The Demon World, page 31
Geratan walked in front of her and made to check the other box, but he had his back to the others so they couldn’t see his face. He mouthed, Ambrose and Davyon are outside. Stay strong. He turned and jumped down from the platform and was heading to the tent flap when Turturo shouted at him, “You, stop.”
Geratan halted.
“Help get the cart out and then harness the mules.”
The cart was pulled out of the tent and Catherine concentrated on keeping her balance and easing the chain to her right hand so the wound wasn’t pulled. She felt dizzy but was determined to keep her wits as much as she could. If there was any hope that Ambrose and Davyon would rescue her, she had to be ready.
Now, out in the open of the camp, green-haired soldiers walked by. Some pointed and some merely stared, but one group looked strangely familiar. They too had green hair, but one had Davyon’s stern look and another the most handsome face in the world. Ambrose—with short green hair! In any other situation she might have laughed, but though she couldn’t laugh she gained courage. They would do what they could to get her free.
She called out to the watching soldiers, “I’m Princess Catherine, Queen Apparent, wife to Prince Tzsayn. Lord Farrow has betrayed me. Turturo is a traitor.”
At this, Turturo ordered the guards to gag her. She screamed and shouted, “They know this is true! This is why I’m being silenced!” But the gag did silence her.
Two mules were harnessed to the front of her cart and the guards stayed with them. But nothing else seemed to be happening. The sun was still low in the sky. The pain in Catherine’s hand eased to a constant throb.
It’s just my hand. The rest of me is unharmed. I can cope with this.
But her legs ached with the tension and she felt light-headed.
She had to think. Had to think of her escape. Could she make it to Ambrose and the other men? She could pull her left hand out of the metal box and—if the bottle of smoke was still there—inhale the smoke. It’d give her strength, but probably not enough to break the chains. But then she realized the key to the chains might be on the cart somewhere. They’d hand her over with the key. And with that realization came another: she had to wait. She was being exchanged for Prince Tzsayn. She could free herself but only once she was sure that Tzsayn would get free too.
Turturo appeared again and ordered the men to head to the exchange point. The soldiers led the mules out of the camp and over the fields. The green-hairs were all following, some walking, some on horseback. The army was on the move and she was among them, treated no better than a load of potatoes. As the cart was brought to a halt, just ahead of the line of Farrow’s troops, Catherine was struck by a strong smell that made her feel nauseous. It was the smell of pitch. Why was that necessary for the exchange?
One of the advantages of being on the cart was that she was elevated enough to see what lay around her. She didn’t know where the pitch was, but the Pitorian army was to her left and right. Ahead was an open meadow and at its other side, across the shallow river, the Brigantine army was coming toward her. And among the vast number of soldiers and pennants and spears was another cart. A cart similar to her own, and on it was a slim figure with dark hair, standing upright. It was Tzsayn and he was alive. She lost sight of the cart in the mass of people and horses and pennants. There were pennants of many of the Brigantine lords, but the one that flew high above all the others was her father’s.
Her cart was brought to the front of the Pitorian lines. Another cart with four mules to her right was laden with sacks filled with the gold that was also part of the exchange. And across the meadow the other cart pulled by four mules came forward. As it approached, Catherine saw that the prince’s hands were not chained, but there was a metal collar round his neck, which was chained to the cart. And yet the prince stood tall; he looked like a prince even in torn and bloodied clothes. He had withstood his imprisonment—she could cope with hers. Catherine stood taller too.
Then her father came into view, riding a huge gray stallion. He looked across at her and stared. Boris, on his favorite black horse, joined Aloysius. A shout went up from the Brigantine army. They shouted Aloysius’s name and stamped their feet again and again. It was a threat and a warning. This was supposed to be an exchange of hostages and gold, but it seemed the Brigantines as usual were spoiling for a fight. Catherine knew that the Pitorians would be in serious trouble after the exchange had taken place. She couldn’t imagine her father just riding away, even if he had her and all the gold in the world.
Her father was reveling in it all. He rode in front of his lines and gloried in the noise and fury. He pulled up his horse opposite her across the field. The shouting swelled and then, as he waved his arm, his men went silent. And yet the silence seemed as much of a shock. No birds, nothing, made a noise.
Farrow called out, “They shout well, but so do all children. Send the gold to the checking position.”
Turturo rode with the cart of gold as two green-hairs led the mules across the meadow. They stopped a third of the way across.
Four men from the Brigantine side rode over. They inspected the sacks and then heaved each one on to a weighing scale at the back of the cart. Another of her father’s contraptions—this one to ensure he wasn’t cheated out of an ounce of gold.
Eventually they had done their work. Turturo nodded to them. It seemed the weight was correct. Turturo rode back to the Pitorian side.
“Send the prisoner out,” Farrow shouted, and Catherine’s cart set off slowly across the meadow.
The ground was more uneven here and the pain in her hand started again, blood beginning to run down her arm. Catherine focused on the prince, whose cart was moving across the field too. But now her cart stopped, level with the cart of gold.
A man with blue hair galloped past her to the prince’s cart and riding hard toward her was Boris and another rider with him.
They’ve checked the gold. Now they want to check that we, the prisoners, are who we’re supposed to be.
Boris halted in front of her. The man with him was Lang, the Brigantine officer who had challenged Ambrose to a duel all those weeks ago, who had lost his hand in the fight, and whom she’d let live. Boris stayed on his horse and called up, “Is it really you, darling sister?”
Lang leaped on to the cart and pulled the gag down to see her face.
“It’s me and you know it!” Catherine shouted at Boris.
Lang looked her up and down. “Interesting armor.” He put his gloved hand on her breast. Even with armor on she shrank back, twisting round to shake him off, the pain in her hand making her scream. But she couldn’t get away from him and he grabbed her by the throat and she spat at him.
“Quite the little cat, aren’t you? I always knew as much.” He pushed her head back so she staggered and screamed again at the pain in her right hand as blood poured down her arm. But her left hand had almost come out of the box—it was looser than she’d realized.
Lang hadn’t noticed, though; he was already leaping back on to his horse.
Boris wheeled round and shouted at her. “We’re going to have so much fun together over the next few days. Lang’s been pestering me like mad to spend time with you. I’m going to have to allow it.” Then he kicked his horse and galloped back to Aloysius. Lang stared into Catherine’s eyes a moment longer and sneered, “We’ll be together soon, Your Highness.”
Catherine watched him ride away with relief and noticed that the blue-hair who had headed to Prince Tzsayn to perform a similar task of identification was riding back to the Pitorian lines, shouting, “It’s the prince! It’s the prince!”
Catherine looked at the left box. Her hand was almost free. But when should she try to escape? And where were Ambrose and Davyon?
Farrow shouted, “Send them forward—slowly.”
The men with the cart of gold pulled and shouted and hit the four mules with sticks to get them to move, but the cart seemed stuck in a slight hollow. The mules squealed and danced around, and Catherine’s cart was moving ahead of them when the cart eventually got under way again.
The prince’s cart was farther along the field to Catherine’s right. She looked over to the prince and he was looking at her.
“Farrow betrayed me,” Catherine called.
“We’ll get you back,” he shouted. “Never give up.”
But Catherine knew that if she went into her father’s possession, she was never coming back out.
The carts were midway across the field now and both stopped about a hundred paces from each other. The men drawing Catherine’s cart ran to the prince’s. They were going to swap over. The Brigantines from Tzsayn’s cart were running toward her.
This was her chance to break free. Geratan knew it too. He jumped up beside her now and began to unlock the shackles on her ankles. “We don’t have much time. Get your hands free if you can, Your Highness.”
Catherine pulled at her left hand. The skin was scraped off, but she didn’t care—it was free. She reached to the box on her right hand and unhooked it. Her hand was held there on the spike. She couldn’t bear to look at it. Couldn’t bear to move it. She knew the pain would be terrible.
Men were running from the Brigantine lines to her cart to lead her away. She screamed at them and at herself as she pulled her right hand off the spike. With her left hand, she felt inside her armor. Was her smoke bottle there still?
She felt the leather strap and pulled. The bottle slid out smoothly along Zach’s beautiful armor.
The stopper was small and her hands wouldn’t work properly. She swore and glanced up. The Brigantines were nearly on her, but the shouting was from the blue-hairs on horseback who were charging across the field to her and the prince. Geratan was shielding her, his short sword drawn.
She bit the stopper out with her teeth and almost drank the smoke in.
And suddenly she was strong.
And she was angry.
A Brigantine was charging at Geratan, but Catherine leaped off the cart between them, taking the blow from the Brigantine’s sword on her armor, then breaking the soldier’s arm and grabbing his sword for herself. Catherine shouted at Geratan, “Run!” With that, she rolled under the cart, pushed another Brigantine out of her way, slashing her sword left and right and running to the only place she thought would be safe. To Tzsayn.
AMBROSE
HAWKS FIELD, NORTHERN PITORIA
AMBROSE, DAVYON, and the others loyal to the princess had mingled with Farrow’s soldiers as Catherine was taken to the exchange point. Davyon had muttered, “That’s Geratan, leading the cart. We’ll have to take our chance to free her when the exchange takes place.”
Ambrose tried to get to the front of the green-hairs, who were massing in a huge rank facing the Brigantines, but some soldiers shoved him back, swearing at him and telling him to wait. By the time he’d got to the front he’d lost Davyon, and just two of his men were with him.
Then Ambrose’s attention was caught by someone else. Lang! He was with Catherine on the cart, putting his hands on her. Boris was there too. Aloysius was on the far lines. Tzsayn was on another cart. He looked around again for Davyon and saw him farther back and to the right. Ambrose said to the two men with him, “We go to the princess when I say. Geratan is with her.”
He saw the men leading the carts swap places and Geratan leap up to the princess, helping to release her.
“We go!” And he and two others ran across the field to the princess, who had got free of her chains and was running to his right, toward the prince.
But coming up at a gallop across the field after Catherine were Boris, Lang, and more of Boris’s men. Over to the right Davyon had broken through the ranks and was running across the field too.
Farrow’s generals were shouting, “Stand your ground! Don’t move!” But not all the men could hear to follow orders and they must have thought there was an attack, so they were also running across the field.
Catherine was fast, but Boris was charging toward her.
Ambrose shouted as he ran, “Boriiiiissss!”
Lang was riding close behind Boris and he swerved his horse toward Ambrose. As the horse thundered toward him, Ambrose focused on the pounding hooves and his own pounding legs. Just as they were about to meet he dove to the side, swiping round with his sword then rolling to a stop, turning to see Lang’s horse stumble, its foreleg cut. Lang was on the ground and Ambrose ran at him as he rose, knocking his sword to the side and slicing at his neck. Lang staggered back and dropped his sword, blood running down his armor. Ambrose swiped at Lang’s neck again, severing his head from his body.
Ambrose turned and in the distance saw that Catherine had reached Davyon. Boris had slowed, the coward that he was—he was outnumbered. Ambrose knew he had his chance and set off after him, shouting Boris’s name again. Boris turned in rage and rode at Ambrose, but he wasn’t alone. Another of Boris’s men charged at Ambrose, who ducked and struck faster, slicing through the man’s leg and tipping him from his saddle. Caught in his stirrups, the man was dragged away by his horse to the Pitorian lines.
Boris was close now, riding directly at Ambrose, who stilled, waiting for his chance. But an arrow whizzed past Ambrose’s face and a moment later a dull pain shot through his leg. He looked down and a Brigantine arrow was embedded in his calf. He limped forward, arrows hitting the ground around him, and one pierced his right shoulder. His arm hung uselessly at his side.
Boris rode up with a smile on his face. Ambrose couldn’t even lift his sword. He waited for Boris to attack, but he might have known he wouldn’t be that lucky. Boris screamed at his men, “Take him alive. Hold him.”
Ambrose drew his dagger with his left hand. He should plunge it into his own guts but he couldn’t do it. He’d trained all his life to use it, but not against himself. He slashed at the first soldier and then the second, but then there were arms on him, pulling him back.
Boris yanked the dagger from Ambrose’s hand. “You’re not going to use this on yourself, though I may use it myself later. A fine tool to cut out your eyes.”
The Brigantines began to drag Ambrose back and he looked across the field. Some order had been restored. The Pitorians were holding their lines. A group of blue-hairs had rescued the prince, who now stood at the front of his men with Catherine.
Catherine was looking at Ambrose, trying to run to him, but arms pulled her back. She was too strong for them, though. She pushed a soldier off her and took his spear. She was running free of them.
Ambrose shouted, “No!” He didn’t want her to run to him. But she wasn’t doing that. She slowed, drew the spear back, and pointed her aiming arm at him.
Ambrose remembered her throw in Rossarb. It wasn’t good. But she would want to help him. She would know he’d rather die than be taken alive.
“Catherine, I love you,” Ambrose said. Hoping she’d read his lips. “Please. Do it. Now.”
Catherine’s arm pulled back the spear, pointing straight at Ambrose.
He smiled—he would meet death gladly.
The spear left Catherine’s hand and flew fast and low and hard toward him.
CATHERINE
HAWKS FIELD, NORTHERN PITORIA
Be as wily and fierce and persistent as a wolf.
War: The Art of Winning, M. Tatcher
CATHERINE FELT the spear’s weight in her hand, but had no time to think. She saw Ambrose speak to her across the field, his eyes on hers as he said he loved her. And it nearly broke her but she aimed and threw.
“I love you too,” Catherine said, as she watched the spear fly low and fast. “Don’t move. Don’t move.”
Ambrose wouldn’t want to be captured. Catherine knew that. But she couldn’t kill him. Her spear was for the man next to him.
Boris turned to see what Ambrose was looking at, and in that moment he saw the spear and tried to move but it was already too late—the spear hit his chest, tearing straight through his armor. Boris staggered back with the blow. He stared at Catherine, his eyes angry as always. Then he fell.
And, with his fall, war had to follow.
Her father roared his anger and the full force of the Brigantine army was unleashed. A swarm of arrows flew toward her. Farrow was screaming at his men to hold their lines. Tzsayn was lost in the sea of blue that had thronged in to protect him. Davyon ran to Catherine and pulled her to his side, holding up a shield while Catherine instinctively clung to him. Even though she had her armor, arrows could pierce her skull.
Catherine could no longer see Boris’s body. But she knew she’d killed him. Killed her own brother.
Another volley of arrows was flying toward the Pitorians, and from the Brigantines a shout went up: “Attack! Attack!” And the Brigantine army ran and rode toward her.
Davyon said, “We stay still until the arrows hit the ground, then we move back.”
“But Ambrose . . .”
Davyon was as blunt as ever. “If he lives, the others will get him.”
The arrows had stopped. Brigantines on foot and horseback were charging toward them, but Davyon said, calmly and firmly, “And now we retreat, Your Highness. Stay with me.”
Catherine turned and saw that the Pitorians had fallen back, and for a moment she thought they were all fleeing. But they were only moving back a short way in an orderly formation. Farrow was near the front, shouting, “Light the pitch!”
Almost immediately, flames began racing fast along the length of the front. Toward her and Davyon. They were standing on a filled-in trench of pitch.
Davyon had realized too but was as calm as ever. “Move across it. Quickly.”
Catherine was already running, pulling Davyon with her as the flames leaped into the air, separating them from the advancing soldiers. Through the red and orange fire, she could see that the Brigantine army was in chaos. The pitch trenches hadn’t just been dug in front of the Pitorian lines but crisscrossed the field. Many Brigantine soldiers were caught in the flames. Some men were on fire. Horses reared and squealed. The smoke hid some of the horror, but it was clear that the Brigantines were retreating. They had lost some men, they had lost their prince, and they had lost Catherine, but they had their gold.
