Furies of Calderon (73 page)

A calculated risk, then. She took a breath and tried to keep her voice monotone, droning, to better conceal the direction. “You think that will make me happy, Kord?”

His reply came from much nearer to her, perhaps down the same row of crates. “Once I get that on you, whatever I want makes you happy.”

“I suppose a man like you needs something like that,” she said, moving back, trying to circle around to another row to slip past him.

“Keep talking. Just going to make it sweeter when I get my hands on you.” His voice was on the move as well.

From outside, there was a series of shouts, a trembling in the ground, as of thousands of feet striking it. Horns blew the signals to engage, and Isana knew that the Garrison was under attack.

Kord spoke again, and his voice came from not ten feet away from her, in the darkness, so close that she could suddenly feel the cloud of rage and lust around him like a hot, stinking mist. “See there? Bigger fish to fry. Leaves me all alone with you.”

She didn’t dare reply. Instead, keeping her movements as quiet as she could, she moved across the row to the far side, to press against the crates there. If she strained, she could hear Kord moving slowly down the row of crates, within a long arm’s reach, now, but even more, she could sense him against her, the churning muck of his ugly emotions. It drew even with her, and she held her breath as it crept on past, the pressure on her senses slowly changing, as though something warm and moist brushed over her left cheek, then her mouth, then her right cheek, as Kord crept past.

He moved, sudden and fast, the sense of him flashing across her cheek, mouth, cheek again, as he moved back toward the door. She lost him after only a second. He had moved beyond the range of what her crafting could feel.

But it came to her, suddenly, that she had a weapon he did not. His fury might be able to lend him tremendous strength, but he would not be able to use it to see. His power could reach no farther than his own fingers. But she could use her own crafting to locate him, even in the total darkness, if her reach had been longer. How could she extend it?

By provoking him, she realized. By stoking his emotions to a brighter blaze, he would radiate them more strongly, make himself more easy to sense. Dangerous plan, indeed. But if she could pinpoint where he was, she could slip past him to the door and go for help.

She moved, first, back to the far end of the rows, picking another at random, before she started down it and lifted her voice again. “Do you know how we escaped, Kord?”

“No he doesn’t, Kord,” Isana said, even more quietly. “He helped us escape. He made holes in the roof so that meltwater would run in and give us our crafting back.”

“Lying bitch!” Kord snarled. His fist lashed out against one of the crates, and the solid wooden staves of its side broke with a heavy crunch. At the same time, fighting erupted from very nearby, somewhere just outside the warehouse, in the courtyard itself.

“He hates you, Kord. Did he come with you? Is he here helping you? You’ve got no sons, now, Kord. Nothing to come after you Bittan is dead, and Aric despises you.”

“Shut up,” howled Kord. “Shut up before I break your lying head!”

And the sense of his anger, his mad, blazing rage, abruptly washed through the warehouse Isana pleaded silently with Rill to leave her even more open than usual to the emotions. She felt him. Exactly where that rage was. Ten feet away, on the next row of crates, and pacing swiftly toward her.

Isana moved silently, trying to get past him and back to the door, but as she came even with him one row over, his steps stopped and he started reversing them toward the door

“Oh no,” he growled. “No, that’s a trick. Make me mad and make me come chase you, then you run while I find that slave bitch and break her bitch neck and you get away. No, no You aren’t smarter than me.”

Isana paced him silently, frustrated, unsure of how near she had to be to make him remain within the circle of her senses. She kept the row of crates between them, until they came to the end. Kord stopped, and she felt the surge of hope and lust in him as well, as he inhaled through his nose.

“Smell you, Isana. Smell your sweat. You’re scared.” She heard his knuckles crack. He stood opposite her, standing while she crouched. She reached out her hand and felt the stack of crates that was between them, one, two, three, four high, at least.

“Smell you,” Kord purred. “You’re close. Where are you?”

Isana made up her mind in a flash. She turned to the top crate, leaned against it, and pushed with all her strength. It felt like it took forever for the crate to tilt and then to fall, carrying the two beneath with it, but it could only have been a second. The crates fell, Kord let out a short, sharp cry, and there was a shockingly loud crushing, crunching sound of impact Isana scrambled back to the door of the warehouse, fumbling in the dark. She found the bolt and threw it back, then opened the door, letting in pale morning light, though the warehouse remained in the shadow of the walls. She turned and looked back inside Kord lay on his belly on the ground, the wooden crates over him. One of them had struck him between the shoulder blades, and still lay half on him, unbroken. The other had to have clipped his head, because there was blood on his face. It lay over to one side.

The last had landed on his lower back, buttocks, and thighs. It had broken open, revealing the cracked and broken forms of heavy slate tiles used on the roofs of the buildings in the garrison. Isana drew in a breath. The tiles were each made of a heavy fired ceramic, and each of the crates had to have weighed close to three hundred pounds.

She watched as Kord tried to move, straining. He snarled and muttered something, and the earth beneath him stirred weakly. He tried again, but could not get out from under the crates. He subsided to the floor again, panting, whimpering beneath his breath.

Isana walked over to him and stood looking down at him. She knelt and touched a fingertip to his temple, willing Rill to impress his condition upon her.

“Your legs are broken,” she said, tonelessly. “So is your hip. So is your back.” She felt a moment more. “And you’re exhausted. You must have been drawing on your fury to pursue us.” She drew her hand away. “You aren’t going anywhere, Kord.”

“Bitch,” he snarled, the sound weak. “Finish it. Get it over with.”

“Were you in my place, you would break my head open.” She picked up one of the heavy tiles, and ran a finger over its squared edge. Held up lengthwise and driven down, it could indeed break a skull. “Maybe with one of these. Crush my skull and kill me.”

“I had you beat,” he growled. “When I die, I’m going to be thinking of it. You in that circle scared out of your head. You just remember that.”

She stood up and dropped the slate. Then she walked down one of the rows.

“What are you doing?” he growled. “When I get out of here—”

Isana went to Odiana and took the woman’s hand. She lifted the woman to her feet, then covered her eyes with her hands. Odiana nodded, weakly, and hid her eyes in her own hands. Isana led her out, stepping wide around Kord, who struggled to grab at her ankles and failed.

“You aren’t getting out of here,” Isana said. “I only know of one person, offhand, who could treat your injuries in time to heal you, Kord. She isn’t inclined.”

Isana stopped and looked down at him, then stooped down. He clutched at her ankle, and she kicked his hand away with a contemptuous, “Stop that.” She grabbed his Stead-holder chain and tore it off over his head. Then hit him with it, hard, across the mouth.

Kord stared up at her, the pain stunning him, robbing him of speech.

She spoke to him in a detached, clinical tone. “You don’t feel your injuries Kord. But you’ll never walk again. You’ll have to have someone clean you like an infant. I’m not sure you’ll be able to sit up without help.”

She turned and began to walk toward the entrance, leading Odiana with her. “But you
will
be able to face trial. Like that. Helpless. Stinking of your own waste. You’ll go to trial before the Count, and everyone in the Valley will see what you
are
. I’ll see to that. And then they’ll kill you for what you’ve done.”

Outside, deeper, louder horns began to blare, almost drowning out Kord’s sudden, vicious, pathetic sobs. “Isana! You stupid bitch, you can’t do this. You can’t do this!”

She swung shut the door behind them and said, “I can’t hear you, Kord.”

Then the battle swept over her, desperation and agony and wild exultation all blended together. She struggled to merely remain standing, and Odiana clung to her, helped her to keep her balance. The two water-crafters could barely manage to hobble from the warehouse to the quiet spot between one of the barracks. Isana’s newly opened senses that had served her so well in the darkness now incapacitated her, and she sank to the ground, to her knees, curling her arms up over her head while she tried to tune down some of the emotions that pounded in her. Dimly, she felt the ground shake again, heard the bellowing of some enormous beast, an equally enormous voice roaring a challenge.

By the time she lifted her head, Odiana was gone. Isana looked up to see one dirty foot vanishing up onto the roof of the barracks building. She shook her head, still dazed, and moved until she could see the wild chaos of the courtyard, and the gargant with its ferocious rider as it turned to flatten a Marat warrior beneath its feet in a sudden rush of fierce anger and swiftly fading pain.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, her eyes opening wider, lifting up to the gargant’s rider again, and his passengers. “Oh, child, what have you gotten yourself into? My Tavi?”

Chapter 42

Tavi swallowed, his hands tightening on Doroga’s belt. The gargant beneath them stirred restlessly, but other than that, the courtyard was nearly silent.

Bodies lay everywhere. Tavi tried not to look at them, but it seemed that everywhere he moved his eyes, someone had died. It was horrible. The bodies didn’t look like people should. They looked misshapen and wrong, as though some careless child had been playing with his wooden soldiers and idly thrown them away after breaking them. There was blood, and that made his belly shake, but more than that, there was a horrible sadness in seeing the torn and broken forms, Marat and Aleran, man and beast alike.