Hunted (Book 3) (2 page)

A marble bier bore the body of the man whose face was carved into the door. He wore a black uniform very like what the Dark Guard wore, his sword and bow embraced within his arms. Candles affixed to the floor in mounds of wax encircled the bier, but their flames were motionless, frozen in time. The room itself was small, well-lit, and unadorned, though a placard was affixed to the bier in the language she could not read. The Chalaine thought he must have been part of the fighting order of the Church, but something about the profile of his pale gray face seemed familiar somehow and she entered to get a better look at him.

The candlelight on the floor cast his face into shadow, so she stooped down, careful of her dress, and pried one of the candles out of the wax. As soon as she grasped it, it sputtered to life, flickering and dancing in her hand. Craning forward, she held the candle out over the corpse’s face to get a better look. There was a resemblance to someone she knew in his mien that she couldn’t place, but as she tried to sort out who, hot wax dripped and burned her hand and she let go of the candle. It fell onto the man’s chest and sputtered out. Delicately, she reached down to remove it, and as she touched his chest, his eyes snapped open. She screamed, startling backward and falling to the floor.

She woke.

“Are you well?” Maewen asked, coming to her side as her mother forced her to lay back down.

“Just a dream,” she explained. “I am sorry.” Then she saw it. The man on the bier reminded her of Maewen, though she certainly possessed a fiercer aspect. The two shared the same deep, knowing eyes.

“The potion often leads to dreaming. They are usually not unpleasant, however.”

The Chalaine closed her eyes and tried to slow her pounding heart. “It was not unpleasant. Merely surprising. Do not be troubled.”

She tried to relax and return to her slumber, but nervousness kept it at bay despite the dullness of the day. Time passed slowly with a great deal of talk in low voices. Padra Athan inquired after her welfare before turning to Maewen who sat against a wall nearby fletching. Athan crouched down before the ranger and she regarded him coldly.

“I was wondering,” Athan said, “what you think the Uyumaak’s strategy to find us will be, if indeed they are arrayed against us as we fear.”

Maewen sheathed her knife and wiped the wood shavings from her legs. “I think it is certain they are there and waiting for us, though in what numbers, I cannot say. This rain, however, is quite deliberate. Soft, wet ground slows our movement, especially in ascent. The horses will leave such plain tracks that even a child could follow them for miles without difficulty. Even walking after today’s deluge would do little to help us pass unnoticed.

“Most distressing, however, is that the storm is almost assuredly conjured through magic, which means they have a powerful Mage. We have you and Chertanne, but if we face Joranne, which is certainly possible, then I doubt the two of you can match her.

“Their strategy will be simple. Its effectiveness and our chance of overcoming it hinge solely upon their numbers and our ability to be stealthy. They know we must leave Elde Luri Mora and head north, but from where, they do not know. They will patrol an east-west line, searching for sign of us. Once they find it, they will come, and quickly. If their numbers are few, we may get enough of an advance to help us get to places where tracking will be more difficult for them. If they can thickly patrol that east-west line, then our chances slim considerably.

“The rain’s only virtue for us is that after the ground absorbs the water, we will be able to travel more quietly—provided that whoever is causing the storm cannot keep it up indefinitely. We will leave a clear mark wherever we go, however.”

“So what is your plan?” the Padra asked, mouth curled down in worry beneath his hooked nose. Chertanne wandered up behind, arms crossed.

“If they are smart,” Maewen said, “they will expect us to travel the shortest route, given the state of our supplies. The shortest course is northwest. I plan to do the opposite. Before we leave the protection of Elde Luri Mora, we will strike east. We’ll have to ford the river, but if we can get across, we will ride hard due north into the lower foothills. While we will be more visible, the easy terrain will allow us to put the speed of the horses to good use and get some distance on our pursuers. Before the Shattering, deer swarmed those hills, which, if still true, would go a long way toward solving our food problems. There is also plenty of water in that direction.”

“How much longer will it add to our trip?” Chertanne asked, expression betraying his fear of the answer.

“At least two weeks, but with this route, we should be able to keep the horses for most of the journey. It does take us close to Dunnach Falls Bridge again, though I doubt they left any force there.”

“Have the Uyumaak any weaknesses we might exploit?” Athan inquired hopefully.

“Few,” Maewen replied, twirling an arrow in her hand. “In most respects, the Uyumaak are our superiors. The Hunters are faster than us and have a superior sense of smell. The Warriors are stronger. The Bashers tougher. The Archers more accurate. All of them have scales that change color, so they can hide more easily, and they see better in the dark than humans do.”

“A discouraging list,” Athan frowned. “Where are they weak?—if you would answer my original question.”

Maewen stood. “I was getting to that. They do not have language and must communicate by tapping rhythms on their chests, sticks, rocks, or whatever is available. Thus, to be coordinated they must at least partially reveal their position. They also must be led. If the Chukka and the Shaman in the group are killed, the Uyumaak tend to fight among themselves. So, you see, my decision to use Gen to help me try to assassinate the Shaman was not all folly.

“They also hoard and value shiny objects. I escaped an Uyumaak attack once by throwing bronze pieces on the ground behind me as I ran. Unfortunately, I don’t believe anyone has any such treasures, unless you can conjure some up, Ha’Ulrich. Lastly, if you can kill the Hunters, they will be ‘blind’ in most respects and easy to evade, as they exclusively rely on the Hunters to track their quarry. We have little chance of pulling that off, unfortunately. They are likely patrolling Elde Luri Mora’s borders in numbers.”

“There doesn’t seem much there to take advantage of,” Chertanne interjected darkly.

“You are correct,” Maewen agreed. “The speed and endurance of the horses are our only advantage, which is why I would prefer to keep them as long as we can.”

“I will try to turn some of the dirt into gold,” Chertanne offered, “if it will help.”

“It might, but it need not be gold. The Uyumaak have no need of money and appraise the worth of an object by its luster only. Now, if you will excuse me. I need to search for some herbs while I have the luxury of doing so.”

“But it’s pouring!” Chertanne blurted out in disbelief.

“The rain concerns me not,” Maewen said and left.

Maewen’s dire description of their chances set the Chalaine’s heart to beating, and she sipped her grog to help clam herself. The half-elf returned as night fell, soaked to the bone but not showing the least bit of inconvenience. The rain tapered off as full dark approached, the sound of dripping amplified as the roar of the downpour dissipated. Dinner consisted of tough strips of meat and bread that were alternately stale and soggy where the rain had soaked into saddlebags.

“We have about two more weeks of meals like this one,” Maewen announced to the group. “After that, we need to find game, roots, and what berries might be left. Do not eat anything unfamiliar without asking me first. Tighten your belts and eat as sparingly as you can bear.”

The Chalaine had little appetite to start with and pocketed most of what her mother handed her. Maewen’s potion worked well for the pain, though the Chalaine had difficulty accustoming herself to the sling and splint. In the hours leading up to the meal, Chertanne managed to transmute the dirt around the doorway into four shiny disks the color of silver for use against the Uyumaak. He was enormously pleased with his success, though the task drained his strength and he fell asleep directly after dinner.

The Chalaine shook her head at his thunderous snoring. How could Chertanne possibly face down Mikkik? His abilities seemed only good for cheap parlor tricks or to create and destroy trinkets. She fervently hoped his skill and strength would improve vastly before she had to rely on his protection from anything.

Athan staggering into a wall, eyes wide and face in shock, silenced the room. He fended off attempts to see to his welfare, requiring several moments to steady himself, breath labored and hand clenched about his robes. Chertanne snorted awake at the commotion.

“What is it?” Maewen importuned, face concerned.

“It is the former Pontiff,” the besieged Padra finally divulged. “He is dead. It is a great loss, for us all.”

“Is your ward still intact,” Chertanne asked urgently.

“Yes.”

“Do you think Gen killed him?” Chertanne pressed.

“No,” Athan said. “No. His time was come.”

Chertanne was disappointed. The Chalaine felt a brief surge of hope, and her mother’s face betrayed the same emotion. Even if the ward were up, with the Pontiff dead Gen might find some other way to get out of the building.

“Now, leave me be,” Athan said, voice slightly strangled. “I need time to mourn . . . and to think.”

“Everyone sleep,” Maewen ordered. “We leave before sunup tomorrow.”

Athan lay awake for hours reeling under the dying Pontiff’s news. Mikkik was indeed clever. Gen had poisoned the Chalaine and her entire nation against the Ha’Ulrich without doing one thing anyone could fault him for. Their trip across the Shroud Lake shard demonstrated beyond doubt that the web of prophecy was slight and fragile, ripe for destruction. Gen’s near devastating blow the night of the marriage confirmed the blindness of their eyes and the futility of their efforts to protect the holy couple. The time for tough measures had come.

While Athan wondered how deep Gen’s complicity in Mikkik’s plan went, the answer was little more than a curiosity. While Chertanne had promised he would not harm Gen, Athan had not. Scholars might debate ends and means, but with the world in jeopardy, such concerns faded into the realm of the pedantic and irrelevant. Padra Athan did not fear the secular or spiritual consequences of the tough decisions he had made and would make to ensure the birth of the Holy Child. Gen had already ruined the unity of the two most powerful nations on Ki’Hal, and if he should perchance escape the ward before death, he would no doubt spend every waking moment seeking Chertanne’s life.

The greatest damage, Athan knew, was the plain disgust the Chalaine felt for Chertanne. The relationship so crucial to the final scenes of the prophecy had degraded to complete animosity by both parties, and Athan saw no clear way to repair it. The way the Chalaine and the Ha’Ulrich insulted and ignored each other frightened him beyond words. If he could reconcile the two—and he would try it against all odds—then Eldaloth could not help but reward a patient, stalwart servant.

The Padra rolled off of his bedroll and stood. Maewen, standing at the front door, glanced over her shoulder at the movement and then wandered out into the night. Athan shook his head. Gen’s allies ruled their party and would hold the balance of power until they could portal off the shard. Luckily, Athan knew the art of tacit instruction as well as anyone.

Standing, he crossed to where Chertanne slept. “Your Grace,” Athan whispered as he shook Chertanne gently, trying not to disturb anyone else. He glanced back to the door, hoping Maewen would not reappear. Dason or Cadaen was likely awake somewhere, but that could not be helped. The rest of the dark room was alive with the sound of muted and deep breathing, though the Padra couldn’t ascertain if everyone was asleep.

After the former Pontiff’s devastating final message, Padra Athan knew he had to inform Chertanne of what he knew without anyone else’s knowledge or suspicion. Chertanne’s eyes slowly opened and widened, the whites barely visible in the weak light. Padra Athan leaned close.

“Holiness,” Athan whispered, “follow me out the back. Be quiet. Wake no one.”

Chertanne wrestled his blanket off himself and stood more noisily than Athan wanted, but once they passed outside, damp grass soft beneath their bare feet, they listened for any sign that anyone had awakened. Once Padra Athan was reasonably assured of their secrecy, he whispered into Chertanne’s ear.