“Looks like they were ambushed by groundmites.” Jendara sheathed her sword as if groundmites were no cause for concern.
“The Gray One has been busy,” Torne said. He beckoned for Karigan and The Horse to follow.
Karigan covered her nose and mouth with her hands, and tried not to look down, but she had to look where she stepped. Bodies lay twisted and entwined, and it was impossible to tell where one stopped and another started. Crawling beetles created a sense of movement among the dead.
The silver of uniforms glared in the sun as if to mock the pride and honor with which the soldiers had once donned the colors of Sacoridia. Grim faces bloated in the sun unseeing. Carrion birds had picked out their eyes.
Among the human dead were a few not-so-human remains. Karigan couldn’t tell if it was death that made the skin of these large creatures yellowish brown, or if it was their natural coloring. The skin was covered with patches of mud-colored fur. Open mouths, as if in the midst of howling at the moment of death, were armed with sharp canines. Their ears were pointed and furred like a cat’s. Groundmites.
Three human heads were impaled on lances by the roadside. What remained of a captain hung from a tree, his stomach split and gutted. Two black-shafted arrows with red fletching pierced his heart. Karigan vomited.
It took considerable time to coax The Horse across the corpse-strewn road, much longer than she could bear. She wanted to run, to leave the grisly scene far behind her. But she knew it would return to her in her dreams, no matter how far away she went.
“That horse would never survive a battle,” Torne said, watching the miserable Karigan tug on the reins.
“Greenies are worthless in battle.” Jendara’s voice was full of contempt. “They gallop across the countryside on horses, is all. I’m surprised they even carry swords.”
Karigan felt as green as her greatcoat, and kept walking even after she had come to the end of the carnage. The mercenaries trotted to catch up with her. Behind them, the carrion birds flopped back among the corpses to resume their feeding.
Karigan was sick several more times. Blood and gore clung to her boots and no amount of scraping them on the road seemed to rub it off. When a stream appeared alongside the road, she ran to it so fast that even quick Jendara could not route her. Karigan stood there in the stream, her eyes closed, willing the rush of water to cleanse her feet, and her mind.
“Back on the road,” Jendara ordered.
When Karigan opened her eyes, she was staring down the black-banded blade. Torne stood in the middle of the road, his head thrown back in laughter. “A murderer who can’t stand the sight of blood!”
Karigan ignored him and locked her gaze with Jendara’s. “Were you a tomb guard, or a king’s guard, Swordmaster?”
Jendara squinted, as if the glare off her own blade blinded her. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I do not guard the dead.”
“Then why do you betray the king?”
“I do not betray the king, not the rightful king.”
Karigan raised her brows. The only sound was the stream flowing around her ankles. Just what had Jendara meant by that? “There is only one king. Zachary.”
The blow was so fast Karigan didn’t see it coming. Jendara slammed the flat of her sword on Karigan’s collar bone and sent her nerves ringing with its force. She splashed to her knees, cold water soaking through her trousers.
“I serve the rightful king,” Jendara hissed. “Do not forget it.” She grabbed Karigan’s collar, hauled her out of the stream, and shoved her down the road.
Torne was laughing again, or perhaps he had never stopped. Karigan staggered after her captors, dizzy and empty from vomiting repeatedly, but relieved her boots, at least, were clean.
Days came and went—Karigan lost count of how many. Hands tied before her, she trudged along with the mercenaries. She was only able to keep on because of the food Dusty had slipped in her pockets. She nibbled at it when the mercenaries weren’t looking, or were asleep. Even with the food in her pockets, she dreamed of feasting on goose and fresh baked bread, of sugared apple fritters and sharp cheese.
One night while Torne snored on the opposite side of the campfire and Jendara sat at watch with her back to Karigan, Karigan slipped her hand into her pocket. Her mouth watered in anticipation and her stomach rumbled—Torne had given her nothing to eat all day.
She pulled out a strip of dried meat. She chewed and swallowed hastily, yet savored every bit. So intent on the food was she, that she did not notice Jendara gazing at her until it was too late. The swordmaster’s eyes glinted in the firelight.
Karigan tensed, readying herself for another blow, for more pain, for Jendara to rouse Torne. She stuffed the rest of the meat strip into her mouth, not willing to be denied one last morsel. She glared defiantly at Jendara.
The swordmaster, however, did not twitch a muscle. She did not wake Torne, nor did she leap over to Karigan and strike her, or demand that she empty her pockets of the hidden food. She spoke not a word. She simply blinked her eyes and turned her gaze back to the depths of the night woods, her back rigid. Karigan was not about to question her motives.
When Karigan didn’t dream of food, she dreamed of retrieving the brooch, and fantasized about what she would do with the saber if she were invisible. She dreamed also of her mother’s ring, which Jendara wore. Sometimes she dreamed that her mother chastised her for her carelessness. Other times, her mother held her in a warm embrace, the seal of Clan G’ladheon seeming to come to life behind them—the roar of the ocean, the creak of ship timbers, the cry of gulls. . . . Then she would awaken to a reality much stranger than all her dreams together. How did a simple schoolgirl ever get into such a mess?