William King - Shadowblood

If he reached out to her now, he would be sentencing her to death, and he did not want to do that; more than anything else in the world, he wanted to avoid it. “You cannot come with me. I forbid it.”

“You do not own me. This is not the Dark Empire. Not yet. You cannot forbid me to do anything.”

The defiance in her tone fanned his own anger. He wrenched his feelings back under control. He was not going to argue with a human. He was not going to raise his voice to her. “Then I ask you not to do it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” he shouted. “What is so bloody difficult about it.”

“I can’t go back, not to Redtower, not to Mama Horne’s, not after being here with you.”

“I will come back for you. I will find you.”

“I have heard that before.”

It was not the right thing for her to say. Sardec did not like to think about her other lovers, the human ones, the ones who paid. He did not like to think that she compared him to them.

“If I say a thing, I mean it.”

“I will not go. I will not take your money. I will follow the army.”

“No you will not.” Once again he was shouting, and the shameful realisation that other Terrarchs might hear him goaded him to fury.

“Yes I will.”

“I am leaving,” he said, stalking to the door, determined to regain his composure.

She was gone when he got back. His money was still there.

From the saddle of her stolen destrier, Tamara studied the road. An endless stream of people surged past her heading west.

Families of thin-faced peasants trudged along, all of their worldly possessions hanging in bundles from their sticks, lines of squalling children strung out behind their parents like so many ducklings following their mother to a pond. The richer ones rode on carts that in better days would have carried their produce to market.

Among the peasants were wounded soldiers, deserters, bandits. She had met their likes a few times along the road, but they had not seen through her disguise, and taken her for one of themselves. It had not stopped a few of them trying to rob her for her gear, and her horse. Those that had tried had died, quietly, wondering why breathing was suddenly so difficult and whose blood stained their chests and throats.

“Can ye spare a bit to eat, sir?” asked a ragged pimple-faced youth. A younger brother or friend leaned against him, and his tone was half-way between begging and menace. Her steed marked her out as one who might have money and the lad was simply trying his luck.

“I wish I could,” she said, pitching her voice low and keeping the accent rough. “But I’ve got nothing.”

“Ye’ve got a horse.”

“I ate horse once,” said his companion. He sounded feverish. “Tasted good as pork. As good but different.”

“You can’t eat my horse,” Tamara said. “I need it to carry me East.”

“No sense in goin’ that way, sir. There’s war in the East and Dark Empire soldiers and the Plague.”

“My families in Asterton and I got to get back to them,” she lied smoothly.

“No sense in going there, sir. It’s burned to the ground or so I heard. Soldiers did it. The place was crawling with the walking dead.”

It was not the first time she had heard tales of restless corpses while she was on the road. Every second person seemed to have one to tell, if you had the time to listen. Wicked sorcery had been used in the past few months and she suspected she knew by whom.

“They say the Shadow is spreading its wings over the world, sir, and that the last days are near and that this is a sign. The graveyards are emptying, and the sun will soon go out. Now’s not the time to grudge a man a bite of horse.”

“You bite this horse and he will most likely bite you back. A vicious tempered brute he is.” She hoped they would take the hint. She disliked senseless killing. She supposed she could just put her spurs to the beast and ride them down, but there were risks in that as well.

“Have you seen these walking dead men?” she asked.

“No but we’ve met those that have.” At least they were more honest than some.

“They say it’s the Light’s punishment on us for letting the Queen die,” said the sicker looking one.

“I heard it was punishment for her murdering her old father and trying to seize the throne away from Prince Khaldarus. He’s the rightful heir, after all.”

So even two such as these were caught up in the currents of the civil war. It seemed Sardea’s agents had done their work well.

“He’s the only heir now,” said the other, “so I guess we are stuck with him, unless the Taloreans kill him too and put one of their own on the throne.”

“Bastards wouldn’t have dared try something like that when the old King was alive. General Koth would have sorted them out.”

Tamara wanted to say Koth had been in his grave for over a century, but she doubted it would do any good. The Kharadreans had all sorts of legends about their great human General. Doubtless he was expected to return and save the kingdom momentarily.

“You’re right,” she said, just to mollify them. “They would not have dared. Now if you would just step aside I will be on my way.”

For a moment, she thought they were going to try and block her, and that she was going to have to ride them down. From the expressions on their faces, she guessed that they thought that too, at least for a moment, before their fear and fatigue won out and they stepped aside from her path.

“Good luck on your travels,” she told them as she set her mount in motion along the muddy road.

“Don’t let the walking dead get you,” shouted the sicker-looking one of the pair. His good wishes seemed heartfelt and she felt oddly grateful to him for them, even if he was only a human.

The stink of cheap perfume and tobacco hit Rik as soon as he pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the Nag’s Head. A dozen rouged faces turned to look at him, but his clothes were threadbare, and his manner down at heel. No self-respecting whore would take him for a likely prospect, but that did not stop a few of the more broken down ones sidling closer till he shook his head and pushed them away. Business must really be bad.

“Look who’s here,” said Weasel. No amount of grime or badly patched clothing could deceive his keen eyes. “Slumming again, eh?”

“Halfbreed!” boomed the Barbarian. “Could not keep away from the old company eh?”

The cheeriness in his voice showed he had drunk just enough to be overly friendly, and not quite enough to be violent. Before they could say anymore, Rik slid into the booth and shouted for a beer.

“I’m surprised they are letting you out of the Palace these days,” said Weasel, in a voice low enough to show that he had least understood the need to be discreet. On the table in front of him was a deck of cards, with which no doubt he was about to cheat the rest of the lads out of their wages.

“Yes, after the Queen got it…” Weasel’s elbow in his gut cut the Barbarian off from whatever indiscretion he was about to bellow.

“I snuck out,” said Rik, “and I don’t think this is the time or place to be shouting about from where.”

The Barbarian looked surly. “Then what is it the time and place for?”

“There’s an Inquisitor in town.”

“I know,” said Weasel. “We saved him from some walking corpses.”

“I don’t need to remind you about the book business back in Redtower and what followed at Achenar.”

“No indeed — a profitable business it was,” said the Barbarian.

“One that could get us all burned at the stake if it came to light.”

“If you came all the way down here just to remind us of that, you could have saved yourself a trip,” said Weasel. “We won’t be bringing it up with him even if he drops in for a beer.”