The Sentinel Mage (16 page)

“Please tell me this is the pass,” Justen said.

It was. They followed the wolf across the dome of rock. The mist retreated slightly and the rain eased until only a light drizzle fell.

The pass narrowed to a valley. A pool of water lay in a dip almost at its centre. They halted to eat, to let the horses drink. Gerit ate with them, not bothering to hide his nakedness with a blanket.

“I like Lundegaard already,” Justen said, chewing on a strip of dried beef.

“We’re not there yet, boy,” Gerit said.

“How much further?”

Gerit shrugged. “An hour.” He changed into a wolf, shook himself, and departed at a lope. Another wolf emerged from the billowing mist, a large male. The ruff of fur at its throat was pale, almost silvery.

“No sign of soldiers?” Cora asked once the wolf had shifted. It was the blond witch, Petrus.

Petrus shook his head. “Can’t see any. It’s practically impossible to smell anything.” He reached for a handful of dried beef and froze as a wolf hurtled towards them out of the mist. Not Gerit; it was younger, leaner, a russet tint to its coat.

The wolf changed into Ebril. “Soldiers!” he cried. “Ten of them. Coming down the ridge.”

They scrambled to their feet. “How far—?” But already Harkeld could see shapes running through the mist.

Justen stepped in front of him, thrusting him back, his sword drawn. “Sire! Mount!”

Harkeld hesitated.
Run away?

Soldiers burst out of the mist a hundred yards distant. Seven swordsmen, three archers. His father’s men, wearing the scarlet and gold of Osgaard. One of them uttered a shout. It echoed oddly, muffled by the mist.

“Ebril, get him out of here,” Dareus snapped. “Go!”

Ebril shifted. The wolf stood in his place.

“Mount!” Justen yelled at him.

Harkeld swung up into the saddle. The blond witch was gone. In his place was a lion. It uttered a roar and charged at the soldiers.

Ebril began to run. Harkeld dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and followed. He snatched a backwards glance as they plunged into the mist. It was like a scene from a dream—indistinct, twisting out of clarity. He saw Dareus point at a soldier, saw flames burst into life on the man’s tunic. He saw the lion leap at an archer, bringing him down. He saw Justen engage with a swordsman, heard the fierce
clang
of sword against sword, saw a second soldier rush at him, sword upraised.

They’ll kill him.

Harkeld hauled on the reins, forcing the horse to turn. He drew his sword as he careened out of the mist, charging towards Justen, his mouth open, a shout in his throat.

An arrow sprouted from his horse’s head.

The animal collapsed as if its legs had been cut from under it. Harkeld tumbled to the ground. His sword spun away across the slick rock. He rolled, scrambling to hands and knees. A soldier loomed above him, sword upraised—

A large wolf barreled into the soldier, knocking him sideways. Behind them, an archer’s bow burst into flames.

Harkeld scrambled after his sword. He saw a blur of movement to his right—the archer had thrown aside his burning bow and drawn a dagger.

The hours of drilling took over. He rolled, his legs tangling with the archer’s, bringing him down. The man grunted as he hit the ground. The dagger skittered across the stone.

They grappled, struggling for dominance.

His eyes caught a flash of movement: Justen blocking a blow from one sword, twisting to fend off the second swordsman—

Harkeld smashed his forehead into the archer’s face. Bone crunched as the man’s nose broke. He gritted his teeth and did it again. Blood gushed across his face. The archer went limp.

He pushed the man off him, his eyes on his sword, and went sprawling as his boots slipped on the slick rock.

“Get up!” Dareus hauled him to his feet with one hand. The other he pointed at one of the swordsmen attacking Justen, his fingers outstretched and rigid. Flames burned at each fingertip.

Harkeld felt fire ignite inside him. It ran along his bones and burst out of his skin. The sensation lasted for a searing second, and was abruptly gone.

The soldier screamed as his clothes began to burn. He dropped the sword.

Harkeld wrenched free of Dareus’s grip. “What the—”

“I told you to go!” Dareus said fiercely, pointing at the second swordsman. As he spoke, Justen swung his sword. The blade buried itself in the man’s neck. A killing blow.

Harkeld bent and snatched up his own sword. He stepped past Dareus, taking in the fray with a glance. The silver-maned lion lay on the ground. Cora crouched beside it. He saw blood on its pale flank, an arrow jutting from its hip. Five soldiers were running—three of them naked apart from their boots—a wolf snapping at their heels. Four men lay unmoving on the ground. Another wolf hung from the arm of the last soldier standing. The man beat at the animal with his free hand, screaming.

Harkeld lowered the sword. He pushed back his sleeve, expecting to see singed hairs, singed skin. Nothing. His arm was fine, as if he hadn’t felt the lick of flame, hadn’t felt fire
inside
him.

He glanced up again. The last soldier was following the others at a staggering run.

The wolf that had been hanging off the man’s arm changed into Gerit. He spat and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood. He glared at Harkeld from beneath bushy eyebrows. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

Harkeld flushed, clenching his jaw. He knew Gerit was right. “I’m not used to running away.”

“Get used to it,” Gerit said, scowling at him. He hurried across to the lion, where Dareus now crouched beside Cora.

I
NNIS LOOKED AT
the blood on her sword blade. Bile rose in her throat.
I killed a man.

Someone strode towards her. “Are you all right?”

It was Prince Harkeld.

Remember you’re Justen.
Innis attempted a smile. “I’m fine.” She couldn’t bring herself to look at the man she’d killed. His legs were at the edge her vision. She focused on the prince. “You have blood on your face.”

“So do you. “

Innis scrubbed her cheek with her sleeve. Her hand was trembling, her arm, her whole body.
I killed someone. I have his blood on my face.
She tasted bile on her tongue and swallowed.
Behave like a man
, she told herself fiercely. Justen wouldn’t fall to pieces; he’d take it in his stride. He’d be practical and pragmatic.

She turned to the soldier she’d killed and wiped the sword blade on his tunic. Practical. Pragmatic.

The smell of the man’s blood filled her nose.

When she straightened, her head swam for a moment. Innis gritted her teeth and stopped herself from swaying, stopped herself from vomiting. She frowned at the prince. “What are you doing here?”

“You were outnumbered,” he said. “I thought they were going to kill you.”

Innis sheathed the sword. It took two tries, her hands were trembling so much. “You shouldn’t have come back, sire—” She focused on what was happening behind the prince: Dareus, Cora, and Gerit crouched beside something on the ground. “Is someone hurt?”

“The lion.”

“Petrus?” Her nausea vanished abruptly. She pushed past the prince and ran across to the others.

Petrus was no longer a lion. He lay naked on the ground, his face twisted in a grimace. Cora held a bloodstained cloth to his ribs.

Innis reached for him. “Let me—”

Dareus gripped her arm. “He’s fine. We’ve stopped the bleeding.” His voice held a warning. His gaze went past her to the prince.

The snapped-off shaft of an arrow lay on the ground. “The arrowhead?”

“In his hip. We’ll leave it for now.” Dareus released her arm. “Tonight Innis can heal him. Right now, we need to get into Lundegaard.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T
HE MARRIAGE CEREMONY
was performed in the Silver Hall, a room of white marble, cold silver, and glittering mirrors. Armsmen stood around the walls, their uniforms bold slashes of color.

The princess wore white and gold, the duke the scarlet and gold of Osgaard’s army, with his plumed commander’s helmet on his graying black hair. Karel glanced at the man once—the smug smile on his fleshy mouth, the bright, greedy eyes—and looked away.

The last royal marriage had been Prince Jaegar’s, to a cowed little princess from Roubos. That ceremony had been held in the throne room, but the throne room still bore the marks of the witches’ attack six days ago.

Prince Jaegar’s annulment had been conducted with less fanfare, when the little princess proved unable to conceive. She’d been lucky to be barren; Osgaard’s queens tended to be short-lived,

Karel’s gaze settled on King Esger. Four dead wives.
How many of those deaths were at your hand?
Queen Sigren’s, without doubt. Queen Agneta’s—for the sin of producing one daughter and then five still-born babes—most likely. Smothered in her sleep, if the tales he’d heard in the armsmen’s hall were to be believed, while her daughter, Brigitta, slept in the next chamber.

Outside, the bell began to toll the hour. Karel counted the strokes: six.

The last echoes of the bell faded and the ceremony began. As the highest ranking male in the princess’s family, the king spoke the words binding her to Duke Rikard. His voice rang flatly in the Silver Hall, echoing off the marble ceiling. A score of nobles were present, those whose blood-ties to either Princess Brigitta or the duke earned them places as witnesses.

Karel’s gaze slid from King Esger to Prince Jaegar to Duke Rikard. Men of the same stamp, with the same brutal nature. Men of the same family, once this ceremony was over.

His hand flexed, clenched around his sword hilt, released.

Prince Jaegar stood at the king’s right hand, as an heir should. A smile gleamed in his pale eyes, as if he enjoyed the prospect of his half-sister marrying the duke.

Your mother was likely killed
, Karel told him silently.
Do you know that? Murdered in her sickbed, according to armsmen’s gossip.

Would the prince care, if he knew? Probably not. He’d have regarded his mother, Queen Hedrun, as a weak, complaining invalid, a hindrance, and disposed of her as Esger had done. He was his father’s child: ambitious, cruel. In him the Rutersvard blood had bred truest.

King Esger’s voice droned on. Karel studied him. The king’s frame was heavy with flesh, the bones of his face hidden beneath a layer of fat, but there was nothing soft about him, nothing yielding. The slabs of fat looked as solid as muscle.

A ruthless man. A man who’d killed three of his wives. Only Harkeld’s mother, Queen Elena, had died naturally, in childbirth, taking a second son with her.

Where were Prince Harkeld and the witches now?

Come back, with fire and lion-men
, Karel pleaded silently.
Save her
.

But no commotion stirred the air, no gouts of fire, no beasts-that-were-men. King Esger finished reading the statement uniting the pair in marriage. He began listing the princess’s dowry.

The bride and groom faced each other, their hands clasped, while the king read down the list. Princess Brigitta’s face was bloodless. The muscles in her throat moved convulsively.

Karel watched her intently. Was she going to faint? Vomit? Have hysterics?
Do something
, he begged.
Stop this.
But even as he thought the words, he knew she couldn’t. Not if she wished to live.

The king’s voice droned on, listing the assets Princess Brigitta brought into the marriage. “And in her own right, my daughter shall retain the properties gifted her by her mother.” With those words, the ceremony concluded.

I
N THE
B
ANQUET
Hall, its marble ceiling painted with gold leaf, the nobles of the palace waited. A cheer rose up as the bridal couple entered.