The Warrior King: Book Three of the Seer King Trilogy (29 page)

“Don’t try to be clever, Shum á Cimabue. But I wish to thank you for treating me honorably as a captive, even though you didn’t provide me with a woman. I would have given you one.”

“Didn’t happen to have one around,” I said cheerfully. “Dreadfully sorry.”

“I’ll forgive you,” Bakr said. “But let me ask something: You talked about when peace comes. What will you do then?”

“I don’t expect to live that long,” I said, suddenly somber. “Come, man! Be foolhardy! Assume you do make it. What then?” I shook my head, no thought coming.

“Typical soldier,” Bakr said. “Whyn’t you cross the border, though Irisu alone knows what the borders will be like after the fighting stops, and I doubt if he’s certain.”

“What, and become a Negaret?”

“Of course,” he said. “Call yourself by another name, and no one in Jarrah will give a rat’s ass who you really are. Join my
lanx
for a year, maybe two, then I’ll stand you for a
lanx
of your own the next time we gather for a
riet.
Then you’ll be as free as I am, living your own life with no one to answer to but the gods and yourself in the mirror. Bring that wizard you’ve got as your woman if you want. She’s pretty and seems not to mind living like an animal. Eh? Is that not an attractive proposal?”

I thought of several responses, but my horse stamped impatiently.

Without a response, I saluted him and rode back to the column and on toward the Maisirians.

I was glad Cymea hadn’t heard the last part of his words, suspecting she’d rage at any fool thinking she’d do anything with anyone that wasn’t her idea.

Then I wondered at myself, even thinking about her.

• • •

The old road was choked with brush, and it took a bit of pushing to force our way to it. Then the rutted way was open, and we rode up it, in a column of twos, as it wound around rolling hills.

About three leagues inside the Maisirian lines, we stopped.

Cymea dismounted, drew figures, and sprinkled herbs. “They have watchers out,” she said when she finished, “but it’s as if they’re atop a hill, looking here and there, so far seeing nothing, I think, for I sensed no alarm. It’s interesting that so far the Maisirians haven’t done any of the great magic you told me they worked during the war.

“Maybe that
azaz
you told me about had the only real talent, or maybe he got rid of others who were equally gifted and used only hacks in his corps. But that’s only a theory.

“I think a real problem with their magic is they aren’t using local materials, but rather the herbs and such they brought from Maisir, so their spells aren’t as effective as they would be with matter more easily able to call to its own, plus they’re feeling a bit insecure in foreign lands. Great magic requires some arrogance, since you’re forcing your will on stubborn matter or even more stubborn people or demons.

“Also, maybe they’re doing it by rote, the way you told me their army usually does things.”

A horse nickered, and Cymea grimaced.

“I’m babbling, aren’t I? It’s because I’m scared.”

“Who isn’t?” I said. “Let’s go.”

She smiled wryly, and I had the sudden, odd urge to kiss her.

She looked at me for a moment, as if expecting something, then remounted, and I told the point men to go cross-country until we cut the new road.

When we did, we rode brazenly down it, with two outriders in front, lances held high with scraps of cloth tied to them, like banners. We looked like a company of Negaret or light cavalry returning from a scout, or so I hoped.

We were challenged once by sentries, and I shouted some gobbledygook in Maisirian. That must’ve been enough, for no one shot at us or sounded an alarm.

We rode deep into the valley’s center, our target a series of stables for remounts that looked, in the Seeing Bowl, lightly guarded.

Beyond the paddocks were tents, temporarily unoccupied as far as we could tell, and then the estate King Bairan had commandeered.

I was about to call for the trot, when the lead rider pulled up abruptly. If we hadn’t been riding in extended order, we would have banged into each other like a line of stones a child pushes over with a finger.

Sometime in the past few hours, after the last scout had withdrawn through the lines, somebody’d built a sawhorsed barricade of logs across the road and topped it with thorny branches.

Why this unexpected roadblock? Did it mean they knew we were coming and had set an ambush? If so, it was badly laid — they should have let us ride unknowing into the killing zone before springing the trap.

“Four men,” I ordered. “With ropes. Pull it away.”

The barricade was quickly dragged back. No arrows sang about my head, and we remounted and rode on.

I signaled for the trot, and our horses moved eagerly, seemingly as anxious to end the suspense as any man.

The paddock was just ahead, and, as ordered, my men took out the first of the two packs they carried inside their jackets, out of the weather.

Cymea had used spells of contagion and similarity. Three or four of my raiders knew how to whittle out whistles from wood, and so details had been sent to scour the banks of the nearby river for lengths of willow for them. Each of these whistles was given a spell by Cymea. Then the whistles were cut into bits, and each fragment had been given a third spell that afternoon, so the second spell was invoked when water touched them.

These bits were hurled into the paddock, into the mire beneath the horses’ hooves, and as they struck they began whistling, but not the cheery whistle they should’ve made, but a shrill dissonance, like the warning of ravens, but louder, harsher.

The horses reared in fear, pawed at the air, and pulled away from their picket lines. The shrilling grew louder, and the animals panicked, and ropes broke, and the horses stampeded wildly. This I hated doing, for sometimes I think I love horses better than men. But I threw my pouch with the others.

We went into the gallop, toward the tents, and again I shouted an order, and the second packs, these fire-twigs, were thrown.

“Kutulu! Take command!” I called, heard him shout acknowledgment, and I pulled out of the formation with my four, and we rode hard down the tent row, away from the clamor and madness as my raiders cut a swath through the Maisirians. The enemy was a bit more watchful than before but still seemed fuddled that we’d dared to invade the heart of their camp. Only two men ran in front of us, and they went down as we passed.

Ahead was the grand estate of King Bairan, and we galloped toward it. The estate was surrounded by stone walls, as white as the buildings within. We slid out of our saddles, grabbed our kit, and clapped our horses on the withers. They nickered reluctance, were struck again, and this time they trotted away.

Two hundred yards on either side of us, around curvings of the wall, were the main gates, and I heard the shouting of sentries as the guard was reinforced.

“Go,” I ordered, and Cymea and Curti ran back into the maze of tents. I thought — perhaps hoped — she took time for a glance back before she vanished.

I used Svalbard’s cupped hand as a ladder to get to the top of the wall. There was no glass or embedded knives — Urey had been a fairly peaceful land before the wolves came. I braced, gave Yonge a hand up. He eeled over and dropped to the ground. Svalbard braced a boot on the wall, came up with me, and we went over into the estate.

I took a moment to establish the manor’s layout in my mind. On either side of me was the long main entrance road, a C-shaped curve from gate to gate whose midpoint was in front of the main building. Ahead was the still-uncut wheat that stretched for a third of a league, then what I thought were wells, then the topiary garden in front of the mansion. To my left, east, were fruit trees and then vineyards. To the right, or west, were more wheat fields and then stables, with outbuildings to the side. There were long barracks for workers to the rear of the main building, then orchards and more fields until the rear wall of the grounds.

The sounds of battle were dying away as my raiders fell back through the lines.

Yonge crouched a few feet away, blackness against lesser dark. I came up beside him and scribed a question mark in the air.

“They’ve plowed the field around the wall,” he whispered. “Maybe for planting, maybe to show footsteps. You lead; I’ll clean the track.”

I obeyed, moving slowly, crouched, toward the wheat field. Svalbard stepped where I did, Yonge to the rear in a duckwalk, smoothing our footsteps in the turned earth.

Half a dozen times we froze as riders holding lanterns high galloped into the estate, no doubt reporting on the raid. Then we reached the wheat, and Yonge took the lead, showing us how to move quickly through the rows, bending back the shoots we’d touched, zigging so our track toward the mansion wouldn’t be obvious to anyone looking down, either from a tree, rooftop, or magically.

We had to move quickly, before the dew came, for we’d then draw a most obvious line as we shook the moisture off the plants.

I hoped to be in position, across the fields and hiding somewhere in the garden, waiting King Bairan’s arrival, within two hours.

We’d made it two-thirds of the way through the field when disaster came.

I hadn’t dared sending Cymea’s magic over the area for two days.

In that time, they’d begun to cut the wheat.

Now there was several hundred yards of open land, the scythed plants no more than knee high, between us and the gloom-ridden garden before the main building.

But it wasn’t so gloomy that I couldn’t see sentries pacing back and forth outside the garden.

I considered cutting through the wheat toward the entrance road and chancing a shot from there when Bairan came. But it would be too far a shot to chance, and Bairan would be in a carriage. All that would happen is we’d be killed without accomplishing anything.

Yonge and Svalbard waited, perhaps expecting I’d abort. Instead, I went to my knees, and began crawling, moving slowly, but ever aware of the swiftly passing night.

It was agonizing after a dozen yards, muscles not used to this strange exercise, hands bruised by the stubble, deadly after that. We crawled on, and I became aware the night was ebbing and the world was gray.

I crawled on, Yonge and Svalbard behind me, but now on my belly, moving one knee and hand up, then the other, then the first, over and over.

Overcast dawn came, and the wind whipped cold. I was soaked from the sodden ground and wanted to rest, but knew I mustn’t.

My hand moved out, and something hissed.

I became stone, turned my head, and stared at the small green serpent. It was no more than a forearm in length, but I knew it for the deadly viper it was. Its tongue flickered in and out, perhaps in alarm, or perhaps that was its way of sensing its surroundings. There was no movement to my rear, and I was grateful for Yonge and Svalbard, who’d learned years ago to never question a patrol leader’s movements, no matter how strange.

The snake’s mouth opened farther, and its fangs gleamed white, but I never moved or breathed.

The serpent slid forward, across my arm, and my nerves screamed as it slipped down my side, then turned, and coiled away through the remains of the wheat.

My breath came out with a gasp, and I’d not realized I’d been holding it for what, an instant, a month, a year?

Very suddenly I was shaking, and then the shaking was gone and I was calm again.

I crawled on toward the garden.

Where was King Bairan? Surely he must’ve been told of the latest raid and was riding toward the valley, unless my pinpricks had become familiar and he no longer bothered to consult or rail at his generals.

I didn’t know, and there wasn’t anything I could do but crawl on.

We heard voices, sharp commands in Maisirian, other, lower tones I couldn’t make out. I didn’t know what was happening but pressed close to the ground, motionless.

I heard footsteps, looked up to the side, and saw two Maisirian soldiers, not ten feet distant, looming high like giants. They were chattering away about the night’s raid and how one of them had almost gotten a clear chance at one of those bandits, had fired anyway, and perhaps he’d struck one, although he’d heard there were only one or two enemy casualties.

“They’re like fucking ghosts,” his companion said. “I don’t think they’re out there in front of us at all. I think they’re hiding in secret caves here in the valley, and all our magic is looking in the wrong direction.”

“Surely, caves,” the other scorned. “That’s why I see you volunteering for patrols outside the line every day, out where they aren’t, where it’s safe.”

“I said that’s what I
think,”
the other growled. “And I’m no more a fool of a volunteer than you are.”

“It isn’t right for the king’s own guards to get themselves killed on some shitty little patrol,” the other agreed, but they’d passed on, and I could hear no more.

The other voices grew closer, and now I could tell they were speaking in the Ureyan dialect. They were close, very close, and then a bare foot came down on my hand. I looked up, almost came to my feet, staring into the shocked eyes of a boy no more than ten or eleven. He wore ragged clothes, a crudely cut canvas jacket against the chill, and held a scythe. He was one of the workers harvesting the wheat, guarded by the Maisirians.

My other hand slid to my dagger. I could have come up like the serpent who’d almost struck me, brought the boy down, and killed him without a murmur, without a struggle. Then we could have either pulled out or gone on, hoping his corpse wouldn’t be found for a few hours.

But I didn’t. I stared deep into his eyes, wished I had the powers of a wizard, and murmured, “We fight for Numantia.” I hoped he’d discount the uniforms we wore.

He showed no sign of understanding.

“Go. Don’t report us. Please. We are Numantian soldiers on a secret mission.”

Again, nothing, then he edged around me, always facing me, waiting for death. I knew he was going to run, going to start screaming, but he didn’t. He backed away a few steps, then turned and walked on.