Crown of Shadows (43 page)

Please,
he prayed.
Do it.

It did.

He could see the false image peel off as his horse rose up, powerful flanks driving them up over the heads of the nearest townspeople. Behind him the false horse-image plowed into the crowd, and the men there, believing what their eyes told them, fell down before it. Tarrant’s own phantom worked similar damage, with such brutal efficiency that row upon row of their attackers seemed to be trampled by the ghostly hooves. The men behind them pressed forward, thrusting spears and swords into the illusory flesh, believing in it enough that it seemed to them the bodies resisted, then punctured, then bled.

—And then the real horse was coming down with Damien still in the saddle, only it hadn’t cleared the mob yet, not by a long shot. The men beneath him never saw it coming. One minute they were focused on the ghost-horse before them, and the next minute half a ton of steel and flesh was bearing down on them. Damien heard bones crack as they landed on a sea of moving flesh, and he clung desperately to his saddle as his horse struggled for solid footing, wincing at every cry from the bodies crushed beneath him. For a few precious seconds it was all he could do to keep his seat, and hope that no weapon reached him. Then he saw a blade swinging down toward the horse’s neck, and with strength born of utter desperation he leaned out as far as he could to strike it aside, then cut back toward its owner’s chest. His blade bit deep into leather and flesh, and the man fell back with a cry.

They don’t know what they’re doing here,
he thought, as he whipped around to see what threat might be coming from another direction.
They probably don’t even know who it is they’re fighting.
He could hear screams of fury and pain now on all sides. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tarrant’s coldfire blade sweeping like a scythe through the mob. Some of the attackers were starting to back off now, horrified, and the look in their eyes was like that of men awakening from a dream. Damn Calesta, for whatever he had done to them! Wasn’t it enough that armies had to die, without making the innocent join them!

Finally he was free, the last broken body fallen behind him. He glanced about to see Tarrant break out of the crowd, and gestured for him to take the lead. The black horse broke into a fevered gallop down the dark street, and Damien followed. He could see blood streaming along his horse’s neck and could only pray that the wounds weren’t too deep. The black flesh of Tarrant’s mount, glistening with sweat, made it impossible to assess its condition, but it seemed to be moving all right. God forbid either horse should lose its footing now.

Two blocks beyond the mob Tarrant slowed, and focused the fae before them into a picture. Now they could see clearly, as if on a map, where the harbor lay. And they could see just as clearly that they had been sent in the wrong direction, into a trap that had almost killed them.

“Come,” Tarrant said, and he kicked his horse into a gallop. Down through the dark streets they rode with desperate speed, across a broad avenue, onto a smoothly cobblestoned road. The few townspeople who were abroad that late fell back from them as though they were demons. At least there were no angry mobs here, Damien thought. God willing Calesta was arrogant enough that he never considered they would escape him. Or desperate enough that he had focused all his manpower at that one four-pronged trap, leaving no backup to cover their escape.

And then they turned right instead of left. “Gerald—” Damien called, but the Hunter waved off his protest and continued in that direction. Then he led them through another turn, equally mistaken. Damien struggled to remember the map Tarrant had conjured, and saw it all too clearly in his mind’s eye. “You’re going the wrong way!” he yelled. Heads appeared in the nearest windows as townies grew curious about the racket outside, then quickly withdrew. “Your map—” he began.

“Follow me!” the Hunter commanded. With a muttered curse Damien followed his lead. If Tarrant wouldn’t stop, then there was no other choice; he wasn’t about to let them be separated.
Damn the man,
he swore, as he urged his horse to even greater speed. The mob would never catch up to them now, not unless he and Tarrant did something stupid that would slow them down. Like getting lost. Like forgetting the goddamn map. Like turning left when they should go right, and maybe it was all Calesta’s fault, maybe Tarrant wasn’t
seeing
the right turn, but knowing who and what their enemy was, he damned well should have been prepared for something like that.

And then the houses gave way to an open road paved with flagstones, beyond which the moonlight glinted on surf. Damien could hear waves, and human voices, and the soft growl of a distant turbine. The Hunter rode to the end of the street and paused there.

“How—” Damien began.

“Later.” The road dropped away sharply at its end, down to the harbor some hundred feet below. A long flight of stairs and a switchback trail offered equally uncomfortable ways of getting down to the water. The Hunter studied the boats splayed out below them, assessing each one’s potential for speed as well as its position in the small harbor. “That one,” he said at last, pointing to a small boat at the end of the easternmost pier. Its two masts flanked the exhaust pipe of a steam turbine. “I can raise a wind that will move it quickly, hopefully before anyone thinks to follow.”

“What if its owner—?”

“Its owner is irrelevant,” Tarrant said sharply. “If you have a problem with that, stay here and argue with him.” And he turned his horse toward the switchback path that led down to the water’s edge.

It was a nightmare descent, even for one as experienced in riding as Damien was. The path was covered with loose rocks and gravel, and the racing horses slid into several turns. At one time Damien’s horse actually missed the edge, and his heart nearly stopped as it half-staggered, half-slid, down to the turn below.

And then they were on flat ground, mud and gravel mixed, clumps of earth tearing up out of the ground as they galloped toward the pier. No secrecy now, nor any attempt at it. Calesta knew where they were headed and that meant the townspeople did as well. The only hope they had of making it out onto the water was to get there before the locals had a chance to stop them.

Out onto the wooden planks, their horses’ hooves beating emptily over the rocky shore below. Two men jumped back out of their way, and another few ran as they saw them coming. Good enough. Fear of a maddened horse could be just as effective as a direct assault, and in this case it proved even better. No one tried to stop them as they turned their mounts down the pier Tarrant had chosen, although Damien could see a few men running for help. Within minutes, no doubt, the whole harbor would be swarming with armed men.

Tarrant didn’t stop to lead his horse across the water, but urged it into a leap that carried it from the end of the pier onto the boat’s narrow deck. Damien saw it slide as it landed, and by the time Tarrant managed to bring it to a stop, they were nearly in the water. He slowed his own mount down as he approached, less than certain that he could manage the same feat. Sliding off the saddle, he moved quickly toward the boat with reins in hand. His horse was less than happy about stepping onto the swaying deck, but a hard jerk on the reins convinced it not to argue, and it managed a half-leap that got it across the water safely.

Damien cut through the mooring lines, not taking time to unbind them. Behind him Tarrant’s sword blazed with conjured coldfire, and in response a wind began to rise almost at once, blowing from the shore toward the Serpent. At the other end of the harbor Damien could see spots of light moving—lamps?—and he could hear the cries of would-be pursuers as they made their way down the slope.
Faster!
he urged the wind, as he drew up the sails singlehandedly to harness its power. The small boat shuddered and then drew away from the pier, its sails billowing out white and strong in the moonlight. One of the horses whinnied its discomfort, but Damien doubted that either of the animals would actually be stupid enough to go over the side in protest. Maybe stupid enough to trample their owners, but not that.

“The turbine’s below.” Tarrant pointed toward the stairs at the rear of the small boat. “Get it started.”

“I don’t know how—”

“Then make an educated guess.”

With a brief glare for his companion he hurried down the stairs, into the cabin and its attendant cargo space. In the galley he located a candle and a pack of matches by moonlight. That lit, it was a bit easier to search. The turbine was similar to one he had seen before, the last time he had made this crossing, and he tried to remember how its owner had worked it. He looked about for fuel, located the furnace door, and started things going. It would be a short while before there was enough pressure to drive the boat, but until then the wind would have to do. He allowed himself the brief luxury of sitting down beside the small engine and of taking several deep breaths in succession. Tarrant would keep the wind going until the turbine kicked in, and then he would turn it around to slow their pursuers. If he could. Damien reflected on how hard it was to command the weather like that—even within such limited parameters—and the fact that Tarrant couldn’t use the currents for power, but must rely upon the limited amount of fae that was stored in his sword, surely wouldn’t help. Then he decided not to think about any of it. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried not to reflect upon what they had just done. But he couldn’t help it. The blood was still red on his sword, and a gory spattering covered his right leg and boot. The feel of his weapon cutting into human flesh was still hot in his palm, and he rubbed his hand against the thigh of his breeches as if somehow that could cleanse it. In his ears he could hear the sounds of innocent men screaming as the horses bore down on them, unseen but all too keenly felt—

“Well?”

It was Tarrant, calling down to him. He opened the valve on the turbine the way he had seen a captain do it once before and was somewhat surprised to hear the small engine rumble to life. Its owner must have had it Worked for it to start that fast; had Tarrant Seen that when he chose this vessel? “It’s on,” he called back, and he made one last check of its dials and settings before he climbed back up to the deck.

Tarrant had sheathed his sword, which meant that whatever Working he had crafted to control the wind was over and done with. God willing, it would work. The horses were grazing on imagined grass, and one of them had left its last meal as a gift on the deck. Damien almost stepped in it.

“Do you think they’ll try to follow?” he asked Tarrant.

“Unlikely.” He turned the wheel slowly as he spoke, forcing the boat to head into the waves. “Hunting down a small craft on the Serpent at night would be a nearly impossible feat, even for one of Calesta’s power. However,” he added grimly, “we can certainly bet that all the northern ports will be watched, and that we can expect a similar welcome there if we try to land.”

“In all the ports?”

“If he anticipated our journey, then he’s had a good week to prepare. If not ... then he still has a whole day left to warp the minds of those who might otherwise assist us.” He said nothing further on that point, but no words were necessary. The Hunter couldn’t leave the shelter of the boat while the sun was shining. Either they reached the northern shore and found safe harbor within hours—an unlikely task—or they would have to remain on the river until tomorrow’s sunfall. “I’ll take the wheel until dawn. You go below and see that there’s secure shelter for me somewhere, then try to rest. Oh, and see to the horses.” He glanced at the animals. “Secure them inside the cabin if you can. They won’t like it, but if the sea grows rough, they’ll be safer there.”

“Gerald—” He hesitated. “I can’t handle a boat. You know that, don’t you? I don’t know the least thing about sailing—”

“Then I suggest you see if there are any books on the art lying about.” The pale eyes glittered. “And pray that we make landing before dawn. Weather-Working is a chancy art at best, and to rush it as I did ... that might well draw a storm.”

Damien looked out at the choppy waves—was there more froth riding on them than before, or was that just his imagination?—and he shivered. How large a storm might the adept have conjured, in his need for an obliging wind? It wasn’t a welcome thought in any context, but with him and Tarrant alone on this boat and half the northern coast setting traps for them, and then when the sun came up he’d be handling the boat alone—

Hell,
he thought. Taking a deep breath, fighting to calm his nerves.
You knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

He went below to search for a manual.

Gresham came
to Narilka’s workbench and sat himself down, straddling a nearby chair. For a moment she just went on buffing as if he weren’t there, but the pressure of his gaze slowed her rhythm, and at last forced her to stop. Slowly, reluctantly, she looked up at him.