Codex Alera 01 - Furies Of Calderon Part 20

The innocuous looking man extended his hands toward the far side of the river, and the trees groaned in response, the air filling with the twist and crackle of branches, of movement.

And the storm arrived.

One moment, there was relative stillness-and the next, a wall of fury and sound and power thundered down over them, engulfed Tavi's senses, blinded him, and whipped the surface of the river to icy foam. The flames Bittan had started buckled for a moment beneath the wind's onslaught, and then, as though the storm had sensed their potential, they blossomed and bloomed, spreading and growing with a speed as terrifying as it was amazing. To Tavi, it almost seemed as though faces gibbered and shrieked in the wind around those flames, calling them, encouraging them.

Fade let out a squeal, cowering down against the winds, and Tavi abruptly remembered his aunt's commands. He seized the slave by the arm, though still terrified for those behind him at the ford, and dragged him into the twisting woods, along the paths he knew, even in the semidarkness, away from the river.

They struggled forward together, holding one another in the screaming, frigid gale, Tavi filled with a sense of grat.i.tude that there was another living human being there to touch. He was unsure for how long they struggled away, their path winding forward and then slowly uphill, before he heard the flood waters.

They rushed forward, nearly silent, preceded only by a whispering sigh and the groans of a thousand trees stirred in their ancient earthy beds. To the top of a hill, Tavi and Fade struggled, and he turned back to see, dimly through the ferocity of the storm, the dancing of the trees, that some pent-up tide had been loosed from up the stream of the Rillwater. The little river had exceeded itself and flooded its banks, and those cold, silent waters began to swallow Bittan's fires as swiftly as they had spread. The waters rose, and in that screaming cyclone of the fury-storm, Tavi was uncertain how anyone, even his aunt, could survive such an onslaught of the elements. Terror rushed through him, pounded through his veins with his blood.

Darkness swallowed the land as the silent waters of the flooding river swallowed errant flame, and in moments the were lightning of the fury-storm flashed, green and eerie, to show Tavi which way to go. In silence, he turned back to his path and stumbled forward, leading Fade. Twice, wind-manes swept toward them, but Tavi's salt crystals, though partly dissolved from their time in the water, drove them away.

They made their way from the twisting wood an endless time later. Fade let out a sudden yelp and threw himself against Tavi with a sob of fear, forcing the boy down, the slave's heavy body atop him.

Tavi wriggled and struggled to get out from under Fade, but only managed to free his head enough to crane his neck over the man and to see what had frightened him.

Around them stood a silent half-circle of Marat warriors, unmistakable with their pale braids and powerful bodies clad, even in this vicious weather, only in a brief cloth at the hips. Each of them stood very tall and more broad in the shoulders than Tavi could easily believe, with dark, serious eyes the same shade as the chipped stone tipping their broad-hafted spears.

Without expression, the tallest of the Marat stepped closer. He put his foot on Tavi's shoulder and rested the tip of his spear against the hollow of Tavi's throat.

Chapter 22

Fidelias twisted himself up and out of the chilling waters of the angry river, frozen fingers clutching hard against the branch of the tree he had crafted within his reach. He felt numb, and his heart labored painfully against the shock of the cold water. The cold beckoned him with a slow, seductive caress, encouraging him to simply sink into the waters, relax, let his troubles slip away into the darkness.

Instead, he secured a hold on the next higher branch and hauled his body up out of the water. He huddled there for a few moments, shaking, struggling to gather his wits about him again, while the fury-storm raged around him, winds hauling at his sodden clothes.

The one good thing about the flood, he decided, about the freezing water, was that he could no longer feel the cuts on his feet. He'd done his best to ignore them while recovering the horses, but the rocks and brush had been merciless to his skin. The woman, the water-crafter, had been onto them from the beginning, he decided. Clever, getting his shoes like that. She'd been planning on the boy running, and on hampering pursuit.

Fidelias leaned against the trunk and waited for the waters to subside.

They did, in rapid order, proving more than anything else that the flood had been a deliberate crafting rather than a natural event. He shook his head. Odiana should have given them warning-but perhaps she had been overmatched. The locals were no amateurs at their fury-crafting and had lived with the local furies for years. They would know them, be able to use them more effectively than even a crafter of Fidelias's own level of skill. The Stead-holder, for example-he had been formidable. In a direct, fair confrontation, Fidelias was uncertain whether or not he could simply overcome the man. Best then, to ensure that any future contact with the fellow discounted the possibility of a fair fight.

But then, that was in general Fidelias's policy.

Once the waters had receded back down into the river's original bed, Fidelias slipped down from the tree, grimacing as he got back to the ground. The pitch of the winds had only increased since the storm had rolled over them, and surviving in it had to be his first priority. He knelt by the trunk of the tree, resting a hand lightly on the sodden ground, reaching out for Vamma.

The fury responded to him at once, vanishing into the deep earth for several moments before rising back up toward him. Fidelias cupped his hands, and Vamma returned, providing what it had been sent to retrieve-a handful of salt crystals and a flint.

Fidelias pocketed the flint and swept the salt into a pouch, keeping a few pieces in hand. Then he rose, noting how slowly his body responded, and shook his head, shivering. The cold could kill him, if he didn't get warmed up, and quickly. Rising, he dispatched Etan to look for signs of his companions, and Vamma to search through the surrounding earth, for signs of movement. If the locals, either the Bernard-holters or those they had been fighting, were still at hand, they might feel few compunctions about finishing the job the water-crafter had started.

Fidelias had to hurl salt at a swooping wind-mane, while he waited for his furies to return to him. It didn't take long. Etan appeared within a few moments and led him forward, through the blinding storm, down along the path of the river.

Several hundred yards downstream, Fidelias found Aldrick. The swordsman lay on the ground, unmoving, his fingers still locked around the hilt of his sword, buried to its hilts in the trunk of a tree. He had apparently managed to keep the flood from sweeping him away entirely, but had not taken into account the threat the elements represented. Fidelias checked the pulse at the man's throat and found it there, still strong, if slow. His lips were blue. The cold. If the swordsman was not warmed, and quickly, he would die.

Fidelias debated allowing it to happen for a moment. Odiana remained an unknown quant.i.ty, and as long as she had Aldrick with her, she would be difficult to move against. Without the swordsman, Fidelias could remove her at leisure, and if Fidelias was fortunate, perhaps Aldrick's death would unhinge her entirely.

Fidelias grimaced and shook his head. Aldrick could be arrogant, insubordinate, but his loyalty to Aquitaine was unquestioned, and he was a valuable resource. Besides which, Fidelias liked working with the man. He was a professional and understood the priorities of operating in the field. Fidelias, as his commander, owed him a certain amount of loyalty, protection. Convenient as it might be to him, in the long term, he could not allow the swordsman to come to grief.

Fidelias took a moment to draw strength from the earth, pouring into him in a sudden flood. He jerked the sword from the tree's trunk, and peeled Aldrick's hand from its hilt. Then he picked up the man and slung him over one shoulder. His balance wavered dangerously, and he took a moment to breathe, to steady himself, before taking up the naked sword and turning, with Aldrick, to march away from the river, up out of the flood-saturated ground of the river's course.

Vamma shaped out a shelter from a rocky hillside, and Fidelias ducked into it and out of the storm. Etan provided ample kindling and wood, and Fidelias managed to coax a pile of shavings into flame using the flint and Aldrick's sword. By slow degrees, he built up the fire, until the inside of the fury-crafted shelter began to grow warm, even cozy.

He leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed, and dispatched Vamma and Etan again. As tired as he was, there was still a job to do. Fidelias remained silent for a moment, letting his furies gather information about those who still moved in the wild storm outside.

When he opened his eyes again, Aldrick was awake and watching him. When he opened his eyes again, Aldrick was awake and watching him. "You found me," the swordsman said. "You found me," the swordsman said. "Yes." "Yes." "Blade isn't much good against a river." "Blade isn't much good against a river." "Mmmm." "Mmmm."

Aldrick sat up and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand, wincing, gathering himself back together with the resilience of his craft-and of comparative youth, Fidelias thought. He wasn't young anymore. "Where's Odiana?"

"I don't know yet," Fidelias said. "The storm offers considerable danger. I've found two moving groups, so far, and I think there's at least one more that I can't pinpoint."

"Which one is Odiana in?"

Fidelias shrugged. "One is heading to the northeast, and one to the southeast. I thought I felt something more directly east of here, but I can't be certain."

"Northeast isn't anything," Aldrick said. "Maybe one of the stead-holts. Southeast of here, there isn't even that. Turns into the Wax Forest and the plains beyond it."

"And east is Garrison," Fidelias said. "I know." "And east is Garrison," Fidelias said. "I know." "She's been taken, or she'd have stayed close to me." "She's been taken, or she'd have stayed close to me." "Yes." "Yes." Aldrick rose. "We have to find out which group she's in." Aldrick rose. "We have to find out which group she's in." Fidelias shook his head. "No, we don't." Fidelias shook his head. "No, we don't." The swordsman narrowed his eyes. "Then how are we supposed to find her?" The swordsman narrowed his eyes. "Then how are we supposed to find her?" "We don't," Fidelias said. "Not until the mission is finished." "We don't," Fidelias said. "Not until the mission is finished."

Aldrick went silent for several seconds. The fire popped and crackled. Then he said, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that, old man."

Fidelias looked up at him and said, "Aquitaine a.s.signed you to this personally, didn't he?"

Aldrick nodded, once.

"You've been his right hand through most of this. You know all the details. You're the one who has handled the money, the logistics. Yes?"

"What's your point?"

"What do you think is going to happen if the mission fails, hmm? If Aquitaine is in danger of exposure? Do you think he's just going to give you a wink and a nod and ask you not to mention it where anyone could overhear? Or do you think he's going to make sure that no one ever finds your body, much less what you know about what he is planning."

Aldrick stared steadily at Fidelias, then tightened his jaw and looked away.

Fidelias nodded. "We finish the mission. We stop whoever is going to the local count, send in the Windwolves, and turn the Marat loose. After that, we'll find the girl."

"To the crows with the mission," Aldrick spat. "I'm going to find her."

"Oh?" Fidelias asked. "And how are you going to manage that? You have many skills, Aldrick, but you're no tracker. You're in strange country, with strange furies and hostile locals. At best, you'll wander around lost like an idiot. At worst, the locals will kill you, or the Marat will when they attack. And then who will find the girl?"

Aldrick snarled, pacing back and forth within the confines of the shelter. "Crows take you," he snarled. "All of you."

"a.s.suming the girl is alive," Fidelias said. "She is quite capable. If she has been taken, I am sure she is well able to survive on her own. Give her that much credit. In two days, at the most, we'll go after her."

"Two days," Aldrick said. He bowed his head and growled, "Then let's get started. Now. We stop the messengers to the Count and then we get her."

"Sit down. Rest. We've lost the horses in the flood. We can wait until the storm is out, at least."

Aldrick stepped across the s.p.a.ce between them and hauled Fidelias to his feet, eyes narrowed. "No, old man. We go now. You find us salt, and we go out into that storm and get this over with. Then you take me to Odiana."

Fidelias swallowed and kept his expression careful, neutral. "And then?" Fidelias swallowed and kept his expression careful, neutral. "And then?" "Then I kill anyone that gets between me and her," Aldrick said. "Then I kill anyone that gets between me and her," Aldrick said. "It would be safer for us if we-" "It would be safer for us if we-" "I couldn't care less about safe," Aldrick said. "Time's wasting." "I couldn't care less about safe," Aldrick said. "Time's wasting."

Fidelias looked out of the shelter at the storm. His body ached in its joints, groaned at the abuse that had already been heaped on it. His feet throbbed where they were cut, steady, slow pain. He looked back to Aldrick. The swordsman's eyes glittered, cold and hard.

"All right," Fidelias said. "Let's find them."

Chapter 23

Amara had never been so cold.

She swam in it, drifted in it, a pure and frozen darkness as black and as silent as the void itself. Memories, images, danced and floated around her. She saw herself struggling against the swordsman. She saw Bernard, on his feet and coming toward them. And then the cold, sudden and black and terrifying.

The river, she thought, Isana must have flooded the river Isana must have flooded the river.

A band of fire settled around her wrist, but she noted it as nothing more than a pa.s.sing sensation. There was just the darkness and the cold-the burning, horrible purity of the cold, pressing into her, through her skin.

Sensations blurred, melted together, and she felt the sound of splashing water, saw the cold wind rippling across her soaked skin. She heard someone, a voice speaking to her, but the words didn't make any sense and ran too closely together for her to understand. She tried to ask whoever was speaking to slow down, but her mouth didn't seem to be listening to her. Sounds came out, but they were too cracked and rasping to have been anything she meant to say.

Sound lessened, and the cold lessened with it. No more wind? She felt a hard surface beneath her and lay there upon it, abruptly and overwhelmingly tired. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but someone kept shaking her just as she was about to get some rest, waking her up. Light came, and an ugly, unpleasant tingling in her limbs. It hurt, and she felt tears come to her eyes, simple frustration. Hadn't she done enough? Hadn't she given enough? She'd already given her life. Must she sacrifice her rest as well?

Coherence returned in a rush, and with it pain so sharp and rending that she lost her breath and her voice in the same gasp. Her body, curled into a ball, had tightened into a series of cramping convulsions, as though doing everything in its power to close itself off from the cold that had filled her. She heard herself making sounds, grunting noises, guttural and helpless, but she could no more stop making them than she could force herself to straighten her body.

She lay on stone, that much she knew, in the clothes she'd stolen from Bernard-holt-but they were soaked through with water, and crystals of ice were forming on the outermost layer of cloth. There were sloped walls of rough stone around her that had stopped the howling winds. A cave, then. And a fire, that provided light, and the warmth that had brought tingling pain flooding back into her body.

She was freezing, she knew, and knew as well that she had to move, to get out of the clothes and closer to the fire, lest she sink back into that stillness and never emerge from it.

She tried.

She couldn't.

Fear filled her then. Not the rush of excitement or the lightning of sudden terror, but slow, cool, logical fear. She had to move to live. She could not move. Hence, she could not live.

The helpless simplicity of it was what stung, what made it real. She wanted to move, to uncurl her body, to creep closer to the fire-simple things, things she could do at any other time. But for lack of that ability now, she would die. Tears made her vision blur, but they were halfhearted, too empty of the fire of life to warm her.

Something came between her and the fire, a shape, and she felt a hand, huge and warm-blessedly warm-settle on her forehead.

"We've got to get those clothes off you," Bernard rumbled, his voice gentle. He moved closer to her, and she felt him lift her like a child. She tried to speak to him, to help him, but she could only curl and shudder and make helpless grunting sounds.

"I know," he rumbled. "Just relax." He had to struggle to get the shirts off, though not much-they were so large on her. The clothes came away like layers of frozen mud, until she wore only her underclothes. Her limbs seemed shrunken and wrinkled to her. Her fingers were swollen.

Bernard laid her down again, close to the fire, and its heat flowed over her, easing the cramped tension in her muscles, slowly lessening the pain that had come with it. Her breathing began to be something she could control, and she slowed her breaths, though she still shivered.

"Here," Bernard said. "I got it wet, but I've been drying it out since we got the fire going." He lifted her, and a moment later settled a shirt, a little damp but warm with the heat of the fire, over her. He didn't bother to slip the sleeves on, just wrapped her in it like a blanket, and she huddled under it, grateful.

Amara opened her eyes and looked up at him. She lay curled on her side. He sat on his legs, holding his own hands out to the fire, and was naked above the waist. Firelight played over dark hairs on his chest, over the heavy muscle of his frame, and made soft lines of several old scars. Blood had dried in a line on his lip, where a blow from the other Stead-holder had apparently split it, and his cheek had already darkened with a bruise, reflected by others on his ribs and belly.

"Y-you came after me," she said, moments later. "You pulled me out of the water."

He looked over at her, then back at the fire. He nodded once. "It was the least I could do. You stopped that man."

"Only for a few seconds," she said. "I couldn't have stood up to him for long. He's a swordsman. A good one. If the river hadn't flooded when it did-"

Bernard waved his hand and shook his head. "Not that one. The one who shot the arrow at Tavi. You saved my nephew's life." He looked down at her and said, quietly, "Thank you."

She felt her cheeks color, and she looked down. "Oh. You're welcome." After a moment she said, "Aren't you cold?"

"Some," he admitted. He nodded toward where several articles of clothing were spread on stones near the fire. "Brutus is trying to spread some heat into the stones beneath them, but he doesn't really understand heat too well. They'll dry in a while."

"Brutus?" Amara asked.

"My fury. The hound you saw."

"Oh," she said. "Here. Let me." Amara closed her eyes and murmured to Cirrus. The air around the fire stirred sluggishly, and then the smoke and shimmering waves of warmth tilted, moved toward the clothing. Amara opened her eyes to inspect Cirrus's work, and nodded. "They should dry a little faster, now."

"Thank you," Bernard said. He folded his arms, suppressing a shiver of his own. "You knew the men after Tavi." "Thank you," Bernard said. He folded his arms, suppressing a shiver of his own. "You knew the men after Tavi." "There was another, too. A water-crafter. Your sister threw her out of the river." "There was another, too. A water-crafter. Your sister threw her out of the river." Bernard snorted, a smile touching his face. "She would. I never saw that one." Bernard snorted, a smile touching his face. "She would. I never saw that one." "I know them," Amara said. She told him, in brief, about Fidelias and the mercenaries and her fears for the Valley. "I know them," Amara said. She told him, in brief, about Fidelias and the mercenaries and her fears for the Valley.

"Politics." Bernard spat into the fire. "I took a stead-holt out here because I didn't want anything to do with the High Lords. Or the First Lord, either."

"I'm sorry," Amara said. "Is everyone all right?"

Bernard shook his head. "I don't know. After that fight, I can't push Brutus too hard. He's mostly making sure that other earth-crafter can't find us. I tried to look, but I haven't been able to locate anyone."

"I'm sure Tavi's well," Amara said. "He's a resourceful child." "I'm sure Tavi's well," Amara said. "He's a resourceful child." Bernard nodded. "He's clever. Fast. But that might not be enough in this storm." Bernard nodded. "He's clever. Fast. But that might not be enough in this storm." "He had salt," Amara said. "He took it before he left." "He had salt," Amara said. "He took it before he left." "That's good to know, at least." "That's good to know, at least." "And he wasn't alone. He had that slave with him." "And he wasn't alone. He had that slave with him." Bernard grimaced. "Fade. I don't know why my sister puts up with him." Bernard grimaced. "Fade. I don't know why my sister puts up with him." "Do you own many slaves?" "Do you own many slaves?"

Bernard shook his head. "I used to buy them sometimes, give them the chance to earn their freedom. Lot of the families on the stead-holt started that way."

"But you didn't give Fade that chance?"

He frowned. "Of course I did. He was the first slave I bought, back when I raised Bernard-holt. But he spends the money on things before he saves up to his price. Or does something stupid and has to pay for repairs. I stopped having the patience to deal with him years ago. Isana does it all now. All his clothes get ruined, and he won't stop wearing that old collar. Nice enough fellow, I suppose, and he's a fairly good tinker and smith. But he's got the brains of a brick."

Amara nodded. Then she sat up. The effort of it left her gasping and dizzy. Amara nodded. Then she sat up. The effort of it left her gasping and dizzy. Bernard's hand steadied her, warm on her shoulder. "Easy. You should rest. Going into water like that can kill you." Bernard's hand steadied her, warm on her shoulder. "Easy. You should rest. Going into water like that can kill you." "I can't," Amara said. "I have to get moving. To find Tavi, or at least try to warn the Count at Garrison." "I can't," Amara said. "I have to get moving. To find Tavi, or at least try to warn the Count at Garrison."

"You aren't going anywhere tonight," Bernard said. He nodded toward the darkness at one side of the cavern they huddled in, where Amara could distantly hear the howl of wind. "That storm came down and it's worse than I thought it would be. No one's moving tonight."