Page 136 of Deadly Maiden

I reread the message. Of course, Rorsyd is alive, even with an iron spear in his body negating his magik… Knowing his fate, my journey to rescue him will be a whole other level of torment.

“Come with me.” Sister Five, beckons Asher to join her.

She will walk north with him and will be getting new mounts for them both. They may reach Tensorga before me. Unless she somehow read what I wrote to Sister Paloma, she doesn’t know who he truly is.

Asher has hesitated, and I smile encouragement. “She is safe.” Ironic that I’m saying this to an undead. “Go.”

“Be hero not a zero?”

“You heard that?” I find myself grinning. “Yes. Hero not zero.”

“Good. I a hero. Goodbye, Wyntre.”

First time he’s said my name.Wow.I feel like a mother sending her son off to war.

Watching Asher go with the sister, heading for his own destination in Tensorga, renders me…uncomfortable. Earlier, I did try to explain to him what is happening, where he is going, and what I might need him to do.

I feel a loss, as if I’ve disposed of an essential part of my life. He is not exactly a friend, yet I wish him the best. If this attack goes poorly, he carries my last hope.

And reminds me of my recent evil.

I will never be able to put his mind back into his own body, so what use have those two deaths been? I killed them to trial something thatmightrevive Asher. A mere might. I’m not even sure my reasoning makes sense anymore. I was tired, frazzled… It is an experiment that failed. How do you atone for killing someone without good reason? I’m about kill a whole lot more people, too, but for better reasons.

Maybe we never get to atone and merely have to live with our sins.

We march from Slaedorth near dusk, the most disheveled army ever. Anathema and me, with Nessa the horse carrying one rucksack, not two—had to leave the other one behind—and with my uncoordinated soldiers of death. They have picked up most of the weapons but, at a guess, half of them are holding them upside-down. A few have fallen on them or stuck them in themselves and are walking like that—dangerously prickly. Some have already mislaid their weapons.

Our path will be littered with whatever they drop.

It is madness.

I’m fairly sure they’ll never use them in battle.

And so we advance, guided by a man on a horse who met us half a mile from the old encampment. Armed and armored beneath a dark, buttoned coat, wearing a compact flat-brimmed hat, he beckons us onward without speaking. I think he’s afraid. Perhaps Andacc failed to tell him precisely what he was to be guiding.

My undead do not need to eat or sleep but the guide and I do. This night, he makes his camp several yards from where I unroll my bed, and I’m guessing he’s torn between being closer to me and getting attacked by my undead for that proximity, and going too far away and being accidentally attacked anyway.

“I won’t let them do anything to you,” I assure him while I chew on some jerky, sip water.

He only stares and shrugs. The crickets make their rough music, while the undead offer a few restless moans and bony cracks, or thuds as they fall over their own feet.

I bite off some more meat, then find a carrot to munch on.

Men.His courage is clearly barely enough, but he fears looking a fool or a coward.

Our path the next day is marked by evidence of recent violence. Burned-out cottages, slain men, blood on doorsteps, riderless horses with bloody saddles. Smoke rises ahead and to either side. The guide is as spooked as ever but gestures for us to keep going. Andacc has done what I asked him to do—clear a path. I hope the right people paid the price for this. A few of his rebels are visible in the distance, riding in packs.

By the end of the second day, only an hour or two before sunset, Hugent Bay is in sight when we crest a rise. The guide has steered us through a pass on this well-paved road that winds down to the quiet bay—quiet due to Andacc.

Three boats lie on their side on the beach. One is almost sunk, another bobs in the darkening water, and a rowboat is setting out from it, aiming for the beach. The light is failing fast, though I think I have enough time to get down there and board.

My guide rides to me, stopping a yard away. He taps his hat in deference and fidgets his fingers on the reins, his actions jumpy. “I’ll hand you off to the crew. Then I’ll be off. Follow.”

“Thank you!” I yell after him then I knee Nessa into a faster gait.

My army spills through the tree line behind us as we dismount. The guide shouts his news, announcing us to the sailor waiting by the beached rowboat.

“What?” the sailor yells back, glancing nervously at what is coming.

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