Magic of Talisman and Blood (Curse of the Ctyri Book 2) Read online

  13

  Adaline

  The grueling sun beat down mercilessly. With sweat dripping down her neck, Adaline longed for the late summer heat to give way to autumn’s cool promise. At nearly eleven in the morning, she had sweat dried under her braid and tunic, chafing her skin as she took long, manly strides through camp.

  Evzan had left almost an hour ago, summoned by the generals to the center tents to discuss options to swiftly end the siege. The old generals hadn’t made a move without consulting her guard, and even then, Evzan returned from every meeting weary from their bickering. Just before he left, Evzan had instructed her to complete a list of chores that would take at least a week. Adaline merely nodded and waited for him to leave.

  If she’d told Evzan her plan, he’d never let her go to the Malas. His actions of the last several days indicated her guard would likely never let her go anywhere unaccompanied ever again. This morning, he’d sparred with her for an hour after breakfast and then accompanied her to the river for laundry and a quick swim to wash off the sweat from their session. They’d returned to camp and started sorting their spoils when the page arrived for Sir Evzan. In hindsight, Adaline wondered if he’d been avoiding the summons.

  At least she’d finished organizing their food before she left. But even that was intentional, for she hoped to solve not one but two problems with her plan. And if she was really lucky, she might even solve three.

  An itchy feeling crawled up her neck, and Adaline paused to peer over her shoulder. Though the army had stalled their progress while the generals met, the camp was by no means quiet. Sparks flew from blacksmiths’ tents. Soldiers cooked, carried loads of provisions, or tended livestock. Pages and squires buffed armor and leather or rushed about with trays. The perfume of sweat, fire, and grease weighed down the scorching air. The camp was a hive of activity, everyone finding somewhere to be.

  Adaline smiled grimly as she spotted her enemy. At least it was all going to plan.

  The weaselly Sir Vodnik made no qualms meeting her gaze, his eyes narrowing in a glare that was likely meant to frighten her. Adaline’s stomach turned but with revulsion, not intimidation. Her resolve deepened, and she turned and hurried through the crowd, determined to reach her destination before the knight could enact his plan of attack.

  After Evzan’s warning, Adaline thought she’d feel fear when she saw her enemy again. Instead, her mind ran over the best counter-strikes to use against a larger opponent who was not only slow but left his guard down with every advance. Evzan would be livid when he found out, but even that did nothing to sway her resolve.

  Her knight had already whispered the admission of his inability to fix everything for her, and even if he could, she didn’t want him to. As Queen of Cervene, she would need to win her people’s loyalty and confidence. She would also need to lead. And right was right, and evil was evil, regardless of who was meting it out.

  She headed west and then veered right, weaving in and out of the soldiers’ camps. She passed rows of small tents with soldiers outside, some alert as they prepared for battle and others still hungover from their indulgences the night before.

  The tents thinned out as she headed into the northwestern encampment, however, while there were fewer tents, they were much larger in this area. The soldiers here were bigger, and Adaline moved more cautiously, no longer feigning meekness or trepidation. She knelt to tie her boot and peeked, making sure her tail was still there.

  Vodnik was several tents behind, but he’d not abandoned his pursuit.

  Sir Tredak hadn’t returned to camp, but his warning had bounced around in Adaline’s head all morning. The palace would eventually catch up to her, and when Dimira’s soldiers found the princess, they would expose her identity. If Adaline didn’t seize this opportunity, the soldiers from Burdad would make her look, at best, childish, and at worst, a wayward princess who’d recklessly endangered the crown. Adaline couldn’t let either happen. She’d seen where she could do something good, and she was determined to try.

  Over the last few days, she’d assessed several problems with her troops, not the least of which was the clear divide in the army. The squires and pages whispered about it over their linens; the soldiers grumbled about it, and the problem was evident.

  There were two distinct armies encamped here: the Cervenean soldiers with the peasant recruits and the Northern Mala mercenaries. Surprisingly, the Celestial Sisters camped nearest to the Malas, not the Cerveneans.

  Adaline approached the Mala general’s tent where two brutish Malas stood sentry. The men were dressed in fur kilts, and Adaline had the errant thought that their furs and gear would be cooking their nether regions in this heat. However, aside from leather straps, their chests and arms were bare. The men stood almost a full head taller than the average Cervenean soldier, and head and shoulders taller than Adaline. Both men wore their mops of white-blond hair braided to the sides of their tattooed faces. Adaline tried not to stare, but the harsh markings on their cheeks and around their eyes were done with delicate and deliberate precision, giving sharp contrast to their pale features.

  Though Adaline’s father had a peaceful reign, even in war he would’ve never used the services of the Malas. They’d come to Cervene from foreign islands, and only after many battles had peace been established. The Malas never left their mountainous settlements or integrated with southern Cerveneans, but the northern tribes were a fiercely loyal people. Peace treaties were maintained, but even so, King Jarian only went to the Mala territory once a year for ceremony. Rumors of the Malas’ brutality were stories told around the campfire meant to scare children, and Adaline wasn’t surprised that the desolation of the fiefdoms was at their hands. Or mostly at their hands. There were always those ready to follow when it came to destruction.

  Adaline’s stomach clenched, and her pace slowed, becoming more deliberate. Aside from the two warriors at the entrance of the tent, the other soldiers steered clear of the area. She stepped up to the two men and internally reminded herself that she was the princess.

  Aware that danger was now on either side of her, Adaline took a deep breath. Inclining her head, she spoke in Mal-mal, the men’s native language. “Warriors, may you find victory in your fight.”

  They’d ignored her presence until that point, but her greeting grabbed their attention. Two pairs of ice-blue eyes focused on her, and as her gaze bounced from one Mala to the other, she saw they both had fixed her with a glare.

  The warrior on her right clenched his fists around the handle of his two-handed axe, its head resting on the ground, but the one on her left growled and responded in the guttural language, “I hope you’re not from the villages, man-child. I’ll send you home to your mother with a welted behind.”

  The axe-wielder added, “What are you doing in camp, pup? You’re too young to play at war. Go home, and don’t come back until you’re man enough to bed a woman.” The warrior reinforced his contempt by spitting on the ground at Adaline’s feet. Inclining his head toward his companion, he said, “They call us savage but send children to fight. The boy couldn’t even wield an axe.”

  Adaline glanced down at said weapon and doubted many grown men could wield his ax; it was nearly as tall as she was and likely weighed more.

  The other Mala chuckled and slammed the butt of his spear into the dirt.

  Adaline refused to act intimidated, regardless of the fear churning inside her. Standing to her full height, she pretended the two were Evzan duplicates. In essence, they were telling her no, but as the heir of Cervene, they had no right to refuse her. She clenched her fists in a fierceness she was determined to own and returned their glare.

  “You dishonor your general,” she said, calling them out on their rudeness, still speaking their native tongue. “I’m not Mala but have come to you speaking your greeting with respect. Will you not hear my request? Or do the Mala no longer hold the tradition of honor?”

  The men stopped chortling, and one of them growled.
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  Lovely. He sounded just like Evzan.

  Adaline met the Mala’s glare and held it. “I respect your people and traditions, which is why I’ve sought your aid.”

  She waited, the seconds each feeling like an eternity as the silence extended. Her gaze was still locked with the Mala, and his hostility rolled off him and battered her. She gritted her teeth, refusing to bow to his attempt of intimidation.

  “Speak your request, man-pup,” the one on the right finally said. “If it is worthy of our elder, I’ll take it to Gunhild.”

  Adaline practically sagged with relief. She cleared her throat and said, “There is a knight of my people who has attacked me twice. He’s followed me here, and I anticipate another attack. I will fight him again, but I request the honor of having your elder watch and judge the victor.”

  She knew what she was asking, and she’d not come to the decision easily. There was a finality to her plan and significant risk if she were to fail. But Adaline would not fail. She straightened, drawing energy from their scrutiny.

  The barely concealed contempt slid away from the Malas’ faces, and they both wore stony expressions.

  “When is the fight to be?” the ax-wielder finally responded, his inflection deep and menacing.

  Adaline jerked her head to the left, indicating they look behind her. “He has been following me all morning. The knight in orange to my left. My master is away. If you duck into your tent, I believe he will attack as soon as I leave your circle.”

  “He would attack here in the Malas’ territory without seeking consent?” the spear-wielder muttered. “He has no honor. If he is angry with you, he should take it to your master. Have you offended him?”

  Adaline pursed her lips. “No. My master threatened him after . . .” She contemplated her words but couldn’t remember the translation for trip. “He caused me to fall. And then I bested him in a fight. He wants revenge.”

  The other warrior leaned over his axe. “Do you know what you ask, child-soldier? If the elders judge your fight, we will not stop the man from beating you to death in a fair fight. Your master will not be allowed to interfere to defend you, either, since you sought our judgement.”

  “I understand,” she said, bowing. “The Malas code of honor will protect the victor, and the fight will be fair. That is all I would ask for.”

  Adaline could take a beating although she had no intention of it coming to that. More importantly, as cowardly as Sir Vodnik had proven to be, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to take her life in front of witnesses. Evzan would retaliate, and that fear should be enough to keep Adaline alive.

  The two scarred warriors did not seem as convinced of Adaline’s ability to defend herself. As she stood before them, she realized everything else in her plan hinged on the Malas involvement, and she whispered, “Please.”

  The ax-wielder pursed his lips and then turned and ducked past the thick leathers of the tent.

  “We do not pay this honor lightly,” the spear holder said. “But we see the man lurking in the shadows. Honor demands that if a child pays you a dishonor, you challenge his master and not the other way around.”

  Adaline closed her eyes and bowed lower, giving the Mala her full respect. “May I live up to the honor you share, warrior-friend. And may the djinn send the wind ahead of you to batter your enemies, the fire to cleanse the earth, and the rain to wash you clean.”

  The soldier straightened, and a slow smile spread across his terrifying face at her benediction. “Your words are a kindness, man-pup. May you find victory today and live to father many warriors. I will ensure Gunhild judges your fight. Step away from our circle in two minutes. We’ll be right behind.”

  With that, he hefted up his axe and ducked into the tent.

  The low, guttural sounds of their discussion floated through the small split in the fur, and Adaline blinked at the empty spaces where the men had been. She took a deep breath and let her success with the Malas bolster her. Clenching her fists at her sides, Adaline turned to face her enemy.

  She’d hoped the encounter with the Malas would look as though she’d just delivered a message and would now return to her master. She watched her feet, keeping her gaze on the dust billowing around her boots as she feigned meekness. Her heart raced, pounding against her ribs in anticipation of the fight waiting for her.

  She stepped out of the camp of the Malas and raised her head.

  Before she had time to put her arms up into guard, Sir Vodnik attacked.

  14

  When Evzan sparred with Adaline, he moved like an eagle; his advance was a raptor’s dive, his strikes sharp and precise, and the rapidity of his movement demanded her singular focus. Sir Vodnik was a stampeding bull, or better yet, a battering ram.

  He charged, eyes glazed in rage, mouth open as he bellowed in anger. His brutality was singularly focused, but he was neither light nor swift on his feet. As he drew near, he shot his fist out like a vanguard to a charging battalion.

  Adaline’s mind went numb, and the rest of the world fell away. An uncharacteristic calm blanketed her, and she calculated his trajectory and stepped out of his path.

  “I’m going to kill you!” he yelled as he charged past.

  She felt like one of the traveling entertainers; she’d stepped into a ring with an animal, and just like a bull, he blew by, unable to halt the momentum of his force. Several feet past, he halted and turned back toward her. This time he advanced more slowly, and she continued to evade, dancing first to the right and then the left.

  Within seconds, Adaline determined Sir Vodnik was not a skilled fighter. With his size and rank, he probably never needed to be. He struck with no technique, only brute force.

  “What is the meaning of this?” a man yelled from behind her.

  Sir Vodnik halted, his focus going just beyond her, but Adaline kept her attention fixed on her huffing blond assailant.

  For that moment, he left himself completely open, distracted as he was.

  She could sweep his legs out from under him and send him sprawling. If she did, though, she would be breaking the Malas rules of a fair fight.

  “Do not step between them,” a woman said in a thick, guttural accent. “This child has bequeathed the honor of judging this fight to the Malas, and it will be fought until there is a victor.”

  “That boy is half Sir Vodnik’s size!” the man snapped.

  “True, and that boy is winning,” said the woman.

  The voices continued, along with noises of a struggle, but Adaline blocked it out. She took a deep breath and forced her attention to Vodnik. All she could see were his movements. All she could smell was his sweat. All she could hear was his breathing. All she could feel was the shift in the air around him.

  With a glower of hatred, he advanced again.

  This was what she needed. The bigger the audience, the more who could witness against him.

  Someone screamed her name, her real name, and she flinched, giving Vodnik the moment of distraction he’d needed to close the distance.

  Adaline ducked, and the knight’s swing went over the top of her head. She jabbed Vodnik in the ribs and then danced away. Stay on your toes. Get in, strike, get out. You can’t compete with their weight, so don’t let them get you to the ground. The grueling months of training with Evzan echoed in her mind.

  Adaline let Vodnik draw close, and when he swung hard with his right arm, she deflected with her right forearm and slid forward to deliver a left hook to his side. He grunted as the air left his lungs, and Adaline stepped around his back, pulling her right fist close, and then she spun, delivering a backfist, her hand bursting with pain as it connected with Vodnik’s skull. He bellowed and straightened, clipping her in the lip with his flailing arms. Adaline saw stars, and she shook her head to clear her vision. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth, and she spat.

  “I’ll kill you, d’Line,” he yelled, squaring off with her again.

  He jabbed with his left hand, and as she
dodged this time, she noticed a silver ring on his middle finger, a thick spike in the center of its white face. She blinked, and a green mist seemed to cloud around Vodnik’s fist, and shock delayed her reaction.

  Adaline brought her left arm up a fraction of a second too slow to block Vodnik’s haymaker, and the blow barreled through her block and landed on her cheek. Her vision exploded in white, and she ducked, blindly bringing her fist up hard.

  She connected with soft tissue, and Vodnik screamed in pain. Another glancing blow from his flailing hit her chest, throwing her backward and to the ground. She brought her arms down to break her fall, but the air whooshed from her lungs as her back smacked against the packed earth.

  Adaline bounced up into a defensive stance as she waited for the next attack. The crowd roared behind her, but the din was faint compared to the blood rushing in her ears.

  Vodnik remained slightly hunched, but he advanced with a gleam of determination in his eyes.

  Adaline gasped for breath, her adrenaline pumping. Her face hurt. Her back hurt. Her side hurt. Pain is fuel; use it to clear your mind and narrow your focus. Do not let it distract you. Evzan’s words thrummed through her head, and she dodged the next uppercut. The pain did what Evzan said it would; the world narrowed just to her and the man before her.

  “You’re going to die for this,” Sir Vodnik growled as he came at her again.

  “You keep thaying that,” Adaline said, her busted lip causing a lisp. She dodged another blow, spinning to keep Vodnik in front of her. The green mist swirled around his fist again, and Adaline asked, “What’s in your ring, Vodnik?”

  He didn’t answer, his powerful swings growing clumsier as the fight took its toll. His already heavy footfall became a shuffle as he chased her. His repetitive jabs became predictable as he huffed with exertion. She let him continue to punch until his arm sagged between strikes, and each came as a single strike with a long pause in between.