North Star Guide Me Home (19 page)

‘None, I’m afraid, madame. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

Delphine had already seen her students, clustered together under a corner of a pavilion in an attempt to get out of the rain. They watched the distant red light and the answering flickers in the surrounding hills, but as Delphine drew near they turned to her, grim faced.

She ought to say something stirring, something to fire them up … but it felt like a lie, and she was afraid it would show in her face and voice. In terms of mage-craft, they were no different than green young boys who’d first laid hands on a wooden sword only weeks ago. The men out there would crush them.

No,
she told herself,
don’t think that. They’re survivors, every one of them.

She cleared her throat, just as the baby squirmed within her, and she laid a hand on her belly as though to calm it.

‘All of you are fighters,’ she said. ‘You volunteered for this duty because you have the strength to see it through. You haven’t come this far to lay down in surrender now. But those of you who are new to the craft, don’t engage with the enemy mages. Concentrate on the soldiers, do what you can to cut them down. You may be untrained, but you are not weak and you are not powerless, and even Sierra herself was once as scared and uncertain as you are now. Just remember your lessons — keep a calm head about you, and keep in mind that even the newest mage has the upper hand when facing a soldier with as much power as a clod of dirt.

‘The rest of you, my old hands, those who’ve faced mages in battle before, think of this … while a bull might trample a lone wolf, a pack of wolves can take him down. They think you are weak, but their arrogance makes them weaker. Find a way to exploit it, and you will prevail.’

Just as she finished, there came another flare of red light — no, not just a flare, a spear, a pillar of it, a vast bolt shooting up from the earth, lighting up the clouds and transforming the night into a storm of blood and flame.

‘What in the Fires Below is that?’ one of her students blurted out.

For a moment Delphine couldn’t talk. Terror had stolen her voice. She was no warrior, no Battle-Mage. She was just an academic, weary, pregnant and cut off from the ones who had been her strength and reassurance since she’d turned her back on the nation of her birth.

After a moment, however, her scholar’s instincts reasserted themselves.
What in blazes are they doing?
the analytical part of her mind wondered.
Do they want us to know exactly where they are and what kind of numbers they can field?

It didn’t make any sense. The Akharians had no reason to believe they’d been discovered. Rouldin’s scouts hadn’t yet reported back. They should be trying to take the camp by surprise.

No, there was something else going on out there. Something had gone wrong.

Delphine heard footsteps behind her and turned to find Rouldin returning with an entourage of officers and advisors. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘can you tell me what in the Black Sun’s name that was?’

‘I … I think something’s gone wrong. For them, I mean. This doesn’t make any sense, they wouldn’t go wasting power and giving away their position, unless …’

‘Unless what? They’re under attack? From who?’

Where in the hells is Isidro?
Delphine thought. No, it couldn’t be him. As much as she loved him … he just wasn’t all there. She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

At Rouldin’s side, a young man called Larken was staring out at the distant hillsides. Delphine knew him well. He was one of her more adept students, with the makings of a fine mage. ‘It … it’s Blood Magic, sir. I can smell it. It’s faint, but I’d know it anywhere. When Lord Rasten freed my slave-train, I smelled it for hours before he struck.’

‘Really? It can’t be him, he’s miles to the east. But if their attention is elsewhere, we’d best strike while the iron is hot. Madame Delphine, is there anything else you can tell me?’

They called him
Lord
Rasten, bestowing the title with a certain hush of awe. She pushed that thought aside and shook her head. ‘No. Larken will be more use to you if he can sense the tainted power at this distance. Keep him close, commander.’

‘Very well. Your orders remain as stated, madame.’ With a nod, Rouldin strode away. Delphine wasn’t fool enough to think herself a military mind, but she’d spent long enough with Cam and Isidro to know it made sense to strike while the enemy was distracted. However, it meant riding into a storm of power and destruction she couldn’t explain and that turned her cold just to think of it.

And what if Isidro is at the centre of it?
Before, she’d been terrified to think of him wandering through the camp, lost, alone and confused. But what if she was wrong? What if he truly was out there, in the heart of that storm?

Delphine wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

‘Sirri?’ Cam ducked his head through the door just as Sierra was pulling on her boots. ‘Any word?’

‘Nothing yet,’ she said. He grimaced in reply, then stepped aside to let a pair of attendants duck through, the young lads bowing their heads.

‘Our escort’s ready to ride,’ Cam said, watching the boys hastily roll up their bedding. ‘We should reach the camp by mid-morning.’

‘Any sign of the legion?’

‘None. They won’t be back. Whether or not this gamble pays out, their part of it is done.’

Sierra nodded. ‘I’ll be right out,’ she said.

She wrapped her coat of oiled wool around her and gathering up her hair, tucked it under the hood. She had to conserve power in case Rasten called for it — she couldn’t afford to waste it keeping off the chill of the wet and windy night.

Her heart felt in low spirits as she bound the coat tight around her, and once again she tried to reach for Isidro. Nothing. What if she never felt him again?
Just keep trying. It’s all you can do.

She stepped out into the rain with the two attendants on her heels, loaded down with gear. The lads skirted around her at a run to deliver their loads to the packhorses. Sierra felt very old as she watched them, though she was no more than a handful of years their elder.

She found herself thinking back to when she’d been warm and dry with a man’s arms around her, lost in the softness and the scent of his skin.

See?
she said to herself.
Nothing good ever lasts. Seize it while you can.

His ears were ringing. The night was quiet, now, but his head was full of noise, the shrieks of dying men caught in an endless echo inside his skull.

Bright streaks marred his vision, as though he’d been staring at the sun. He kept shaking his head to clear it, even though he knew it wouldn’t help. He couldn’t stop himself.

The battle was over, though some pockets of skirmishing still raged in the hills around him.

He didn’t comprehend everything that had happened. A lot of it was simply beyond his understanding of mage-craft. When the Akharian commanders turned their mages on the enemy behind their lines, he’d surrendered control to Rasten and simply watched a storm of wrath and destruction. When he closed his eyes he could still see it in flashes — bright blood, yellow bone, flames everywhere, choking black smoke and an assault of noise.

The Akharians must have thought that Sierra or Rasten had somehow returned to the main camp undetected. And then, when the camp’s forces struck, the Slavers called a retreat in chaos and utter confusion. But the Ricalanis had no mind to let them get away so easily and harried their every step.

He felt very strange; impossibly weary, and yet at the same time full of buzzing energy. The tainted power had seeped into every pore and crevice of his body, as though he’d been dunked in a vat of rancid grease.

Isidro wasn’t sure he was going the right way. The rain had slackened off, but thick cloud hid the moon and stars. And so he just wandered, slogging through the churned and bloody mud littered with the dead and dying.

There was a scatter of lights across the slope, and for want of any better target, Isidro trudged towards them.

In the torchlight, Isidro made out a loose line of people sweeping across the field, cutting the throats of the wounded who still lived. As Isidro drew near, one of them straightened with a cry of alarm. At once, a dozen eyes were on him, and spears swung his way. ‘Who goes there?’ a voice called — either a woman or a young lad, over the ringing in his ears Isidro couldn’t tell.

‘Friend,’ he said in Ricalani, holding out his hand to show he was unarmed. He came closer, and one gasped, noticing his vacant right sleeve. ‘Are you wounded? Fires Below, get him back to the camp —’

‘No,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘No, I’m not wounded. I don’t need help.’

The effort of talking made his face hurt — the whole left side of it felt stiff and unwieldy, and those few words were enough to make his cheek throb and sting. He ignored it, but as he came into the light, he saw that his clothing was soaked in blood, and covered with clods that he hoped was mud. Thankfully, in this light it was hard to tell one way or another.

The ragged party watched him in wide-eyed silence. Isidro supposed he couldn’t blame them. ‘I got turned around,’ he said. ‘Which way back to camp?’

The one with the torch pointed behind her. ‘Head along this valley. You’ll see the lights a mile or so back. Sir? Are you sure you don’t need no help?’

She’d called him sir. She had to at least suspect who he was. The thought made him feel strangely unsettled.

But no use worrying about it now. A mile, she’d said. He hadn’t realised the Akharians were so close. ‘No,’ he said, ‘just make sure none of these dogs will trouble us again.’

The lass with the torch saluted. ‘Yessir.’

As he passed her by, one of the squad squatted down to pull off the boots of a soldier with his head half-struck from his body. Come first light, the camp would descend to scavenge the dead. He’d take first pick, too, in their place.

He left them behind, following the curve of the valley as more rain began to fall.

His mind was still clear. He couldn’t recall being lucid for so long, not since Kell was killed. What did it mean? He was too weary to make sense of it, and too sickened by the tainted power to consider the matter too closely.

Rasten had gone silent. Isidro could feel him there still, watching, but his shields were up, and he’d withdrawn as much as possible while keeping a toehold in Isidro’s mind. Another strange thing — Isidro didn’t mind his presence, when once it would have sent him into a spiral of rage.

As he left the carnage, slogging through the squelching mud, Isidro kept thinking back to the things he’d seen, the things he’d done. It seemed like sophistry to claim it was Rasten’s doing. Isidro had struck the spark, it would never have happened without his instigation. And this carnage would be in his own camp otherwise …

He hadn’t gone far when he felt a shifting weight inside his skull, as though a door had swung open.

Issey?
a small voice said.
Can you hear me?

He stopped where he was, feet cold within his sodden boots. He should have guessed the old barrier had broken down. What had happened here tonight was an echo of the ritual that had awoken his talent. He felt as though a storm had raged through his mind, shaping it into a new landscape. The barricade had been swept away.
Hello, Sirri.

Is the attack still coming?

It’s over,
he said.
They’re in retreat, with our soldiers pushing them back. I doubt they’ll regroup, but I suppose it comes down to what they fear more — failing their mission, or facing another round of carnage.

I suppose so,
Sierra replied.
Well, Cam and I are heading back as swiftly as we can. We ought to be there by mid-morning. If they do try another round, I hope we’ll be close enough to make a difference.

Mid-morning? What … what time is it now?

A little after midnight, I think.

Past midnight? It felt like only an hour or so since he’d left the camp in the last of the sunlight.

When he said nothing, Sierra went on.
What happened? Why can I reach you now? You’re making more sense than you have in a long time, and I’m cursed glad for it.

I can’t explain it. Ask Rasten, he understands it better than I do.

I can’t, he’s shut me out. He only spoke to me to pass on word, and now I can’t reach him — I just found you instead. How … how are you?

I don’t know,
he said again.
Sirri, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what I am anymore.

It’ll be alright,
she said.
You’re getting better, getting stronger. That’s what matters. Anything else, we can deal with it.

He looked down. It was too dark to make out the bloodstains, but he could smell the way it seeped into the cloth, could feel the peculiar stiffness of it, despite the effort of the rain to wash the filth away.

She didn’t know what he was, or she didn’t care. He couldn’t be certain which — he only knew she wasn’t the same girl he’d held in Demon’s Spire. The things she’d survived since then had tempered her, like steel in a blacksmith’s forge, leaving her hard, cold and vicious. If she’d been here, she’d have slaughtered the Akharians without a second thought, a moment of hesitation.

I need to get back to camp,
he said at last.
Delphine must be worried.

Yes, alright. Call for me if you need anything. I have power —

I don’t need it. I have plenty.

Perhaps that’s why you’re thinking clearly … but now that the barrier’s gone I can send you some whenever you need it, at least until you’ve healed.

Healed? Sirri, I lost the cursed arm weeks ago. It’s all scarred over —

It’s not the arm, it’s the blood you lost. Rasten said it’d take time to recover. By the Black Sun, I wish he’d answer me … but I suspect that the power you’ve taken in is filling in the gaps, as it were.

Really? Well, I suppose we can test the theory now … alright, Sirri. I’ll see you in the morning.

Fare well, Isidro.

She broke the contact, and he was alone in the chill mud. The solitude came as something of a relief.

It seemed the sentries had been told to watch for him, for once he came close enough to be recognised they greeted him by name and he noted a runner pelting away through the throngs of people.

He’d gone only a little way when his back prickled, the sigil seared beneath his skin suddenly flaring with heat. Isidro slowly turned on his heel to find Delphine watching him. Her eyes were wide as she looked him over, and she started towards him, boots skidding over the slick ground.

At first she reached for him with arms outstretched, but rather than let her embrace him and cover herself in gore, Isidro took a half-step back, raising his hand to ward her off.

She came to a skidding halt, hurt clear on her face. But then, someone hurried past with a flickering lantern and under the stronger light there was no mistaking the blood and gore clinging to his clothes.

Delphine raised a hand to her mouth. ‘By all the Gods,’ she said. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘I’m not. None of it’s mine.’

She tried to keep her gaze on his face, but it kept tracking down to the filth crusting his jacket.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘for making you worry.’

A peculiar expression crossed her face, fear mingled with anger. She took a step forward, fists bunched, but the sight of his scorched and bloody clothing and his blistered and bloody face seemed to ward her away. ‘Good Goddess preserve us,’ she said. ‘Isidro, what have you done?’

Sierra ran a hand over her tangled hair as she looked over the rain-washed camp. ‘Looks promising,’ she said to Cam.

He made a happy grunt, gazing down at the motley collection of tents. It was one thing to hear that the attack had been thwarted, but another to see the camp whole, even as ragged and shabby as it was.

Already, a small party was hurrying out to meet them. She glanced at Cam, and found his eyes already tracking the horses. ‘Let’s head down,’ Cam said.

The riders met them before they crested the next rise, led by one of Rouldin’s young officers, a lad who kept tripping over his tongue in his haste to report. Cam was more patient with the fellow than Sierra could have managed, listening carefully and gesturing him to silence instead of breaking into his rattling spiel. ‘What are the Akharians doing?’

‘Milling around to the west, sir. The scouts say they’re in disarray.’

‘I see. What word on casualties?’

‘A few score wounded, sir, with a handful dead. For the enemy, Commander Rouldin reports something in the order of two thousand, sir, although our warriors can’t account for more than half.’

‘Half?’

‘Yessir, at best. The rest of them … well, your brother did for the rest of them, sir, as near as we can tell.’

Cam straightened with a toss of his head. ‘Half?’ he said again. ‘A thousand men, truly?’ He sent a glance to Sierra. Cam knew she could handle such a number, but Isidro … they’d left him little more than a shell.

‘I suppose Rasten could deal with so many, nearly as easily as you could,’ Cam said.

‘Mm. And Issey had help from that quarter, don’t forget.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh, I won’t. Believe me.’ He turned back to the young officer. ‘What has he said about what happened?’

‘Lord Isidro, sir? I … I’m afraid he hasn’t spoken to anybody. Madame Delphine said he was to be left alone.’

‘Alright,’ Cam said. ‘I’ll see him and Delphine first. Tell Rouldin I’ll speak to him shortly.’

Folk came out to meet them, greeting Cam and Sierra with shouts and ragged cheers. They’d probably had no more sleep than she, Sierra thought.

A runner had alerted Delphine to their arrival, and she was waiting outside the commander’s tent when they drew near. She started forward before they’d even reined in, and her brief smile of welcome swiftly faded, leaving her face haggard and grim.

‘Delphi,’ Cam said, slipping an arm around her shoulders. ‘How did you fare?’

‘Oh, I’m well enough. I expect you know the soldiers never came near the camp.’

‘So I heard. But how’s Issey? I was told …’ He started towards the tent, but Delphine caught his arm. ‘He’s not in there.’

Delphine led them to the rear of the tent, where fuel was stacked and meals cooked, with a small picket for horses.

The area was deserted, except for a dark-haired figure near the cook-fire, perched on the tongue of a wagon with his legs stretched out towards the flames.

Cam strode ahead when he realised where Delphine was taking them. ‘Issey?’ he called, and the figure straightened and stood, moving more swiftly and surely than Sierra had seen in an age.

The left side of Isidro’s face was a mask of old blood and dirt. It was hard to see just how badly he was wounded under the filthy crust, but Sierra made out a splash of fresh blood across his cheekbone, and a scattering of blisters over his eye. His clothes were little better — shredded and charred where they weren’t matted with blood. Even at this distance Sierra could smell the reek of scorched wool and leather, together with the scent of old gore.

The look he gave them both was wide-eyed, but then he let his face go impassive, like a man after a judgement, resigned to his fate.

Cam strode across to him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Sierra hung back as he steered his brother away from them, their heads close. For a moment they spoke — or rather, Cam did, for Isidro made only the briefest answers to whatever Cam was saying, his voice pitched too low for her to hear.

Then Cam pulled back, beckoning Sierra with a nod of his head.

At that gesture, her stomach clenched. She wanted to refuse, to retreat. This wasn’t the shell of a man they’d left behind. This was something else.

Power was clinging to him like cobwebs. It was odd to feel it so clearly. The last time she’d been so aware of another’s power was the morning Rasten had waited for her at the mouth of Demon’s Spire.

Sierra started towards him as Cam stepped back. ‘Look, I have to find out what’s happening out there, but I’ll be back, alright?’

Isidro nodded, and with a duck of his head Cam strode back the way they’d come. After a moment’s hesitation, Delphine went after him, one hand pressed to the small of her back.