawna in the woods after deciphering the fourth king's rune. The Viragon Sisterhood, under the control of Brodas Ravenkind, had sent battlers to the rune cave to lie in wait for him. Gavin had killed Brawna's companion for attacking him, but he'd spared Brawna, whose innocence and concern for him had made it clear her honor was still intact. He later found her unconscious in the carriage with Tyr and Meobryn, bleeding from the multiple stab wounds they'd inflicted while torturing her for information about Gavin. She'd nearly died to protect his ident.i.ty, and Gavin had promised her a place by his side.

Vandra was one of the first to leave the Viragon Sisterhood to pledge her service to the new king. She'd been disillusioned by Lilalian's careless leaders.h.i.+p and had volunteered for every task Gavin had needed during his ascension to the throne.

Spending time with his friends trading stories, Gavin realized for the first time that he hadn't laughed much since Rogan died. It felt good to wear out the muscles in his face and belly, to laugh so hard he lapsed into coughing and nearly tumbled from Golam's back. Though the two men's language was coa.r.s.e, Daia seemed to enjoy herself as well, contributing her stories with the rest of them. To his surprise, Gavin was the first among them to yawn.

He'd created a magic ball of light that burned brightly enough to illuminate the road in front of the horses even during the darkest hours, but it was time to rest. They followed their ears to a nearby creek where the horses could drink, and they dismounted to prepare camp.

Under the magical rain canopy, everyone claimed their sleeping spot for the night and began to lay out their bedrolls, but before Gavin settled in for the night, Calinor pulled him aside. "Say, Gavin," he said, averting his eyes. "A quick word, if you don't mind. I'm gettin' a bit long in the tooth, an' I wouldn't mind settlin' in one place. I was hopin' you could use a strong sword arm and the experience of a gray-beard on a more permanent basis. You know, in Tern." He grinned in the self-conscious, embarra.s.sed way a man did when he asked a favor he didn't particularly want to ask.

Gavin grasped his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "It so happens I could. h.e.l.l, I'd be a fool to turn down a battler like you. I'd be honored to have you join my garrison."

"I'm much obliged, my friend. It's my very great pleasure to see a man o'honor, integrity, and courage sittin' where you're sittin'." Calinor went to one knee onto the wet ground and bowed his head.

Gavin felt the blood rush to his face. He still wasn't used to people doing that, especially not a friend who'd been a mentor to him in his early years as a warrant knight. "Get up, Calinor, d.a.m.n it. You've proven your friends.h.i.+p and loyalty over and again."

The battler held his position for several more heartbeats, and when he rose, wetness in his eyes betrayed the stony expression on his face. "And I'm d.a.m.ned proud, too," he said quietly. "d.a.m.ned proud."

Chapter 28.

Cirang followed an old path marked on the map that led straight towards the Superst.i.tion Mountains. She'd traveled the road to Ambryce at least a dozen times during her years as a Viragon Sister and had never noticed it fork before, probably mistaking it for a deer trail. The ground was soft enough here for her horse to leave well-defined hoof prints among the coyote and deer tracks. If Kins.h.i.+eld saw them diverging from the main road, he would follow her, though she had several hours' lead. Perhaps by then, the rain would make her horse's tracks look like ordinary puddles.

The path sloped gradually upward as she neared the mountain, with not a single town or village along the way to restock supplies or stay a night, though she did cross two small streams and used them to further disguise her direction. She stopped to fill the two waterskins Vandra had tied to her horse, and tore off a chunk of dried pork to eat on the way. She had to let it soften in her mouth before chewing it, but with a swallow of water, it went down easily and would give her the energy for whatever lay ahead.

She stopped at the foot of the mountain pa.s.s, looking up, blinking against the rain that hit her face. This trail obviously hadn't been used in many years, perhaps not since before King Arek's time. If she'd thought it through better, she'd have taken the mule for its sure-footedness over the battle horse, but then she'd have had no food or waterskin and would have had to go to Ambryce first to get supplies. Although the horse hadn't shown a tendency to drag its feet or stumble, even the more gradual parts of the path were steep enough to give her pause. She considered leaving the horse here to go on foot, but that would make escaping Kins.h.i.+eld more difficult if he chanced riding up.

Her decision made, Cirang clicked her tongue, leaned forward over her mount's neck and began to ascend. Some of the stones beneath the beast's hooves s.h.i.+fted under its weight, causing it to stumble now and then. Cirang began to second-guess herself, but urged the horse on with gentle words and a pat whenever it paused. In the steeper or more rugged places, it surged up with its powerful rear legs, scrabbling on the rocky ground. Cirang had to practically hug its neck to keep from sliding off the back end. On a flatter part of the trail, she took a moment to dismount and tighten the girth strap before continuing on, though she kept the b.a.l.l.s of her feet on the stirrups so she could jump free if the horse fell.

There on the side of the mountain, she felt exposed as she looked down at the treetops below. Because she couldn't make out the path she'd taken through the trees, perhaps her pursuers wouldn't be able to see her either. There were plenty of turns and twists in the trail, and she wasn't even sure she was overlooking the right place.

The horse continued to climb while Cirang tried to ignore the growing ache in her hip and back. Several times she considered turning back and giving up this quest. At first, she thought the posture she had to maintain as the horse trudged uphill was wearing on her resolve, but after a while, a feeling of trepidation seeped into her consciousness. She began to doubt her plan. When the horse's foot slipped on the wet path, she gripped his mane tightly, her misgivings stronger. Even if this wellspring was real, what foolishness had persuaded her that the water was magic or that she should dally with things she had no understanding of? After all, she was in this mess because of people dallying in magic they didn't understand.

Near the top of the mountain, the slope became more gradual, and she let the frothy horse walk at a leisurely pace. She dug the journal out of her pack and began to flip through it, s.h.i.+elding its pages from the rain with her cloak. She didn't know how she would find anything in the book that would shed light on her disquiet or warn her away from the spring, as the entries bounced around from one subject to another, divulging information in anything but a logical sequence. She would have to stumble upon the words that described her apprehension, and she wasn't sure Sevae had ever actually come to the wellspring. Everything he'd known about it, or thought he knew, was hearsay.

Disgusted, she put the journal back and dismounted to give the horse a rest, though she continued on foot, grunting with the exertion. She paused to drink deeply from one of her two skins and fed some of it to the horse. She'd started the journey with two full waterskins and soon realized it wouldn't be enough. Once she arrived at the top, perhaps she would drink the wellspring water herself, and then she would know first-hand - perhaps be the first person in centuries to know first-hand - what the value of the water truly was.

The ache in her back deepened as she continued to climb, while her stomach churned. The anxiety worsened with every step, but her will was stronger than her fear. When she came to a fork in the trail, she opened the journal once again and consulted the map. To the right, the trail sloped downward, towards the Flint River, which flowed past Ambryce. To the left, it would lead her to the mountaintop and the wellspring. It was a gradual incline, but her aching back and hip made the hike that much more difficult. She climbed stiffly back into the saddle and rode the last half hour.

When she crested the peak, the rain stopped. Behind her, the gray clouds continued to spill water onto the hapless citizens of Thendylath, while here, they parted to show her the blue sky above and the sun that instantly warmed her head and shoulders.

She should have been relieved, but her stomach was in knots and her hands trembled. For the first time since her death, she felt fear - the most repugnant emotion, aside from love. Was this her survival instinct warning her to abandon this notion? Her next death would be her last. There was no magic or soulcele token to save her this time. She dismounted and stretched her aching back and hip, pretending there was nothing to be concerned with, pretending she didn't feel the urge to sprint back down the way she'd come. Denying the fear would let courage refill her heart. She realized her breathing was almost as frenzied as her heartbeat and tried to focus on the techniques the Nilmarions used to relax and calm her racing thoughts.

Look around. What do you see?

Trees. Harmless pines and firs. A rock in the shape of an eagle perched atop several larger boulders, overlooking the valley below.

What do you smell?

Nothing but the sweet scent of wildflowers.

What do you hear?

Only the usual sounds of buzzing insects and chirping birds in the nearby trees.

The horse didn't appear to be wary or distressed, only tired and hungry. It tore mouthfuls of gra.s.s and weeds and yellow wild flowers as it made its way to the edge of a pool of gray-brown mud from which nothing sprouted. Not a single blade of gra.s.s took root in that strange expanse of mud. Was that the so-called Well of the Enlightened? Time had not been kind to it.

The horse bent its head, put its lips to the mud and slurped it up. Around its mouth, small rings formed on the surface of the mud pit as though it was merely water.

She watched the animal expectantly, waiting to see what would happen. It lifted its head and looked at her with fathomless black eyes. Once it drank its fill, it ambled away to eat. Nothing happened. Not only was the horse not in distress, but it appeared to be refreshed from the drink.

Cirang dropped the knapsack and her rain cloak to the ground and took another step towards it, ignoring her pounding heart.

Don't do this. It will kill you.

A whimper rose in her throat. Fear, disgusting fear, squeezed her chest. She shook her head. No. Fear cannot command me. She was within a dozen feet of the mud's edge. Determined to reach it, unwilling to let weakness control her, she took one more step.

No, no, no!

What kind of death awaited her here? Would something awful rise from the pit to grab her and pull her under? The memory of her last death - the claws, the pain, the awful snap of her spine - brought her to her senses.

Her logical mind scoffed at her concerns. It was just muddy water. The horse drank it and nothing happened to him. She inched towards the water's edge, squatted, and scooped a cupped hand into the mud. It was cool and wet, and even felt like water.

The reflection of her own hand broke the surface, reached up, and grasped her by the wrist, but now it was the black claw of a demon. She jerked back reflexively but too late. It pulled her arm down. No, no, no! Panic rose like a flag up her spine. Unbalanced, she fell to her knees in the mud. She reached with her free arm towards the horse. "Horse, come. Come!" she shouted, desperate. It looked at her with disinterest while it munched gra.s.s.

She fought against the force with all her strength, though it had her dominant arm. The mud was almost up to her shoulder now. She fell onto her right hip, and with her left hand, she fumbled for the dagger in the sheath strapped to her right calf. Her fingers found the hilt, curled around it and whipped it free. She chopped at the mud, only dimly aware of the pain in her hand. The knife's blade broke the mud-claw's grip on her wrist. She pulled herself free and crawled backwards like a crab away from the pit.

Her heart pounded as she sat in the gra.s.s and weeds, staring in horrified disbelief at the mud pit. Warmth trickled between her fingers, and she looked down to see several deep cuts in her wrist and hand. Oddly, her arm had come out completely clean, with no trace of mud on her sleeve or in the wounds. How could that be? Unless she'd imagined the whole thing, the mud should at least have soaked into her sleeve.

With the danger gone, the pain arrived at full intensity. The fact that she'd done this to herself was almost humorous. She pulled her tunic off and used the knife to cut the sleeves off, though her hand, weakened by the stab wounds, made the task more difficult than it should have been.

Ordinarily she'd worry whether something toxic in the mud would seep into her blood and kill her, but there was no evidence she'd ever touched the mud. Her imprints in the gra.s.s were clear, but they were a good four feet from the mud's edge. An illusion was the only explanation. She'd never dipped her hand into it at all - unless this was the illusion. If she had been at the mud's edge and her hand was, indeed, covered with mud, some kind of magic was making her think it was clean. Instinct warned her to wash the wound anyway, which she did using the last of her drinking water. She wrapped one torn sleeve around her hand as tightly as she could. The other she saved for later, when the blood stopped flowing.

Ripples formed in the center of the mud pit, and then bubbles rose to the surface. Her instinct told her to run, and she was no fool. If the demon Ritol were to come out of the mud, she would be only seconds away from her final death.

She pulled the now-sleeveless tunic back on, s.n.a.t.c.hed up her cloak and knapsack and mounted. Forget the d.a.m.ned wellspring, if it even existed. Crigoth Sevae must have been mad to think this mud pit would benefit anyone. It was nothing more than a legend born from a rumor or fairy tale.

Relief replaced anxiety the more distance she put between herself and the mud, although she let the gelding step carefully down the trail at its own pace.

She felt embarra.s.singly silly as much for chasing after such a ludicrous story as stabbing herself in the hand to escape a killer mud pit. So the journal and the ravings of its author had turned out to be useless.

But Kins.h.i.+eld didn't know that. He still wanted the book.

Because Cirang had killed Vandra for it and attacked the king, she would pay dearly if Kins.h.i.+eld ever caught up with her. He'd likely slay her on the spot and to h.e.l.l with ceremony or making a public example of her. Perhaps if she made quickly for Lavene, she could secure pa.s.sage on a s.h.i.+p before he or his guards found her. In fact, if she hid the journal in Ambryce and left him a message directing him to its location, he might pause his pursuit long enough to get the book. Daia would go with him, leaving only Brawna to search for Cirang, and Brawna would be no trouble for a battler as skilled as she was. Yes, she decided. It was a good plan. Perhaps she'd return to Nilmaria for a time. With an understanding of its people and terrain, she would do just fine, even as an unwarded foreign woman.

When she arrived at the fork in the trail, she tugged the rein and continued on towards the river, contemplating what she might write in the note and where she would leave it so that when Kins.h.i.+eld entered the city, he would be directed to it. Perhaps she would simply hand it to one of the lordover's men-at-arms. They wouldn't know her and would have no reason to apprehend her. The only outstanding question was: where to hide the journal so no one would happen upon it before Kins.h.i.+eld found it.