The old man turned. He looked to be over sixty winters old, white haired but not stoop- shouldered, and by his build, he had been a strong man in his youth. "Lord Vahanian. I guess I should thank you. Without your warning, we wouldn't have stood a chance." "I'm sorry I was right." Jonmarc looked down. "And I'm sorry about your loss." The elder nodded. "Aye. It cuts deeply."
"I think I know where the rogue vayash moru have taken shelter from the day. If they're in their day crypt, they're vulnerable. We could punish the ones who did this."
The elder drew a deep breath and looked past Jonmarc at the rising sun. "I saw that Lord Gabriel was here-and I know they helped drive off the biters that attacked us."
"Gabriel and Laisren are angry about what Malesh is doing. They're bloodsworn to stop him-as is Lady Riqua. But they can't move against Malesh by day. We can."
The elder still looked to the sunrise. "No one has hunted vayash moru by day in these lands for many, many years. We have honored the Truce."
"Honorable vayash moru still respect the Truce. Malesh is a bad seed. He's betrayed his own kind. There's still a chance to stop this before it becomes a war. If this goes on, and King Staden has to get involved-"
The elder nodded, and turned to meet Jonmarc's gaze. "Yes, I know. The price will be high. Too high. We will go with you. May the Dark Lady forgive us."
Later that night, Jonmarc's dreams gave him little sleep. The years faded, and once again, he was in Eastmark. He was tied to the back of a wagon, his wrists chained and his ankles hobbled with ropes. The soldiers hadn't bothered to give him a shirt or cloak when they pulled him from General Alcion's brig. He was shivering with cold, which only made the pain worse. Alcion hadn't been content with forcing him to watch while the men under Jonmarc's command were hanged for refusing the order to burn down a village that could not afford to pay its taxes.
It wasn't enough that the hangmen deliberately made the nooses short, so that his soldiers twisted and convulsed while they gasped for air. Nor was it sufficient to force him at sword's point to watch as Alcion's troops made bayonet practice with their dying bodies. Alcion and his blood mage, Foor Arontala, wanted to make an example of the captain who dared defy them. He had been beaten, whipped, and branded. Arontala had made sure Jonmarc was denied the solace of unconsciousness or shock until Alcion was through with him. Arontala, the same Fireclan mage who had sent magicked beasts to his own village two years before, the beasts that had killed his wife.
When the soldiers dragged him from his cell, Jonmarc expected to see a stake in the courtyard. Death by fire was Alcion's preferred mode of execution for ranking officers who disappointed him. But Alcion's plans were larger. Jonmarc lifted his head defiantly to look at the man on horseback who sat at a safe distance, watching the preparations. Alcion's long black hair framed a face dark as night. That alone told of his pure Eastmark blood. The intricate tattooed markings on his left cheek made it clear that he was also of royal blood. Third in line for the throne, Jonmarc knew, behind King Radomar's oldest son, Kalcen. Lately, Jonmarc had begun to wonder whether Alcion and Arontala had other plans for the succession. Whatever their plans, Jonmarc knew he wouldn't live to worry about it. Two of the soldiers dragged Jonmarc from the wagon. He stumbled and fell, hobbled by the ropes. He heard the whistle of a sword's blade and tensed, expecting to die. Instead, the blade sliced through the rope binding his ankles, and cut painfully into his left calf. "On your feet," the soldier commanded, dragging Jonmarc to stand.
The other soldier pushed the crossbow against Jonmarc's back. "We have a little surprise planned for you-and your friends."
Yesterday, the soldiers had herded all of the villagers into a barn before the executions began. Women, children, old and young. Now, soldiers pitched hay around the barn. More
dragged branches from the woodpile. Behind them stood their captain, a man in the uniform Jonmarc had worn until just a few weeks before. Next to him were three barrels. Jonmarc had no doubt about the barrels' contents. Oil.
"Nice night for a bonfire," the soldier who held the crossbow against Jonmarc's back murmured. "You chose these villagers over your oath as a soldier. Now, you can die with them."
Soldiers opened the barn door far enough to push Jonmarc through. Inside, Jonmarc saw Sahila, one of the village elders. Sahila met his eyes, and Jonmarc saw that Sahila understood. They were going to burn.
The soldiers kept their crossbows trained on the barn doorway until the massive doors were shut and barred. Jonmarc looked to Sahila. "Any other ways out of here?" "Nothing they haven't sealed."
Inside the barn, the only light came in slivers between the old siding planks. Night was falling, and soon even that would be gone. Dust floated in the air, making it difficult to breathe. Dust that would make the barn burn that much faster, once the flames came. Jonmarc looked around, desperate for inspiration. He spied a large iron ring in the floor. "What's down there?" "Grain bins and root cellars." "How many?" "Not enough."
"Get everyone you can below ground," Jonmarc said. "Those bins could become an oven." "Up here, we don't stand a chance."
Sahila nodded. Jonmarc watched him disappear into the throng. He walked the perimeter as quickly as his painfully bruised muscles would allow, but Sahila was correct. All the doors were sealed. And even if they found an opening, soldiers on the other side would shoot them down before they could get far.
Smoke was beginning to waft through the small gaps between the boards of the barn walls. Outside, flames began to lick at the old boards, lighting the inside of the barn with eerie, dancing shadows. Jonmarc turned, and was startled to see Sahila advancing toward him with an axe. "Hold still." "Like hell." "You want to die chained like an animal? Put your wrists on that beam, and close your eyes."
Jonmarc flinched as the heavy axe whistled through the air and clanged against his chains, severing them. He looked around. Sahila had gotten at most a third of the villagers into the bins, but the rest huddled in frightened groups. Outside, the flames burned higher. "Is there anything else below the barn? Even a dung pit is better than being in here when those rafters start falling."
Sahila thought for a moment. "Come with me." Slinging the axe over his shoulder, he led Jonmarc to a place in the center of the hard-packed dirt floor. He flung his axe, and it landed on its blade in the dirt, but it seemed to Jonmarc that the floor beneath their feet shook, just a bit. "Here. Dig here." Sahila motioned for several nearby men to join them. Jonmarc gritted his teeth against the pain as he grabbed a shovel and began to dig. A hand's depth beneath the dirt, they hit wood.
It was growing warmer inside the barn. Jonmarc eyed the rising flames. They were running out of time.
Hacking with their tools and kicking with their combined strength, the men worked until the old wood splintered. Moist, cold air rose out of the darkness. "Caves. They run all through this area. Can't barely plant a field without someone falling into one. No idea what's down there or where it goes. Just remembered my father showing me where they'd closed over one when they built the barn." "Anywhere's better than here. Let's get them inside."
The cave mouth was narrow, allowing only one person at a time to enter. One by one, the villagers descended, as the flames spread up the walls and to the barn roof. By the time the last of the villagers was down, bits of burning wood were falling around them. "Get in," Jonmarc said to Sahila. "What about you?" "I'll come. Just get in."
The roof creaked ominously as Sahila shimmied down into the cave. "Hurry." Jonmarc needed no urging. He jumped into the hole, banging from side to side as he fell, as overhead, the roof gave way. A shower of sparks and a hail of burning wood followed him down the shaft, burning into his back. The heat took his breath away. He landed hard, and his leg folded painfully under him.