The Last Steward Page 6

  “Thank you,” she said in Common.

  Clyfe sighed. Why did he even intervene? But he knew why. He was obligated, for he had killed her husband. And now there was no one to watch out for her. Yet, why did he care about that? Grike spoke truth. There was no such recourse given for Athena.

  “Go back to your hut. If you care for me while I am here, I will not let anyone bother you.”

  “I will not!” she snapped, the fire leaping back into her eyes. “You expect me to care for the one who killed my husband?”

  “If you do not, there is nothing I can do for you, woman!” He resisted the urge to strike her. But she held the boy to her breast for him to suckle. It would be wrong, even if she wasn’t Jattalian. Bara Bayan was the god of justice, after all, and would smite him. Although there was no priest here, Bara Bayan would still see, would still know. So Clyfe stilled his hand.

  “Will you have your way with me, then? In my home? While my husband’s blood still soaks the sand at my door?”

  “Fine!” Clyfe clenched his jaw. “You will serve all my other needs. Food, and drink, and a warm bed.”

  “You will stake your word on it?” she asked. In response, Clyfe spat in his hand and held it out to her. She did the same, and they shook on it.

  “You have somehow manipulated me.” He shook his head when her face of stone broke into a wary smile.

  “I am a woman. I always win.” She looked down on her son with tenderness, but when she raised her eyes, they were once more hard as flint. “Do not think this means I forgive you, murderer.”

  “I could say the same. Athena died at the hands of your Finders. I held her small body, not yet two years old, in my hands as her blood soaked my clothes. I was ten winters young, woman. The Finders watched my desperate cries rising to the sky. But Bara Bayan was looking the other way. Now, he seeks justice.”

  Her eyes softened, and she clutched her son tighter to her breast as he nursed. “I am sorry for what happened to you. But I, my son, and my husband did not slaughter your sister.”

  “No, but your King did.” Clyfe hawked and spat at her feet. “And I will have my revenge.”

  Her face twisted into a grimace. “King Arinbjorn, mighty warrior that he is, does not speak for all Greigans.”

  He just shook his head and left, intending to leave her behind, but she hurried to catch up. “How will the others know not to bother me?”

  Clyfe rolled his eyes and turned back to her. “By defending you, I marked you as mine. The others will tell the story. No other warrior will challenge me. I am the fastest and the strongest in all of Jattal. Only the Hooded could defeat me in battle, and only then because he has the spark.” He folded his arms. “Besides, you are not pretty enough to fight over.”

  “Yet you were willing to do just that!” she replied, tightening her lips.

  He laughed at her expression. “What is your name, woman?”

  “Yael. It means ‘fire.’”

  “Not surprising. And the child?”

  “Gavel. After his father.”

  Pity sliced through Clyfe as he gazed on the boy. What was this? He was growing fond of the scrawny thing?

  He had slaughtered his father in war time. It was justified.

  Yael sent him one last glare before stalking away. Clyfe sighed again, then hurried to find Commander Froth.

  Signs of the battle were evident in the light. Burned huts, dead bodies, and masses of prisoners now made slaves littered the village. Women were rounded up and shackled, children left to do as they wanted, and the men either executed or chained for slavery.

  Clyfe passed a moaning villager still alive somehow, dragging his body across the square toward a well. He stepped over him. The man would die long before he reached water. Some fool warrior, a novice no doubt, hadn’t finished the job. Bara Bayan would decide the injured man’s fate, whether he deserved life or death. Medicine was not brought onto the battlefield. The healers were left on Jattal.

  Commander Froth was in a meeting with the other commanders and the Hooded. Clyfe paused on the outskirts, listening.

  “...he will send a force by night’s end. We must dig the trenches and fortify.”

  “Fortify what, exactly?” someone asked with a hint of scorn in his tone. “These walls were destroyed. We have nothing to shield us.”

  “Leave that to me,” the Hooded replied. “All my strength will be required, so the offensive strategy will be up to our warriors. But I can create a barrier over the whole town with the Deep. For at least an hour.”

  “He will not come so soon,” another voice chimed in. “They will think long over how to approach the town. The King won’t have word on how strong our forces are, or how many accessors we brought with us.”

  “Fools!” The Hooded’s face, although partially obscured by the cloak’s fabric, was shaking with rage. “He will know it is only one accessor. The damage can be seen from the sea. There is little chance of many of us being hidden from him.”

  “I would propose a challenge,” Clyfe said. The commanders would be reticent to hear him, but he was the most fearsome warrior on these shores. If he desired it, he would be the one making the decisions. Good thing for them he had no aspirations for command.

  “Speak, Fleetfoot,” the Hooded said, voice tired.

  “We leave this village behind and move on. There are dozens more like it farther inland. We move from village to village every night. They won’t know where we strike next.”

  “It will be a simple matter of location. They know the closest will fall.” Commander Froth didn’t sound argumentative, merely pointing out the obvious.

  “Tonight we move farther down the coast, camp for the night, and then move inland south instead of north.” Clyfe shrugged. “They won’t be expecting it.”

  “Further south?” a commander scoffed. “That is further from the Hovering City. The agreement with Polbine Voltaire is that he would sit on the Stone Throne.”

  “Which he will do, as soon as we are ready. But we wait, bide our time, take out the smaller clans, until they parley with us. If they are wise, the smaller clans will join us instead of facing us. Then our numbers will grow into a sizeable force to take on the Hovering City.”

  The snorts of laughter among the commanders stirred Clyfe’s anger. The Hooded gazed at him with speculation, however.

  “You think they will join us?” The Hooded’s question quieted the laughter. “What makes you think they will turn against their own King? And what of any Finders interspersed at the villages? I can only fight the battle against one force. Either the powers of the Rift, or the archers at the wall.”

  “My slave seems to have no love for her King. She defends her own household but gives no credence to Arinbjorn.”

  “You would have us change our strategy on the sense you get from a slave woman?” Commander Froth’s tone was incredulous, his eyes wide and brow scrunched.

  “I would have you not openly meet him in battle until we know beyond a doubt that the Triumphant King backs us and isn’t leaving us here to fight alone.” Clyfe steadied rising frustration. There was a sort of sixth sense he had. Or perhaps a gift from the gods to bring about retribution full and complete on the Flatland King’s head. “The Chieftains are not far behind, followed by the High Chieftain himself. I would not have them set foot on this soil unless we know our victory is at hand.”

  “I see your reasoning, Fleetfoot, and will think on it.” The Hooded eyed Clyfe with something near respect. “You are sure you do not wish to lead a contingent of warriors into battle?”

  “I will fight, but I will not lead.” Clyfe bowed a head and turned to Commander Froth. “A word, sir.” And he stepped away from the others.

  Froth followed, scratching his head. “You defy explanation, Clyfe. Sometimes I think you must be mad. Other times, I think you are a descendant of the gods.” He grinned, elbowing Clyfe. “Speak your mind, free and open.”

  “The captured slaves need bette
r treatment.”

  Froth blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “I have seen half-dead men crawling across the dirt. Women with children at their breast abused. I know that Bara Bayan will not look kindly on these injustices.”

  Froth shrugged. “Not all worship the god of justice, warrior. You know this.”

  “Yet we must fight and win with honor. I for one would have us plunder, but not abuse. Women with children should be given the option of slavery or death, whichever they prefer. The wounded should be killed to alleviate suffering. Children shouldn’t be touched. Men should be allowed to stay with their family in slavery if they survive the initial onslaught.”

  “You speak of things we already believe.”

  “But do not follow,” Clyfe said, raising a finger. “We should make it a crime to disobey the rules of war.”

  Froth crossed his arms, frowning. “Why the sudden interest in our enemy? You hate Greigans.”

  Yael’s face flashed through Clyfe’s mind, followed by Athena’s. “They shouldn’t be blamed for things they cannot control.”

  Froth nodded. “I will speak with the other commanders, although I cannot promise anything. Your hatred is matched by all the men who run for battle. We have all suffered at the hands of the Flatland King.”

  Clyfe’s mind filled with a darkness he long gave up trying to suppress. “The Car’abels and Finders will pay, Commander. Make no mistake.”

  ***

  They left the village later that afternoon, slaves in tow and the burning stench of bodies wafting through the air as if following on their heels. The longships were near to overflowing, but Clyfe didn’t mind. He was satisfied. The Hooded had soon seen the wisdom of his plan.

  South they flew, the Passage Tide making their journey swift. The blade of Clyfe’s oar sliced through the waters as a finely sharpened knife through cloth. Behind him, the Hooded remained silent. As the afternoon shadows lengthened and Clyfe’s muscles began to ache, he pushed all thoughts aside save for those of sweet revenge.

  The face of his sister, framed by soft curls and rosy cheeks, filled his mind’s eye.

  She would soon rest easy. Sweet Athena. Soon, his blade would taste the King’s blood.

  Skin wet with sweat and ocean spray, Clyfe wiped his brow and took a brief respite. The longship glided seamless through the waters. The land to his right was rocky and cragged, and a brag stood tall as they flew by. A lad stood with a staff beside it, dog at his side, no doubt wondering who these strangers were passing his shore.

  That night, the clansmen didn’t stand a chance. The Hooded destroyed their walls as before, and Clyfe was once again first through the breach. Their Elder was executed in the village square.

  Yael stood beside him along with the rest of the slaves, forced to watch. She held a sleeping Gavel, swaddled and tied against her.

  “You are lucky, you know,” Clyfe told her as soon as the head rolled across the sand.

  “Really?” she asked, a dry tone to her voice. “I wouldn’t have termed it thus.”

  “You will see the Jattalian victory from the first battle to the last. Perhaps after this is all over, I will free you.”

  “Or perhaps when this is all over, you will be buried under the sand, your name forgotten.”

  He laughed, throwing his head back and howling at the sky. “My name will be sung across the sphere. Clyfe Fleetfoot, who killed the Flatland King.”

  Chapter Six

  Brate Hightower

  Brate stepped into the cave, the waterfall cascading behind him. He was weary. Bone weary, as if the strength had seeped from his core to splatter down the waterfall to the rocks below. Breathing in the humid air seemed to weigh him down all the more. Outside the cave, above his head, it was cold. Autumn was fully upon them, and he only had his imagination to fill in the crisp colors of the leaves and foliage. Whenever he got the chance, he would venture above to see the sky.

  But there was too much risk involved. Discovery would mean death.

  He paused, looking over his shoulder with the insane urge to just run. Run somewhere forever, hide from his troubles, and hope that the other Stewards could do what needed to be done. But even as the urge threatened to overtake him, the soft face of Anyia filled his head. He wouldn’t run, not when she depended on him.

  Another face replaced Anyia’s in his mind. Polbine Voltaire, maniacal glint in his eye, pulling the very soul from Constance Rei’cain while caluths swirled around the room and helped him. Then, the Triumphant King’s offer for Brate to join him. His smile of delight when Brate had refused.

  Constance’s body on the ground. She had given it for him.

  Brate rubbed his eyes. There was no end to the struggle, was there? It had been over a month since the battle had taken place, and still they were rebuilding. Over a month since the King had destroyed the tolo-breths. Over a month since the explosion had killed several Sisters in the Hidden Coven, and Julia Carstran.

  But it hadn’t been Anyia. So, there was that.

  Guilt washed over him. Guilt, but underlying it was relief. If anything were to happen to Anyia, Brate would go mad.

  He shoved his musings to the back of his mind and strode forward, entering the cave and cracking his neck. It had become a nervous habit from being underground for so long. Ahead, a large partitioned room was almost empty. None of the Sisters of the Hidden Coven seemed inclined to be up this early. He hadn’t been able to sleep, haunted by dreams of dead men assailing him, accusing him of their deaths. He had come to accept their accusations, for it was true that he was responsible. But it didn’t stop the dreams from rattling him to where he would awaken drenched in sweat and trembling.

  Ahead, a corridor snaked to the right and led to the breakfast chamber. He entered, and Malok Mountain Keeper was the only one present. He was staring at the wall, eyes vacant. Pity shot through Brate.

  Actually, it wasn’t only Malok. Garron came from the kitchens carrying a plate of food, clearly having helped himself since no one was awake yet to serve the meal. He halted when his eyes rested on Brate, but then nodded and went to Malok, sitting the food in front of him. Brate joined them, laying a hand on Malok before sitting on the bench.

  “Eat,” Garron said, taking a scone and handing it to Malok. He took it and obeyed, but his chewing was rote, as if he did it only to satisfy Garron. His eyes still stared at the wall. Garron’s brow was furrowed, and he chewed his lower lip. A sluice of empathy wound its way into Brate’s gut. Being forced to watch Malok lose himself must be incredibly difficult for Garron.

  “At least he is eating now.” As soon as he said it, Brate wanted to kick himself. But what else was there to say? Ever since Malok had been sent to See the King he hadn’t been the same. Tortured for days, poisoned, and forced to See thousands of futures had shattered his mind.

  Even Isa hadn’t healed him completely. The strange carpenter had disappeared after defeating Polbine Voltaire and drawing the poison from Malok’s body and taking it into his own. They had searched the city for him high and low but there was no sign of him. Not even the innkeeper who had hired him had seen him, nor Kyla, the old woman who knew more than anyone else in the city. Brate, Gillum, the Sisters, Malok, and Ezra Carp had fled. The Forest City was no longer safe.

  Brate’s throat tightened. Several of the Meadow Grove men had died that day. Their families would never be the same.

  How often had he blamed himself for what had happened? Too many times, probably. Some things he could take responsibility for, but the way things had ended with Polbine Voltaire was not one of them. Yet he still wrestled with it, like a Combatmaster. Often the guilt would subdue him, overtaking his mind and convincing him he alone should bear responsibility for the death of Constance and the men. Anyia was quick to remind him that he was also responsible for freeing the Sisters and Natashia del’Blyth.

  “I don’t know how to reach him,” Garron said, face drawn, eyes sad. He picked up some berries without seeming to
think, rolling them in his fingers and gazing at the same spot on the wall Malok did. “There must be something the Sisters can do.”

  “They’ve tried,” Brate said with a shrug. “I think he must deal with the trauma before he can come back to his right mind.”

  “It’s as if he doesn’t know we are here. After Isa healed him, he seemed himself. But then he remembered, and he withdrew into his mind like....” Garron’s voice trailed off, as if he realized he was repeating information he had said a dozen times already. Brate didn’t mind. It was his way of coping.

  “Malok is strong, Garron. I haven’t known him a long time, but to hear you and Ezra and Myra speak of him, he will recover. It will just take time.” Brate spoke words he didn’t necessarily believe. But it was for Garron’s sake. Garron sighed, threw the berries into his mouth, and grabbed Malok’s hand to raise the scone. Malok took a bite and chewed.

  Ezra Carp entered the dining area, and as his eyes caught theirs he seemed to hesitate. Then, striding forward, he said, “I would speak with you, Hightower.”

  Brate stood, laid another hand on Garron’s shoulder, and followed the bearded man from the room. Most of the time Ezra came across as aloof, and Brate had been satisfied to let him keep his distance. In the back of his mind were the stories of warlocks going mad, killing those around them after succumbing to lust for power. The Deep, if used correctly, was a magnificent tool, a gift from the Star. But when used for one’s own ends, it was the downfall of those who drew in too much. And the downfall of those they loved.

  Carp stopped when he reached the corridor, crossing his arms over a strong, wide chest. “I grow listless, Bender. How long before we hear word from Graissa and Priva? No one seems to know. The longer we wait, the stronger Pol becomes. And the greater the chance he finds us.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Brate shrugged. “I feel the same, Ezra, but there is little we can do until we hear if the Midlandians and the Eastlandians join our cause.”

  “I would like to hand the throne to D’nie Voltaire. But I would wait to send word to him until it is secure.”