Wings of Wrath (25 page)

“More fighting today?” The sentry asked. The guard shook his head, then winced and put a hand up to his face, as if trying to hold back the pain. “What, then? Took a fall?”

The guard grunted and nodded. “Cursed scree,” he muttered hoarsely. Then he bent over coughing, disappearing behind the bulk of the horse. When he stood up again, the sentry could see a trickle of blood coming from his mouth.

“Best see the chirurgeon right away,” the sentry said, and waved him on in.

With a curt nod, the injured guard and his horse limped into the courtyard. After a moment of looking around, he located the stables and led the animal in that direction. A young boy in a well-worn tunic ran out to greet him as he unlatched his supply pack from the saddle and slung it over his shoulder. The same for his weapons. The boy waited patiently until he was done, then wordlessly took hold of the horse's reins and began to lead the animal gently away, clucking reassurances to it as they went.

They would find the rock wedged into its shoe soon enough, Kamala thought. Hopefully it would look like an accident.

Positioning the heavy pack so that it would shield her face from view, she studied the courtyard for a moment and then, having gotten her bearings, headed toward the shadows behind the barracks.

Rhys' cell was dark and damp and barely three paces across in either direction. Not that he was likely to be pacing any time soon. A heavy iron cuff on his ankle secured him to a chain that was fixed to the back wall of his prison, with just enough room to allow him to lie down on a moldy straw mattress or to occasionally piss in the metal pot they had provided. Even so, the turnkey who pushed his food and water through the slot in the door, just far enough for him to reach it, did so with obvious unease. Evidently he thought that Rhys was dangerous.

It could have been worse. They'd chained his arms behind his back when the chirurgeon came to examine him, which had made the man's inspection of his shoulder exquisitely painful. Two burly guards had pinned him down for the examination itself, as if they were afraid that even in his weakened state he might overwhelm them. But at least the poisons in the shoulder wound had been drawn out and a poultice applied, and the same had been done to the deep puncture in his thigh. They might hate him here and they might fear his strength, but for whatever reason, they clearly wanted to keep him alive.

At least for now.

Exhausted by the day's events, he lay back upon the dank mattress and wished he could fall asleep. He knew that he would need all his strength for whatever came next, so he shut his eyes and did his best to relax, despite the throbbing of his wounds. And maybe he even did sleep, on and off. Maybe, in the dim twilight of his cell—lit only by a few weak beams of lamplight that squeezed through the barred window in the door—he passed in and out of sleep without realizing it. Certainly nightmares could hardly be worse than his current prospects.

What in the name of the gods had happened here?

For a thousand years now, the Guardians had served the Protectorates. A thousand years of training to fight an unseen enemy, of searching high and low for every scrap of ancient lore that might help prepare them for battle, a thousand years of willingness to brave the most fearsome curse known to mankind if the gods required it of them. Ten centuries of utter dedication by men and women who answered to no greater politics, served no foreign purpose, acknowledged no distraction. Their neutrality was sacrosanct, their honor was legendary, and, as a result, there was no place in the Protectorates where they were not welcome.

Until now.

There are no gods,
the Master of the Guard had told him.
You serve a lie.

What could make such a man abandon his faith and turn him against his own kind?

Show me the cause,
Rhys prayed to his gods.
Teach me how to address it, that the Guardians may remain strong, and we can serve you as you intended
.

With a sign he shut his eyes, exchanging one pain-filled darkness for another.

The new prisoner made Kato nervous.

He shouldn't have. He'd been a turnkey for ten years now, first in the keep of a southern lordling with a penchant for imprisoning his political enemies, now here in the Citadel. The job was much the same. Keep the doors locked. Make sure the prisoners were fed enough food to keep them alive, if not to keep them comfortable. Call for help if anything unexpected happened.

But.

You weren't supposed to put Guardians in prison. He knew that.

You also weren't supposed to question a Master of the Guard. Not in public, not in private, not even in the darkest recesses of your own head. Ever.

So when those two rules came into conflict, what were you supposed to do?

Don't think about it,
he told himself, as he made his rounds, peering into the grated slot in each door, checking to be sure each prisoner was present and alive. The latter mattered more with some than with others.
Just do your job
. In truth the place was nearly empty, despite its impressive capacity. Prisoners didn't last long this close to the Wrath—a mind already weakened by confinement and fear couldn't stand up to that malevolent power for very long—so anyone of real value to Master Anukyat was generally sent south for safer keeping. Maybe that would happen to this Guardian, eventually. Maybe he'd be gone soon, and Kato would not have to worry about him anymore.

With a sigh he settled down onto the rough-hewn bench he had placed opposite the Guardian's cell and poured himself a cup of warm ale from a ewer on the table beside him. Anukyat's Citadel was located at the farthest reaches of the Wrath's power, which meant that a sane and healthy man could get through a day well enough, but Kato didn't envy the soldiers who had guard duty farther north. Sometimes he thought he heard them screaming in their sleep. Or maybe that was himself he heard screaming, in the grips of his own Wrath-born nightmares. Either way, this was a cursed region for sure. If you asked him (not that anyone ever did), the ancient Alkali warriors who had abandoned the Citadel in the first place had had the right idea.

On the other hand, working in the shadow of the world's most fearsome curse meant you were paid generously, which did a lot to compensate for the nightmares. Or so Kato told himself.

Sighing heavily, he took a long, deep drink of his ale. He was so lost in his own reflections that he almost didn't notice the footfall on the stairs.

Almost.

He put his cup down and looked up at his visitor, half expecting to see some messenger from Master Anukyat, or perhaps the man himself. No doubt he would want to look in on his newest charge, Kato thought. Make sure he was alive and all that.

But it wasn't Anukyat, or his messenger. In fact, it wasn't a man at all.

She was tall and barefoot and dressed in nothing but a man's linen shirt, open down the front. Her legs were impossibly long and the hem of the shirt, falling to her upper thighs, seemed barely enough to cover her. Where the neck gaped wide on one side the inner curve of a breast was visible, its ruddy tip teasing the eye through the thin white fabric. And her hair! It was a bright red, the color of fire, and wild in its style, as though she had only just rolled out of someone's bed.

He tried not to stare at her, but failed miserably. He did manage to shut his mouth after a moment, but that only left him speechless.

“You are Kato?” the apparition asked him.

Dumbly, he nodded.

She smiled and began to walk toward him. The sight of her breasts swaying beneath the thin fabric made all the blood rush to his groin, leaving his brain high and dry.

“Someone upstairs said your job was tense and you would appreciate a little . . . relief. Is that true?”

“Who—who said that?” he stammered.

She took a step closer to him, and put one hand against his chest. He could smell her closeness as her index finger traced a line down his doublet, down to the ties of his codpiece. She pulled at the end of one tie until it released, then slid her hand inside the garment. “Now that's a secret. Let's just say you don't owe me anything for this—it's all been taken care of.” She stroked the swollen length of him, up and down, an agonizing rhythm. “Someone must like you a lot,” she whispered, closing her hand about his balls. The pleasure of it was too much to bear; he closed his eyes and moaned as he reached out for her—

The hand inside his codpiece suddenly grabbed his flesh and twisted it. Gasping, he tried to push her away from him, but then she brought up her knee into him, hard. Pain exploded in his groin, and from there spread in waves to every inch of his flesh. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Impossible to control his body. He doubled over with a cry—

—and the ewer came down upon the back of his head. Once. Twice. Blinded by pain, he could not protect himself. The third blow finally deprived him of consciousness, which seemed a mercy; he lay still, crumpled in a heap at her feet, his hands still clasped about his wounded pride.

She looked down at him for a moment, prodded him with her bare foot once to make sure he was really unconscious, and then set the ewer aside. A quick glance about the chamber revealed where his keys were hanging, on a large brass ring by the fireplace. She went to fetch them, peering into each prison cell as she passed. When she came to Rhys' her eyes lingered just long enough to meet his own, then turned away.

Rhys had witnessed enough of Kato's seduction through the small window in his cell's door to catch the gist of what had happened, if not all the fine details. Holding his breath, he waited to see what she would do next. Clearly she meant to free someone here, and if that someone was not him, then he was ready to bargain with her.

But it was to his cell that she returned, and after throwing the bolt open, she entered the gloomy space.

“Rhys nas Kierdwyn, I assume?”

He tried to stand in a dignified manner, despite his shackles. “I am. And you are—”

“For now, a friend.” She came over to where he stood and knelt down by his feet. One after one she tried the keys on her ring in the locks of his shackles. “We can make proper introductions later.”

After three tries she found the one that fit the lock; the iron ring on one ankle fell open. The same key worked on its mate and he was free at last.

“Now bring him in here.” She nodded toward the sleeping turnkey.

Rhys' leg wound throbbed as he hurried to collect the body, but he was pleased to see that the leg still supported him. The wound in his shoulder was not doing as well, and when he tried to lift the turnkey up he discovered that his arm wasn't strong enough for such action yet; he had to settle for dragging the heavy body back into the cell where she was waiting for him.

She knelt by the side of the body and, in a methodical and efficient manner, stripped it of all its clothing. The body beneath was dirty and rank, with an ugly bruise already rising on its groin. The woman ripped the hem of the man's shirt, tearing several long strips of fabric from it. When she began to tie the man up with them, Rhys crouched down by her side and helped. Soon they had the naked man trussed up like a pig for feast, with a gag in his mouth that would muffle any cries he tried to make. When that was done, the woman shackled him in Rhys' place, then threw the threadbare blanket that Rhys had been given over him. In the darkness of the cell, one would have to look closely to see that anything was amiss.

“Wait here,” she said, and she left the cell. He waited. A moment later she came back with a bundle of clothing in her arms, and handed him the top half of it. A uniform, with several armored pieces wrapped in fabric.