Nathan put on a burst of speed toward the sheltering forest. He could hear the crushing foliage, saw the people trampling countless flowers. His boots, the hem of his wizard’s robe, even the silks covering his hands must be tainted with poison. He would have to scrub every bit of it off in the fast stream, if he made it that far.
He and Verna finally reached the other side of the meadow. They rushed into the trees, scrambled over rocks, and topped a rise before they worked their way down into a drainage, where a rushing stream tumbled over mossy rocks. Before he scrambled down the steep slope, Nathan glanced back to see the enemy soldiers pouring across the meadow after them. The first ones were starting to stagger and drop among the deadly blossoms. Many did not make it halfway through the meadow, while others kept on, slowing, lurching, until they collapsed into the deceptively colorful vegetation.
As countless men died inexplicably, the rest of the army hesitated, piling up in a wary crowd at the outer edge of the meadow. A few made it all the way across the field of flowers and reeled into the rocky forest, where they dropped among the trees, writhing and vomiting, clawing at their eyes.
Nathan felt a grim pleasure as he watched them die. “Those flowers will make a fine bouquet for your funeral.”
Verna’s shout startled him out of his reverie. “Nathan, don’t just stare! We have to get to the stream and wash!”
Without wasting breath on further words, they ran down the steep slope to the fast-flowing water, where General Zimmer and his soldiers waited beside all the horses, weapons drawn and ready to fight any enemy who made it through. Nathan and his companions careened down the slope, slipping and stumbling on dry leaves and pine needles until they plunged into the rushing, cold stream. The current was frigid with snowmelt, but Nathan dove into the water, peeling the silks from his hands before the poison could soak through the special silk. He unwound the fabric from his face, then dunked his head into the stream and let his long white hair flow loose. Next, he stripped off his white robe and let it drift down the stream. He would never wear the contaminated garment again.
Verna, Oron, and Olgya scrubbed their hands in the silty stream bottom, washed their faces, wrung out their clothes. Gasping, spraying water from his mouth, Nathan looked up to see Renn stumble to the stream’s edge. The other wizard moved slowly, his face aghast.
“Into the water, Renn!” Nathan called. “Wash yourself! Get the poison off.”
But Renn stared at his left hand, where the silken wrappings had slipped off while he charged through the flowers, and now the fabric hung loose on his wrist. He looked at his palm, his fingers, the back of his hand, where the skin was already covered with gray blisters. His wrists were swollen and red, his knuckles puffy.
“Oh no,” Renn said.
*
The sad defenders carried Renn’s body with them, not willing to give the fallen wizard an unmarked grave in an empty forest. They moved swiftly away from the deathrise field, griefstruck.
Behind them, hundreds, maybe even thousands, of the enemy soldiers had fallen dead from the horrible poison in the meadow. The ancient army ground to a halt in shock as First Commander Enoch sent cautious scouts to find a safe route that avoided the meadow. Eventually, the great force pushed on toward the rocky peaks that led to the pass of Kol Adair.
When Nathan and his companions had gone a safe distance from the enemy army, they found a sheltered hollow in the high forest, where they took the time to build a funeral pyre for Renn.
Thorn and Lyesse patrolled, watching out for surprise attacks, while the rest of the group paid their respects to the fallen wizard. Captain Trevor and his Ildakaran guards were especially shaken, having escorted Renn to Cliffwall and back. Together, they watched the blaze burn, purifying his mortal remains.
Nathan touched the scar on his chest and felt a twinge of Ivan’s anger, but he drove it back and concentrated only on his respect for Renn.
CHAPTER 25
The three serpent ships cruised down the Killraven River past sluggish side channels and wide marshes. When a heavy breeze stretched the blue sails, the Norukai shipped the oars and let their captives sprawl on deck, tied in place.
After being confined for so long in the hot and stinking hold, Bannon relished the small joy of open air. His skin was caked with sweat, dried fish slime, and blood. His pale skin burned easily under the sun, and his body was mottled with bruises.
King Grieve strode along the deck to remind the slaves of his intimidating presence. Bannon hated everything about the man—the chain around his waist, the iron plates on his knuckles, the implanted spines in his shoulders, the awful gash that sliced his mouth to the back of his head.
Chalk followed the king like a loyal dog, jabbering, grinning. “My Grieve, King Grieve, you’ll all grieve!” The king seemed comforted by the shaman’s presence, as if he were a pet.
The big captive Erik sat beside Bannon, his knees drawn up to his broad shoulders, his head hung. Though Bannon had tried to keep him strong, the large man remained in a daze of grief, walling himself off, as if to commune with the spirits of his slaughtered family. Bannon tried talking with the sullen captive, but rarely earned a response.
Several Norukai ran excitedly to the stern of the ship, looking down into the muddy river. “Get us hooks,” one man cried. “Spears with ropes!”
Trying to see what they were doing, Bannon tugged against his bindings, but each movement made him wince. More Norukai rushed to the rail with boat hooks, harpoons, weighted nets. Leaning over the side, they took turns hurling weapons into the water, as if it were some kind of sports contest.
Drawn to the frenetic activity, Chalk pressed among the larger warriors, elbowing through so he could peer down. “Ah, fish! Big fish, monster fish! Fish monsters.”
“Get a hook in their gills,” Gara called down.
Another Norukai groaned, “That one’s dead now, but we’re drifting too fast down the channel. The damned thing is slipping away!”
“Drop anchor,” King Grieve shouted. “It’s worth the stop. That’ll be enough food to get us back home.”
Chains rattled through slots as heavy anchor stones dropped into the river, sinking to the mud. Two other raiders climbed the mast and rolled up the sails, tying them to the yardarm. The other two serpent ships dropped anchor as well.
“Channel catfish,” said oar master Bosko as he let out a loud burst of smelly gas. “We’ll have a feast, by the serpent god!”
They jabbed hooks and spears into the water, then hauled on the ropes. It took three straining Norukai to pull up the first flopping body.
Though Bannon had lived on Chiriya Island, where fishermen brought back their daily catches, he had never seen such a huge fish before. Groaning and laughing, the Norukai heaved the beast over the rail and dropped it onto the deck with a loud thud. The catfish’s body was as long as a canoe, its crescent-moon mouth gaping, the wide-set eyes small, dark, and stupid. Long whiskers were like barbed tentacles. Watery brown blood oozed from the wounds made by barbed hooks and serrated harpoons.
Chalk could barely contain his excitement as he squatted in front of the creature. He touched the slime that covered the catfish’s body and danced back, holding up his finger and licking it. The dying catfish twitched and thrashed, and the albino shaman skittered away from the sharp spines on its fins.
“Fish bite, fish nibble,” he said, poking the countless small scars that covered his body. He grinned at Bannon as if the two were having a private conversation. “Stay away from the fish.”
The Norukai threw more harpoons into the river and pulled up a second enormous fish. Before long, the mood on the ship brightened as the Norukai hauled a third monster fish onto the deck, and they fell upon the creatures with their knives, sawing through the scaly hides to pull out the entrails. The catfish oozed puddles of slime on the deck. One Norukai man received a deep cut from a thrashing spine, and he retaliated by using his battle hammer to batter the fish’s head into pulp
.
Bannon felt queasy with the stench of the slime and blood, but Grieve regarded the mess with pride. He raised his heavy war axe and with a single stoke cut halfway through the catfish’s neck. The whiplike whiskers continued to twitch.
Grieve hacked twice more until the head rolled loose, and Chalk clucked his tongue in disappointment. “The axe cleaves the wood, the sword cleaves the bone! And King Grieve cuts the fish, monster fish. Fish monsters.”
“Did you predict we would have a feast, Chalk?” Grieve asked.
The albino dropped to his knees and thrust his hands into the open cavity from which the guts had already been removed. “I predict?.?.?.?dinner!”
The Norukai made swift work, peeling off the tough skin, cutting up the pinkish meat. They were happy to eat the fish raw, and Grieve took a hunk for himself, chewing with his wide-hinged jaws. Before long, the three enormous carcasses were stripped down to the bones, and men heaved the skeletons overboard into the river.
Once he had stuffed himself, Grieve became magnanimous. “Let the slaves feast, too, so they have more energy to work.”
The Norukai threw piles of the slick red intestines and frilled gill membranes onto the tied captives. The stinking slime crawled down Bannon’s chest, but his stomach growled. The raiders hadn’t fed him all day.
A flare of anger ran through him. In the past, he sometimes lost control and flew into a fighting frenzy, a reckless wild man with no thought for his own safety. He controlled himself now, knowing that foolish resistance would only get him killed. He would rather kill them.
He strained at the ropes around his wrists and grabbed a fleshy blob of organ meat. He chewed, tasting the muddy burst in his mouth, but he grimaced and swallowed.
