Seventh Decimate

  Like Hught, he was dead. But he had not been cut. Even in the faint illumination, the marks of blows were visible. In addition, his neck had been broken. The teamsters were powerful men. They had killed their foe with their hands.

  But there was no sign of Spliner and Winnow. Like their beasts, they were gone.

  While Captain Swalish swore, the Prince’s world reeled yet again. Pieces of his confusion fell into new patterns. The teamsters had fled, or they had not. In either case, they did not serve Amika. That was obvious. The death of Hught’s killer proved it.

  “The scouts,” he rasped. “Hells! Decoys, all of them. The Amikans guessed what we would do. The scouts demanded our attention. They were a distraction to cover this one. He crept to the wain.” Another piece became clear. “But not to kill teamsters. That would not stop us. And setting fire to the wain would not. We would see the flames.

  “Also, he did not plan to drive off the oxen. We have horses. We could overtake them. And killing them would take too long.” Cutting the throat of an ox was not easy. Stabbing it deeply enough to reach its heart was not. “He meant to hamstring them. We could not go on without abandoning our supplies.”

  “Aye, Highness,” assented the Captain. “That would have been the end.”

  “But the oxen are gone,” put in Vinsid.

  Prince Bifalt ignored this detail. He was not ready to consider it. “He did not reckon on the teamsters,” he continued. “He must have believed they would keep guard atop the wain, or rest at a safe distance. As he crept close, Hught caught at him. In the struggle, he killed Hught. Then Spliner and Winnow killed him.”

  “Where are they?” insisted Vinsid.

  Quickly, Elgart climbed onto the wain, took a quick inventory. “Their bedrolls are gone,” he announced. “Some supplies. A canteen.” Then he added, “And fodder.”

  Unsurprised, Prince Bifalt nodded.

  The Captain grunted. “I am baffled, Highness. They risked their lives to protect the oxen, then abandoned us? Why? And why now? They have had other chances.”

  The Prince had no answer. He had not chosen the teamsters. He did not know them. But his instinct was to trust them. “If they have not fled,” he muttered, “they will return at dawn. Otherwise, we will hunt them down. We must.”

  His thoughts were already elsewhere. He had not expected even Amikans to be so cunning—or so cruel. As cruel as Fastule’s attack on King Brigin’s new bride. Oxen could be hamstrung quickly. One leg each would be enough. The beasts would be crippled—and in terrible agony.

  Perhaps Prince Bifalt should have anticipated the danger. Men who killed their own wounded after a battle—men who used their starving children as bait—were capable of anything.

  Abruptly, he turned from the bodies. Speaking as much to the night as to his companions, he declared, “The fault is mine. I did not imagine this tactic. I did not plan to defend the oxen.

  “We will do better.”

  He spoke with his usual decisiveness. He was not a man who hesitated. Yet what he was thinking dismayed him. He did not understand men who would aim to cripple oxen.

  “The night is long,” he said, “and they do not need scouts to find us. They will not hesitate to send more men—and more surprises. They are sure to attack when their riders do not return.

  “We waste time here.” Hells! “We must re-form our cordon.”

  His men stared at him, grappling with the same fears that wracked him. Were the Amikans truly willing to spend so many lives? Were they that desperate? If so, why? They had no obvious cause. If they feared the quest so much, they could have brought a Magister to their initial ambush.

  No. All of their sorcerers were needed elsewhere. They were massing for Belleger’s ruin.

  But that alone did not account for Amika’s tactics. Theurgy could ravage the whole of Belleger before the Prince’s company found the library and the book. The Amikans were desperate for some other reason.

  The book, he thought. Marrow’s Seventh Decimate. It must contain knowledge more powerful than he had imagined. The knowledge to block Belleger’s sorcery, yes—but also, perhaps, the secret of its restoration.

  The book might enable Belleger to trade places with its enemy at one stroke. Amika would not simply be made helpless. At the same time, Belleger would regain its strength.

  That prospect would inspire any amount of desperation.

  Angry at himself—at Amika—at the whole world—Prince Bifalt snapped his commands. “Go. Hide again. But stay close. They will not attack the same way twice.

  “I will guard the wain.”

  Captain Swalish was as troubled as the King’s son; but he knew his duty. Without hesitation, he assigned Elgart, Klamath, and Vinsid to new positions. When they were gone, he, too, faded into the grass and the darkness.

  Quickly, Prince Bifalt climbed onto the wain. There he replaced his rifle’s clip with one fully loaded. He worked the bolt to chamber a cartridge. With his thumbs and a small pouch of loose bullets, he refilled the used clip. Then he made himself small among the wain’s burdens and strained his senses for any hint of movement in the night.

  The night was indeed long. He may have dozed while the uncaring stars wheeled overhead. But he was instantly alert at the first sound of horses.

  The sound of horses charging.

  In the grass, they made a low noise like a wave that rose and rose and did not break. Vegetation tore at their legs. It muted their hooves. Gripping his rifle, Prince Bifalt rose high enough to scan his surroundings. He saw shapes too vague to be sure, too indistinct to shoot. They came in two squads, one on each side of the wain. He could only be sure that they were Amikan because arrows began thudding into the bedrolls and supplies under him.

  An instant later, a rifle uttered a lick of flame, a sharp boom. Another gun answered it, and another. Muffled cries stained the darkness.

  Still the horsemen pounded closer, lashing their way through the cling and tangle of bracken, grass blades, wildflowers.

  The Prince chanced a shot himself, risked betraying his position. His only reward was the louder soughing of the charge. But when he fired again, one of the approaching shapes plunged headlong to the earth.

  The rifles spoke again, and again. If they took a toll on the riders, Prince Bifalt could not discern it.

  Then a small flame showed among the horsemen. That faint light revealed a rider rearing back with an object like a ball in one hand—a ball that trailed sparkling fire from its fuse.

  Hells!

  Near it, Vinsid rose from the grass. He, too, had seen the flame and the fuse. He fired while the rider began his throw; while the ball was still in his hand.

  The man lurched in his saddle. He tried to complete his cast, but he had lost control of his arm. Floundering through the air, the ball and its fuse fluttered like a wounded bird toward Vinsid.

  When the grenade exploded, it took Vinsid with it.

  The Prince stared. Chagrin pounded through him. He had forgotten the grenades. Slack’s treachery had obscured that memory. And his dismay at the threat to the oxen had driven other dangers out of his head.

  If just one hit the wain—

  That possibility took over Prince Bifalt’s mind. Thought and fear no longer troubled him. He became his training, his learned certainty. While his men increased their rate of fire, he searched the night for another lit fuse.

  There.

  As he spotted it, he fired. But he did not pause to see whether he had hit the rider, or to look for the grenade. From the ground, Swalish, Elgart, and Klamath could not watch the whole area around the wain; and Vinsid was lost. The guardsmen could only shoot at Amikans and pray. The Prince had to protect the supplies.

  The second grenade exploded somewhere as Prince Bifalt located a third rider lighting a fuse. Instantly, the Prince fired. With his whole being, he
willed his bullet to rupture the Amikan’s heart.

  His shot tugged at the rider’s shoulder, at the arm that held the reins. The man nearly toppled from his mount. Then he righted himself.

  Other rifles fired at other foes, but they had become irrelevant. Only the Amikan with the lit grenade mattered. Working his bolt with practiced speed, Prince Bifalt sighted again, fired again.

  Too late, the horseman fell dead. He had already finished his throw. The spinning trail of the fuse marked the grenade’s progress as it arced toward the wain. When it detonated, it would destroy—

  Without a heartbeat’s hesitation, the Prince sprang from his place, leaping to intercept the grenade like a man who believed that he could preserve the wain with his body; believed that his desire alone would suffice to save his quest.

  The grenade exploded near him. Its concussion slapped him to the ground as if he had fallen from a height measured in leagues. Shards of hardened clay shredded him before he hit the grass. For the second time in his life, he knew he was dead. No man could survive the force of his fall, or the damage of his wounds.

  For the second time in his life, a voice spoke. It sounded like the grenade’s blast, like his impact with the earth, like the last beat of his heart. Loud as thunder and silent as a grave, it asked: Are you ready now?

  Prince Bifalt had no answer.

  When he opened his eyes in the dawn of a new day, he found Captain Swalish sitting beside him, propped against one wheel of the wain.

  The Captain did not turn as Prince Bifalt, groaning, tried to lift his head from the ground.

  The movement ignited pain in his forehead. Briefly, it overcame him. Apparently, he had suffered a deep gash. But at least the hurt assured him that he was still alive.

  Lying still, he consulted his limbs for other wounds, his chest and abdomen. To his surprise—a dull sensation, but distinct—he found none. His only injury was the throbbing line across his brow. The dawn’s chill emphasized the feel of wetness.

  Scalp wounds bled copiously, he knew. When he tried to estimate the severity of the cut, however, he was able to determine only that he could not hear. The world around him had become mute. No men moved or spoke or called out. Breezes ruffled the grass in silence. If there were horses nearby, he heard no sign of them. Swalish breathed without a sound; without lifting his shoulders or expanding his chest.

  The Prince considered the notion that he was surrounded by enemies. Then he discarded it. No Amikan would leave any Bellegerin alive—and certainly not a son of the King.

  Wary of more pain, he raised his hands to the sides of his head. There he felt blood still oozing from his forehead. It spread downward to fill his ears. Its clotting made him deaf.

  With his fingers, he spent a moment scraping at the crust. Then, carefully, he pressed one palm to his brow and tried again to lift his head.

  This time, he mastered the pain. Still holding his forehead, he rolled until he was able to draw his knees under him. Gritting his teeth, he knelt upright.

  His shift appeared to disturb Captain Swalish. Slow as a drunkard’s, the Captain’s head lolled to regard the Prince. But there was no sight in the Captain’s gaze, and the trail of blood from the corner of his mouth had ceased dripping. The arrow driven through his breastplate proclaimed that he was dead.

  Prince Bifalt smelled blood. It was stronger than the reek of gunpowder. Anguish thudded in his head. His vision blurred. His cheeks felt wet.

  He refused to acknowledge what he felt.

  Despite the stabbing above his eyes, he tried to look around. The wain appeared intact. But he saw no sign of Klamath or Elgart. Vinsid was already gone. And now Captain Swalish—

  A groan escaped him. It made his head hurt worse. Had he lost all of his men? All of them?

  He needed them. Belleger needed them.

  Are you ready now?

  Beyond question, he had been singled out. Twice now, he had been snatched back from the threshold of death. Only sorcery could have saved him. A sorcerer had chosen him. Or sorcerers. Magisters with powers that exceeded every theurgy he knew.

  Alone and wounded, the Prince felt ready to burst into flames.

  Ever since he began to understand his father’s pain—the anguish of a king whose realm was dying, and who was helpless to save it—Prince Bifalt had been a conflagration in the making. He had wood enough for any fire. Belleger’s growing privation and misery. His own frustration. Slack’s betrayal. Death after death: Nowel and Camwish, Bartin and Stolle, Ardval and Hught; and now Captain Swalish, who had been the Prince’s teacher. Elgart’s absence, and Klamath’s, both likely killed. And to this was added the certainty that he had been chosen by theurgists he did not know for a purpose he did not understand.

  What he felt deserved other names: names like grief and despair. But he had turned his back on his own emotional wounds long ago. He did not acknowledge them. They were little more than ash. The breeze blew them away. Heedless of his injury, of the way his brow bled afresh when he removed his hand, of the unsteadiness of his limbs, he surged to his feet like a man poised to burn.

  In the silence of his mind, he demanded of the empty sky, Do you want me? Come and take me. Tell me what you think I will do for you. Let me give you my answer.

  There was no reply.

  For a few moments, a mist of weakness obscured his vision. When it cleared, he found himself staring at oxen. They were still some distance away, coming from the direction of the escarpment. Spliner and Winnow led them.

  Bellegerins, he thought. The teamsters had not forsaken him. They had saved the oxen.

  And they would not have left the covert where they had spent the night unless all of the Amikans were gone: dead or fled.

  Then he saw another welcome sight. As the teamsters and oxen approached, Elgart rose from his hiding place in a tangle of brush. The dawn sun made a red streak like a cut along his scar, but he had no obvious injury.

  When he saw Prince Bifalt standing, he came at a run.

  “Highness,” he panted as he arrived. “I thought you were dead.” The lingering effects of exploding gunpowder and blood distanced his voice, but the words were clear. “The grenade—” Peering at the Prince’s brow, he asked in wonder, “Is that all? It needs care. A few stitches. But it will heal. How did you—?”

  “Elgart,” the Prince interrupted with as much authority as his weakness allowed. “Where is Klamath?”

  The guardsman grimaced. “I sent him to watch the north. The Captain was dead. We believed you were. You know how he is after a fight. He needed someone to tell him what to do. I hid to protect the wain.” Hesitating, he added, “He can tend you better than I can.”

  The Prince nodded. Every motion sent a flare of pain through him. “The Amikans?”

  He wanted to call them butchers. Despicable. No Bellegerin would consider hamstringing oxen an acceptable tactic. It was more than cruel: it was dishonorable. As dishonorable as Slack’s betrayal. As using starving children for bait. As theurgy itself.

  Sorcery was dishonorable because it allowed a sorcerer to wreak harm without risk to himself. Crippling the oxen would have had the same effect for most of the Amikan force. Only the scouts were in danger, and the result for Prince Bifalt’s quest—for all of Belleger—would have been ruin.

  The outcome would have been the same if the scouts had used grenades. One would have been enough. The Prince knew that now. But his foes had not known it when they sent their scouts. No doubt they had feared the lit fuse would expose the scouts to rifle-fire prematurely.

  “Gone, Highness,” replied Elgart. “I counted ten dead or dying. The rest rode away. They will not come at us again. If they meant another attack, they would have struck while darkness still covered them.”

  Prince Bifalt allowed himself to support his unsteadiness on the side of the wain. “We need their mounts.”
His voice sounded faint in his ears. The ground seemed to shift on its foundations. He had lost too much blood. “Recall Klamath. Do what you can for me. I must rest.”

  Slowly, he slumped to the grass. His thoughts faded into the comfortable earth. But he continued to hope for conflagration.

  Later, he learned that Winnow had more experience stitching cuts than Klamath did. When the Prince returned to consciousness, his brow felt like it was being gashed repeatedly, but it was bandaged and no longer bleeding. Klamath was preparing a meal. Elgart had gone to look for horses.

  Only three of us, the Prince sighed privately. Three trained to fight. And he himself was useless, at least for the present. He had to trust Elgart’s assertion that there would be no more attacks. Fortunately, the guardsmen could ride now. The company had escaped the ambush with two horses; and Captain Swalish had caught a third. Elgart might find more. But Prince Bifalt could not sit a saddle. He was too weak to walk or ride. He would have to lie on the wain.

  If the teamsters had not saved the oxen—

  Resting among the bedrolls and bundles of fodder, he ate what he could stomach. While Spliner and Winnow readied their beasts, Klamath retrieved the Captain’s rifle and ammunition. Vinsid’s gun was twisted beyond use, and his clips had been fired or otherwise ruined by the blast that killed him. Then Elgart returned, disgusted at his failure to capture any mounts. When he, too, had eaten, the teamsters took the reins of their animals, and the wain moved at last.

  Passing around the escarpment, the small company turned east across the rough terrain. The Prince had no more use for the southeasterly track. It would not help him now. His destination was somewhere in the east. Any trail he encountered in this region would take him out of his way. He remained watchful until he saw Elgart riding ahead of the wain, Klamath guarding the rear. Then he let himself doze.

  He needed to heal. He no longer suspected that he would die on this quest. In fact, he now believed that the quest itself would not fail. Men or powers who had saved him from death twice would not discard him without reason. But he wanted both his wits and his strength for the moment when the sorcerers claimed their prize.