The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR





THEY LEFT THE destruction of the battle behind in a matter of minutes, but the broken-open tombs extended for several miles, lining the base of the cliffs on either side. Innis flew above them in wide circles, a speck in the sky. Petrus lifted his eyes to her often.

Their pace slowed with each mile that they rode. It wasn’t just the horses that were tired; the soldiers sagged in their saddles, their faces dark with soot, with stubble, with exhaustion. “How much further?” Tomas asked Dareus, as the sun shone overhead, at its zenith. “We need to rest.”

“We should be there soon.”

The canyon narrowed, swung north a few degrees, widened again—and there on the other side of the river was an outcrop of rock. It pushed out of the sand like the prow of a ship, sheer-sided, its flat crest several yards above the canyon floor.

They dismounted at the riverbed and led the horses across the jumble of boulders. Petrus stumbled as he walked, holding on to the horse to steady himself. His eyes were gritty with tiredness.

He watched as Innis swooped low. She hovered above the ground, some two hundred yards distant. Petrus squinted. What had she seen?

Innis landed. She shifted into the shape of a dog, sniffed the ground, and began to dig. Clouds of red sand rose behind her.

“What the...?” Petrus pushed away from his horse. “The mage has found something!”

He covered the distance at a half-run, scrambling over boulders, jogging across sand. He heard others following him.

Innis appeared to be digging a trench. It was already a foot deep when he reached her. “What is it?” he asked, crouching.

Innis paused and looked at him. Sand cascaded gently into the hole. She uttered a short, yipping bark.

“What—?” said Prince Tomas behind them, and then, peering more closely into the hole: “Is that a hand?”





IT TOOK SEVERAL more minutes to fully uncover the shallow grave. Innis sat down, panting. Her tongue hung from her mouth.

They stared down at what was exposed. Petrus silently counted the body parts. Like Captain Ditmer’s men, these men had been torn limb from limb.

“How many—?” someone asked.

“Three heads.”

Three heads, and a tangle of limbs.

“Fresh,” one of the soldiers said. “About a week, I’d say. “

Petrus turned away from the grave. He examined the canyon walls. Holes gaped in the nearest tombs.

“Who do you think they are?” Tomas said, crouching. “And where are their companions?”

“They must be heading towards Ner,” Dareus said. “Or we’d have crossed paths with them.”

A terrible thought seized him. Petrus narrowed his eyes, examining what was left of the bodies. The only skin he could see was covered by sand and dried blood.

With a muttered expletive, he reached down and hauled one of the arms from the grave. He stripped off the torn shirtsleeve and began to examine the skin. It was deeply bruised.

“What are you looking for?” Tomas asked.

“A tattoo.”

Tomas understood. He turned and uttered a curt order. Within less than a minute the body parts were laid out on the sand. Tomas knelt at one of the torsos and tore off the clothing.

It was Prince Harkeld who first found what they were looking for. “Here.” He held up an arm. A tattoo of a five-bladed throwing star showed on the pallid skin of the bicep.

Petrus released his breath with a hiss.

“Fithian assassin,” someone said behind him.

A second throwing star was found on the shoulder blade of one of the dead men, and marching across the nape of the man’s neck was a row of tiny daggers.

“How many?” Prince Tomas asked.

The soldier who’d found it bent his head and counted. “Fifteen, sire.”

“Fifteen kills!” Tomas muttered a curse. “They’re not beginners.” He stood and looked down at the scattered body parts, at the shallow grave already filling with sand. “What do you think happened?”

Dareus looked back at the outcrop. “At a guess, they camped here for the night. They were attacked—as we were, as Captain Ditmer was. Some of them managed to climb to safety. Some didn’t.” He nudged a leg with the toe of his boot. “Someone buried them, so there’s at least one assassin still alive. Possibly more. Innis—” he jerked his thumb upward. “Get up there. Keep watch.”

Innis obeyed, shifting from dog to hawk, sweeping up into the sky again.

Dareus turned to Gerit. “Change into a wolf, see what you can smell. We need to know how many of them there are.”

Gerit undressed. He shifted into the form of a wolf, broad-chested, its brown fur brindled with gray, and sniffed the remains of the three assassins, inhaling their scents.

The soldiers stood back, watching.

Gerit padded across to the outcrop. He circled it twice, sometimes with his nose close to the ground, sometimes standing up on his hind legs to sniff the sides. After the second circuit he dropped to his haunches and shifted into a hawk. He flew up on to the outcrop and became a wolf again. He spent several minutes up there, sniffing thoroughly, then changed into a hawk again and glided back towards them. Before he reached them, he circled to the left and landed.

Gerit changed into a wolf and sniffed the sand before trotting back to where they waited. He shifted. “The scent’s very faint. As far as I can tell, there were about ten assassins, including these three.”

“Ten?” Prince Tomas said, his voice sharp.

“Or so. It’s hard to tell. The scent’s too old.” Gerit began to dress.

“Ten,” Tomas repeated.

Petrus understood his dismay. Fithian assassins had a fearsome reputation. One assassin was more than a match for two soldiers. Three, if he was particularly well-trained.

“There’s another grave over there.” Gerit jerked his head to the left. “You can see it from the air. Corpses.”

“Another?” Tomas swung round to look. “How do you know it’s corpses and not more—”

“It smells of corpse. This one smells of men.” Gerit pulled on his shirt.

Tomas surveyed the canyon floor. Sand grains scurried before a rising breeze. “They’re trying to hide the fact they were here. They don’t want us to know they’re ahead of us.”

“Obviously.”

“When were they here?” Dareus asked.

Gerit shrugged into his jerkin. “About a week ago. Could be longer.”

Petrus glanced at Prince Harkeld. He hadn’t said anything since finding the first tattoo. His face was dirty, tired, grim. Was the prince afraid? He has to be. The assassins could only have one reason to be in Masse.

Poor sod, he found himself thinking, for the second time in two days.





THEY ATE LUNCH in the shade cast by the outcrop. Innis joined them; Ebril took her place in the sky.

Once they’d eaten, Dareus caught Petrus’s eye. Change with Innis, he mouthed.

Petrus glanced at Innis. She was already standing. As he watched, she walked away, vanishing around the curve of the rock, a blanket hugged tightly around her shoulders.

Petrus had stiffened while sitting; his bones seemed to creak as he stood. “Need to take a piss,” he told Prince Harkeld, and trudged around to the other side of the outcrop.

Innis was waiting. Her torn ear was healed, the soot and blood washed from her skin. Exhaustion still marked her face, though. The shadows beneath her eyes were as dark as bruises.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Petrus asked in a low voice.

She nodded.

“But Innis—”

“You’ve been Justen all night and more than half the day. You need to be yourself.”

“And you don’t?”

“Not as much as you.”

Petrus pressed his lips together, wishing he could refute her words. Small tremors ran beneath his skin and his heart beat too loudly in his ears. He was close to the limit of his endurance. If he held the shift much longer, he wouldn’t be able to change back into himself.

Innis took his silence for assent. She shifted into Justen’s shape. Her hair became shorter, fairer. Stubble bristled on her face. “Hurry,” she said, her voice deep. “Someone might come.”

Petrus shifted. His body seemed to sigh with relief. I’m me again. Quickly, silently, he stripped off Justen’s clothes—soot-stained, sweat-stained—and gave them to Innis. “I’m sorry about the smell.”

“Don’t be.”

The amulet was last. The ivory was gray with soot.

Innis placed the cord around her neck and tucked the amulet beneath the shirt. “Is there anything I should know? Anything the prince has said?”

“One of the soldiers asked why only three oliphants fought last night, not four.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “What did Dareus say?”

“That it’s a hard shape, and I’m not strong enough to do it.” Petrus pulled a face. “He said I was a lion, but I was fighting further back, where the oliphants couldn’t trample me.”

“Not strong enough?” Innis smiled faintly. “Poor Petrus.”

He shrugged, too exhausted to care about his pride, and picked up the blanket.

She turned to go.

“Innis.”

She looked back at him.

“The oliphant was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Innis smiled, flushing slightly beneath the stubble. “Thank you.”

“You saved us, Innis.”

She ducked her head, the flush deepening.

Justen wouldn’t do that. Petrus bit back the words. “Go,” he said, gently.

After a few minutes, he went back around the outcrop to where the others sat.





“I DON’T UNDERSTAND why there would be one assassin in Lundegaard,” Harkeld said. “Let alone ten.”

Tomas opened his mouth, and shut it again. He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t wish to give offense...”

“About what?” Harkeld said, scarcely noticing as his armsman rejoined them.

Tomas grimaced. “If there are Fithian assassins in Lundegaard, I think...it’s because of your father.”

“My father? Why?”

Tomas shrugged. “Osgaard has a history of rather aggressive expansion.”

Harkeld frowned. “So?”

“So Osgaard has expanded as far north, south, and west as it can. If it’s to expand further, it must look east. To Lundegaard.”

Harkeld looked away from his friend’s steady gaze. “I hardly think we’re going to invade—”

“That’s why my father offered to foster you. He hoped to strengthen the ties between us. It’s why he gave my sister to your father as a bride. Sigren didn’t want to, but she understood the necessity.”

Sigren. Harkeld rubbed his brow with hard fingers, remembering his father’s fourth wife, remembering the night she had died.

“On the map, we’re almost as large as mainland Osgaard—but half of our territory is this.” Tomas opened his hand, gesturing at the rock and the sand. “Empty. If you measure us by our population, we’re much smaller than Osgaard. If you chose to invade, you’d probably win.”

“And every other kingdom on this continent would come to arms against us!” Harkeld said. “We’d hardly win that war!”

“You think they would? No one came to Esfaban’s aid. Or Meren’s or Lomaly’s. We sat back and let you take them.”

Harkeld looked down at his boots. That was long before I was born. “If we took you, we’d be as big as Ankeny. A threat to the other kingdoms. They wouldn’t let it happen.”

“Perhaps.” Tomas shrugged. “It’s a risk your father might be prepared to take.”

Harkeld shook his head.

“But supposing our royal family died?” Tomas said. “What if the closest living heirs to Lundegaard’s throne were Sigren’s sons, your half-brothers.”

Harkeld frowned at him. “What?”

“My uncle and his sons died last year in a fire,” Tomas said. “There were indications it wasn’t an accident.”

Harkeld shook his head. “No.”

“Six months ago, my other cousin died of a fever. That just leaves us—my father, my brothers. Erik has only daughters so far.”

“But—”

“If my father was to die, if we were to die—your father could claim Lundegaard in his sons’ names.”

Harkeld stared at him.

“An accident. Another fire. A poison that looks like a fever. Something that seems natural, but isn’t.” Tomas shrugged. “Easy enough to arrange—for an assassin.”

“You have no proof of this. This is just...just supposition!”

“In the past year we’ve found three assassins within Lundegaard’s borders. Unfortunately we couldn’t question any of them.” Tomas grimaced. “A Fithian would rather die than be caught.”

“You think they were sent by my father?”

“Do you?”

Harkeld was silent. His father had planned to use the Ivek Curse to Osgaard’s gain. If he was capable of that, what else was he capable of?

He stared down at the ground and turned Tomas’s words over in his head. A couple of sentences caught, repeating themselves in a loop. That’s why my father offered to foster you as a boy. He hoped to strengthen the ties between us.

Had it all been false, then? King Magnas’s many kindnesses, the princes’ friendship?

He looked at Tomas. “Your father offered me sanctuary in Lundegaard, after the curse is broken.”

Tomas nodded.

“Why?”

Tomas blinked. “Because you’ve been banished. Where else will you go?”

“Does your father think to use me against Osgaard?”

Tomas blinked again. His forehead creased. “What?”

“Does he think to use me against Osgaard?” Harkeld repeated in a hard voice. I was a pawn in my father’s game. Am I now to be King Magnas’s pawn?

“Of course not! He offered you a home because you need one!”

Harkeld studied Tomas’s face. His indignation seemed sincere. “I apologize,” he said.

For a moment, he thought Tomas would push to his feet and storm off, then his friend’s face relaxed. “You are an ass sometimes, Harkeld.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his face. His skin was gritty beneath his fingers, greasy. He was abruptly aware of how filthy he was. The stink of last night’s battle was ingrained in his skin: smoke, blood, and the dry, dusty smell of the corpses. He climbed to his feet. “I need to wash.”





THEY STACKED MOST of their supplies against the side of the canyon, where the bundles wouldn’t be trampled by the corpses. A tomb was burrowed into the sandstone only a few yards from the cache. Its shape was only partly natural; the ancient Massens had clearly enlarged a cavity to suit their purpose. Harkeld eyed the hole warily. The blocks of stone that had sealed it lay crumbling on the ground. “Why don’t they come out in daylight?”

Dareus paused, and wiped his brow. “Don’t know,” he said. “Something to do with the way Ivek set up the curse, I guess.”

Once the stores were stacked, they debated the horses. “If we tether them, they’ll panic once the corpses start moving,” Tomas said. “Hurt themselves breaking free.”

“How many did we lose to injury last night?” Harkeld asked.

“Upwards of two dozen.”

“We could leave them free,” a soldier suggested.

Tomas laced his hands together behind his neck and stared down the canyon. After a moment, he gave a short nod. “We’ll tether them. Round that bend. It’s a good half mile away. Maybe they won’t panic so much.”

With the horses dealt with, they could rest. Harkeld trudged back to the outcrop. It was fully twice the height of a man, the sandstone rough, pock-marked with small holes. He made it to the top with the loss of some skin and hauled himself, panting, over the lip of stone.

He pushed to his knees and gazed down at the canyon floor. The climb was difficult for a man; impossible for a thousand-year-old corpse.

The outcrop was flat on top and roughly triangle-shaped. The things they’d need—food, water, firewood, blankets—were stacked in the middle. Around him, men stretched out wearily on the stone. Harkeld counted them silently. Nine soldiers, and Tomas. Was that enough to fight six or seven Fithian assassins, and win?

No.

He glanced at the witches: Dareus, Cora, Petrus, Gerit. Innis and Ebril must be up in the sky.

If a Fithian assassin was the equal of two soldiers, how many witches did one assassin equal?

“Blanket?” Justen asked.

Harkeld took the blanket his armsman offered and spread it on the rock. He unslung his baldric, kicked off his boots, and lay down. Weariness seemed to push him into the stone. Wind sighed up the canyon, drawing wails from the cliffs. He barely noticed the sound. Somehow, in the past day, he’d grown used to it.

Harkeld closed his eyes and slept.





JUSTEN ROUSED HIM, shaking his shoulder. “Sire. It’ll soon be dusk.”

Harkeld pushed up on an elbow, yawning.

They ate a hurried meal. “We shouldn’t have any problems,” Tomas said once they’d eaten. “But for the first couple of hours I want every man ready. After that, we can take it in shifts.”

Harkeld looked out over the canyon. Dusk was rapidly falling, the shadows deepening, spreading. Broken-open tombs stretched as far as he could see along the base of the cliffs. The holes looked like dark mouths.

He narrowed his eyes. Was that movement?

“I want three fires,” Tomas said, pointing. “There, there, and there. Now move; we haven’t much time.”

They built a fire at each of the three points where the outcrop jutted, prow-like, into the canyon. The light they cast illuminated the entire outcrop. Harkeld stood at the edge and looked down. Nothing would be able to climb up without being seen.

Night slowly enveloped the canyon. The shapeshifters became owls and swept up into the sky. Harkeld stood listening, his sword clenched in his hand, his ears straining for the first sound—

A stone rattled in the distance.

“Harkeld, get back,” Tomas said, from his position by one of the fires.

“But—”

“Back!” His voice was hard. “You too, Justen.”

Muttering, Harkeld obeyed.

He stood in the middle of the outcrop, sword in hand, ready. All around him, men faced outward. Firelight turned their faces ruddy. The sword blades gleamed red-gold. He heard the rattle of dislodged stones, a rustling sound like dried leaves, the whisper of wings as the shapeshifters kept watch from above.

A minute passed, and then another. Nothing changed. Several more minutes passed. Harkeld’s arm began to grow tired, holding the sword aloft. “Well?” he asked.

“Come and have a look,” Tomas said.

Harkeld lowered his sword. He walked across to Tomas and looked down.

The firelight cast its illumination over a mass of corpses. He saw gaunt, hollow-eyed faces, brittle thatches of hair, leathery skin stretched tight over bones. The creatures were in constant movement, jostling one another. Those in front scrabbled at the outcrop, plucking at the rock with bony fingers, trying in vain to haul themselves up.

“They can’t climb,” Tomas said.

The only excitement during the first hour was an unattached hand groping its way up the side of the outcrop. The soldiers watched as it climbed and chopped it to pieces when it reached the top.

Tomas turned away from the edge, sheathing his sword. “We’ll take it in shifts, six at a time, half the night each. Who wants to go first?”

Harkeld raised his hand.

“You don’t have to,” Tomas said. “We have enough—”

“I want to.” Last night, men had died for him; tonight, he would pull his weight.

“It’ll be boring,” Tomas said. “Cold—”

“Tomas, go to sleep.”

His friend grinned. “Yes, sire.”





TOMAS HAD BEEN correct: it was boring and, as the night progressed, increasingly cold. Harkeld alternated standing by the fire with Justen. Even so, he was shivering by the time the second shift relieved them. His fingers were numb. He almost dropped his sword, sheathing it.

Rolled in his blanket, the sandstone cold and hard beneath him, the shivering gradually eased. Justen was warm on his right.

Despite the constant, dry susurration of movement from the canyon floor, despite the cold, Harkeld slid into sleep.





“STILL COLD?” A voice whispered. Arms came around him. A body pressed against his back.

“That feels good,” Harkeld murmured, turning, gathering her close. He didn’t open his eyes, but the scent of her black hair was familiar, the slenderness of her body.

She nestled against him, soft and warm.

Contented, Harkeld slid into sleep again.





INNIS WOKE AT dawn. She sat up, rubbing her face, feeling Justen’s stubble on her cheeks. Prince Harkeld still slept. His face was relaxed, the grimness gone; he merely looked exhausted.

She looked out across the canyon. The sand was churned with thousands of footprints. Even as she watched, a breeze began to smooth the tracks. A low wail rose from the walls.

Innis pushed aside the blanket and walked to the edge of the outcrop. A few fragments littered the sand: a skull, its eye sockets staring up at the sky, a bony leg. “Any trouble?” she asked the closest soldier.

He shook his head.