Suath rose and walked into the woods, leaving behind his thoughts of the town and the dark-haired whore. His quarry had three days head start, but he had a horse. If he hurried, he might catch them before they reached the border.
The vial would be in his hands soon.
Chapter Eighteen
The rough land of low scrub through which they rode from Tasgarad became new-growth forest littered with brush, slowing their progress. A fire had ravaged this area many years before, leaving blackened stumps and logs scattered throughout-burnt-out skeletons laid to rest beside their replacements. Khirro supposed there were roads through the woods, but they avoided them. The only people traversing them would be soldiers or merchants escorted by soldiers and nothing good would come of any encounter.
Khirro coaxed his horse forward to ride beside Ghaul.
“Why did you do that?” He kept his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.
“Do what?”
“Kill that man in Tasgarad. He was a soldier of the king.”
“Use your head, Khirro,” Ghaul said making no attempt to conceal his words from anyone. “Forget what he may have done to Elyea, what would have happened had he alerted the guards? What would they think of us carrying the blood of the king toward the Vendarian border? Do you forget we’re hunted men?”
Khirro neither answered Ghaul’s question nor met his angry look. Killing came too easily to this man for Khirro’s liking, but it may be exactly this which would keep him alive.
There must have been another solution.
Ahead, Elyea and Athryn’s mounts leaped over a fallen tree. A moment later, Khirro’s did the same, nearly unseating him.
“They wouldn’t have known I carry the king’s blood,” he said, blushing after his rough landing.
“True, but a vial of blood in your pocket, no matter whose, would have raised questions we couldn’t answer. When soldiers don’t get answers, they employ crueler means to get what they want, and you are the worst kind of liar: a bad one.”
“Ghaul’s right. It’s far better one drunken lout dies than our mission be discovered.” Elyea slowed her horse to join them and poked a finger at Ghaul’s shoulder. “Though I could have taken care of myself.”
Ghaul harrumphed. “Of course you could, m’lady. I forgot we ride with the warrior harlot of Inehsul.”
“I’ve kept myself safe from worse threats than him-or you.” Her tone remained playful but Khirro saw the pride burning in her eyes.
“That sounds like a challenge.” Ghaul raised an eyebrow as he guided his horse past a thorny bramble brimming with over-ripe blackberries. He plucked one from the tangle and popped it into his mouth.
“No, simply a fact.”
“And would you have taken care of yourself in the same manner when first Khirro and I came upon you?”
“I’d have handled them without problem had two fools throwing stones not interrupted.”
“Such gratitude.” Ghaul smiled, teeth purple with berry juice.
“I need the aid of no man.”
She urged her horse forward, rejoining the magician and his brother, ending the conversation.
“Women,” Ghaul mock whispered, intending for Elyea to hear. “What are we to do with them?”
She ignored him.
They pushed on for several more hours with little more conversation before Athryn called a halt. Khirro glanced at the sun dipping toward the horizon and judged that an hour remained until sunset.
“The border is a few leagues from here.” Athryn lowered Maes from their horse, then slid from the saddle. “We will rest a while.”
They unsaddled and fed the horses before settling to partake of the food purchased in Tasgarad. The pork tasted tough and bitter to Khirro’s tongue, but it would do as well as anything to return his strength. As he ate, he watched Athryn cut bite-sized pieces and hand them to Maes who accepted them with a nod. They seemed so different from the men performing in Inehsul, more real than the larger-than-life figures commanding the stage under that sweltering tent. As he watched the tenderness with which they shared their meal, questions came to his mind. He swallowed a mouthful of salt pork and asked the first.
“How did you know we’d be in that lane?”
Athryn looked up from cutting a chunk of hard cheese for Maes, his flesh-colored cloth mask inscrutable. His blue-gray eyes held Khirro’s gaze for a moment before he answered.
“Does it matter?”
Khirro shrugged. “I guess not. It’s just… I don’t understand how this all works.”
“It is not to be understood, Khirro. Accept it is and be glad it works for you, not against you.”
“But it’s not all working for me. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for sorcery.”
Khirro thought of the undead thing standing over him, threatening to end his life and a shudder ran down his spine. He’d let a detail of this journey slip from his mind: the only practitioner of magic capable of animating those dead soldiers and the man they needed to raise Braymon were one and the same.
“What do you know of Darestat?”
“The most powerful sorcerer there is. The only man who can raise the king. Why do you ask?”
“I saw strange things at the Isthmus Fortress.”
“‘Strange things’ is an understatement in my estimation,” Ghaul said through a mouthful of bread. “Your words could only be deemed accurate if you consider walking dead men a ‘strange thing’.”
Khirro nodded. He didn’t want to dredge up these memories, but he needed answers.
“It’s as Ghaul said: dead men fought alongside the living Kanosee. Walking corpses with flesh hanging from their bones and the stink of rot on them. One of them killed Braymon. And Bale.” His voice sank to a whisper. “And nearly me.”
“Ugly bastards,” Ghaul commented as he sliced a bite of cheese.
“How many, Khirro?”
“I don’t know. I saw only a handful, but the Kanosee army numbered in the tens of thousands.”
“One is too many, if my opinion is wanted.” Ghaul wiped his knife on his breeches and replaced it in his boot.
“Darestat does not meddle in the trivialities of men. He has never lent his hand to sway a war.”
“If this Necromancer doesn’t meddle in man’s affairs, why do we risk our lives to take the blood of the king to him?” Ghaul’s eyes narrowed. “He won’t help us, especially if he sides with the Kanosee.”
“There is a difference between raising the dead and animating a corpse.” Athryn shook his head. “He will aid us, but not for the sake of the kingdom or Braymon. He will do it because Bale was his student once.”
“The Shaman is dead,” Khirro said. The pit of his stomach twisted and writhed, upset by salt pork and dread. “How will he know Bale sent us?”
“He will know.”
Maes wandered to a nearby tree and dropped his breeches to relieve himself-scars even blemished his buttocks. Khirro looked away from the little man to the magician, his eyes diverted in deep thought, and noticed for the first time how frustrating it could be when a man’s face is hidden. Elyea sat beside Khirro and rested her hand on his forearm.
“Everything will be okay,” she said. He tried to smile a thanks to her for the reassurance, but concern waylaid his intent.
“Tell me more of these undead soldiers,” Athryn said returning from his thoughts.
“There’s no more to tell. I spent my time defending myself or fleeing.” His eyes flickered to Elyea, but he saw none of the judgment in her expression he might have seen from someone else. “They were decomposed, but not skeletons. And fierce fighters.”