Captain's Fury

Chapter 43



Tavi had been unable to sense anything of Ibrus's emotions as the man spoke with Ehren. That was hardly unusual. His own watercrafting senses were still somewhat clumsy, certainly in comparison to those of a real watercrafter, like his mother. But all the same, something about their situation had made him uneasy, and when his mother had confronted Ibrus, he was more than willing to back her.



Then Araris had moved, his sword screaming from its sheath and drawing blood from a man who had kept a windcrafted veil wrapped around himself even as he slipped up closer to their group-specifically, toward Tavi.



Tavi drew his sword, but even as he did, he felt a surge of power shiver through the ground beneath him, and then the head of an all-metal war maul smashed through the nearest wall as if it had been made of beeswax. The whole wall came down, all at once under a wave of earthcrafted power, spreading out from the opening created by the blow of the hammer.



Tavi hardly registered what was happening before Araris slammed into his chest, sending him reeling back from the falling stone. The singulare cried out as hundreds of pounds of rock fell on him.



Tavi got to his feet just as Ehren sprinted by him. He felt a thrum of tension in the air behind him, and turned just in time to meet a descending blade with his own. Steel rang on steel, and Tavi found himself facing Phrygiar Navaris.



The woman's face was peeling, the skin red, and healing from what must have been blisters-but her eyes were still just as cold, and her sword moved in a shining blur as she instantly recovered from the parried blow and sent another attack snaking toward him.



Tavi had no time to think about defenses or lessons. Pure instinct guided his arm as he blocked a deadly combination, barely sliding out of the last attack, a cut that turned into a thrust that came slithering toward his belly. Seemingly of its own accord, his hand lashed out as Navaris leaned into the thrust, and his fist struck her in the mouth. She whipped her head aside at the last second, and the blow landed with little force-but her eyes burned with a sudden cold fury.



Tavi found himself forced back on his heels as blow after blow rained down on him. What counterattacks he could manage were weak, and Navaris slapped them aside almost contemptuously. Tavi's heart pounded in terror. He barely caught blow after blow, turning them aside by the barest of margins. Twice, Navariss sword actually struck his mail shirt, severing rings and sending them bouncing to the ground with sharp, tinkling sounds, and if he escaped with his flesh unbroken, it seemed little more than a stroke of inordinate fortune.



Navaris howled, and her blade blurred even faster. Tavi suddenly became aware that he had fallen out of the smooth rhythm that he had instinctively grasped and used to defend himself, that Navariss sword had begun to move more evasively, that he was losing track of its motion.



At last, he was slow to recover from a particularly strong parry, and Navariss eyes blazed as she struck his blade aside, leaving him wide open as her sword descended for a killing stroke.



"Aleran!" Kitai cried. He saw her sword tumble by, spinning, thrown with the inordinate strength of an earthcrafter. It missed Navaris by three feet-



�C and smashed into the room's sole furylamp.



The room plunged into darkness.



Tavi dropped straight down, and felt Navariss sword pass through the air where he'd just been standing.



Navaris cursed, and he felt her slow down, trying to locate him, to feel where his sword was. Struggling went on in the darkness. Someone was thrashing around. A man shouted, and he heard the heavy thud of exchanged blows, flesh on flesh. Then Navaris hissed, and Tavi felt her sword coming at him, a disc of cold, deadly steel inscribed on his mind by the course of her blade.



The force behind the blow was terrible, both physically and in the weight of furycraft behind it, infusing the steel with all the strength of her mad will. Tavi would have to meet that strength with his own, or Navariss sword would shatter Tavi's-and Tavi would find himself shattered shortly after.



He spun, putting his strength and weight behind his blade, swinging in a stroke that would meet Navaris's squarely, furiously focused on his own sword.



The blades met. Steel chimed on steel, a note that was high and pure and piercing. A blinding shower of sparks erupted from the meeting blades, and Tavi saw a frozen image of the room: Navaris, her teeth clenched in hate. Kitai, bleeding from a split lip, struggling with an armored man for possession of a sword. Isana, kneeling, her expression colder and more terrible than he would have believed possible, a hand extended toward a man who thrashed on the ground, his face completely covered by a blob of dirty water.



Then the darkness returned, and Tavi moved a few steps to one side before freezing again. He clenched his teeth in frustration. The others needed his help, but he didn't dare move toward them. The sound would have told Navaris precisely where he stood, and if he didn't have every bit of his attention focused on her, he'd never be able to defeat her attack.



Again, Navaris's sword came at him, and again, he met it with his own. In the flash of contact, he saw the other armored man flying back through the air and Varg standing over Kitai, his arms extended. Ehren lay unmoving on the floor. Araris's body was arched up in effort, or in pain, as he struggled to free his legs from the rubble.



Tavi took two steps back and froze again, mentally cursing, as he desperately sought Navaris's next attack.



He was utterly unprepared when an enormous hand landed on his shoulder, and only the sudden rusty-musty scent of the Cane's fur prevented him from turning and thrusting in sheer panic.



"Aleran," Varg growled. "It is over. Come with me."



"Go," Tavi whispered.



Varg kept his paw-hand on Tavi's shoulder, roughly directing him. Tavi had to put his trust in the Cane's guidance. If he felt his way along with tentative steps, Navaris could close the distance and kill him-but without someone to guide her own feet, she wouldn't dare rush after him blind. So Tavi broke into a run and trusted Varg to guide his steps.



They emerged into the comparative brightness of the outdoors, and Kitai was coming hard behind them, weaponless, carrying Ehren slung over one of her shoulders.



Tavi took the lead, taking them around the corner of the house, where they would be out of sight of the house's entrance.



"Ehren," Tavi breathed.



Kitai put him down carefully, supporting his mostly limp weight. The little Cursor sucked in his breath as if through a tiny reed, a strangled rattle accompanying it. There were bruises on his throat that were already darkening, and it was entirely possible his windpipe had been crushed. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, while his chest labored to bring in enough air.



"What do we do?" Kitai asked.



"He needs a watercrafter," Tavi said.



Yarg knelt down in front of Ehren and peered at his throat. Then he growled, "Give me a quill."



"What?"Tavi asked.



Kitai slung her pack off and reached into it. She opened the pack and produced a writing quill.



Yarg took it, and with a quick motion of his claws snipped the quill about two inches from its end. He held it up to the light and squinted at it.



Then he reached down with a single claw and ripped open Ehren's throat.



Tavi cried out, reaching for Varg's wrist. The Cane growled, and said, "There is no time for this."



Tavi stared at Varg for a moment, then leaned back on his heels, and nodded once.



Varg leaned down and thrust a claw into the open wound. Then, his motions delicate in one so large, he thrust the quill into the cut.



Ehren shuddered and drew in a sudden, deep breath. It hissed through the hollow quill, and then hissed again as he exhaled. His breathing slowed and steadied. He blinked his eyes several times, focusing slowly.



"It is dirty," Varg rumbled. "But there was no time to clean it before he would have died. Perhaps your sorceries can cleanse the wound, later." He took Ehren's hand and lifted his fingers to the protruding end of the quill. "Hold this in. If it comes out, you die."



Ehren, pain in his expression, stared up at the Cane and nodded.



"We must go back for them," Kitai whispered.



Tavi held up his hand and whispered back. "We've only got one sword among us, and they have hostages. If we go in again, they'll use Araris and Isana against us. Assuming they don't kill them out of hand."



Kitai bared her teeth in a silent snarl of frustration.



Tavi chewed on his lip, thinking furiously. Then he nodded and looked at Varg. "Ibrus said he had horses. They must be close. Take these two and find them."



"You can't go back alone," Kitai hissed.



Tavi met her eyes, and said, "We aren't going to be able to take them back by force. And whatever happens, we'll need the horses-who won't let Varg handle them. Ehren can't do it either. So go. Now."



Kitai scowled furiously at him, but then she rose and offered Ehren a hand up. Varg lifted his head, sniffed the air for a few seconds, and started off at a shambling lope. Kitai, staying close to Ehren, followed the Cane.



Tavi took off his belt, bent over at the waist, and wriggled out of his mail shirt, letting it fall to the ground. Though it would have provided him some protection in the event of a fight, it also would make noise when he moved. For the moment, stealth was at a premium.



He buckled his sword belt on again and stalked through the darkness back to Ibrus's house, creeping forward until he crouched beneath one of the broken windows outside of the entry hall. There were two small furylamps inside, casting a dim red-orange glow.



"Steadholder," Navaris murmured, as Tavi approached. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill both of you. Right here. Right now."



Tavi's stomach got a sick, sinking feeling. He put his hand on his sword. If it came to that, he would attack them before he stood by and let them kill his mother and his friend.



"Did you hear me, Steadholder?" Navaris said. "This isn't a rhetorical question. If there is some reason I should leave you alive, you should tell me."



Tavi drew the blade perhaps two inches from its sheath.



"I suppose that depends," Isana responded. Her voice was steady, confident.



Tavi froze again.



"Upon what?" Navaris asked.



"How loyal you are to the Senator."



Silence.



"I know who he serves," Isana continued. "Invidia Aquitaine is, in fact, my patron, too. I doubt she'll thank Arnos for interfering in my work. I shudder to think of her reaction should he actually eliminate me."



More silence.



"I spent nearly a year campaigning for the abolition of slavery for Lady Aquitaine and the Dianic League," Isana replied. "And the last six months I've been visiting members of the League raising funds and supplies for the refugee camps. The wives of every Count, Lord, and High Lord from here to Riva have met with me, given me money-and know I was coming to the Elinarch. Are you sure he's willing to be implicated in my death?"



"You're lying," the cutter said.



"Can you afford to assume that?" Isana's tone turned frank. "Do you want to make that decision for him, Navaris?"



Tavi felt his mouth stretch into a grin.



"And the singulare?" Navaris asked. "Why should I spare him?"



"Scipio is his friend," Isana replied. "Dead, he's of no further use to you. Alive, he's a hostage."



"Dead, he's of no further threat to me, either," Navaris murmured.



"I can't argue with that," Isana said. "I'd be afraid of him, too. Particularly if I was you."



Navaris's voice turned very quiet. "Particularly?"



"Yes. It must be difficult for you in some ways. After all, you've won more duels than Araris Valerian ever fought. You've certainly killed many more armed foes than he ever did. Yet I should think that you've lived your whole life in his shadow. He has such a name, after all. No matter how many times you prove it, he'll still be the best in everyone's mind." She let that sink in for a moment before she said, "If you fight him and lose, well. That would prove it for certain."



Tavi edged up enough to be able just barely to see in the window. Isana sat on the floor between two corpses-Ibrus and his enforcer-and in front of Navaris, as composed as if she was having tea in the capital. Araris was still pinned under the rubble, and one of Arnos's singulares was standing over him, a sword to his throat.



Isana was focused intently on Navaris, and Tavi suddenly realized that it was because she was reading Navaris's reactions to her words, using her watercraft to judge exactly what to say to the cutter, to discern what would motivate her.



"Of course," Isana added, leaning forward slightly, "if you kill him here, you'll never have the chance to beat him. You'll never be able to prove beyond all doubt that you're the greatest sword in Alera. Whereas if you return him to your master alive, he'll most likely order you to dispose of him in any case."



Navaris stared down at Isana, frozen, her eyes remote.



"You're better than he is, Navaris," Isana said. "You pinned him against the hull of the Mactis like an insect, and if he hadn't run, it would be over. You know you'll beat him if you fight him. Why not give yourself a chance to wipe his name away and replace it with yours?" Isana frowned slightly, and Tavi heard a note of sympathy enter her voice, a bit of sadness touch her eyes. "What else do you have?"



Navaris's nostrils flared, and her right hand suddenly trembled, fluttering at the end of her wrist. Tension entered her lean frame, and her breathing sped up for several seconds.



Then she seemed to slump in place. Her eyelids lowered, half-closing. "Tandus," she murmured. "Armenius. Bind them. We'll bring them with us."



The huge man whose hammer had smashed the wall nodded and bent down over Araris, levering the singulares hands behind his back and binding them with a heavy leather cord.



The other swordsman shook his head. "We're not going after Scipio?"



"His name isn't Scipio," Navaris said quietly. "It's Tavi of Calderon." She moved abruptly, striking Isana on the cheek with the back of one hand with stunning force, knocking Tavi's mother to the floor.



Tavi's fist clenched on his sword, but he controlled the sudden surge of rage and remained still and hidden in the deep shadows cast by the little furylamps.



"And we won't have to go after him," Navaris murmured quietly. "He'll be coming after us."



Chapter 44



The plan was working perfectly, and that made Amara nervous.



An evening and morning practicing under Gaius's tutelage had drastically expanded Amara's ability to craft a veil. It was not so much a matter of learning something new as it was of being presented with techniques she was already familiar with in new ways. Gaius seemed to have an instinctive knack for picking out the strengths and weaknesses of her crafting, and showed her how to apply the stronger aspects of her personal talents in a new way.



By the time the sun was high, Amara was holding a veil nearly ten feet across, with only a little more effort than it took to fly.



"Excellent," Gaius said, smiling. "I believe Maestro Vircani must have been your windcrafting instructor."



"Yes," Amara said, smiling. She had never imagined herself managing a veil so large with such comparative ease. "Yes, he was. He thought very little of my work, too. Except for the flying."



"Small-minded old goat," Gaius murmured, suppressing another cough. "He was of the school of thought that held that any furycrafting concept worth employing was already being employed, and therefore there was no need to teach multiple approaches to any given task since the one that he knew was already good enough."



"I just never thought thinking of light as a windstream," Amara said. "Only bending it, like for a farseeing. I can concentrate on windstreams all day."



"Furycrafting is as much about imagination as concentration," Gaius murmured. "Bear that in mind when you try anything new in your crafting, Countess. Imagination. Different ways of visualizing your goal. It wouldn't startle me in the least to see you manage quite a respectable level of weathe re rafting, should you wish it."



Amara blinked at him. "Really?"



"Certainly."



Bernard murmured, "A breeze to blow away some of these bugs might be nice." He squinted through the grass at the patrolled area. "I'm still not sure we shouldn't do this at night."



"Of course we should do it at night," Amara said. "And that's when they'll expect anyone to try to sneak through their pickets. They'll have more men on duty, and they'll be more alert-whereas if we move through during the day, the men will be less cautious and more likely to be distracted.'



Bernard frowned and nodded. "But if one of them does notice us, they'll have awfully nice light for shooting."



"And we'll have nice light for running away-unless you prefer to flee through strange country in the dark."



Her husband's mouth twisted sourly. "I suppose there's no good way to do this, is there?"



"Precisely," Gaius murmured wearily.



Bernard nodded. "Then now is as good a time as any."



"All right," Amara breathed.



Bernard took up Gaius's stretcher and nodded at Amara. Then he half closed his eyes, and the ground beneath her feet quivered for a moment, a pulse of movement that she could barely detect. A moment later, it repeated, at the pace of a sleeping man's heartbeat.



Amara murmured to Cirrus and felt the light around them change subtly as she brought up the veil. Everything outside the veil blurred, colors twisting and overlapping, shapes softening to mere blobs of color. It was one of the things that made a windcrafter's veil different from one crafted with wood furies. The woodcrafted veil hid and concealed, as long as there were shadows and vegetable shapes to manipulate. The air veil needed no such condition-but it did limit the amount of light that could pass through it, making the world outside the veil look like something seen through poor glass, or murky seawater.



"There," Amara said quietly- "Bernard?"



"Ready," he said.



And they started toward the enemy positions, with Amara in the lead. It took them most of the afternoon to reach the edges of the swamp, where the ground began to rise. Amara almost wanted to hold her breath as they approached the first concealed position. They passed by it, close enough to smell the smoke from a campfire-and to smell the aroma of freshly baked bread. Amara's stomach practically leapt from beneath her belt, and even Gaius looked a little wistful.



It wasn't for another several steps that Amara saw the dogs, great rangy beasts, outside the camp. They were sprawled in the sunshine, asleep, and likely to stay that way under the gentle, slow pulse of Bernard's earthcrafting.



And then they were past the outpost, with their foe none the wiser.



The second watch post was much the same. They walked slowly, steadily by the tree supporting the observation blinds, and no one seemed to detect them. They kept up the same slow, careful pace for several hundred more blessedly dry, firm-grounded yards, uphill all the way.



It couldn't be that simple, could it? Amara had imagined dozens of ways for their efforts to go disastrously awry, but none of them had come to pass. Something had to go wrong. Something always went wrong. Yet nothing had, and it made her nervous.



A fresh breeze hit them, clean air that smelled of pine, and Amara felt like singing.



And then hunting horns began blowing behind them.



She and Bernard whirled to look back at the swamps, and Bernard cursed. "One of their patrols must have swept by and found our trail. They'll be coming."



Amara felt obliquely reassured by the sudden dour turn of events. Certainly, it meant that a great many madmen were shortly to be pelting after them, determined to wipe them out-but at least she was in a familiar element.



"Very well. Our options?"



"Limited," Gaius said, and coughed some more.



"I can't erase our trail and still carry the stretcher," Bernard said. "We should run for the mountains. Dark's coming on. If we're still free by then, it should give us enough time to get Gaius close enough."



Amara nodded. "Then we run."



She turned and began jogging forward, up the hill, disdaining the wind-crafted veil. The enemy already knew they were here. The veil would just be a drain of energy that could better be used to keep moving. Bernard kept up with her, even bearing Gaius's stretcher, though he breathed heavily as they ran.



The land rose steadily, the willows and fronds of the swamps dying away, replaced by fir and pine. The hunting horns kept sounding behind them, and Amara thought she could hear them coming steadily closer.



Amara had never particularly loved running, but the weeks of travel had done somewhat to harden her for the pace, and a gentle effort to guide Cirrus ensured that she never ran short of breath. As a result, her muscles didn't begin burning until well into the first hour, and she kept the pace quick and steady.



The ankle the garim had injured twinged several times, and she took care to place her foot carefully; but evidently she'd had enough time to recover from the injury, and she was able to keep the pace she had set for them.



Bernard lumbered along behind her, implacably moving ahead despite his burden, and though his breathing was labored, his steps never faltered.



Amara found a smooth track leading up toward the mountains and followed it, her shadow lengthening on the hillside in front of her as the sun set behind them. She kept running for another half hour, and felt her arms and legs beginning to shake with weariness.



That was when they heard the hunting horns being blown ahead of them as well as behind. Amara slowed up, looking over her shoulder at Bernard.



"Aye," Bernard panted. "Surprised it took them this long." Fie came to a halt, breathing heavily, and Amara wished she could send Cirrus to ease his breathing as well-but without being able to sense the changing pressures, the way she sensed her own breathing, she could inflict a number of forms of injury on him, ranging from the inconvenient to the excruciating.



Bernard glanced around, frowning in thought, as he settled the stretcher on the ground, staring up the slope toward the mountains, golden in the setting sun. "They're moving fast. Mounted. We've only got a few minutes." He reached into the stretcher, murmured, "Excuse me, sire," and drew out his bow.



"Mounted," Amara murmured. She went to check on Gaius as Bernard strung his bow. The First Lord was pale with pain. He gave Amara a faint smile, and said, "I hardly have the right to say it, but I th-think I've had enough running today."



"Just rest," Amara said. She dragged the stretcher as gently as she could to one side, under the shelter of some pine branches. Then she went to her husband. "I need to know something."



"Yes," Bernard said. "I was serious when I said I'd never done that with any woman but you."



She slapped his shoulder lightly. "Mind on business, Count Calderon. You can calm animals. Can you uncalm them, too?"



He grimaced. "Spook their horses? Hate to do it. Horses are big, strong animals. Get them scared enough, they can hurt themselves pretty bad."



"They're coming to kill us," Amara pointed out.



"The riders are. I doubt the horses have strong feelings one way or the other."



Amara stopped and stared at him for a moment, smiling faintly. "You can strike down enemy Knights, shoot furious High Lords from the sky, make war on creatures out of nightmares, and fight garim the size of ponies three at a time without flinching. But you don't want to frighten horses."



Bernard looked at something of a loss. He spread his hands, and said, "I like horses."



She leaned over and kissed him. Then she said, "I need you to do it."



He winced but nodded.



"Can you tell how many are coming?" she asked.



He jerked his head in a nod and rested his fingertips lightly on the ground. "Eight," he reported after a moment. "There's another group several miles behind them. Much larger."



"Then the first eight are the men who were on duty. The others, perhaps, the men who had been sleeping."



"Yes, dear." Bernard sighed, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. "You were right."



Amara peered at the falling sun. "I want to hit them and take two of their horses. Mounted, in the dark, we can get farther."



"And the horses will know their way back to their stables," Bernard said. He glanced toward the First Lord's stretcher. "He can't ride. And in the dark, on this terrain, there's no way we can sling the stretcher between our mounts."



"We don't need to," Amara said. "Remember how you pulled me, back at Second Calderon?"



Bernard grinned suddenly. Amara had been too weary for full flight, and the skies had been heavily patrolled by the enemy. To catch a group of men they'd been pursuing, he'd used his intimate knowledge of the valley's furies to travel on a ripple of moving earth, a feat that only someone with such knowledge could manage. Amara could never have kept the pace, and so she had crafted a cushion of air to lift her from the ground and had held on to a tether fastened to Bernards belt.



"Might work," he said. "But it will be loud."



"Not as much as you'd think. I can suppress some of it."



"How long can you sustain it?" Bernard asked.



"As long as I need to."



Horns sounded again, upslope, and were answered distantly from behind them. This time, Amara actually caught a flash of movement in the trees.



"All right," she said quietly. "This is what I want to do."



The first rider to come plunging down the trail never had a chance. Amara dropped her veil when he was twenty feet away, and by the time he saw Bernard standing with his great bow drawn tight, it was too late for him to avoid the shot. The Count of Calderon's arrow took him in the bridge of his nose and lifted him from the back of his horse as if struck with a lance. A flash of silver collar proclaimed the man one of the Immortals.



The second rider shouted and lifted his spear, but could do no more before Amara settled a veil around him, blotting him from sight and half-blinding him. The man hesitated, slowing, and the horse of the rider immediately behind him crashed into him, screaming in sudden fear at the scent of hot blood.



Horses and men went sprawling, and the equine screams abruptly rose in pitch and volume. Animals bucked and thrashed in pure panic, under Bernards earthcrafting, sending some of the Immortals sprawling to the ground while others clung to their inexplicably hysterical mounts and were carried in every direction.



Bernard wasted no time. A dismounted Immortal rose, weapon in hand, his eyes gleaming with exaltation as he turned toward his prey. Another arrow slammed into his head, felling him instantly. A third Immortal raised a circular steel shield to protect his face as he charged. Bernard shot him through the thigh, breaking the bone that supported it, and the Immortal went down in a sprawl. Before he could recover, Bernard put a second arrow through his neck in a fountain of gore. The man staggered to his feet despite the horrible wounds, took two wobbling steps forward, and then sank to the earth and was still.



Amara did not dare close with the remaining Immortal on the ground. She was not entirely unskilled at swordplay, but she was no match for one of Kalare's manufactured madmen and doubted she could kill him without being slain or badly injured herself.



So with a flick of her hand, she dropped the veil that was hampering him and sent Cirrus surging around the Immortal's face and head to cut off his air.



The man staggered forward, sword raised, and Amara kept her own weapon in hand-but she circled away from him nimbly, carefully keeping the distance between them open. The Immortal's face turned pink. Then red. His steps began to falter. His face went purple. At the last, his lips were blue, his chest heaving desperately. Amara could feel him, through Cirrus, struggling vainly to draw a breath.



Then he simply dropped, eyes staring sightlessly, and struggled to breathe no more.



Amara stared at him blankly for a moment.



Then she retched onto the ground in front of her.



She remained there, head bowed forward, hands resting on her knees, and tried to get herself under control.



Bernard's hand touched her shoulder.



"I've..." she gasped. "I've never... I mean, I learned how, but I've never... I thought he would black out, and I could let him go, but he just kept fighting..."



His fingers tightened on her arm, gentle.



"Bloody crows," she whispered. "That's an ugly way to kill a man."



Bernard withdrew his hand and offered her his water flask. "Love," he said quietly. "Time."



The hunting horns behind them sounded again.



Amara squeezed her eyes shut, nodded once, and straightened. She took the flask, washed the horrible taste out of her mouth, and then drank. As she did, Bernard moved slowly forward, toward the two horses he'd excluded from his crafting-the two lead horses, who were presumably the fastest of the group. Bernard spoke gently, and once again Amara felt the slow, steady pulse of a soothing earthcrafting. Within a minute, he had the reins of both animals, and led them to her.



Amara mounted up while Bernard drew' Gaius's stretcher out of its concealment, then tied one end of a line to it, the other to the saddle of Amara's mount.



Amara turned, focusing on the stretcher, murmuring wordlessly as she willed Cirrus to lift it from the ground. Within seconds, a small whirlwind had gathered beneath Gaius's stretcher, lifting it perhaps eighteen inches above the earth.



This time Bernard took the lead, veiling them as they rode through the darkening wood. Amara followed, dragging the stretcher on its miniature cyclone behind them to wipe away whatever trail they left behind. It wouldn't prevent Kalarus's men from tracking them, but it would conceal their numbers and the pace they set, denying the enemy information that might help them make intelligent choices in the pursuit. It would also force them to slow down if they wanted to keep the trail, especially after night fell.



Shadows began to fall as Bernard led the horses north, off the trail and into the thickening forest. He turned east, toward the mountains, in a gradual arc, and all the while the horns of the Immortals sounded in the gloom around them.



Evening turned to dusk turned to twilight. Terrain that had been difficult in dim light became treacherous in the dark, and Bernard slowed them down, allowing the horses to pick their way forward. The night began to turn cold. The strain of all the travel, of the run, of her ongoing furycraft to support the stretcher began to tell on Amara, and she found herself shuddering with cold and exhaustion.



She very badly wanted to sleep. She very badly wanted to fall off the horse and lie still. But she clung grimly to the saddle and stayed upright for what felt like a week. Then a month. Then a year.



And then the horses emerged from the pines, and Bernard let out a grunt of satisfaction.



Amara lifted her eyes. In the starlight, she could see very little, despite the hours her eyes had been given to adjust. It was as if half the stars were simply blotted away-or, she realized, overcast with clouds. She wearily hoped that it wasn't about to start raining, too.



Then she realized what she was looking at, and her heart leapt.



The Kalare Mountains. They rose above them in silent, stark majesty, their enormous peaks casting a shadow over half the starry sky.



Bernard murmured in the darkness, "There's not enough flora for me to veil us along that trail. From here on out, if we're seen, we're out of options. You want to do this fast or slow?"



Amara's teeth were chattering, but she managed to say, "Fast. I'm almost done."



Bernard took a deep breath, nodded once, and said, "Here we go."



Then he kicked his weary horse forward into a listless canter, and Amara followed suit. They hurried up the trail in the dark, and Amara began to feel nervous again. It took her several moments, until they were riding over a level patch of trail that must have been the first pass through the mountains, to realize why.



The Immortals' hunting horns had ceased to blow.



Light hit them first, painful in the mountain night. The horses, too tired to truly panic, threw back their heads and danced nervously. Amara raised a hand, trying to block the painful glare-the great furylamps sometimes used in sieges, surely-and felt Cirrus suddenly falter.



The First Lord's stretcher crashed to the ground.



She sagged in her saddle, saw someone approaching on her right side, and kicked weakly with her right leg. She hit something, but a grip like stone seized her ankle and dragged her off the horse and to the ground.



Bernard roared, and she heard his'bow hum. She turned her head enough to see an Immortal stricken cleanly through one lung with her husband's arrow. The man never slowed his pace, seizing Bernard's belt and hauling him to the ground. Bernard turned as he fell, and seized the Immortal, reaching for his throat with fury-borne strength.



The Immortal seized Bernard's hands...



... and slowly, steadily forced them away.



Bloody crows.



Immortal Knights.



Bernard's eyes widened, and he clenched his teeth in desperate effort, but to no avail. The Immortal twisted suddenly and threw Amara's husband face-first to the ground, rapidly secured a lock on one of his arms, and dislocated his shoulder with a single savage motion.



Bernard screamed.



Amara became aware of more men, then, all fully armored, all bearing the shining steel collar of the Immortals. She looked around dully. Indeed, the light had come from enormous furylamps which must have been moved up by teams of horses long before. Armored men were everywhere. Not twenty, or thirty, or fifty, but hundreds. All of them Immortals-and led by Knights.



Footsteps crunched over the cold, stony ground. Several gauntlets banged to armored chests. A pair of boots appeared before Amara's eyes, and she looked up.



A young man stood over her. He was a little taller than average, very thin, and dirty. There was something ugly in his eyes, lurking behind contempt and rage and a certain amount of petulance. It took Amara's stunned and weary mind a moment to place the young officer-Kalarus Brencis Minoris, the High Lord Kalarus's son and heir.



"I can't believe this," the young man said. "This is the elite team of soldiers First Lord Has-Been sent down with the north wind? This is what Father's had me slogging all over the bloody swamps for?"



Brencis shook his head with disbelief and, almost idly, struck Amara across the face with his mailed hand. Pain made her world go white. She felt her neck wrench as it twisted sharply to one side under the force of the blow.



"I could have been sleeping in a bed," Brencis snarled. "And instead I'm out here frozen to the balls and bored out of my mind, setting up the trap, worried about a whole cohort of Knights sneaking in the back door, and for what?"



Amara tasted blood on her tongue. She lifted her head dizzily.



Brencis spat. It struck her cheek.



"I'm here for this!" he snarled. He seized Amara by the hair, baring her throat, and drew his dagger in his other hand. "For two pathetic little sneaks? Two of you? Two!"



Light hit them first.



It washed over Amara's back and shoulders in a sudden wave of warmth and color, as if someone had convinced the setting sun to reverse its course and rise once again over the mountainside behind them. The light cast knife-sharp black shadows over the entire mountain, its luminance so brilliant that the glare of the enormous furylamps became utterly insignificant.



Immortals, Knights, and infantry alike, cried out in surprise. Brencis turned white, took a step backward, and lifted a hand to shield his eyes, releasing Amara and letting out a low moan of fear.



And then came a voice.



A voice spoke in a gentle tone that resounded from the stone and the sky, a voice that rang with a depth and richness of power the mountains had not known since their fiery conception-a voice that contained a certain amount of biting amusement as it answered the heir of Kalare's question. Gaius Sextus, First Lord of Alera, murmured, "Three."