Sword of Flames

19 The Infiltrator

Hebba turned pale and let out a little shriek. “Gods save us—it’s the master!” She sank down weakly in the chair beside the fire, fanning herself with her apron. Zanna, recognizing an attack of Hebba’s vapors, ran to comfort her old friend the cook. It was almost like being back home.

From somewhere, Vannor found the strength to chuckle. “It’s all right, Hebba—I’m not a ghost.”

“No—but with all respect, you look like one, sir.” With his arm under Vannor’s shoulder, Tarnal guided him across to the other soft chair, supporting the merchant as he had supported him all the long, weary and nerve-wracking way up through the city.

“Pull yourself together, Hebba,” the young Nightrunner said sharply, as Vannor sank down with a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. “Stop flapping and give that chair to poor Zanna—she needs it more than you. We need hot water—and have you got some taillin? We’ve got to sober up that idiot Benziorn as quick as we can. Vannor’s hurt.”

“Hurt? The master? And half-starved too, by the look of it—him and the poor little lass.” The mere thought was enough to restore the old cook’s wits. Vacating her chair as though it had suddenly turned red-hot, she helped Zanna into it, settling her with a rug across her knees and then finding another for Vannor. She began to bustle about the kitchen in a businesslike manner, setting water to boil and rummaging in cupboards for food and utensils and linen for bandages, clucking like an old hen all the while to conceal her distress. “That Benziorn! The good-for-nothing! Why I even give him houseroom, I don’t know. Why, the wretch is no more use than a hat in a hurricane!”

She turned to glower at the physician, who was still hovering sheepishly in the doorway, unsure of his welcome—as well he might be. “Get in, if you’re coming,” she snapped at him, banging a pot down onto the table to punctuate her words. “And shut that door—the master’s in a draft. Call yourself a physician? You should know better…”

Vannor relaxed and let her nattering flow over him, concentrating on the delicious warmth of the fire that was seeping into his chilled bones. Though he was filthy and aching, thirsty, starving and exhausted; though his injured hand was throbbing unbearably as the feeling flooded back into his limbs, he was overcome with an incredible sense of euphoria, and a gratitude for his deliverance so intense that it brought tears to his eyes. What unutterable and unhoped-for luxury, to find himself and Zanna safe, and alive, and back among friends again!

Zanna, too, was feeling as though she had ventured into a dream. First dear Tarnal, and now Hebba—and she had managed to rescue her dad, after all! Though common sense told her that the blissful interlude must of necessity be brief—for the hunt would soon be on for her father—she put the thought firmly away from her. Tomorrow would take care of itself. Damn it, she had earned this respite, and she was going to make the most of it.

Hebba came to her with a cup of taillin. “There, my lovey, this will tide you over. I’m making you some soup right now…”

Zanna sipped the hot drink appreciatively. Surely, nothing in her life had ever tasted so good. It was laced with strong spirits and sweetened liberally with honey, and as she drank it, she could feel the warmth spreading right down to her achingly empty stomach. When she glanced up through the fragrant steam, she saw that her dad also held a cup in his hand. He winked at her across the hearth and lifted his drink to her in a silent, heartfelt toast.

Tarnal was walking a staggering Benziorn up and down the room, muttering imprecations under his breath. He had a cup on the table, and one on the shelf by the door, and was feeding the spluttering physician with strong taillin at every turn. Zanna smiled as she watched him, so intent and angry, with his brows drawn down over his gray eyes in a scowl at Benziorn’s intransigence and his hair glowing burnished gold in the lamplight. He caught her eye, and his angry frown changed to a reassuring grin. “Don’t worry, Zanna,” he told her. “I’ll have this wastrel sobered up in no time. He’s a good physician when he’s not in his cups, and he’ll fix up your dad in no time, you’ll see.”

It was so good to see him again. Although they had only been apart for a matter of months, he seemed to have matured in her absence, and strikingly so. I wonder if I seem the same to him? Zanna mused. Had she been meeting him now for the first time, she would be thinking of him as a man, not as a lad. She noticed that he was tall and strong enough to haul the struggling physician along behind him as he paced grimly back and forth. Suddenly, Zanna wondered what the blazes he was doing in Nexis. Because of the urgency of getting Vannor to a place of refuge, there had been no time for explanations as they had come up through the town. And where was Yanis? What was he doing now? Thinking of the handsome, dark-haired leader of the Nightrunners, Zanna lapsed into a dream…

She must have dozed, because the next thing she knew, the kitchen was filled with a delicious aroma, her stomach was growling, and Hebba was shaking her gently by the shoulder. “Come on, lass—I know you need to sleep, but you’ll do it all the better for some good hot soup inside you. That Benziorn’s gone to look at your dad, and so you just eat up, then we’ll make you up a proper bed—though the good gods only know where, what with Dulsina’s young nephew in the best room…”

As she had done so often at home, Zanna shut out Hebba’s flutterings, concentrating instead on filling her empty stomach with the wonderful soup—until the name of Yanis fell upon her ears like a thunderbolt. “What?”

Perversely, the old cook stopped talking at once. “What did you say,” Zanna repeated carefully, “about Yanis?”

Hebba looked at her as though she had just fallen out of the skies. “Why, his fever’s up again, poor lad, and what with that no-good physician nowhere to be found all day—”

“Just a minute,” Zanna interrupted her sharply. “You mean, Yanis is here?”

“Why, yes—tucked up in the spare room next door, poor lamb, and—” This time, she was interrupted by the crash of splintering pottery, and the banging of the door. Hebba looked down at the shards of her best bowl amid the puddle of soup that was spreading across the hearth, and planted her fists on her ample hips. “Well,” she said, to the empty room at large. “That young lass has been learning her manners from them smuggler lads, and no mistake.”

To Zanna’s horror Yanis stared wide-eyed at her without a trace of recognition. His limp, dark hair clung to a face that was flushed and sheened with sweat, and the bedclothes were twisted about his body from his restless movements. The stained bandage around his arm gave her the reason for his fever. Zanna felt a chill go through her. She couldn’t lose him—not Yanis! Her fear was abruptly replaced by a flare of anger. Surely Tarnal had said that Benziorn was a good physician? If he was really any good, how could he have let his patient get into this state? And that useless, drunken sot was at this very minute treating her father? Zanna’s blood turned cold at the thought, and she had to steel herself not to rush from the room and demand an accounting of Benziorn.

Calm down, she told herself firmly. Think. We’re fugitives now, my dad needs help urgently, and good or bad, Benziorn is the only physician we’ve got. We’re lucky to have him, at that. Once she’d come to think things through, she also realized that Yanis had only been neglected this long because of herself and her father. Even Hebba had been too busy to make him comfortable. Well, at least Zanna could do something about that.

Carefully, she straightened the Nightrunner’s twisted sheets and rearranged his pillows, trying to disturb him as little as possible, and firmly keeping in check her desire-made possible at long last—to hold him, to touch his face, to stroke his hair. She found water in a jug on the table beside the bed, and a cloth to bathe his face. She tipped some of the water into a mug and managed to get him to swallow a little, though most went down his chin. Having made up the fire and filled and trimmed the lamp, it seemed that she had reached the limit of what she could do for him at present. He certainly seemed to be resting more comfortably now. With a guilty start, Zanna remembered her father. Benziorn should nave finished looking at him now. She ought to go and see how he fared. She was just heading toward the door, when Yanis began to murmur. Zanna turned back, her heart lifting with hope. Was he coming out of his delirium?

It seemed not. Yanis was restless again, rolling from one side to the other, undoing her efforts to straighten his bedding and muttering fretfully all the while in slurred, unintelligible tones. All her efforts to soothe and reassure him were of no avail, and she began to grow frightened. She was about to go and fetch Benziorn or Hebba when, to her relief, he seemed to grow calmer again. As his speech became more clear, Zanna leaned closer to listen. What was he saying?

Yanis’s eyes flew open, and he stared uncomprehendingly into Zanna’s face. “Emmie?” he called weakly. “Fire, climb down… Safe journey, beautiful sad Emmie…”

Zanna shot bolt upright. Who the bloody blazes was Emmie? Some woman—that was clear enough. Maybe it was just some old granny that he’d helped downstairs to the kitchen fireside—one of the smugglers, perhaps—but no. She knew perfectly well that there was no Nightrunner with that name. And he had called her beautiful… Suddenly, Zanna felt cold all over—then flushed hot with furious humiliation. What had this idiot been doing in her absence? He hadn’t the sense of a newborn babe! Well, she told herself very firmly, she was much too sensible to worry about the escapades of a stupid smuggler. She had much more important things—like her dad—to look after—and she’d be willing to wager that this Emmie, whoever she was, couldn’t have single-handedly rescued Vannor from the clutches of the Mages.

Yanis had fallen silent now, but he was still thrashing about in his covers, turning his neatly made bed back into a jumble of twisted linen. Zanna looked coldly at the mess and its fevered perpetrator. Let this Emmie come and straighten it for him, if she was so bloody wonderful—she had wasted quite enough time on Yanis! She turned her back and forced herself to walk away without a backward look. She needed her rest, too—she had only just realized how unutterably weary she was—and she had to find her father. He needed her, at least. Only when she couldn’t find the door handle did she stop to wipe her eyes.

“The fire must be smoking,” she muttered to herself, and left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

Benziorn and Tarnal were waiting for her in the kitchen. Zanna took one look at their grave faces, and all thoughts of Yanis fled her mind. “Dad…?” she whispered. Tarnal, his eyes shadowed with concern, leapt up and took her arm, leading her gently to the chair. Perversely, Zanna wanted to hit him. She wrenched her arm from his grasp and leapt back up to her feet. “What is it?” she shouted. “What’s wrong?”

Tarnal opened his mouth and shut it again with a helpless shrug—and for the first time, Zanna saw the shimmer of tears in his eyes. He looked expectantly at the physician.

Benziorn leaned across the hearth and took hold of Zanna’s hand. “Your dad was just telling me how you got him out of the Academy,” he began conversationally.

Zanna stared at him in disbelief. Something bad had happened to Vannor—she just knew it—and this lunatic wanted to waste her time with idle chatter? Yet, to be fair, he did not seem like such an idiot now that he was sober. He seemed fatherly and sensible: someone who respected her. Someone she could trust. “What’s wrong with my dad?” she demanded through gritted teeth.

“I was astounded,” the physician went on as though he had not heard her, “that such a little lass had the courage to accomplish so much for her father when he needed her. But it’s not over yet, Zanna. Now Vannor needs your courage and assistance again.” She felt his strong fingers squeeze her own. “His hand is too badly damaged for me to save it,” he told her bluntly. “It’ll have to come off.”

“No!” Zanna gasped. Her strong, vigorous father, maimed and crippled? It was unthinkable. Though her eyes burned with tears, she managed to keep her voice steady. “Are you really sure? Is there nothing you can do to give him a chance?”

“I’m sorry,” Benziorn told her. “I know what you’re thinking. He’s only a hopeless drunk—what can he know? Surely someone who has the faintest notion of what he’s doing could save that hand. But you’d be wrong. Whatever else I am, girl, I’m a damn good physician who already saved the arm of your young smuggler friend in there—you ask Tarnal. I used to be the foremost Mortal Healer in Nexis, before the Wraiths took my family and I lost myself in the bottle. I know that you’re not the sort of person who can be fobbed off with a few soft words. You’d rather have the truth, so you can know what you’re facing—and that’s what I’m giving you. That hand is nothing more than a lump of mangled meat. The bones are smashed and splintered, the muscles pounded to oblivion, and where the tendons are, the gods only know. After your little jaunt through the sewers, infection has set in, and is spreading rapidly. Vannor had to make a decision—his hand or his life—and he had the sense not to mess about. We were only waiting for you, to begin. Vannor needs you with him in there, girl—he asked for you—but if you don’t think you can cope with it—if you’ll be sick, or faint, or get all emotional on us—you’d be better staying away. Your father needs you strong now.” Benziorn raised his eyebrows challengingly. “Well? What is it to be?”

“I’ll come, of course,” Zanna replied without hesitation. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

The moors at night were a cold and eerie place. The low, black, barren humps of the hills stretched on endlessly in all directions, and there was nothing to break the force of the thin, cold wind that whistled mournfully across the slopes. Bern shivered, and pulled the hood of his cloak up around his face to hide the vast, dark spaces that surrounded him. This accursed wilderness was no place for a city man! The baker, who had never taken an interest in horsemanship, wished now that he had not left all the errands involving riding to his older brother in their youth. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, trying to find a bit of his backside that had not already been rubbed raw, and wished that he knew where he was. Once he’d left the road, he had usually camped by night—but this time, just as the sun was setting, he had seen a smudge of darkness on a distant ridge that looked as though it might be the trees that the Lady had told him to watch for.

Foolishly, he had thought he could reach it before the darkness fell. He’d been wrong.

Not for the first time, Bern wished that he had never agreed to undertake the Lady Eliseth’s mission—until he thought about the cellar of his bakery, packed to the doorway with all that lovely grain. He smiled to himself. The thought of the men and women that he was about to betray perturbed him not at all. He had only to get through this, and when he got home, he’d be the only working baker in Nexis. Why, he could ask whatever price he liked for his bread, and no one could object. Just thinking of all the riches that could be his on his return helped to stiffen his resolve. Besides, he must be almost there by now. On the horse that the Lady had provided for him, and following her directions, he had made good time. If he turned back at this late stage, he would have much farther to travel, and nothing to show for it at the end—and though he would rather die than admit it, even to himself, the mere idea of crossing the cold-eyed Magewoman turned his bowels to water.

What was that? The distant wailing was low and eerie, raising prickling gooseflesh on his skin and transporting his mind back to childhood tales of the ghosts and demons that haunted the moor by night. Bern’s fingers tightened on the reins. Then the sound came again—much closer now—and, suddenly, ghosts would have been a comfort. Wolves! This time Bern had no difficulty in recognizing the sound. Neither did his horse. Uttering a shrill neigh of fear, it took off with a bound that almost unseated its unwary rider, and bolted.

All thoughts of wolves fled from the baker’s head—he was too preoccupied with simply staying in the saddle. Clinging desperately to the horse’s mane and jolted about with every stride, he was borne helplessly onward, galloping blindly, at breakneck speed, across the rough terrain. Bern’s hood blew back from his face, and the cold wind pierced his clothing as his cloak flapped uselessly behind him. He plucked up his courage to let go of the mane and hauled desperately on the reins until he thought his arms would tear free from his shoulders, but it had not the slightest effect on his terrified mount. He lost one stirrup, then the other, and began to slip inexorably sideways. Suddenly the horse lurched forward over some hidden obstacle, and pitched head over heels. Bern went flying and landed hard. He remembered nothing more.

When he opened his eyes, he was dazzled by daylight. For a moment, the baker wondered where he was. He was freezing cold and drenched with dew; he ached all over, and his head was throbbing abominably. Another man might have wondered what he had been drinking the night before, but Bern was far too tightfisted with his money to waste it on ale as his father had done, and too surly and single-minded about his work to seek comradeship and conviviality. Besides, he had no friends, and viewed them as an unnecessary luxury.

With a groan he rolled over—and the first thing he saw was the body of the horse lying nearby, cold and stiff, its neck skewed at an angle so grotesque that it brought his stomach into his throat. It was only then that Bern remembered the previous night—and the wolves. The wolves! In panic, he tried to struggle to his feet—and then realized that if they hadn’t got him last night, while they’d been hunting and he’d been unconscious, there was little danger now.

But even that brief, frantic effort had exhausted him. The baker sat for a while with his eyes closed until his head stopped spinning, and when he opened them again and looked around, he saw to his surprise that he had almost reached the forest, after all. It was there ahead of him, on top of the next rise. He had no idea whether horses could see in the dark—his obviously couldn’t, he thought sourly, glaring at his fallen mount—but it had probably smelled the trees, or whatever horses did, and had been making for their dubious shelter when it had fallen.

Well, at least the stupid creature had almost got him where he wanted to go, Bern thought. He pulled himself stiffly to his feet and limped over to the body, unfastening his blanket and pack from behind the saddle with numb fingers. He threw the blanket around his shoulders as an extra cloak and rummaged in his pack until he found some cheese and a heel of hard, stale bread. He washed down the unpalatable breakfast with water from his bottle, thinking wistfully of porridge and bacon—though the latter had not been seen in Nexis for a long, long time. But these accursed rebels must have some food—and the sooner he found them, the sooner he could eat. Refastening his pack, he slung it across his shoulder and, after a bad-tempered kick at the moribund horse, was on his way.

Three hours later, Bern was still outside the forest. It simply would not let him pass. Bruised, begrimed, and bleeding, he threw himself down on a hummock with his back to the impenetrable wall of trees, and swore horribly for several minutes. What the bloody blazes was going on? At first he had tried simply pushing his way through the tangled thicket, but the interwoven branches, all seemingly armed with sharp, hooked thorns, had blocked his path. When he tried hacking a way through them with his sword, they sprang back into his face, clawing at his eyes—and once a heavy branch had fallen, narrowly missing his head. In desperation, he had tried fire, but as soon as he had kindled a small blaze, a freak gust of wind had blown it out, whirling smoke and sparks into his eyes. By now, Bern was at his wits’ end. What in the world was going on? Anyone would think that the bloody forest was alive!

All at once, an arrow came zinging through the air. Almost parting Bern’s hair, it planted itself in the turf beyond the hummock. “Ho, stranger!” called a voice. “What’s your business here? Get to your feet and turn around slowly—and keep your hands well away from your sword.”

Shaking, Bern did as he was told. To his utter astonishment, the tangled undergrowth had vanished, and a narrow path, arched over with leafy branches, had opened in the ranks of trees. (But where had all the leaves come from? It was too early yet, and there was no sign of them from the outside of the forest.) In the opening stood a tall, bearded young man clad all in green and brown, wielding a bow that was almost as tall as himself. He held another arrow nocked to the string, aimed at Bern and ready to fire.

“I said state your business!” the archer shouted impatiently.

Bern pulled himself together. “I come with news from Nexis,” he blurted. “News of Vannor!”

The arrow dipped and wavered for an instant. Fional pulled it quickly back into line and squinted at the stranger down the long, straight shaft. His heart had leapt to hear Vannor’s name, but he tried hard to keep his emotions in check. This could be an ambush—or a trap. “Who are you, and what do you know of Vannor?” he demanded.

The invader’s face took on an expression of sorrow. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “To be the bearer of such grave tidings. Vannor is dead. He was captured and slain by the Magefolk.” The arrow fell from the archer’s nerveless fingers. For a moment, the world stood still for Fional. All sound ceased in the forest around him. Swallowing hard, he finally found his voice. “Dead?” he whispered. “Are you sure?”

The stranger nodded. “I’m certain,” he replied. “My name is Bern. I was a servant at the Academy, and as soon as I found out what had been done to Vannor I came to warn you. I barely escaped the Magefolk with my life… Please—let me in. They know who I am now, and I daren’t go back to Nexis!”

Fional frowned, and tried to gather his reeling wits. There was more to this business than Vannor’s death, and any decision he made now, when he was at his most vulnerable, might have serious repercussions for the rebels. He looked again at the stranger. The man seemed genuinely terrified, but… “How did you know where to find us?” he demanded.

The stranger was sweating visibly now. “There’s talk all over the city about how Angos’s mercenaries went to the Lady’s Vale and never came back—but that wasn’t how I came to find you. Vannor himself told me where you were, before he was slain. He begged me to come to you and warn you of his plight—but I had no chance to get away until it was too late. Nonetheless, I came as soon as I could, for Vannor’s sake. It is only right that you should know his fate—and even if it is too late for a rescue, there is still the matter of revenge. Should such a good man die for nothing?”

The archer cursed softly to himself. This did not bode well! Should he allow this man—this complete stranger—to enter the secret stronghold of the rebels and lure them away from safety to avenge Vannor’s death? Fional’s own mind was still too raw from shock to work out the implications of such a venture—he hardly knew, yet, what he thought. But if this Bern now knew the whereabouts of the rebels, it would be safer in any case to have him under their eye. And at least he had seen Vannor before the merchant’s death… Dulsina would want to talk with him, for certain. She had been going out of her mind with worry ever since Vannor had failed to return. Poor Dulsina! How would she react to this terrible news? He could hardly bear to tell her.

Fional made up his mind. Quickly, he notched another arrow to his string. “Put your weapons down at the edge of the trees and come with me,” he told the stranger. “For the time being, until you prove you can be trusted, you must consider yourself my prisoner.” Even though the man was weaponless, the archer was not foolish enough to trust him completely. He whistled, on a shrill, high note, and a dozen wolves came melting out of the forest’s shadows. Snarling menacingly, they surrounded the captive. “Make one false move,” Fional warned him, “and they will tear you to pieces.”

The stranger turned pale, and shuddered. “I won’t, I promise,” he vowed.

“After you.” The archer gestured with his bow and the man walked on obediently, surrounded by his guard of wolves, along the path that opened up ahead of him between the trees. Fional followed, grieving. Nonetheless, he kept his arrow at the ready.

“What is that idiot doing?” D’arvan muttered to Maya. From the shelter of the trees he had watched the stranger’s approach, and it had taken him little time to decide that he didn’t like the look of the man at all. The Mage had used every trick he knew to bar his entry to the forest, and had almost discouraged him sufficiently to make him go away when Fional had arrived and ruined everything. Then had come the news that Vannor was dead—and for a time, there had been no room in D’arvan’s thoughts for any other consideration. Only the sight of Fional leading the stranger into the sanctuary of the forest had shocked him out of his sorrow. Later, there would be time for grief. Now, there was the matter of this invader to be dealt with. Was the forest in danger from this man, or were the Mage’s suspicions unfounded?

D’arvan sighed. “The trouble is,” he told the unicorn, “that I can’t really keep him out now without killing him, and that would not be wise at present—not if he really knows what has happened to Vannor. Besides, we know no real harm of him… Am I making the mistake of confusing the messenger with the message he bears—or can it be that my instincts do not mislead me?”

The unicorn tossed her head and whinnied softly, seemingly in agreement—but in agreement with what? D’arvan wished—oh, how he wished—that she could talk to him. Not only did he miss his Maya desperately, but he could use her common sense right now. This was the first time, in his role as Forest Guardian, that he had found himself at a loss, and it worried him. So far, friends and foes had been easily recognizable, but this man was an enigma.

D’arvan rested an arm across the unicorn’s withers. “I don’t like this at all,” he told her. “There’s something about that man…” He shook his head. “He will bear watching—closely.” So saying, he suited word to deed, and made his way toward the rebel camp, the unicorn following at his heels.