Lady Of Regret (Book 2) Read online

  It crossed Rathe’s mind to let Durogg take whatever he was after. The problem with the plan was that he would never know if Durogg might be waiting somewhere up ahead, or sneaking up from behind. Either way, a man who could brandish fire as a weapon was not a man Rathe wanted hunting him.

  While he studied his options, he shifted his footing, and the boulder rocked under his weight. He eased back and sat down. Bladed weapons of any sort were out of the question. Durogg’s fires seemed to lose potency after a few paces, but were deadly within the reach of sword and dagger. Rathe guessed his bow would work, but it lay in its case, alongside his saddle and bedroll.

  Across the ravine, Loro popped up, cast about, then scurried back under cover. Horge never made an appearance. Rathe swore an oath to himself that if they got out of this mess, he would have words with the ratty little bastard.

  Crusty snow was numbing his backside. Rathe carefully got to his feet, moved closer to the boulder. It shifted again, and he held his breath, sure Durogg had heard the low grinding. But no, the man was still busy rooting through Horge’s belongings.

  Thinking to gain a better vantage point, Rathe set his feet and began to climb higher. Snow and rocks slid underfoot. Rathe went still, and the boulder rocked unsteadily. His eyes widened, and he glanced downslope.

  With a quick check to make sure the angles were right, and a prayer that he did not inadvertently kill the horses, Rathe slammed his shoulder against the boulder. It rocked forward a few inches, then its great weight pushed him back. Wishing he had Loro at his side, he tried again. The boulder rocked farther than before, teetered back.

  Down below, Durogg kicked one of Horge’s panniers aside with a curse. Knowing it was only a matter of time before the man moved, Rathe spun and dropped down. He dug his feet into the slope, pressed his back against cold stone. Straining, he rocked the boulder back and forth. At the right moment, he heaved with all his strength.

  The boulder tumbled free with a warning rumble. Rathe fell into the hole where it had sat since the dawn of time. He quickly flipped onto his belly to watch the great stone roll down the mountain. He lost sight of a bellowing Durogg. A tremendous flash turned the night to day. Streams of fire burst around the boulder, and it exploded into smaller fragments. Durogg tried to flee, but the bouncing rocks crashed into him. He went down with a scream, half buried under smoking rubble.

  Motionless, Rathe watched for any indication the man had any life left in him. Durogg did not so much as twitch.

  “You bagged him,” Loro called warily. “Guess he’s yours to claim.”

  “By all means,” Rathe muttered.

  With utmost care, he clambered down to the camp, slipping and sliding over loose rock and ice. When he came near, Durogg’s eyes fluttered open. Sword ready, Rathe froze in place, prepared to leap aside if the man had any more surprises.

  “May all the demons of the Abyss sup upon your bones, Scorpion,” Durogg grated. Mud and snow had befouled his once fine robes. He fell into a fit of coughing, and blood welled over his lips to stain his pristine beard.

  “You gave me no choice,” Rathe said evenly.

  “And, fool that you are,” Durogg rasped, “you do not know the man you protect. Better had you let me turn you into charcoal, than suffer the company of Horge.”

  Rathe frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Before Durogg could answer, Horge burst from the brambles. “He’s a fire mage! Don’t let him touch you!”

  Rathe moved too late. Durogg swung the broken staff, and its flaming head slapped against his leg. Despite the fur-lined leggings he wore, searing pain swept through him, as if molten iron had replaced the blood in his veins. Biting back a howl, Rathe stumbled out of reach, dropped to his knees.

  “No!” Horge raged, thrusting a fist against the fire mage’s chest. Durogg’s eyes went wide and his jaw gaped, but only a rattling hiss and a puff of steam passed his lips. Horge pressed harder, and spreading hoarfrost obscured the mage’s robes, then his skin.

  After feathers of ice had fully cocooned Durogg, Horge stood away, clawing at his frosted hand. A ring, black as ten sins, fell off his finger and shattered on the rocks at his feet.

  Loro rushed into camp, looking from the fire mage to Horge, and finally to Rathe. “Gods, what did he do to you?”

  Rathe shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’m well.” The fire inside him had departed as fast as it came. He felt flushed, but after wondering more days than he cared to count if he would ever know warmth again, that seemed a blessing.

  “You’re not well,” Horge said. “Not at all. We must hurry before….”

  “Before what, you wretched coward?” Loro demanded.

  Horge swallowed. “Before he dies. The touch of a fire mage is death.”

  “I feel fine,” Rathe protested, standing up to prove it.

  Next he knew, he was lying face down, struggling to get his hands in a position to push himself up.

  Loro rolled him over, jerked back with a hiss. “He’s burning up!”

  Horge did a nervous little dance. “Unless we get him to those I spoke of earlier, he will continue to burn, until only a husk remains.”

  “You mean the monks,” Loro snarled. “Who you warned us to avoid?”

  Rathe tried to follow the conversation, but he felt sleepy and warm … so perfectly warm.

  Horge cast Loro a nervous glance. “Aye. They have means to rid Rathe of the dark magic spreading inside him. If we don’t hurry, it won’t matter.”

  “Then why are we prattling?” Loro snapped, knocking Horge aside in his haste to reach the horses.

  Horge trailed Loro with his eyes, fidgeted a moment, then crept over to Durogg’s staff. With his death, the fire at its top had gone cold. Slinking like a rodent, Horge bent over the end of the staff and used a knife to pry something from it. With a relieved sigh, he lifted a dully glowing red gem before his eyes. When he saw Rathe looking, he hurriedly tucked it inside his tunic.

  “All will be well,” Horge promised. He looked more hopeful than sure.

  “I’m fine,” Rathe tried to say, but mangled the words. His tongue did not want to work. He laughed, and it sounded like he was strangling. He laughed all the harder when Horge began frantically packing his jerkin with clumps of snow and ice. The melt water dribbling over his ribs felt like warm milk.

  By the time Loro returned, tongues of flame had begun to lick at Rathe’s insides, and his laughter had become tormented cries.

  Chapter 15

  A horizon-spanning wall of cloud the hue of old bruises devoured the golden sunlight. The gray-green waters of the Sea of Muika sloshed over the Lamprey’s deck, as the sow-bellied cog wallowed through a crest and plunged into a deep trough. Sails and rigging snapped in the rising wind, and an ominous creaking rose from the ship’s timbers.

  “I can’t suffer another storm,” Fira groaned, arms wrapped around her belly. In the days since setting sail, her legs had grown accustomed to the deck’s constant rocking, but not her insides.

  Nesaea looked away from the brooding horizon. “I warned you to remain in Millport with the others.” She envied the Maidens of the Lyre, doubtless cozy warm in one inn or another.

  Pale and drawn, Fira opened her mouth to protest, only to throw herself against the ship’s rail and retch noisily. Nesaea held back her coppery hair, trying not to think about warmth. So far north, the warmest day felt cold to her. The Lamprey’s crew did not seem to notice, and went about their tasks wearing only knee-length breeches and thin tunics.

  Captain Ostre joined Nesaea and Fira at the rail. Squat as a barrel, strong as an ox, the captain gave them a once over, as if confirming to himself that they were, indeed, women under all their snug leather and fur. With nervous grumbling, his eye skipped over the sword hilts poking from their heavy cloaks. Nesaea had seen that look before from Ostre and his crew. By all measure, she and Fira gave the appearance of rogues, more than proper ladies, and many folk found that unsettling. Nesaea fo
und it reassuring.

  “You’ll want to head below decks,” the captain said, voice hoarse and hard.

  “I’d rather not,” Fira answered weakly. “The air is better up here.” Her skin, usually pale and smooth as cream, had taken on a worrying green tint.

  Captain Ostre tugged off his wide-brimmed felt hat, raked stubby fingers through hair as black and wild as his beard. “’Tis no request, girl, but an order.”

  “We’re not your crew,” Fira snapped, then abruptly pressed the back of a hand to her lips, closed her eyes. She was getting greener by the minute.

  “We do not wish to cause trouble,” Nesaea said, rubbing Fira’s back, as the woman bent to spew again over the side. “The courtesy of an explanation would go better than a sharp tongue.”

  Ostre snugged his hat on with a curse. “Having you aboard has already caused me a fair bit of trouble with my crew.”

  “Bad luck, is it?” Nesaea asked scornfully.

  He gave her a quizzical look, then his salt-toughened face showed understanding. “We are no sailors of warm jade seas and fair winds, those who have naught better to do than soak in sunlight and create superstitions.” His gazed hardened. “The trouble, girl, comes from my crew dreaming about the feel of you warm wenches wriggling under them, instead of fixing their minds on sailing the Lamprey.”

  Nesaea glanced around. None of the crewmen were looking directly at her, but only because several had quickly averted their gazes. It was not so different than the scrutiny she tolerated while singing or dancing. “You’ve not minded where we were before.”

  “Before, we was not making to pass through the Demon Gate.” He pointed beyond the prow to a headland of sharp black crags that reached far west before sinking into the salty deep. “The Gyntors fall off the land there, but keep on for two hundred leagues. The Demon Gate is the only passage through to the White Sea.”

  Nesaea squinted at the toothy wall of mountains, made out a narrow breach dotted white with thousands of spiraling seabirds. Though still miles off, she could not imagine a ship fitting through, and said as much.

  “Aye, ‘tis a tight fit,” Ostre said, bracing himself as the ship shuddered through a frothing wave. “’Tis also a curse to all ships.”

  “And you mean to sail through with night coming on?” Fira asked, swabbing her wet lips with a gloved hand.

  Captain Ostre shrugged big shoulders. “Tide favors us now. Time wasted, for the likes of the Lamprey, is coin lost.” He laughed at her astonishment. “Be at ease, girl. ‘Tis not the first my crew has made the voyage under moon and stars.”

  “Ship!” cried the watchman in the crow’s nest, pointing his brass eyeglass to the south. The crew stopped what they were doing.

  “Her colors?” Ostre shouted back, concern pinching his face.

  “’Tis the Crimson Gull!” the watchman called shrilly.

  Ostre shouted to the quartermaster. “Liamas! Double the oarsmen! The rest of you slinking whoreson curs, make this wallowing sow ready to fly!”

  The crew stood frozen. Liamas, a fair-haired Prythian giant, roared orders. In an instant, the deck boiled with rushing men, half going to the rigging, half clambering down through the deck hatch.

  Nesaea watched the goings on for a few seconds, then faced the captain. “Can we not fight?”

  “If a merchant wants to live so long as to see his hair gone or gray, he does not battle corsairs, and never the Crimson Gull. Most like, she’s down from raiding whalers of the White Sea, and seeking an easy kill. ” Under his breath, he added, “We run, for all the good running will do.”

  Nesaea leaned against the rail, scanning over waves feathered with whitecaps. Then she saw the galley’s sails, red as blood and fat with wind. Two banks of oars to a side skipped her across the waves. “Can we outrun her?”

  Ostre gauged the distance to the corsair ship. “Unless the gods favor us, the Crimson Gull will swoop down on us before we make the Demon Gate. Comes to it, we’ll surrender. Her captain will loot us. Mayhap he’ll let us go afterward, in hopes of taking us again another day.”

  Nesaea noticed he did not look her way when he spoke. “They will take me and Fira.”

  “Aye,” Ostre said regretfully. “There are those in Giliron who’d pay more for just one of you, than for all the goods in my hold.”

  Nesaea’s skin crawled at memories of Giliron, and her stomach cramped to recall all the blood she had spilled to escape that island kingdom. “Do you mean to let them have us, Captain?”

  “’Tis not a matter of letting them,” Ostre said, expression pained. “They’ll have what they will, or me and my men will die resisting.”

  “What if you’re wrong, Captain? What if you fight?”

  He stood tall, though still avoiding Nesaea’s eye. “I am a man of honor, and a father to young daughters.” He swallowed. “As such, I leave the fate of the Lamprey in your hands. At my command, if you would risk so many lives for your own, I will fight.”

  Nesaea wondered if he would have given her that choice, had she and Fira been in their cramped cabin below decks, unaware of the nearing threat. Still, she was not given to surrender, and would rather die than return to Giliron and serve as a stranger’s enslaved lover. She was also uncomfortably aware that she would sacrifice those aboard the Lamprey to ensure that did not happen. Allaying some of that unease, was the confidence she held in her abilities to achieve victory.

  “Do you have jars aboard, those that can be sealed with pitch, and the like?” Ostre blinked at the question, nodded slowly. “Then, Captain, prepare your crew to fight,” Nesaea said resolutely. This was no time to sound hesitant.

  Ostre sighed and bobbed his head. “You know the dice has rolled against the Lamprey.” He spoke as one facing the headsman’s axe.

  “I do,” Nesaea said. “But we are about to roll them again, and change the game.”

  “Doubtless you’ll tell me how a few jars are going to save the Lamprey?”

  “Doubtless, I will,” Nesaea agreed, and did. While she spoke, Captain Ostre listened, first with a look of shock and doubt, then with grudging acceptance. And finally with a glint of grim enthusiasm in his dark eyes.

  “You’re mad,” he said, laughing his approval.

  “We are Maidens of the Lyre,” Fira rejoined, one fist pressed to her belly, the other hard on the hilt of her sword.

  Ostre raised a bushy eyebrow. “To pull off such a feat would make legends of the Lamprey’s captain and crew.”

  “So,” Nesaea said, “will you become a legend this day, Captain Ostre, or remain the tethered lamb?”

  Ostre’s smile had nothing of the lamb in it, and all of the wolf.

  Chapter 16

  “Damn the lot of you, make ready!” Ostre called for the tenth time. Despite the chill wind, sweat ran from his brow into the wild tangle of his black beard. The crew of the Lamprey awaited Nesaea’s command, each man with a pitch- or wax-sealed earthenware jar at his feet. The ship’s bone-thin cook had not been well-pleased to lose his containers, and less so after he learned the reason. It had taken Ostre belting him across the mouth to end his griping.

  Below decks, oarsmen continued to drive the ship toward the Demon Gate, long sweeps churning the slate-green waves to froth. Clouds once on the horizon had swept north and east, overtaking the Lamprey and the dying light of day.

  Astern, the Crimson Gull flew ever closer, red sails cracking in the gusts, rigging lines singing the promise of doom. Nesaea avoided thinking of the number of things that could go wrong. If she guessed wrong about the booty the Crimson Gull carried in her hold, if the crew of the Lamprey failed to act when she gave the command, if…. Too many uncertainties to bother fretting over. Her plan would work, or it would fail.

  “Gods,” Ostre breathed, “look at her crew. Must be four, mayhap, five score.”

  “And bold.” Nesaea noted the ragtag crew lining the rails, some in mismatched armor, most not. All held short swords or truncheons. Below them, lon
g sweeps ripped the sea apart, driving the galley closer by the stroke.

  “Aye, bold, for they have naught to fear.”

  “We’re counting on that,” Nesaea reminded him.

  “You’re sure about this?” Fira asked next to Nesaea’s ear, grim-faced, if still green.

  Nesaea put on a wry grin. “After all we have survived together, you must ask?”

  Fira shook her head, throat working as she tried to swallow a fresh wave of sickness.

  Ostre looked beyond the Lamprey’s raked bowsprit to the headland that rose black and toothy out of the sea. “If we don’t heave to, the tide will draw us into the Demon Gate. Mark me, that’s no place for a sea battle.”

  “Then, by all means, heave to,” Nesaea said, voice low, eager.

  The captain needed no further urging. “Now!”

  At once, the long oars reversed stroke, backing water. The deck crew began hauling lines, furling the Lamprey’s big square sail.

  “Bring us about!”

  The steersman flung his weight against the tiller, and the slowing Lamprey turned broadside to both the waves and the closing galley. The fat-bellied ship wallowed like a tub in the turbulent seas. Crewmen not tending rigging picked up their jars, as a gray mountain of water crashed over the deck. For a moment, a flood of foam and spray made the Lamprey part of the sea. Nesaea held fast to the rail with one hand, and gripped Fira with the other. Frothy seawater soaked every inch of them, cold enough to hurt. When the surge washed off the deck, it took three yelling men overboard.

  When a few of their fellows rushed to toss out ropes, Ostre bellowed, “Let them swim!” Now hatless, he shook the wet from his dripping hair and beard. He grasped Nesaea’s arm. “You’re sure of this?” he demanded, echoing Fira’s earlier query.

  “Yes,” Nesaea said, casting a wild look at the thrashing sailors riding the waves beyond the ship. “Sure or not, there’s no reason to let your men drown.”