Hunted (Book 3) (4 page)

Volney pulled Gen out into the night as Gerand disappeared into the darkness, moving to the side to mask his location. Volney dragged Gen off to the side of the walk and took up position in front of the door in case the Aughmerian bolted.

Inside, the soldier had gone quiet.

He knows he is at a disadvantage,
Gerand thought.
If he can hide and stay alive, he can return to camp and report.

While ill at ease in the inky dark, Gerand thrilled at a chance to sink his blade into an Aughmerian; the list of his friends lost in Shadan Khairn’s invasion was long. He crouched and attuned his ears to the sounds around him, noticing Volney’s silhouette against the entrance.

Stand away from the door, idiot,
Gerand remonstrated.
What if he has a bow?
After several agonizing minutes of absolute silence, Gerand stood.
We’ll just guard the door and wait for morning. This is insane.

Glow. Darkness. Gerand stepped quietly toward the soft yellow light. Glow. Darkness. Glow. Darkness. To the right across the Hall it led him until it hovered in front of the thick curtains covering the side chamber where Gen had rested before the wedding. Gerand did not want to charge into the room, but as he watched, the firefly’s light dropped from eye level to chest level. Gerand lunged, blade passing through the curtain and plunging into the Aughmerian’s chest. The soldier slumped to the floor with only the intake of an unfinished scream to mark his passing. Glow. Blood ran under the curtain. Darkness.

“He’s down!” Gerand went through the curtain, and after fumbling around, removed the soldier’s sword and scabbard for Gen. That done, he sprinted for the door, feet pattering across the smooth tiles, damp blossoms sticking to his socks.

“Stop! Gerand! Stop!” Volney yelled. Gerand pulled up short, heart sinking. Volney stood well away from the entrance now.

“Is it. . . ?”

“Yes, the moment you yelled. ‘He’s down!’”

“Mikkik’s Beard!”

Athan marched inside the building, face burning with such lively anger that the groggy travelers immediately stopped packing and eating. “How could you do this, Mirelle?” he yelled, planting his feet in front of her. “We need those two to get home!”

“What do you mean by confronting me in this state?” Mirelle answered, face annoyed as she turned from a conversation she was having with Maewen. “What is it that you think I have done?”

“Don’t play games, Mirelle!” Athan raged. “This is not the time! We are in grave danger and need every sword available.”

“I still don’t comprehend your meaning.”

“Gerand and Volney! You ordered them back to help Gen!”

Mirelle folded her arms. “I most certainly did not.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“If you want to believe the truth. You seem to forget that Gerand and Volney were Gen’s best friends while he served in Rhugoth and were no doubt deeply concerned for his welfare. Besides, they are no longer mine to command.”

“They are mine to command,” Chertanne asserted, joining them. A clump of blond hair jutted away from his head and his eyes rested on the puffy bags beneath them. “And I gave no such order. They have committed treason in this abandonment and will be punished for it when they are caught.”

“Yes, Athan,
he
is the commander of everyone here,” Mirelle said with a dash of mockery. “And, hmm, let me count now . . . and . . . my goodness! We are missing an Aughmerian soldier as well! Now I wonder where he might have wandered off to? Surely he wasn’t a friend of Gen’s as Gerand and Volney were? Do you happen to know where that soldier is? Padra? Your Eminence?”

Chertanne scrunched his brow and started counting the soldiers.

Padra Athan ground his teeth. “Mirelle, it is imperative that Gen not be set free! He attempted to kill the Ha’Ulrich and is a threat to the redemption of Ki’Hal! You must see both the justice and the reason in holding him there!”

“Padra, why are you explaining this to me? Perhaps you should mount your horse, ride to Elde Luri Mora, and give your sermon to Gerand and Volney. Besides, you haven’t let your ward down, have you?”

“Of course not,” Athan growled. “But. . .”

“Then why the fuss? It seems we have nothing to worry about from Gen.” 

Athan brought his hand to his face, covering his mouth and his chin as he debated with himself. A room full of silent people awaited the outcome of the spat.

“May I have a private word with you, Mirelle?” Padra Athan requested.

“Of course, Padra. Cadaen, stay here for a moment. I will return shortly.”

Cadaen nodded, leveling one of his warning stares at the Churchman.

Mirelle and Athan left the building through the rear entrance, walking a short distance into the woods. Musty, cool air assaulted their noses, and the sky still closed itself against the morning sun. It had rained in spurts throughout the night, letting up near dawn. Water dripped from branch and leaf, and the ground squished unsteadily beneath their feet. Padra Athan stared off into the forest, hand on a damp trunk, carefully thinking how to formulate his words. Mirelle folded her arms across her chest, warming herself as she waited in the early autumn chill.

The Padra, thoughts collected, lifted his eyes to meet Mirelle’s. Hers were ice blue, set in a stubborn, confident stare. Athan had never met her equal, in beauty or in exercise of will. A purpose, some mission she clung to with religious tenacity lurked behind those eyes and lent her iron. If he were ever to the control the woman, the Padra knew he needed to find what propped her up and put it into his own grasp.

“Mirelle, I need to tell you something. You will not believe it, but you must listen to me. It is the truth. Just before the old Pontiff died, he relayed a message to me that was most distressing and shocking. After we left the Hall of Three Moons following the ceremony, the Pontiff examined Gen. Now do not get angry when I say this. It is not baseless speculation. Chertanne and I did not collude to invent this fact as a wild rumor to discredit Gen. Hear me, Mirelle. The man Gen, the one you let into your house and appointed to guard the Chalaine, is the very Ilch.”

“Yes, he is.”

Padra Athan reeled, mouth unhinging for several seconds. “Wh-what!? You know? Merciful Eldaloth, Mirelle! How long have you known this? Did Chertanne tell you last night?”

“No. I’ve known since night of the betrothal, the one that succeeded, I mean.”

“How!?”

“Do keep your voice down, Padra. Ethris confirmed it the night the Chalaine tried to heal Gen of the demon’s poison.”

“You will be executed for this, the both of you!”

“We will deny everything.”

Athan stabbed a finger at her. “Our magic can force the truth from you.”

“Ethris has already made a provision for us against such an eventuality. Of course, any attempt to perform such an interrogation would be viewed with much disfavor. If only you and Chertanne hadn’t tried so hard to discredit Gen in the first place, maybe you could accuse him now with some success. I am afraid you’ve quite worn out your credit with Rhugothian and Tolnorian nobility.”

“Mirelle, I thought you were a sensible woman! How could you gamble your daughter’s life like this? Indeed, how could you gamble the safety of Ki’Hal?”

“Gamble?” Mirelle stepped close, eyes firm. “The real gamble stands inside that building dumbly counting his soldiers! I have ample proof that Gen has rejected his calling as the Ilch and now serves the interest of my daughter and the world. I have yet to see one shred of evidence that Chertanne is either competent or serves any interest but his own.

“Think about it, Athan. The only two questions Chertanne ever answers with any authority are ‘Do you hate Gen?’ and ‘Would you like another ale, your Grace?’ He can’t lead. He can’t fight. He loves nothing. As a Magician you know better than I do that he has no will to work magic of any potency. I’ll ride with Gen to the battlefield at doomsday. You go with Chertanne. We’ll see who is dead when the first arrows fly.”

“Where is your faith, Mirelle?" Athan countered. "The prophecy says Chertanne is to be Eldaloth’s instrument in fighting Mikkik! Are you saying that you don’t believe that anymore? Are you saying that Eldaloth will not use his power to bolster and protect Chertanne in that hour?”

“Padra, what I am saying is that I don’t believe in Chertanne. It is enough that I let my daughter marry that boor so that he could father the Child. Even so, every time I see the Chalaine I feel like falling to my knees and begging forgiveness for ever letting her take an oath to bind herself to that man. It is my dearest wish to give the Chalaine what compensation and relief that a mother can from such a dismal life.”

“Does the Chalaine know about, Gen?”

“No.”

“She will, Mirelle. It will be known. Someday, everyone will know. I will see it done.”

Much to Athan’s annoyance, Mirelle laughed out loud. “Very amusing, Athan. I do pity you. You are duty bound to return to the kingdoms and convince the people that Gen is the Ilch and that Chertanne is their competent, holy leader. I’m not sure which task will be more difficult. Perhaps you should practice by persuading people that white is black and a rat is a greyhound. At least you and Chertanne have had the good sense not to make such revelations to our little party. Go ahead and tell the world, if you think you’ll fare any better there than you would here.

“Nothing to say, Athan? Well, while we’re being forthright, I must inform you that your attempt on my life and Gen’s life the day we left Mikmir has not gone unnoticed by me. I confess it took me some time to sort out, but I did at last.”

“I ordered no such thing!”

The First Mother grinned. “Of course not, just like I didn’t order Gerand and Volney to help Gen. Well, I think you are far too angry for further discussion now. I wish you the best of luck training your new Pontiff.”

Mirelle strode back inside, face pleasant, to a room full of questioning glances. Athan did not return until everything was packed and everyone mounted. He did not speak another word that day.

              Gerand watched helplessly through the warded entry as Volney paced around the Hall of Three Moons over and over again. Unlike his unrelenting comrade in arms, Gerand had given up the search. They had inspected every inch of the smooth, white structure, hoping for any hint of a place where Gerand might slip through Athan’s ward and escape. He and Volney had come up empty every time they had searched since daybreak. The building’s narrow windows defied defenestration and the warded main entrance was the only opening into or out of the structure.

Gerand shook his head as Volney came around for another pass. It was time to get the big hearted Rhugothian to leave him behind. The Chalaine and the First Mother needed Gen. They loved him. They relied on him. His escape would give them courage, even if he couldn’t be with them.

“Volney,” Gerand called. “Come here.”

His friend approached, face resolute but eyes showing panic. “There must be a way!”

“It’s hopeless, Volney,” Gerand said, trying to drill the point home to the determined young man. “My only chance of escape is if Athan decides to drop the ward or is killed. Since I killed the Aughmerian soldier, Athan cannot know that Gen is free and his ward now useless. I should have thought about that before I ran the man through. But what’s done is done.”

“You couldn’t have foreseen this,” Volney said.

“I could have, but I didn’t. Get Gen on that horse and get moving. Now. You need to keep as close to Lady Khairn’s party as possible. With just the two of you, you can ride. You’ve got to leave me here. Go.”

Volney turned away, face fixed in a sad scowl of frustration. Gen lay just a few feet away. While otherwise lethargic, the Chalaine’s fallen Protector had managed to don his socks and boots at some point during the night. Otherwise, he mimicked a corpse in demeanor and movement, and only the weak rise and fall of his chest from drawing breath and the sweat beading on his forehead from a persistent fever offered proof that he yet lived.

Volney paced around, hands on his hips, eyes roving everywhere as if searching for a solution in the trees and the sky.

“Volney,” Gerand said, tone firm, “there is no decision here. You do not stand before two paths needing to decide which to take. Go. Now!”

“Shut up, Gerand. I’m trying to think.”

Gerand shook his head in disgust and wandered back into the Hall of Three Moons. While it was daytime, gray cloud cover prevented the light from possessing any strength. The Hall felt like entering a room where someone lies sick and near death, a place where everyone holds their breath and fears to speak loudly for fear of disturbing the afflicted.

The wilted blossoms clung to his socks as he walked. He ran his hand through his dark hair, frustration burning off into acceptance. When he had learned of the Aughmerian invasion, he had waking dreams of victory and defeat. He either returned conqueror or died in the midst of some manly charge to rescue a beleaguered company or to break through impenetrable defenses. At the very least, he died with his boots on with a slew of enemies dead at his feet. Now he faced the most helpless, inglorious end he could imagine—starving to death alone and miles from home. In his socks.

Pushing these thoughts aside he tried to formulate some argument that would get Volney on the horse riding north. The appeal to duty had not worked, so he would try to seed a false hope inside his stubborn companion.

If I can convince Volney that escape is possible given time,
Gerand thought,
he may feel more comfortable leaving, even if in his heart he does not believe my words.

As he paced, arranging his thoughts into a persuasive argument, his eye caught Gen’s sword lying on the floor several feet away from where the Pontiff had trapped his countryman. Gerand stooped and grabbed it. It was an ordinary weapon, save for its blade upon which an eagle with spread wings had been engraved on both sides so faintly that only close inspection would reveal it. The bird’s demeanor was fierce, beak open and claws extended. Something about the design tickled Gerand’s memory.

He walked back to the opening where Gerand still paced around the patio. “Volney! I found Gen’s sword. There is an engraving on it that is familiar, but I can’t place it. Here. Take a look and then put it back in Gen’s scabbard.” Gerand put the sword on the ground and slid it through the ward. “When you’re done, throw me my boots. I’m rather tired of pulling blossoms off my socks.”

Gerand wasn’t sure that Volney heard his last request. He had retrieved the sword, and, after examining the blade, Volney’s jaw dropped and he sputtered parts of words before coherency returned.

“I . . . I cannot believe he has this! It’s unfathomable! The First Mother must have . . . but . . . I am unworthy to touch it!”

Volney dropped the sword as if it had cut him and backed away from it.

“What?” Gerand yelled loudly enough to break through Volney’s stupor.

Volney pointed at the sword. “That . . .
that
is the sword of Aldradan Mikmir! No one was supposed to touch it until his return! Oh! If anyone knew Gen had it, the First Mother would be in a great deal of trouble!”

“Incredible!” Gerand said. “The First Mother must truly admire Gen to give him such a prestigious gift. Pass it back through so I can get another look at it.”

“No!” Volney objected. “You have always nagged me about matters of propriety, and this, my friend, is far and away ten times as serious a matter as anything you have ever scolded me for.”

“So what are you going to do, just let it sit there and rust? At least return it to Gen if you won’t give it to me.”

“This blade does not rust.”

“That wasn’t my point. We just can’t leave it sitting there for anyone to pick up.”

“I’ve got to think.”

“Well,” Gerand said, “while you are thinking, pass my boots through. My waterskin would be nice, too. I might as well starve as slowly as possible.”

Volney retrieved the boots from the hedge and threw them toward the entrance. As they were passing through the opening, they stopped as if hitting an invisible wall, bouncing back onto the patio. He tried again with the same result.

“One moment,” Gerand said, fetching the Aughmerian blade he had intended to give to Gen. He repeated what he had done with Aldradan’s blade, but the soldier’s sword stopped abruptly just as the boots had.

“I’m sorry, Gerand,” Volney apologized at these failures. “I wish it hadn’t. . .”

“Volney, you idiot, pass me Aldradan’s sword.”

“What?”

“Pass . . . me . . . Mikmir’s . . . sword!”

Volney’s eyes widened. “Of course! The blade could do wondrous things in the stories. They say that Aldradan could not be kept from going anywhere he wanted. There was this battle at. . .”

“Pass me the sword!”

“Oh, right. Of course!” Volney sent the blade skidding across the stones and Gerand eagerly grabbed it, standing and holding it before him. He breathed in and walked forward slowly.

“Maybe you should get a run at it,” Volney suggested.

Gerand ignored him, maintaining a stately pace. As he approached the arched opening, he could feel the sickness coming, but just as he was about to despair, something pushed the discomfort out and away from him, the nauseous stirring in his stomach disappearing. Emboldened, he strode forward, crossing the threshold to join his friend on the patio.

“Amazing!” Gerand rejoiced, laughing for joy. “Gen had the power to leave this place the whole time and probably never knew it. Get the horse, and let’s get out of here.”

Volney whooped and set off toward the tree where their brown stallion munched on a tuft of grass. Gerand examined Gen while Volney fastened the saddle and saddlebags. Their swordmate was little better than a corpse, breath shallow and face slick with sweat. Gerand shook his head and buckled Aldradan’s sword about his own waist.

Volney approached with the horse. “I think we should just tie the sword to the horse and . . . Hey! Unbuckle that sword from your hip! You can’t use that! You’re insulting my entire nation!”

Gerand rolled his eyes. “Volney, there is propriety and then there is survival. Like my father told me, ‘When the enemy is at the gates, don’t put cushions in the catapults.’”

“What is that supposed to mean?

“Simply that you use your resources to their best advantage when there is danger about. This sword is the best weapon we have. To not use it under these circumstances would be folly.”

“All right,” Volney said. “But I’m the Rhugothian, so it would be more appropriate if I carried it, I think.”

Gerand shook his head. Volney just didn’t get it. “But the sword was given to Gen—who is my countryman—so it is only fitting that I carry it for him—until he is able to take it up again, of course. Besides—and no offense—I am the better swordsman.”

“Says who?”

During the ensuing argument, Gerand and Volney hoisted Gen over the horse and Gerand kept the sword. They left the deserted city, Gen draped awkwardly over the horse. Gerand was glad to be underway, thankful for a spark of hope after a morning of despair. The sun finally broke through the clouds as they crossed the bridge over Mora Lake.

“Eldaloth favors us today,” Gerand said, thankful for the light.

Volney nodded in agreement. “I think we’d better make a litter for Gen. He doesn’t appear too comfortable. You should try the sword on some branches, Gerand. They say it could cut through armor like . . . er . . . one of several comparisons not springing to mind.”

“Use
this
sword to chop at a tree? Talk about dishonoring Aldradan and
your
nation, Volney! Here we have the blade that cut down Goras the Dire, hewed two hundred Uyumaak necks at Aumat, and felled Kudat the giant. Aldradan lifted it high to gather his armies, with it tapped the shoulders of aspiring knights to elevate them to service, and set it upon his knees while dispensing King’s justice to rogues and fiends. Now you’d have me attack a pine tree with it? I can’t believe you would even suggest such a thing!”

The Chalaine rode, thoughts inward, as the forested terrain around her slid by. The sun had emerged the day after she broke her wrist, and while at first the sunshine inspired a general cheer, Maewen smothered the good feeling before it could fester into anything hopeful.

“They soak the ground the day before,” she said, “and now they let the sun shine so we will be more visible as we travel.”

As a consequence, the half-elf led them off the road and into the wild earlier than she had intended. While she did not know where the protection of Elde Luri Mora faded, she wanted to make the point of their departure from the road as unpredictable as possible. It was now midday the day after they turned off the road. The woods provided ample cover for them and any enemies that wanted to spy on them. No one talked save under the direst need.

The Chalaine thought of Gen constantly. Dason always flickered in and out of her peripheral vision now, and as good a man as he was, she needed Gen’s company. She missed his wisdom, his devotion, and his strength, but most of all she found herself longing for his irreverent sense of humor. His carefree smiles and conversation in the canyon had cast all her worries into objects of ridicule that she could manage or dismiss. With him gone, the shadows of her fears stretched long and wide across her heart.

And the biggest of those shadows is cast by Chertanne,
she thought, smiling wanly at the joke she knew Gen would make of such a statement.