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 Excerpt from Path of Honor
From Chapter 1
"If you can't cure them, burn them. After all, they're only friends and family," she said acidly. Sodur came to stand beside her, saying nothing. Reisil reached for the latch, a twist of wire securing it from the outside. She paused, her eyes streaming at the unrelenting smell. After a moment, she motioned Sodur to follow her around behind the sheds. A row of kitchen gardens stretched the length of the row, taking advantage of the ready fertilizer and sunny southern exposure. Now, however, most of the neat patches were withered and brown. Reisil walked along the row until she found a patch of lavender and rosemary growing in a green clump amidst the ruin of vegetables. She collected a handful of each and retreated to the cistern at the end of the garden row. She untied her scarf from her neck and dipped it in the tepid water before rubbing it thoroughly with the two herbs. The resulting odor was pungent and did much to cover the stench when she tied the scarf across her nose and mouth. Sodur followed suit. "Are you ready?" he asked, and the doubt in his voice made Reisil's spine snap straight, glad now that she had not admitted her failure to summon her magic when the nokulas attacked. "I am a tark," she replied, side-stepping him. She returned to the doorway, unfastening the wire and latch. An angled chute led up a ramp into the wide shearing area. The dimly-lit oval stretched a hundred feet in length and was dominated by rows of shearing tables. The interior wall around the oval was lined with slatted wooden bins for the wool. Gates leading into the holding pens between the inner and outer wall interspersed the bins every ten feet. Each of these small enclosures was designed to hold a dozen sheep. No doubt the place doubled in winter as both a barn and a village gathering area for meetings and celebrations. A dusty red ribbon dangled limply from an overhead beam. No one was celebrating now. Reisil surveyed the expanse, horror congealing in her stomach. It was worse than any tales of the Demonlord's torture pits, worse than any nightmare she'd ever imagined. There were so many people—most of the village. Adults and children both. Beside her, Sodur muttered something she didn't hear. The dead and the sick littered the tables and dirt floors. It looked as if many had collapsed in their tracks while tending others. The miasma of death, putrefaction and feces made Reisil's eyes burn and her stomach buck despite the masking scent of lavendar and rosemary. Ignoring her discomfort, she marched resolutely to the closest table. The man was dead. He wore only a filthy loincloth around his hips. His arms and legs were black up to nearly the shoulders and hips and swollen to five times their normal size. Black scabs pocked the surface between yellow blisters, dried and crusty now. His legs and the table were thick with dried, bloody feces. His face was smeared with the blood that had trickled from his eyes, nose and mouth. His tongue protruded from between his lips. His skin, where it wasn't black and swollen, was yellowed and covered with a purple rash. Flies crawled over him and clustered in his eyes and mouth. Reisil moved to the next table and the next, jaw clenching tighter and tighter with every death until she thought her teeth would crack. She paused to kneel and check those lying on the floor. The damage to every body was as catastrophic as the first. In some, the blackened arms and legs had ruptured from the pressure of the escaping gasses within, the putrid inner flesh crawling with maggots and flies. Horror thickened in Reisil's chest. How could she begin to defend against this devastation? She swallowed, her tongue dry and feeling too large for her mouth. How could she defeat it with crippled magic? Reisil remembered the wizard circle, the tremendous surge of power, of knowing she could call lightning. The blistering power that had filled her then, the glorious, rich fullness when she had grown back Reimon's arm in that little grass hut on the Vorshtar plain. That power could pinch out the plague like a blown candle. But she didn't have it anymore. Maybe she never did. Then the Lady's hand had guided her. That hand was gone now. Reisil stopped, staring around her at the bodies scattered like tortured dolls. Most people, the ones who didn't blame her, said the wizards had done this. And she knew, down to the soles of her feet, that it was true. The plague suited the wizards'style down to the ground. It did their dirty work for them, efficiently, with no wasted energy. They will pay, Reisil promised herself. I will make them pay. Halfway down the line of tables, Reisil found a girl still alive. She lay sprawled, half on one side as if she'd tried to curl into a ball. Her hands were black halfway to her elbows, and her feet were black where they protruded from her skirts. Her breath came in wheezing gasps and she jerked and twitched in agony. Reisil could hear a soft, crackling sound, like crumpling paper, and realized that it came from the blackened limbs, the gasses within bubbling and popping. The girl gave a little groan, her mouth moving, her eyes closed. "Here," Reisil called to Sodur, who dropped down beside her. "By the Lady," he whispered in a gritty voice. "I'm going to try to heal her." Reisil reached down inside herself. To her astonishment, the magic answered immediately, roaring up ferociously to engulf her with volcanic heat. Power crackled over her skin and snapped in the air around her. Reisil snatched her hands up to her chest. Sodur grunted and scuttled aside as the searing heat licked at him. Reisil struggled against the rising tide. Either it came to fast and hard or it came not at all. What use was magic if she couldn't control it? Long moments passed, her mouth growing parched, her skin feeling stretched and tight as the heat grew more intense. At last she managed to contain it, but it pulled at her like a chained animal, snapping and growling. She laid tentative fingers on the girl's chest, her light touch making the girl twitch and moan. Reisil closed her eyes, concentrating, moving inside. The girl's body was as bloated and rotten as a corpse floating in a river. Reisil shuddered as she explored the damage. Collapsed bloodways; pulpy, bruised organs; putrid, decaying flesh. How the girl still clung to life, Reisil couldn't imagine. She slid inside on a thick tendril of magic, wincing at the girl's cry of protest, the way her body twitched and flinched. Reisil tried to thin the magic, but to no avail. She pushed further along, determined to do what she had to do quickly. Elation rolled through her as she went deeper. It was working! Then she forgot everything and concentrated on healing. How long she sat over the girl, she didn't know. Over and over again she repaired tattered nets of veins and arteries, restored putrid flesh to pink purity, swallowed poisons and corrosion. Over and over again the corruption returned, sliding unabashedly in behind her as she moved on to the next repair. She was besieged on all sides, frantically trying to stem the tide surging up in her wake as the one before her rolled higher and higher. Over and over she sought the epicenter of the body's disaster, the source of the spreading horror. Over and over. The girl died. Reisil reeled back, feeling life fleeing away, trying to catch it with spectral hands. But the girl was gone, her body a patchwork of healed flesh and voracious rot. Reisil sobbed, the heels of her hands pressed hard against her eyes, her fingers curling hard into her scalp. She felt Sodur's hands on her shoulders, pulling her against him in a rough embrace. She pressed her head against his chest, dry, wracking sobs shaking her like a sapling in a rough wind. "Next time, next time," Sodur soothed, repeating the words over and over. They worked their way into Reisil's brain with dull slowness and at last she pushed herself up, scrubbing away her tears. "Then let's try again." There were a dozen others still living in the shearing sheds. Reisil tried again with each of them. To no avail, though none of them died under her ministrations. At last Sodur dragged her away, her body shaking and drenched with sweat.
From Chapter 8"Don't toy with him, Metyein. It's much too cold, and I'm hungry besides. I want hot wine, a groaning table, and a lapful of woman." Metyein flashed a thin-lipped smile at his second. There was no other man his father wanted less as a companion for his eldest son, and no other that Metyein trusted so well. His father's disapprobation merely served to spice their friendship. "You have no heart, Soka. How can I prick Kaselm's pride that way? How will he consider himself a man if I merely swat him like a child?" Soka eyed Metyein's smiling countenance banefully. "He can plump up a woman or six like any other civilized man. I swear Metyein, all winter long you've had us out here freezing our balls off. I tell you now, you're going to have find yourself a new second if you can't wait for a more mild season for your little wrangles." At Soka's first words, Metyein's face shuttered, his fine-drawn features turning to chiselled marble. "Some of us don't find studwork as manly an enterprise as others," he said, his upper lip curling. "Oh for the love of the Demonlord's warty, purple horn, Metyein, I didn't mean your father," Soka said with an impatient, outflung hand, which he quickly gathered back against himself with a shiver. "You appreciate a warm, wet, willing woman as much as the next man and none of us have wives—which, I might add, will salve your conscience when you poke a hole in Kaselm. So why shouldn't we enjoy ourselves? Having a noble's byblow gets a doxy a bit of status, some extra money for her old age, and lets a man be certain she's a good breeder before he makes her his wife. Nothing debauched about having a bit of muslin. We're doing a service." Metyein couldn't help but chuckle as he unpinned his cloak, short brown curls tossing in the wind. "All right," he said, giving the promise to Soka that his Lord Marshal father had not managed to bribe, blackmail or reason from him. "This will be the last time—at least until the demon-blighted spring arrives. So long as no one gives me cause." Soka shook his head, draping Metyein's cloak over his arm. "Kaselm was foolish to mention your mother so. It should be quite obvious to anyone that you have taken charge of your mother's reputation, and that you are by far the most superior swordsman in Koduteel. The man has offal for brains. His father must despair for the future of his House." "His father may thank me, then." Metyein said, rolling his shoulders and tugging his cuffs down over his wrists. His clothing fit impeccably as always, and yet, as always, he fussed with it restlessly before proceeding with the duel. Not that he expected to lose. Still his blood roared in his veins and his muscles tensed with anticipation. "Likely he wouldn't mind a different choice of heir," Soka agreed. "But I'm not sure there is a better choice available. He was so deep in his cups that he doubtless can't even remember his offense." "Then before I stop his heart, I shall refresh his memory." "Don't be such an ass. Killing Kaselm will do nothing to mend your father's habits. Let Kaselm off with a scratch. His pride will suffer with the story that you defeated him hardly before he drew his sword. That he won't soon forget, thanks to Nedek's flapping tongue. You can hardly inflict a worse punishment. And then you and I can find someplace to get warm." He grinned laciviously and waggled his brows. Metyein chuckled and clapped Soka on the shoulder. "All right, all right. You win. A scratch. But on his cheek. Every time he looks in the mirror he'll have cause to remember." "It could be worse," said Soka, pulling a flask from a cloak pocket and taking a quick swig. The folds of his hood fell away from his face. He had a straight nose with prominent cheekbones, his chestnut hair forming a dramatic widow's peak on his high brow. But his strikingly handsome features were marred by the brilliant patch covering one eye, the other a glittering like blue topaz. The scarlet material couldn't cover the scars that scrolled over his left cheek from the ruined eye, and its gold embroidery was uncomfortably patterned to match those scars. "Better hurry before he piddles himself or the watch interrupts your fun. They patrol the gardens more avidly now that you've made it such a fashionable site for dueling." "Certainly the gangs of thieves and assorted vagabonds who have taken up residence here are not reason enough to step up patrols," Metyein replied sardonically. The two men paced up the Lover's Walk toward Kaselm and Nedek. The Jarrah Gardens were located in the northwest quadrant of Koduteel. Covering more than forty acres, they formed the hub of the social season's entertainment. The gardens consisted mostly of shady woods spreading over low knowles and clustering in grassy hollows. Streams spanned by footbridges completed the romantic ambience. Paved walks crosshatched the gardens at intervals, providing seclusion and privacy for amorous assignations and other, less savory activities. The Lovers Walk ran along the western edge, a cloistered tunnel beneath the trees. South and east lay the orchestra pavilion and the rotunda. Supperbox wings braced the orchestra pavilion on either side. The Lovers Walk was often Metyein's choice for duels, and not only because of the privacy it offered. It was his way of rebuking his father for his ever-growing catalog of mistresses. The current favorite wore a scent of star flowers and sweet bren resin. The cloying fragrance had clung to his father's skin and hair the last three days, staining the air around him and turning Metyein's stomach with every tainted breath he took. Metyein found his father's romantic exploits intolerable. His mother, too shamed to sit passively by and watch her husband's sexual sport, remained sequestered in Doneviik, the Vare ancestral home. A quiet, dignified woman, she rarely ever spoke of the man who had begun straying within months of their marriage. Though he'd warmed her bed sufficiently often to produce three sons and two daughters, theirs was a sterile relationship. To Metyein, he had been little more than a low voice, a scent of tobacco and a pair of polished boots. But on Metyein's twentieth birthday, the Lord Marshal had sent for him in preparation for becoming the next Kijal Vare. That had been two years and more than twenty duels ago. Metyein sucked his teeth and spit in an ungentlemanly fashion. He had had years of intensive tutelage in all those things necessary to prepare him to inherit the title—social graces, languages, mathematics, history, swordplay, and tactics. His mother had been scrupulous in making sure he learned his lessons. But he was like a child learning to read compared to his father's brilliance. Over the last two years he'd learned more than he would have believed possible on every facet of the court, politics, the war, and even his father. It rankled almost beyond bearing that he was forced to respect this man who'd had so little care for his wife's reputation. But if he'd come to respect the Lord Marshal's mental agility, he continued to be infuriated by his casual rutting. Those who admired his father made Dajal Vare the brunt of their merrymaking, publicly speculating about the woman who would drive a man to such heights of excess. Metyein's thin lips twisted. If winning duels against those bucks was proof of her virtue, then his mother was perfect indeed. He never lost. Even his father's swordsmaster had been startled at his skill, and their training sessions soon became full-scale contests, driving both to new levels of ability. The lewd speculations about his mother had dwindled sharply as Metyein's reputation had spread amongst the Lord Marshal's toadies and they began to fear for their lives. More than a few of his father's allies had complained about his transgressions. His father's admonitions only spurred him on. "You're quiet. Not having second thoughts?" asked Soka. "Not at all. I'm merely wondering which cheek Kaselm would prefer marked." "Either will make an improvement. But perhaps you should ask." The wind whined through the bare trees and ice crunched beneath their boots. Kaselm and Nedek waited beside a small fountain, its marble basin cluttered with winter debris and snow. Kaselm was several years older than Metyein. He had narrow, piggy eyes and a bulking chest that appeared entirely out of proportion to his bandy legs. His doublet was stained with wine and vomit from the previous night, and his sleeves revealed all that he'd eaten since donning it. Nedek was equally broad shouldered, but his gut jutted above his waistband and his fine features disappeared in the fleshy folds of his face. "Gentlemen," Metyein said with a nod. "Are you ready to begin? It seems my friend Kaj Soka longs for indoor amusements." Nedek scowled at Soka, stepping away with a sour expression. Metyein's gaze sharpened, but Soka gave a faint shake of his head and rolled his good eye. Metyein swallowed his resentment. Soka had resided in Koduteel as a hostage to the court for twelve years, more than half his life. In that time, he'd never once been allowed outside its walls. The price he paid for the crimes of his father. That and a constant barage of insolence from the other nobility for which Soka had no recourse: he was forbidden to fight by the terms of the hostage compact. He'd only been permitted to carry a weapon after Patverseme had attacked Koduteel. Since then no one had thought to revoke the privilege. He would not soon forgive the humiliation of having Metyein defend his honor from the likes of Nedek. Still, if it was Nedek he was dueling and not Kaselm, Metyein wouldn't hesitate to separate the man's idiot soul from his body. "Shall we?" Metyein asked, gesturing toward the walkway and pulling off his gloves. Kaselm and Nedek glanced at one another and then Kaselm mumbled miserably as he removed his cloak. Metyein retreated along the walk, leaving Soka standing beside the fountain with Nedek. Kaselm shuffled out to a point opposite Metyein, fumbling at the hilt of his sword. Both men drew, the metal of their swords chiming brightly in the frigid air. Kaselm's sword was a court-sword. It resembled Metyein's rapier, though it had a smaller guard and finger rings for added control. Both men drew their daggers, Metyein's bearing a traditional s-shaped guard while Kaselm's bore a trapping guard. Metyein eyed it with derision. Kaselm's limp, awkward grip indicated the dagger was more decorative than functional. As both men settled into guard positions, Metyein paused. "It should comfort you to learn, Kaselm, that I've decided to take my satisfaction in first blood rather than heart's blood. But that leaves me with something of a dilemma. Would you prefer to wear my mark on your right or left cheek?" Kaselm's jaw dropped and then closed, then opened and closed again. Metyein remained poised and ready. Kaselm bellowed and galloped forward. Metyein ducked under his wild slashing blow and Kaselm stumbled past, unable to stop. If this had been battle and Metyein had been using a sword with a cutting edge, he might have ended things right there with a quick slash at Kaselm's exposed hamstrings. But instead he spun around, weight forward on the balls of his feet, waiting for Kaselm to charge again. Kaselm lumbered about, looking faintly baffled. He clutched his hilt with white-knuckled fingers. Already he was panting, his breaths bursting forth in feathery plumes. His stance was too wide, Metyein noted, and he held his sword too high. His dagger drooped uselessly. Even without Soka's admonition to hurry, Metyein doubted he could have toyed long with this buffoon. He slid his tongue around his teeth. He could not allow Kaselm's comments to pass unchallenged, and yet how could he consider this a fair duel, as grossly bungling as Kaselm obviously was? How could any idiot be allowed to strap on a sword if he was this incompetent to use it? Disgusted with them both, Metyein didn't wait for Kaselm to formulate another attack. Shifting his feet quickly, he brought himself in under Kaselm's guard, caught the other man's bobbling sword with his dagger and twisted it easily out of his hand. A moment later, he flicked the point of his rapier across Kaselm's florid right cheek. Blood welled along the line of the cut and trickled down his flummoxed face. "I declare myself satisfied," Metyein said with a cold salute of his sword. "I would caution you against further insults to my mother, however." With that, Metyein gave stiff bow and backed out of reach. "Well done," Soka murmured, handing Metyein his cloak. "He won't think so. But I'll be damned if I'll protect his pride by playing a gull to his abysmal skills." "Basham Odelm will be grateful that you didn't carve his son's heart out. And I am grateful to be on my way. Shall we?" "I want a drink." Soka flashed a feral grin. "Delightful idea. Cantra's got that new black-eyed wench. Wild thing. She will be just the thing to warm my bones, one in particular." They left Nedek to tend Kaselm and retreated back the way they'd come, having left their horses attended by grooms in a bower by the north gate. They had hardly gone a dozen steps when an eerie, high-pitched squeal shrilled from behind. Metyein and Soka whirled about, yanking their swords free. |
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