Daughter of Fate - Chapter 9
Pela shrieked as she lashed out with her sword, skewering an imaginary enemy and then spinning in time to deflect a second...
The Knights of Alana is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. When Knights attack the temple of Skystead, seventeen-year-old Pela is the only one to escape. Her mother and the other villagers are taken, accused of worshiping the False Gods. They will pay the ultimate price – unless Pela can rescue them. Pela has never left the safety of her town, let alone touched a sword. What chance does she have against the ruthless Knights of Alana? She’s not a hero. But she knows one…
But she knows one.
Her uncle Devon was a mighty warrior once, in times when magic filled the world. Age has withered his strength and he retired long ago, but maybe he will answer the call of family. Can Pela convince him to stand against the darkness one last time?
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Pela shrieked as she lashed out with her sword, skewering an imaginary enemy and then spinning in time to deflect a second. A sharp hiss followed each swipe of the blade, her breath coming in short gasps. The deck of the ship rocked gently beneath her as the oars rose and fell, propelling them ever downriver.
She barely noticed. The queen’s ship was crowded, but she had managed to find some space at the bow where she could practice the drills Caledan had taught her. Not that they mattered now. She cursed and speared an imaginary heart.
After everything they’d been through, how could Devon have done this? He needed her! Pela had not forgotten the despair in his eyes back in Townirwin, how close he had come to giving up on her mother. Now he had lost faith in himself; he was defeated before he’d even begun.
Shouting again, Pela brought her blade down in an overhead slash that would have beheaded anyone standing in her path, then stepped back and sucked in a breath.
What was she going to do? The queen was taking her back to Skystead, to the sleepy little town she had always called home. But what was left for her there now, without her mother or grandmother or Devon? How would she support herself?
Her eyes dropped to the sword in her hand and a shiver ran down her spine. He’d hid it well, but Caledan was no pauper. He had spent his life fighting other men’s wars and grown rich doing it. Remembering the rush as her blade sliced through the Elder’s back, Pela felt a tremor of excitement, but it was quickly doused by the icy hand of reality.
Most of her life had been spent in fear of one thing or another; how could she think that would change now? She could never be a sellsword, nor a soldier like her father. Her courage would fail. Maybe that was why Devon had sent her away. Had he seen her terror, and given her an escape?
I am not a coward.
Swallowing, Pela brushed a tear from her eye and clung to the thought. She had killed a man, had helped save her fellow villagers against all odds. And still Devon had packed her up and shipped her off as though she were a child in need of protection.
Angrily she sheathed her sword and moved to the railing. Four other ships carved their way downriver alongside them: the King’s Guard that had come from Ardath. Men and women packed their decks, red and gold armour shining in the morning sun as they scanned the way ahead for a sign of the Baronians. The survivors of the attack had warned how the black ship had suddenly come upon them, as if out of nowhere. There would be no surprise attacks this time.
Only a few King’s Guard remained onboard with Pela, including Rylle. The rest wore the silver and red of the Queen’s Guard, her personal order.
Pela had spent the first few hours exploring the vessel. But while it was the largest ship she’d ever seen, there was little of interest to discover. Only the catapult bolted to the aft deck had perked her interest, though it was covered by a canvas and did not look to have seen any use for a long while. Otherwise, there were the usual sacks of cloth and rope and barrels of whatever supplies the queen had seen fit to stock for the journey, and Pela had soon returned to her sword practice.
Sailing downriver with the oars pounding to the count of five, they were already nearing the delta of the Lane. Pela was glad she would at least be able to see the end of the vicious Baronians. Once the fleet reached open ocean, they would split in two and scour the coast. No matter what magic propelled the Baronian ship, they could not simply vanish.
“What are you doing up here, little one?”
Pela started and spun around, her eyes widening to find the queen standing behind her. Her mouth dropped open, before she remembered her manners and snapped it closed again, biting her tongue. She swore, then slapped a hand to her mouth in horror.
The queen only smiled and joined her at the railings. “I have never been to Skystead, though I hear it is beautiful,” she commented. “Do you have those…beasts there?” She nodded to one of the great crocodiles basking on the banks of the Lane.
A shudder ran down Pela’s spine. “Sometimes,” she murmured, “but mostly the water is deep and too cold in the fiord. They only appear after a storm, when they’ve been washed from the marshes or the delta.”
“They killed my husband,” the queen murmured. “I was in my cabin when it happened. I did not see, but they say when he fell overboard…” She shook her head, and for a second the mask of royalty cracked. Her eyes shone in the morning sun. “They say the water was red with blood.”
“I’m sorry,” Pela whispered. Tentatively, she placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, unsure how to comfort a queen.
Marianne shrugged and looked away. “We’ll have the bastards who did it soon,” she said, a smile touching her lips. “We’ll make them pay for taking him from me.”
“I hope so,” Pela replied. Sadness tinged her voice as she thought of her mother, all alone with an entirely different set of monsters.
“Devon will find your mother,” the queen said, as though reading her mind. “My husband always spoke highly of him, though the hammerman retired his commission long before we were married.”
“And what about the people who took her?” Pela asked, a little too sharply.
The queen’s eyes flickered closed. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. “In Lonia, there have been those who claim to follow the path of Alana, who have committed such acts. I did not think they had reached my adopted nation. Trust me, whatever radicals have taken her will face the queen’s justice.”
“Thank you,” Pela whispered, though she wished the queen had cared enough to send some of the King’s Guard with Devon.
The fleet had close to four hundred soldiers between them; against no more than fifty Baronian warriors, it would be a slaughter when they tracked them down. Though when the fleet divided, Pela supposed those odds would narrow.
“You are most welcome, young Pela,” the queen replied, embracing her. Then she smiled and gestured at the sword on Pela’s belt. “Do you wish to become a warrior yourself someday, like Devon and your father?”
Pela’s jaw tightened and she looked away. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Maybe I will when we reach Skystead, but then…if my mother never returns, there is nothing for me there.”
“Perhaps you should consider returning to the capital with my people?” Marianne offered. “I’m going to need brave women and men around me if we’re to keep Plorsea from tearing itself apart.”
“You would really want me?” Pela stammered, her vision blurring as she fought back sudden tears.
The queen smiled, but just then a shout carried across the water from the leading ship. They swung around as a dark vessel emerged from the mangroves ahead. Pela’s heart clenched as she recognised the black flag atop the strange masts. It raced upriver towards them, hugging the starboard bank.
“What are they doing here?” Pela gasped.
“Trying to get past us,” the queen replied.
Pela saw that it was true. The fleet had been negotiating the deeper waters to port and been caught unawares. If they did not act quickly, the Baronians would shoot past and escape upriver. But the first of the Plorsean ships was already turning to cut them off. The King’s Guard were bulkier and slower to respond than the Baronians’, and Pela held her breath.
At the last moment it became clear the Baronians would not make it. Julian must have realised it too, for the ship turned sharply, abandoning any attempt to escape and angling towards their pursuers. Unable to manoeuvre as quickly, the King’s Guard turned to meet them and found themselves floundering in the surging currents. The captain bellowed orders and the men struggled to withdraw their oars…
The Baronian prow slammed into the wallowing ship with a crash of breaking timber. Oars shattered and men were hurled overboard by the power of the collision, disappearing beneath the murky currents. Pela gasped as screams drifted across the open water, followed by the cheering of Baronian voices.
The black ship surged on, struggling to escape the tangles of the King’s Guard.
“No,” Pela whispered. They were going to escape.
She looked around for the queen, but her guard was already shepherding her below deck to her cabin. Pela cursed and returned her gaze to the entangled ships. A line rose from the Plorsean vessel, clanking down onto the enemy ship. A second followed, then a third, and suddenly the Baronians were no longer pulling away, but being dragged back towards the floundering King’s Guard.
“Yes!” Pela punched the air as the ships crashed together.
A roar came from the King’s Guard as they surged over the railings onto the pirate ship. The Baronians met them with bellows of their own, and the forces came together in a clash of steel on steel.
With the two ships locked together, the remaining vessels of the King’s Guard powered closer and hurled lines of their own. Wood splinted as the ships converged, surrounding the Baronians on all sides. Only the queen’s ship hung back.
Outnumbered and outmatched, the Baronian black slowly gave way to the red and gold. Though they fought like demons, there was no hope for them now. One by one they fell, until only a small ring of armoured fighters remained in the centre of the ship.
Movement came from within the circle as one of the Baronians leapt onto a barrel. Pela recognised Julian, his fists and mouth open as he shouted his defiance. Then one of the King’s Guard hurled an axe. The heavy blade embedded itself in Julian’s chest and he toppled backwards without a sound.
After that, the remaining Baronians fell quickly, and a heavy silence returned to the river. The five ships bobbed gently together, the four vessels of the King’s Guard locked to the black one. Their oars unmanned, they drifted slowly downstream, their progress mirrored by the queen’s galley.
“Long live the king!” As one, the King’s Guard lifted their swords to the sky.
Pela smiled and was about to answer their cry, when shouting broke out behind her.
“No, what are you doing?!”
Devon, Caledan, and Genevieve took the river road for the first day, following the directions of strangers who had seen the Knights depart. No one recalled seeing a woman of Kryssa’s description though, and Devon was beginning to doubt that Kryssa had ever reached Lane. It mattered little now though—his path had been chosen; he would not retreat from it now.
Older and more disused than the Gods Road, the track they followed was overgrown and washed out in places, and they had to take care that their horses did not to slip from the banks into the river. They were far above the delta here and the currents were quick, still muddy from the storm of several days past.
Not long after they’d started out, the fleet had drifted past, oars beating the water in their haste to catch the Baronians. Devon had waved and looked for Pela, but if she was watching she had not made herself known.
Now he wondered if he’d done the right thing, sending her away, but it was too late to change his mind now. At least if they did somehow rescue Kryssa, she was less likely to kill him offhand for endangering her daughter.
Devon was surprised though to find himself with companions on this final quest. Glancing sidelong at Caledan and Genevieve, he wondered again at their motivations. Caledan still had not said anything of the night before, and Devon hadn’t pressed the matter. The king was dead and there was no need to revisit that pain—for either of them.
Watching Caledan ride, Devon felt conflicted. He respected Caledan’s skill—and was grateful for his aid—but there was a darkness to him as well. To be willing to kill the king and plunge Plorsea into chaos…
Devon shook his head, turning his attention to the huntress. If anything, Genevieve’s continued devotion was even more perplexing. When they’d first set off from Skystead, he’d thought her motivations the same as Tobias’s and his own. Yet there had been no one for Genevieve amongst the villagers they’d rescued, no loved one to embrace.
With a start, Devon realised what he’d missed. In the rush of discovering Kryssa was alive, he’d forgotten the dead women on the floor of the pantheon. Touched by guilt, he looked sidelong at Genevieve. He’d been too consumed by his own grief in Townirwin to notice her state of mind, and he wondered who that unknown woman had been to the huntswoman. Devon wasn’t game to ask now.
They continued downriver for several hours. The passage so many men and horses had churned the track to mud, but as they struggled to free their horses for the third time, Genevieve reassured them it was a good sign. Such a large group travelling on these backroads could only be the Knights. They would not go unnoticed; tracking them might yet prove easier than Devon had expected. And where the Knights went, surely they would find Kryssa.
“Have you thought of a better plan yet?” Caledan asked as the sun passed noon and began its descent towards the west.
“No,” Devon sighed. “It’s the only way.”
“We don’t even know they’ll have her,” Caledan put in.
“That’s a gamble I’m going to have to take,” Devon replied.
Caledan nodded and dropped the subject, but on the other horse Genevieve shook her head. “It’s suicide.”
Devon chuckled. “I’ll admit, I’m open to other ideas.”
They rode on in silence for a while, until the path veered suddenly inland. At the bend, a smaller track led down to where a wharf stuck out into the river. Water raced past beneath the wooden struts, but there was no sign of the crocodiles below. Bootprints led up from the wharf to join the churned-up mess the Knights had left.
“Looks like more joined them here,” Genevieve commented.
“If things go to plan, numbers aren’t going to matter,” Devon answered.
“Easy for you to say,” Caledan said. “You’re not going to have them on your trail.”
Devon grunted but did not reply. They plodded inland, the great trees of the Plorsean Forest rising up to swallow them. They were lucky the main body of Knights was ahead; the track was badly overgrown, and their passage had crushed many of the young saplings that had taken root in the open earth.
Even so, by the time night fell Devon was puffing hard and cursing the Knights for leading them so far off the Gods Roads. The sun had dropped early beneath the canopy, but they’d pressed on at pace, eager to close the gap before the last shadows faded beneath the trees. Finally, they made camp in a small glade not far from the track.
Against Caledan’s warnings, Devon lit a fire before sitting back on a tree stump to enjoy the warmth.
“What makes you do it, Devon?” Caledan asked after they’d finished a sparse dinner of dried beef and onions.
“Do what?” Devon asked as Genevieve leaned in.
“All this.” Caledan gestured around the clearing, as though that explained his question. When Devon only raised an eyebrow, he sighed and elaborated. “Play the hero. What do you get out of it? You know you’re more than likely going to fail, so why put yourself at risk?”
Devon stared into the flames. “Because Kryssa needs me,” he whispered.
Caledan snorted. “You’re not even related.”
“No,” Devon answered quietly. “I never let her call me ‘Father’, when she was young. I never understood why Selina brought her into our house. Life was hard enough as it was.”
He looked up at them then, taking them in. Genevieve still sat slightly apart, her eyes distant, as though she were lost in some other time. The sellsword stared back at him though.
“Then why didn’t you leave?” he asked. “That was, what, twenty years ago? You had your youth, your strength…you could have done anything, gone anywhere.”
“I still have my strength, sonny,” Devon replied, then shook his head. “And I’m glad I didn’t leave. What Selina and Kryssa gave me, no amount of strength or coin can buy. They were—are—my family.”
Caledan looked away sharply, and Devon knew he was thinking of his own family, torn apart by the death of magic. He swallowed, wondering what words of comfort he could offer the man. Yet Caledan did not know that Devon knew about his past—nor of his secret quest to kill the king. After a moment’s hesitation, Devon decided to remain silent.
“I never had a family,” Caledan replied finally. “When I was young, I learned to rely on myself. I need no one else,” he finished, his voice taking on a sharp tone.
“I won’t argue with you,” Devon murmured.
“Do you think the others made it safely to Skystead?” Genevieve interrupted.
Devon smiled and nodded his thanks for the change of subject. “I hope so. Tallow is a fine captain.”
Caledan laughed. “Poor Tobias, returning to that farm in the mountains. How will he cope after having a taste of the good life?”
“I don’t know that he thought of this as the good life,” Devon commented mildly.
“Ha!” Caledan straightened. “Don’t tell me you weren’t bored in that village, Devon. A man like you, you used to be a hero! People worshiped you. I don’t know how you turned your back on that life.”
Devon shrugged. “I’ve never been a hero,” he replied. “I am merely a man who was better than average with a warhammer. It saddens me now, knowing that is the legacy I leave: as a man that excelled at violence. There is nothing heroic about that.”
“The villagers we freed would disagree.”
“Ay, I suppose that’s true,” Devon replied. “They look at us and see warriors, men to walk the mountains with, who guard the nation against evil. But that’s not really the truth, is it? We are only men, just like them, only we’re afraid to live an ordinary life, to earn an honest living toiling in the earth, to build something rather than tear down the works of our betters. The life they live in Skystead, that takes real courage, sonny.”
“What rubbish are you talking, old man?” Caledan snapped, quick to anger now. “Have your advanced years finally addled your mind?”
Devon chuckled. “Maybe,” he said, “or maybe I’m just the wiser for them. Tell me, Caledan, which is more noble? The man who spends his life growing crops to feed his family and others—or the man who comes with a sword and takes those crops for himself?”
“The farmer, of course,” Caledan retorted. “There is no honour in theft.”
“Devon said nothing of theft,” Genevieve said with a smile. Caledan glared at her, but Devon gestured for her to go on. “Is that not what a conquering army does? Takes from those they have defeated?”
“That’s different.”
“How?” Genevieve pressed.
“A soldier takes no coin from those they fight. The crown pays their wage.”
“Ay, but where does the crown’s coin come from, when they go to war?” Genevieve laughed.
Caledan swore and exploded to his feet. “That still does not explain how the farmer is braver than the warrior!”
“Do you not fear such a life then?” Devon asked quietly, though he knew the answer. He’d seen it in the man’s eyes the night before, with his talk of having nothing left to live for.
A stillness came over the sellsword. When he said nothing, Devon continued:
“I know I did, once. There was a time when I feared just the thought of such a life. The idea of rising each morning, to etch out an existence in the same menial job, day after day…it filled me with dread.”
“And now?” Caledan croaked, his eyes wide, like a deer caught in an open field.
Devon made to reply, but at that moment there came a crack from outside the circle of firelight. He was on his feet in an instant, hammer in hand, searching the darkness for signs of movement.
“I’d stop talking with him now, if I were you,” a voice spoke from the shadows, raising the hairs on the back of Devon’s neck. “Devon’s spent far too much time drinking with Selina.”
A figure stepped into the firelight. Braidon’s clothes were torn and mud-stained, and his beard was matted with grime, but the king wore a ragged grin on his lips as he staggered across to the fire and slumped onto a log beside them.
“Lovely evening,” he said conversationally, holding his hands out to the flames. “What brings you to this part of the woods, Devon? Last I heard, you were happily retired in Skystead.”
For Braidon, the seconds after his fall were a blur, as he had first tried to fend off the berserker who’d gone over the side with him—and then escape the croc that had torn the man in two. Blood had stained the river red, the waters churning with the ravenous creatures. Desperate, Braidon had swum faster than he ever had before, making for the shallows.
Miraculously, he had made it. Perhaps the crocodiles had been occupied by easier prey, or perhaps he’d just been lucky. But his luck had run out once he’d hauled himself ashore and looked around. Locked together in battle, the two ships had been caught in the currents and were already drifting out of sight. By the time he’d called out, they’d been far away, already disappearing into one of a myriad of channels.
He had waited for long minutes, knowing his ship would return—if his King’s Guards managed to see off the Baronians. But as the waters grew still, Braidon had sensed unseen eyes watching him. Marshland bordered the lower reaches of the Lane and he’d still stood in knee-deep water. With the thick mud beneath his feet, there would be no opportunity to manoeuvre should the crocs seek fresh prey.
Remembering the ferocity of the Baronians, Braidon had sent up a prayer to the Gods that Marianne was safe. After a moment’s hesitation, he’d added Alana to the prayer, though even in his desperation had failed to keep a grim smile from his face. Not in a million years would his ten-year-old self have guessed his sister would become a deity worshiped by thousands.
Fear of the crocodiles and the return of the Baronians had eventually forced Braidon away from the river. He had trekked inland until coming to solid ground, then followed the first trail he could find leading north. Lane was the nearest settlement of any size, though on foot and on poor roads the journey could take as long as three days.
That had been two days ago. By now the world must think him dead, and Braidon feared for what might have transpired in his absence. Had Marianne survived? Was his son safe? And what of the Lonians? They would take advantage of any Plorsean weakness they could exploit.
Then there was the matter of the Baronian ship. Its design reminded him of the strange vessels he’d seen at the docks in Lon. He wondered if the Lonians had had a hand in the attack, and what this new power was they possessed. In a world without magic, it posed a threat he did not know how to counter. And if the Lonians were bold enough to act against him, even under the guise of Baronians…he feared what that meant for Plorsea, and for his family.
But finding Devon here, in his darkest hour, gave Braidon hope that all might not be lost. Surely it was a sign. He didn’t care if it came from the Three Gods or his sister, only that he could return to Ardath with the hero beside him. It might even give Lonia second thoughts about attacking Plorsea, with their faith in the Knights of Alana and Devon’s place in those tales.
Holding his hands out to the fire, Braidon couldn’t help but grin at the shock written across his friend’s face.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, old friend,” Braidon announced finally, after Devon had not said anything for a long moment.
Stepping quickly across the clearing, Devon hauled him up and engulfed him in a bear hug. “Good to see you,” he bellowed, then in a softer voice that only Braidon could hear: “Say nothing of your name.”
Frowning, Braidon stepped back as Devon gestured to his companions. “This is Caledan and Genevieve,” he said, indicating each in turn before pointing at Braidon. “This is Brenden. He fought with me in the Plorsean army, for a time.”
Braidon shook each of their hands. “Nice to meet you,” he said, then sank back onto the log. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any food? I’m starving.”
“What happened to your gear?” Caledan asked, his tone unwelcoming. Braidon had lost everything but his sword in the fall.
“You heard the news?” Devon asked before Braidon could respond. “The king is dead.”
“Here,” Genevieve added, holding out a strip of dried beef.
Braidon took it with a grin. “Cheers,” he said, then looked at Devon. “This morning. I heard Baronians were involved.”
“Baronians? In Plorsea? Now how would such bandits have crept into our great nation?” Devon asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
“If I remember correctly, you led a band of them once, didn’t you?” Braidon replied, trying not to respond to the man’s baiting. “Regardless, do you know what’s to be done about them?”
“The queen is leading an expedition to hunt them down,” Devon answered.
“The queen!” Braidon gasped, before swallowing back his shock and continuing in a more measured tone. “Surely that would be the job of the King’s Guard.”
“They’re going with her. Five ships in all. We saw them sail past us.”
“Well, I hope they catch the bastards,” Braidon muttered.
“I doubt they’ll have much trouble, once they track ‘em down,” Devon said, “but the Baronians are not our biggest problem just now.”
“Oh?” Braidon asked. “So it was not the king’s death that brought you out of retirement?”
Devon smiled grimly. “No,” he replied. “It was the Knights of Alana.”
Braidon snorted. “What have those fanatics done now?”
“They came to Skystead and attacked the temple, took Kryssa. I believe they plan to sacrifice her at the midsummer solstice.”
“Wha…what?” Braidon gaped. “This…you’re joking, right? Who’s Kryssa?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Devon’s face darkened. “Kryssa is the child Selina adopted, when we still lived in Ardath. You have met her in fact, many times. But then I would not expect—” He cut himself off, and Braidon realised he could not finish the sentence without giving his identity away.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, knowing it was not enough. Still reeling from the last few days, he had forgotten the name for half a moment, though he did not expect Devon to take his word for it. “When did this happen?
“We have been hunting the Knights who took her for weeks,” Genevieve said when Devon did not answer.
“Been a while since the two of you saw each other,” Caledan murmured. “How did you say you met again?”
Braidon’s heart quickened beneath the man’s hawkish gaze. Sweat trickled down his neck as the moment drew out. He didn’t know why Devon wanted to keep his identity secret, but Caledan had the look of a killer about him. Braidon knew a man he did not want to cross when he saw one.
“Brenden fought with me in some border skirmishes,” Devon answered finally.
“I’m sorry, Devon,” Braidon repeated. “Do you know where these Knights are heading?”
“Somewhere in the forest,” Genevieve answered.
“The Forest of Plorsea? It spans for leagues in all directions from here. And the deeper you go, the more dangerous it becomes.”
“We’ll find them,” Genevieve replied with feeling. “I’ve been following their tracks, from one group at least. More have joined them since we left Lane. There must be hundreds in the forest.”
“Hundreds?” Braidon exclaimed, looking from her to Devon. “You can’t be serious? With the king…dead, the queen needs people she can trust to keep the peace. We cannot afford for you to throw your life away on some hopeless quest!”
“The queen can take care of herself,” Devon replied, his eyes shining. “My…Kryssa needs me.”
“You’re just one man, Devon,” Braidon whispered. “Not even you can defeat so many.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Braidon knuckled his forehead and turned to the others. “What about the two of you? Surely you can’t be going along with this?”
Caledan shrugged and Genevieve gave a quiet grin. “The old man has a plan.”
“A plan!” Braidon burst out, swinging on Devon. “Now you have a plan?”
Devon shrugged and looked away. Braidon swallowed. Devon had always had a presence about him, an unyielding strength that made people believe he could move mountains. But in the flickering firelight, Braidon could see the lines on his face, the bags under his eyes, and for a second he wondered how long his friend had for this world.
Then the hammerman blinked, and the image vanished, his familiar confidence returning.
“Please, Devon,” Braidon said. He needed to get back to Ardath and his son, to take command of the situation. But even more, he needed his old friend at his side, to stand against this new darkness. “Plorsea needs you.”
“Kryssa has a daughter,” Devon rumbled. “Her name is Pela. I promised I would not return without her mother. She needs me more, sonny.”
“What is one woman, one girl, to the fate of a nation?”
“What is a nation, if it cannot protect the innocent?” Devon countered.
“Everything!” Braidon snapped, leaping to his feet. Breath hissed between his teeth as he inhaled, then he realised Caledan was watching. Slowly he sank back to his seat. “If the king is dead, the Lonians will come. It’s only a matter of time,” he explained. “We’re not ready. We need a hero like you, or Plorsea will be lost.”
“And what of it?” Caledan growled. “What is Plorsea but a name? What does it matter if we are ruled from Lon? They can’t be any worse than the fool we had until two days ago.”
Braidon glanced at Devon, expecting his friend to disagree, but the hammerman only raised an eyebrow. It was left to the huntress to come to his defence.
“Thousands will die,” she murmured.
“And others will find their fortune,” Caledan replied. “It’s how I made mine.”
Braidon looked at Devon. “You truly believe this woman is worth sacrificing a nation for, Devon?”
“What’s the point of saving Plorsea, if I can’t save my family?” Devon replied.
The breath caught in Braidon’s throat and he had to look away. His mind raced back to the day they’d lost Alana. The Tsar had been defeated, his armies sundered, but for Devon and Braidon there had been no joy, no celebration. The price had been too high. Braidon had lost his sister, Devon his love.
“We could use an extra sword,” Devon murmured.
Braidon’s head whipped around, his eyes catching in Devon’s amber gaze. He remembered another time then, long ago, when Devon had stood aboard the Songbird and defied a demon to protect Braidon and Alana. And again in Fort Fall, against the Tsar’s Stalkers, and in the throne room against their father himself. Again and again, down through the decades, this man had been there for Braidon, had laid his life on the line for the Three Nations.
Now he was asking Braidon to do the same for him.
Looking into his eyes, Braidon glimpsed again Devon’s pain, the exhaustion he tried so hard to disguise. Age had caught up with him, diminished his once-great strength. He had no right to be wandering these country roads on a quest to rescue a kidnapped woman, no right to stand against the Knights of Alana. Yet he would, because he was Devon.
And Braidon could not deny him.
“Okay, Devon,” he said. The decision was surprisingly easy to make. “What’s the plan?”
“We’ll reach the Cove tomorrow,” Putar declared as they dismounted.
“If we survive the night,” Ikar grunted.
They had recovered their horses not long after Putar’s appearance, and from there had veered from the Gods Road onto the backtrails of the Forest of Plorsea. A ferryman had helped them across the Lane the same day, and they’d spent another two days within the forest before moving out onto Chole’s volcanic plateau.
It had not been until this morning though that they had left Plorsea behind, and ventured into the uncharted jungles of Dragon Country. Ikar had pushed them hard, eager to leave the forest behind. Putar had assured him the Red Dragons would not touch them, but Ikar was far from convinced. The beasts were vicious, hateful creatures and would attack at the slightest provocation. He would be glad to reach the end of their journey.
Even more so to bid farewell to the Elder. The last few days on the road had diminished Putar. The man needed Ikar’s aid just to climb into the saddle each morning, and spent most of his time complaining of one discomfort or another. He seemed to blame Kryssa for his situation, and as his mood grew fouler each day, Ikar was forced to place himself between the Elder and their captive.
He untied her from the saddle now, though he left her hands bound, and helped her to dismount. She staggered as her feet touched the ground, cramped from the long hours in the saddle, but she recovered without Ikar’s aid. He quickly withdrew the hand he’d extended to help her, but not before Kryssa noticed.
“Thank you, oh Knight,” she said, a smile twisting her lips, “but I am quite alright. Perhaps the fat man has need of your assistance?”
“Blasphemous witch!” Putar cursed. He swung from the saddle with a little too much violence and his foot caught in the stirrup, toppling him face-first into the mud.
Ikar snorted as the Elder thrashed in the mud. By the time Putar finally sat up, he was covered from head to toe, and Ikar was glad for the helmet concealing his face. He did not think the Elder would appreciate his amusement. Kryssa’s mirth had enraged him enough.
Dragging himself to his feet, he tore the riding crop from his saddle and advanced on Kryssa. Ikar stepped between them and raised a hand.
“We cannot touch her,” he said quietly, though there was steel in his voice. “Were those not your orders?”
Putar’s face went a mottled purple. “Ay, they were my orders. And now I command you to step aside, Knight. The witch must pay for her disrespect.”
Ikar remained in place for several seconds longer than was proper, but finally he stepped aside. Whatever his personal thoughts, he had no right to defy an Elder, though in truth he had come to enjoy the woman’s company far more than Putar’s on this journey. Despite her predicament, Kryssa remained surprisingly light-hearted throughout the long days, although that was perhaps only to deflect their suspicions from her own schemes.
She had made another two escape attempts since the first, frustrating Ikar to the point of violence. He had been forced to knock her from the saddle at almost full gallop the last time. The hard mountain earth had been unforgiving, and a dozen scratches and bruises now marked her arms and legs.
“Is it disrespectful to point out the obvious, fat man?” Kryssa laughed, her head tilted to one side.
“Witch!” Putar bellowed, his teeth bared. “You dare to laugh at an Elder of the Order!”
Kryssa snorted. “Only when they fall on their—”
She broke off as Putar whipped her across the face with his cane. Her hands still bound, Kryssa toppled backwards into the mud, a cry on her lips. Ikar gasped and took half a step forward, but Putar flashed him a warning glare, and he stilled once more.
The cane still in hand, he advanced on the woman. Still on her back, Kryssa glared up at him, her sapphire eyes defiant. Snorting, she spat a bloody glob of saliva at his feet.
“Is that the best you can do?”
Snarling, Putar lashed out with his boot, catching her in the stomach. The blow lifted her from the ground and sent her rolling across the clearing. Nearby, the horses snickered, made nervous by the woman’s cries. Ikar swallowed and looked away, disgusted by this new level of cruelty from Putar.
Air whistled between Kryssa’s teeth as she struggled to her knees. “Coward.”
The cane descended again. Ikar winced and closed his eyes to the crack of wood on flesh. Again and again it came, punctuated each time by a scream from Putar. Clenching his fists, Ikar struggled to control his rage. Putar’s malice had revealed him for what he was: a cruel, vile man, obsessed with his own power. His prior virtue had only ever been a deception.
A scream rent the clearing and finally Ikar could take it no more. Spinning, he reached for his sword…
…and froze when he saw Kryssa half crouched in the mud, Putar now lying motionless at her feet. Eyes wide, she stared back at him, as though waiting to see how he would react.
“What have you done?” Steel hissed on leather he drew his blade and advanced on the woman.
She did not move, not even when he stretched out his sword and rested the point against her throat. A fresh bruise was already beginning to darken on her cheek where Putar had struck her.
Ikar’s eyes darted to the Elder, but it took only a glance to confirm he was dead. Putar’s neck was bent at an unnatural angle, and his open eyes stared back at Ikar, unblinking. He swallowed. Kryssa’s hands were still bound before her—how had she killed him? A shudder raced down his spine as he tensed, readying himself to strike her down.
“Do it,” she hissed, eyes aflame. “Go on!”
Shocked by the venom in her voice, Ikar took a step back. Unperturbed, Kryssa rose and advanced until his blade touched her throat once more.
“Please,” she whispered. “Or let me go. I refuse to be your sacrifice, to feed whatever hatred burns in your Order.”
For a moment, Ikar was prepared to do it, such was her desperation. All it would take was one thrust, and her suffering would end. Then he looked into her eyes…
“I can’t,” he croaked.
“You must!” she snapped. “I murdered your precious Elder.”
He glanced again at the body lying by his feet. Even in death, Putar’s face had a hateful look about it. Slowly Ikar shook his head.
“He was no Elder,” he murmured. “He defiled the title with his malice. You are chosen by the Saviour, if he died by your hand, it must be her will.”
Kryssa stood unmoving for a long time, her eyes transfixed on Ikar, as though somehow her gaze could pierce the steel confines of his helmet.
“So be it,” she said suddenly, her words as sharp as razors. “But know this, from now on you are my enemy, and I will not hesitate to kill you.”
Ikar opened his mouth to laugh, then he saw again Putar’s body, and the laughter died on his lips. A shudder raced up his spine, lifting the hackles on his neck.
“So be it,” he agreed.
That night, Ikar did not rest, only sat watching the woman in her sleeping sack, and when the first light of the morning found them, they were already well on their way.
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