The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(44)

When they left, the devastation began.

Word came next of a pack of wild boars roaming the hinterlands, besetting villages and killing children. The hunters sent to destroy the pack had failed. Wolves began marauding through the woods as well. Without the Dochte Mandar, the many Leerings in the kingdom were useless, forcing people to carry water or harvest fuel for fire. There were mastons, of course, who could and did use them, but their number was small compared with the Dochte Mandar. The extra work angered the people—a feeling that began to fester.

Soon riots broke out across the kingdom, but that was not the worst of it—tales started to pour in from around the realm, each more horrid than the last. A man with a scythe had gone on a rampage in his village, killing innocent villagers. A mother had drowned her three children in a well. A young man had set fire to a barn full of his village’s grain right before winter. It seemed that every fortnight, another tale of woe would arrive, and the court would gossip and statutes would be passed forbidding this or that. But while a deadly spring that poisoned all who drank from it could be cleansed, this madness kept no pattern. No, it was mercurial and erratic, which meant no one knew when or where the next tragedy would strike. The only commonality was that such things had never occurred under the gaze of the Dochte Mandar. Expelling them from the realm had fundamentally altered Comoros. The people began to fear it was another Blight.

Maia brushed her hair back from her ear, listening to the clicking noise of a series of insects speaking to each other across the vastness of the woods.

Suddenly Argus’s head lifted and his ears shot up. His pale fur twitched. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

Maia reached over and touched the kishion’s knee.

His eyes opened immediately.

“I am sorry—”

She pressed her fingers against her own mouth, signaling for him to be silent.

He rubbed his eyes and shifted forward onto one knee, cocking his head. Then, motioning for her to stay put, he stepped into the soft mud of the creek. The water did not even go up to his knees, but it muffled his footsteps as he ducked under the fallen tree and disappeared from sight. Maia felt a rumble in Argus’s throat and she patted him to quiet him. His ears quivered and his tail had stopped wagging.

The kishion returned shortly thereafter and motioned for her to join him in the water. She grabbed her pack and followed, plunging into the cold water, mud churning beneath her boots. She ducked under the bridge of the fallen tree, trying to keep her cloak from being soaked along with her skirts, and came through into sunlight and solid land on the other side. A bird fluttered past, trilling a song.

The kishion awaited her just past the tree.

“I hear voices coming this way,” he whispered in her ear. “Keep low and follow.”

Maia obeyed, hunching down and following him as he trailed along the creek, staying inside the lapping waters. The ferns offered some cover, but she knew it was not much. Her heart thrummed with anxiety. Argus, who trailed behind her, wagged his tail and stared into the woods.

A few moments later, she could make out Jon Tayt’s voice.

“I tell you, I have not seen a soul these last three days except for you lads. If I had, I would tell you. I am just a humble woodsman who fells trees for a living. Do you think the king would hire me? I can split wood faster than any man—”

“Be silent!” barked another voice. “Can you not stop talking?”

“If that pleases you, my lord. I was just saying that an army needs wood for fires, does it not? I can cut a cord of wood faster than you can put on your boots.”

Maia smiled in spite of herself. She recognized that Jon Tayt had been captured and was trying to warn her by talking loudly.

“Be still, man!” said another, cuffing him.

Argus growled.

Maia tried to grab at the dog’s ruff, but Argus broke through the brush of ferns and ran to his master.

“A boarhound!” someone shouted.

The kishion uttered a low curse.

Twigs snapped behind them. The kishion whirled, dagger in his hand, but something whistled and struck his head, knocking him down. He did not move. Maia dropped down beside him and turned him over. She feared an arrow had pierced him, but there was no mark on his body. He was quite unconscious.

Maia heard the whistling noise again and something hard struck her temple.

Her eyes filled with blackness and she slumped into the bed of ferns, joining him in oblivion.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN




The Mark of Dahomey

It was the throbbing of Maia’s temple that woke her. As she struggled to open her eyes, she felt herself bounced and jostled so much she quickly lost the sense of up and down. Her wrists were bound together, her arms were bound to her sides—her ankles were secured as well. She struggled for a moment against the bonds and tried to calm the swelling panic that speared her heart.

Her movement had a sway and bounce to it, and after a few moments of startled awareness, she realized that she was being carried. Not on horseback, but on a litter of some kind, two long branches or poles with a blanket or cloak slung between them to cushion her. One man marched in front of her, another behind her. The sky was draining of color as she blinked, the woods filling with purple shadows. She could sense the Myriad Ones everywhere, thronging to the procession as it moved through the trees.

She tried to quiet her heart and focus her thoughts. It was not too late—she could still summon her magic. She could—