Gail Martin - The Sworn

“How could they have captured so many vayash moru?” Jonmarc asked, stunned.

Sakwi began to move from cage to cage, muttering words that sounded like water flowing over rock. As his hands traced the outline of the cage, the bars lost their glow and the cage doors swung open.

“Most of these are young in the Dark Gift,” Laisren replied, moving with Jonmarc to gather up the bodies of the maimed prisoners. “They’re vulnerable in their day crypts. The fanatics know to injure them without striking the heart or cutting off the head. It takes the young ones so long to heal that they’re helpless from the pain.”

“What about him?” Jonmarc said with a jerk of his head toward the body impaled by the knife as he hefted one of the prisoners into his arms.

“He was old enough to be more cautious,” Laisren said, walking toward the vayash moru. With one swift motion, he removed the knife from the man’s heart. The man’s body convulsed and he gave a deep groan.

“Get on your feet,” Laisren said, helping the injured vayash moru up. “We’ve got to go.”

Jonmarc glanced around the chamber. A small corridor branched off, sloping down into darkness. “What do you suppose is down there?”

“If it’s what’s been feeding on the blood, you don’t want to know,” Laisren said as they headed for the stairs, carrying the bodies of those too badly injured to walk.

This time, Sakwi and the vayash moru led the group, armed and ready for a fight. Two mortals remained behind.

“Burn what’s left.” Jonmarc did not turn as he climbed up the stairs. When they had reached the top, running footsteps sounded behind them, followed by the roar of fire. They hurried toward the shelter of the forest, and Sakwi raised the fog around them once more. Dark shapes darted through the fog, huge gray wolves called by the land mage to protect their vyrkin brothers.

“I hope you’ve told them we’re off the menu,” Jonmarc said with a warning glance toward Sakwi.

The land mage gave a grim smile. “Of course.”

Just before they reached the tree line, the vayash moru took to flight, carrying bodies of their fallen comrades. Inside the forest, horses awaited the mortals. A few of the vyrkin were well enough to ride in human form; the rest, Jonmarc and the others strapped carefully behind their saddles, wrapped in blankets.

“I hate to think what Carina’s going to say when she sees this,” Jonmarc said to Sakwi as they swung up into their saddles.

Sakwi smiled. “Since she’s been married to you, I must say that her vocabulary has grown. She’ll do what she always does. First, she’ll curse like a merc, and then, she’ll send the rest of us running to fetch her healing supplies.”

“I wish I didn’t bring her so much business. At least, not this kind.”

“How many more like this do you think there are?”

Jonmarc shook his head. “They’re like rats. Every time you think you’ve found all the nests, another one shows up. We won’t know until we find more of the day crypts violated. The Blood Council’s issued a warning to their families, but Dark Haven’s been getting so many refugees-living and undead-because of the plague, we don’t know where the newcomers are going to ground. Same with the vyrkin. They move here to keep from being hunted in Nargi or Dhasson, and before they can find a safe place for their pack, the Shanthadurists are on them.”

“Can King Staden help?”

Jonmarc shrugged. “He’s sent some troops, but I get the feeling he’s stretched thin, keeping peace as the refugees pour in. There’ve been some outbreaks of plague near the Dhasson border. Plague’s gotten so bad in Margolan, Staden’s closed that border.”

“Didn’t Cam just leave for Isencroft? He’s got to cross Margolan to do it.”

Jonmarc nodded. “Carina wasn’t too happy. Said she didn’t fix her brother up just to have him catch the plague, but Cam’s as hardheaded as Carina.”

“They are twins, after all.”

“Cam’s a soldier first. He’s fixed up well enough to return to service, and Lady knows, King Donelan needs him. Anyone who can escape Isencroft’s Divisionists and live to tell about it can get across Margolan in one piece.”

“He was barely in one piece when he got to Dark Haven.”

Jonmarc grimaced. “Yeah. Only Cam would blow up the place where he was being held prisoner to warn the king.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Finally, they reached the forest’s edge and saw Dark Haven looming in the distance. The manor house was large, austere, and foreboding. Jonmarc reached up to brush a strand of long brown hair from his face as the wind swept across the flatland that separated the forest from the manor. Vyrkin in their wolf form went first, intent on flushing out any surprises lurking in the high grass. They howled an all clear for the others to follow.

When they reached the manor gates, Jonmarc was not surprised to find Carina waiting for them. He swung down from his saddle and went to her. Short, dark hair framed her face, and even the full cut of her healer’s robes could not hide that she was well along in her pregnancy. Jonmarc knew she was appraising him as he approached, looking with a practiced eye for injuries.

“How bad?” she asked as he reached her.

Jonmarc laid a hand on her shoulder. “Our side got lucky this time-no injuries. Laisren’s informants had good information. Sakwi took down their magical protection, and we were on them before they knew what was happening.”

Carina’s green eyes searched his, and he knew that she could tell he was evading a full answer. “And the prisoners?”

“It’s bad. Real bad.” She started to move past him and he grabbed her arm. “Carina, please, let the other healers help, at least with the vyrkin. If you collapse again…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he glanced down toward her belly, growing large with twins. “Please,” he repeated quietly, “be careful.”

Carina nodded, but her gaze was already going to where Laisren and the others had begun carrying the limp bodies into the manor house. “I know. There’s just so much to do.” She reached over to squeeze his hand. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

He watched her go, forced to smile as she took charge of the rescue operation, summoning guards to help transport the wounded, and sending servants to gather supplies.

“You were successful?”

Jonmarc turned. Gabriel, his sometime seneschal, sometime business partner, had approached with the annoying preternatural silence of the vayash moru. “Yeah,” Jonmarc replied. “Got in, got out, killed the Durim we could find, and burned the hole. But there’s nothing to say there aren’t a dozen more holes like that one, and I don’t know if we can keep the peace if this goes on much longer.”

Gabriel’s expression was troubled. “It’s not the first time plague has brought oppression on my people. Ironic, isn’t it? We can’t die of the plague because we’re already dead, and yet so many mortals want to destroy us rather than letting us help.”

Jonmarc glanced at him. No one would mistake Gabriel for anything other than an aristocrat. Even dressed as he was this night, in a simple black tunic and pants, everything about his manner spoke of power and breeding. Long, flaxen hair fell shoulder length, framing an angular but not unpleasant face. But while Gabriel had the face and form of a man in his early thirties, Jonmarc knew the other had existed for over four hundred years, to become one of the most powerful lords on the Blood Council that ruled the vayash moru in Principality and beyond. “You’ve seen this happen before?”

Gabriel nodded. “Once a century or so. Fashions change. Monarchies change. People don’t.”