Part 22 (1/2)

A battle could be lost, but the war had to continue. That's what he would say. ”Papa,” she whispered, her heart aching as she stumbled along. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she brushed them away.

She tripped over a man's legs and fell, landing hard on her knees and crying out. For a moment, she crouched there, gasping for breath, her emotions raw beneath the control she barely held.

When she tried to rise to her feet, she looked at the face of the man she'd fallen over. It was Count Lanyl Otverya, her father's squire, barely eighteen and still growing his first beard. The visor to his helmethad been torn away on one side. It hung twisted and b.l.o.o.d.y from the axe blow that had killed him.

Alexeika crawled closer and gripped his sleeve. His breastplate was dented and hacked open by the ferocious blows he'd taken. No s.h.i.+eld lay near him; she supposed he dropped it in the charge. The blade of his sword had been shattered, and his dead hand gripped only the hilt.

Kneeling beside him, she bowed her head and wept. Lanyl had been fun, always laughing and playing pranks. His clear tenor voice could sing songs of old so sweetly that grown men wept. He should have led his own army, but his lands had been confiscated too. Deposed of his hold, his t.i.tle officially stripped away, his parents and siblings imprisoned or dead, Lanyl had escaped the purge with only his father's sword as his inheritance. He'd been so optimistic that one day King Muncel would be knocked from his throne and order restored to this weary land.

Lanyl had been like a brother to her. Gently, Alexeika closed his staring eyes, and in doing so stained her fingers with his blood.

When her tears stopped, she pulled the broken sword from his hand and with the tip of her dagger pried the square, thumb-sized ruby from its pommel. She pocketed the jewel, feeling like a thief. Yet they had to live. They had to eat. They had to keep the fight going somehow.

A sob escaped her. She choked back the rest and pushed herself to her feet, turning away from him while she still could.

Puffing heavily, old Uzfan caught up with her. ”Alexeika, wait!” he said, gasping between words. ”For the love of Thod. please wait.” She slid her dagger back into its sheath and handed Uzfan the remnant of Lanyl's shattered sword. ”Take care of him, please.” Uzfan's face blurred through her tears. ”I must go to my father.”

”Child,” he said, ”there is no more time. Look yon.”

She followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw movement atop the distant hills. She drew in a sharp breath, feeling ice in her veins despite the day's heat. Queer little p.r.i.c.kles ran through her skin.

”Soultakers,” Uzfan said, his old voice quavering with fear. His hand shook visibly as he lowered it.

”They are riding with the looters. I feel them.” She nodded, her mouth too dry for talking. ”I, too.”

”We must hurry. They must not catch us.”

”Lanyl,” she said. ”Please.”

Uzfan sighed and nodded. Taking the broken sword, he murmured the words of protection, then peeled away Lanyl's battered breastplate. He struck swift and hard, staking the boy.

Alexeika had already turned away, unable to watch. She heard the blow, and flinched as though the weapon had pa.s.sed through her own heart. Now Lanyl was freed, his soul severed from his body. The soultakers would not possess him. While Uzfan sprinkled salt over the body, Alexeika hurried on toward the center of the field.

”Alexeika, no!” Uzfan shouted. The old priest ran after her, caught her shoulder, and spun her around.

”No! The risk is too great.” She glared at him. ”And what will protect him? Would you leave him to those-” Her voice failed her. She gestured furiously, unable to say the words. ”I will make a spell and cast it over the entire field,” Uzfan said. ”But come away. Now, child, while there is time.” ”I must give him rites,” she said raggedly, refusing to listen. ”I must take his sword. The looters cannot have it.”

”His sword will lie where it lies,” Uzfan said fiercely. His old, dark eyes glared at her from beneath wrinkled lids. ”Your father is dead, child. His sword is of no use now. The war is ended.”

Rage and protest and grief welled up inside her, building a force she could no longer contain. She slapped him with all her might, rocking him on his feet. Spinning from him, she strode away.

He made no further attempt to stop her, and she was glad. Stumbling and half-running, she forced herself to climb over the mound of dead men entangled together at what had been the last stand. A corner of her mind felt shock that she had dared strike a priest, much less Uzfan himself. But the rest of her was too angry to care.

She shoved and s.h.i.+fted and pushed her way through to where the banner lay trampled, its bright colors now stained and coated with blood-splattered dirt. Her father lay beneath the broken banner pole, his gloved hand still grasping part of it. The banner boy lay headless and disemboweled beside him. There was a horrible stink in the air, the stink of Nonkind, a taint that burned her nostrils and made her want to retreat. Shaking her head, she knelt instead beside the man who had sired her, raised her, and loved her enough for two parents.

Prince Ilymir Volvn, general of the king's army, protector of the south. His t.i.tles had once been prestigious and many. His victories, his decorations for valor, and his honor had all shone brightly until King Muncel declared him a traitor and stripped him of everything. For years now he had lived with a price on his head, a prince turned outlaw. But his dream of restoring the throne to its rightful king had never dimmed.

Her father had been a tall, lean man with a jutting beak of a nose, bushy gray eyebrows, and a harsh gash of mouth. He was gruff and plainspoken, relentless, and a perfectionist, yet this was the man who had taught her to swim in icy streams during childhood summers, holding her around the middle while she laughed and paddled. This was the man who had braided her hair for her, who refused to let her cut it, who had taught her to dance and given her secret deportment lessons suitable for a lady at court, mincing along in the privacy of the woods while he held up the train of an imaginary gown. This was the man who had given her the set of daggers, taken her to a man who taught her how to throw and handle them without cutting herself. Prince Volvn had trained and tempered her as best he could. Never had he been unkind or unfair, despite his high standards. He wanted her to grow up capable, strong, and able to think for herself.

She had loved him with all her heart. Never again would they walk together under the evening stars, plotting campaigns and strategy. Never again would she feel his strong arm across her shoulders. Never would she hear his gruff voice softened to that special tone spoken to her alone, while he murmured, ”My pet, do not be so fierce against Lanyl. He is only a boy in love with you, and therefore a fool.”

”My pet,” he would say, ”put aside your temper and think. What is your brain for, except to be used?”

”My pet,” he had said this morning just before he rode into battle, ”I depend on you if anything goes wrong. Keep Severgard out of the hands of the enemy. Never has it been held by a dishonorable man.

Protect it as you would your life, and someday give it to your son.”

”Don't say such things!” she protested, full of courage then. Her blood was on fire to be with the men;her heart felt certain they would win. ”You'll have a victory today. I know it!”

”Follow your orders, daughter,” he said, his voice cracking like a whip.

”Promise me you'll follow them.”

And now she would have to.

”Oh, Papa,” she said. Sinking to her knees beside him, she lifted his visor. He had never known defeat in his long and distinguished career. His valiant name alone was enough to fill the hearts of men with courage. Five times in the past five years he had led the small rebel forces in skirmishes and battles, and each time they won. But today, he had faced the king's real army, one supplemented with hard-bitten Gantese mercenaries and Nonkind, and he had lacked sorcerels to protect his men.

In the distance, the looters now came. She felt the thunder of their approaching hoofbeats shaking the valley floor, but she did not lift her gaze from her father's face.

Although his eyes were shut, he looked stern. Already death had made his face a stranger's. She touched his cheek, but it did not bring him closer or keep him with her. He was gone.

Weeping, she drew her hand back and curled her fingers into a fist. The noise of the galloping horses grew louder.

A hand gripped her shoulder. She jumped, screaming, and whirled around to attack, but it was only old Uzfan. Gasping with relief, she sagged down to her knees again.

”Swiftly, child,” Uzfan said. ”Use the salt you brought. I have no more in my pouch.”

Frowning, she reached for the small, heavy pouch hanging at her belt.

He took it from her, sighing and plucking at his white beard. ”Your father's presence is very strong.

They will seek him for the power of his life.”

She s.h.i.+vered and swallowed hard, trying not to think of the horrors that awaited his body if she and Uzfan failed to protect him now.

Muttering incantations and prayers, Uzfan began sprinkling the salt across Prince Volvn's body.

Alexeika reached down and pulled Severgard from her father's hand. The great sword had been handed down through seven generations of her family. Long and heavy, it had been forged by a dwarf swordmaker who used magicked metal mined in the Mountains of the G.o.ds. The blade was made of black steel, and runes were carved along it. The hilt and guard were wrapped in gold and silver wire, and a great flas.h.i.+ng sapphire was set in the pommel. She struggled to lift it. Gore was drying on the blade, and its stench was rank and tainted. She wrinkled her nose in revulsion. Nonkind had died today on this blade. She wiped it clean, knowing it would have to be scrubbed with both salt and sand and oiled later.

Tugging off her father's belt, she choked back a fresh sob, but she slid into its scabbard and knotted the ends of the belt together before slinging it across her shoulder.

By now Uzfan had finished with the salt. He poured the last of it on Prince Volvn's tongue.

”Is it enough?” Alexeika asked. The looters were close enough to see them. In their sinister black cloaks, they yelled and cursed. She could smell their evil, a stink as foul as that which had been on . It made her want to run.

”Is there enough time for his soul to leave?” she asked. Uzfan shook his head sorrowfully. ”Nay, child.

His presence is too strong. It does not want to accept failure.”

She felt sick to her stomach, but she was her father's daughter. She knew what had to be done.