The Sentinel Mage (52 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

T
HEY REACHED THE
site the girl had chosen in the late afternoon. “How far to the assassins?” Tomas asked.

“A couple of miles. Once we’re past that bend, they’ll be able to see us.”

Harkeld dismounted. He followed the direction of her pointing finger. The red cliffs bulged and curved gently northward. Beyond that bend were Fithian assassins.

The skin on his back tightened in a shiver.

They washed in the river and then sat down to a meal of stew. Harkeld ate, listening as the witches and Tomas discussed the next day’s strategy. “The assassins have a look-out,” Petrus said. “We’ll fly ahead and kill him.”

“Are you sure there’s only one look-out?” Tomas asked.

“Only one,” Petrus said. “Only one direction Prince Harkeld can come from.”

Tomas conceded this with a tilt of his chin.

Harkeld looked for the girl. She wasn’t seated at the fire with them. He glanced up at the sky. The hawk circling there had a russet breast. Ebril.

The fourth shapeshifter, Gerit, made no sign that he was listening. He sat cloaked in a cloud of anger, stabbing at the stew with his spoon.

You have fire magic. Use it!

The stew abruptly tasted like ashes in Harkeld’s mouth. He forced himself to swallow. The witch’s voice rang in his ears:
If you’d used your magic, you sniveling coward, he’d still be alive!

Harkeld put down his bowl. He pushed the witch’s voice out of his head and made himself focus on something else. “Where’s the girl?” he asked his armsman.

“Huh?” Justen said.

“The girl. Innis. Where is she?”

“Uh...I think she’s asleep. In one of the caves.” Justen pointed with his spoon.

Wind gusted up the canyon, setting the cliffs wailing. Sand grains stung Harkeld’s face.

“And after you’ve killed the look-out, what then?” Tomas asked, cupping a protective hand over his bowl.

“Then we have a choice,” Petrus said. “Either we try to kill the others immediately, or we wait until you’ve passed.”

“Why would you wait?”

“Because once we attack, the assassins will know Prince Harkeld’s here.”

“You think you won’t be able to kill them all?”

Petrus shook his head. “I doubt it. These men are professional killers. Magic can only help us so far.”

Harkeld studied the witch’s face.
Do you expect to die tomorrow?

“If you wait, you don’t think the assassins will notice us riding past?” Tomas’s voice was skeptical.

“With the look-out dead, no,” Petrus said. “Innis says the canyon mouth is a maze of rock. As long as you’re quiet, the Fithians won’t know you’re there.”

Tomas tugged at his lower lip. “I’d rather they’re all dead before we bring Harkeld through.”

“I don’t think we can do it. Not seven of them. If we had another dozen soldiers or a few more mages, we could attack them, hope to kill them all. As it is...” Petrus shrugged. “There are too few of us.”

Tomas acknowledged this with a grimace. “And once we’re out of the canyon? What then?”

“We make for the catacombs,” Cora said. “While the shapeshifters try to kill the rest of the Fithians.”

Harkeld scuffed the sand with the toe of his boot. He’d had confidence in Dareus, witch or not—the same confidence he had in King Magnas. He didn’t have that confidence in Cora. He glanced up at her, seeing a small, plain, middle-aged woman with her hair pulled back in a plait. She was utterly unremarkable.
I wish Dareus was still alive.

Tomas grunted. He ate another mouthful of stew. “And once we reach the catacombs? What then?”

“We go in,” Cora said. “If any assassins come after us, your task is to stop them following us inside. You have three archers left?”

Tomas looked alarmed. “Yes, but—”

“I’d take plenty of arrows, if I were you,” Petrus said. “Because if you run out, you’ll have to fight hand to hand.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry, prince. We’ll thin their numbers. Shouldn’t be more than one or two reach the catacombs.”

Tomas didn’t look reassured. He glanced at his men, as if silently counting them.

“Who goes in?” Justen asked.

“You and Prince Harkeld and me,” Cora said.

Harkeld looked at the faces surrounding the fire: Tomas, Justen, Cora, Gerit, Petrus. And six exhausted soldiers.
How many of us will be alive this time tomorrow?

Movement caught his eye. “Scorpion.”

Tomas stood. He crushed the creature with his boot and flicked it away. “And afterwards?” he asked, sitting again. “Once this anchor stone is destroyed. What do we do then?”

“We head for Ankeny and the second anchor stone,” Cora said. “On the old trading route. More mages will meet us in Stanic. You may choose to come with us or not.”

Tomas hesitated. He didn’t want to go with them—that was clear on his face—as was his reluctance to say so aloud.

Then I’ll say it.
“Go back to Lundegaard,” Harkeld said. His voice came out rougher than he’d intended.

For a moment Tomas met his eyes—and then his gaze slid away. He nodded.

Harkeld looked down at his bowl. He’d lost more than Tomas’s friendship in that moment in the gorge; he’d lost the home King Magnas had offered him. He could never go back to Lundegaard. Not now he was proven a witch.

T
HE WITCHES,
G
ERIT
and Petrus, changed into hawks and flapped up to the caves, ropes gripped in their talons. Back in human shape, they hauled up blankets and waterskins and weapons—and finally men.

“You don’t have to share with me,” Harkeld said, as he and Justen waited for their turn. Above them, the sky began shading from pale blue to gray. “I’ll be perfectly safe on my own.”

Justen knelt on the sand, tying blankets to the end of a rope. At his back was the walled-up entrance of a tomb. “I’m your armsman, sire.”

“Yes, but if you’d prefer to sleep on your own tonight—”

“Why? Because you’re a mage?” Justen glanced up at him. “I don’t care whether you’re a mage or not, sire. You’re the one who cares.” He tightened the knot and looked up at Petrus crouching in a cave several yards above their heads. “Ready!”

The blankets jerked into the air and began bouncing their way upward.

“And besides,” Justen said, standing. “What if you roll over in your sleep? You could fall out.”

“I won’t fall out.”

“No. Because I’ll be blocking the opening.”

Harkeld studied his armsman’s face—the broad brow, the square jaw, the frank, open features.
Aren’t you afraid of me?

A scorpion scuttled across the sand towards them. “Ach.” Justen tossed it aside with the toe of his boot. “Wretched creatures. We must be near a nest.”

You should be afraid of me
, Harkeld told the armsman silently.
I am.

A rope slithered down the cliff face. It was knotted to assist climbing.

“Do you want to go first, sire, or shall I?”

T
HE CAVE WAS
cramped; they could only crouch, not stand. Harkeld removed his boots and baldric. “I apologize for striking you this morning. It was wrong of me. You were obeying your orders.”

Justen blinked. His expression was bemused, as if he’d forgotten the moment on the outcrop. Then he shrugged. “Forget it, sire.”

Harkeld silently spread a blanket on the rough sandstone. “Justen...I’d like it if you called me Harkeld.”

In the gloom of dusk he saw his armsman’s head jerk around. “Sire?”

“When we’re in private, you may call me Harkeld.”
Please.

Justen blinked. “Yes, sire—” He paused. “Yes, Harkeld.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

T
HE WHARF WAS
still busy, despite it being night. Jaumé worked his way through the crush until he was near the front. Here the crowd funneled into a line. He stood, waiting to move forward, the groat clenched in his hand. The ship’s hull loomed above him. The picture on its side—the dolphin riding a wave—was dimly visible,

“You got enough money, boy?” someone asked alongside him.

Jaumé glanced up to his right. He dimly saw a face. The speaker was taller than him, but unbearded. A youth. He nodded.

“It’s a whole silver groat,” another voice said on his left.

Jaumé turned his head. Standing there was another youth, with a faint, straggling beard. “I know.” He clutched the groat more tightly in his fist.

“I don’t think he’s got it, Peray,” the first youth said.

“He shouldn’t be in this line, then. Not if he doesn’t have a groat.”

“I have a groat,” Jaumé said.

The line shuffled forward, towards the armed guards and the gangplank and the flare of torchlight.

The youths kept pace with him. “Show us.”

Jaumé shook his head. He clenched his other hand around his fist and counted the people in front of him. Two families; ten people.

Someone took hold of his elbow.

Jaumé tried to wrench free. “No—” he started to say, but a knee buried itself in his stomach.

He doubled over, unable to breathe. Dimly, he heard a voice above his head. “Our brother’s feeling faint.” And then hands grabbed him and he was hauled out of the line.

The youths dragged him away from the torchlight and dropped him on the ground. Jaumé tried to draw a breath, tried to shout, but only a faint croak came from his lips.

A voice hissed in his ear. “Give us the groat!”

Jaumé clutched the coin with every ounce of his strength. His breath was coming back. He opened his mouth to scream—

A foot caught him in the belly. Pain flooded through him. He lost his breath again.

His fingers were prized open. He heard someone grunt, a sound of satisfaction. He heard someone say, “Got it!” He heard running footsteps.

He heard the miller’s voice in his ears:
It’s every man for himself.

J
AUMÉ LIMPED DOWN
the cobbled street. Ahead, a door swung open, spilling light and noise and the smell of food and ale into the street. He glimpsed a wooden sign above the doorway—a bunch of grapes—before the door swung shut. A tavern.

Jaumé halted, hugging his stomach. The door opened again. A man stumbled out. Lamplight was bright for an instant, the roar of voices loud, and then the door closed. All that was left was the smell of food and the man staggering down the street.

Memory of the miller’s wife filling a bowl with stew came—and memory of her voice raised in a shriek behind him as he ran. Jaumé hugged his stomach more tightly. Tears of despair welled in his eyes.

“Out of the way, boy.” Someone cuffed him aside and entered the tavern, letting out the roar, the lamplight, the smells, again.