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Anhuset wondered if Karulin was one of those taken prisoner or if he'd fought and died in a fight with the monks. She didn't dwell on the question. “I want to ride the horse that pulls the sled.”
“As you wish.”
The return ride to Chamtivos's camp took twice as long as the ride to the island for which Anhuset was both frustrated and grateful. The monks were mindful of Serovek in the makeshift sled and kept their pace leisurely. Anhuset didn't bother counting the number of times she twisted in the saddle to check on her passenger. They were many and often.
The warlord's raider camp was a different place from the one she'd left: shelters broken and strewn about along with supplies, Chamtivos's tent a pale puddle of torn canvas in whose midst those raiders left behind now knelt, hands bound behind their backs. She spotted Karulin among them, his resigned expression changing to fleeting relief when he saw her and Serovek. He didn't call out to her or beg for clemency from her. His quick nod was one of acknowledgment and respect.
“Cuama.” The monk turned his horse around and halted it beside hers. Anhuset gestured to Karulin. “Do you know that man?”
His gaze settled on Karulin. “Chamtivos's second. A much more reasonable sort than his master. The Jeden Order has attempted to negotiate with Chamtivos through him. Unfortunately, Chamtivos rarely listened to his more rational minion.” Cuama frowned. “I was disappointed to see him here, though not surprised. I think he struggled under Chamtivos's command, but he was loyal to him.”
His eyebrows arched when Anhuset said “Maybe not as loyal as you think.” She lowered her voice so that only the monk heard her. “He betrayed Chamtivos by giving us a knife that allowed us to make weapons. He also argued against the hunt at his own personal risk. And his presence here means he managed not to participate in the hunt despite Chamtivos's disapproval.” She glanced at Karulin who watched them intently. “If what I observed is correct, he's as esteemed among Chamtivos's followers as Chamtivos was. Even more so I think, because as you say, he's a more reasonable man.” A saner one too.
Cuama returned Karulin's regard just as intently. “With Chamtivos no longer an obstacle, we might finally achieve peace for this valley. Karulin is our prisoner for now, but his value to us may be in his freedom.”
“I ask clemency for him in gratitude for his help,” she said.
“Noted, and you'll have the chance to defend him to the abbot when we reach the monastery.”
While the monks dismantled the remainder of the camp, confiscated weapons and horses, and prepared the prisoners for a march to the monastery, Anhuset checked Megiddo who lay undisturbed in the wagon, then Serovek's stallion. Magas had trumpeted a greeting upon seeing his master, great hooves stamping the ground as he yanked on the lead line that tethered him to the ground stake.
The stallion eye-rolled when she approached, snorting a warning. Anhuset kept out of reach so as not to be nipped or kicked. He'd not acted this way before with her, but she was splattered in blood not her own and reeking of death. A careful visual inspection revealed that except for a flay mark across his left flank, likely inflicted during Chamtivos's initial attack, he was unharmed. Serovek had worried for Magas, and Anhuset was glad she could tell him all was well with his beloved horse.
Their party split into two groups. The smaller of the two included Anhuset, Serovek, and Megiddo, all sharing the wagon. Serovek lay beside his bespelled comrade on a bedding of blankets. There wasn't enough room for a third person in the wagon bed or Anhuset would have sat beside him for the remainder of the trip. Instead she recovered the gelding she'd ridden during their trip and paced alongside the wagon, ahead of Magas who followed docilely behind, tied to the rear hitch. They left behind the larger party with the prisoners and the dead.
Before they left, Anhuset paused in front of Karulin. “The monks know,” she told him. His fellow prisoners eyed her with suspicion and Karulin with puzzlement. They were unaware of what he'd done for her, and she kept her remarks enigmatic and open to assumption. She kept her remarks enigmatic so he could choose what to reveal to the others. “What's given in fairness is repaid in gratitude. There will be no debt.”
He stared at her for several moments, expression guarded. “One who equals three,” he finally said. “You're a credit to your people. Farewell, Kai woman.”
The second leg of their journey seemed even more interminable, but they made it to the monastery belonging to the Jeden Order of Nazim monks.
Cuama kept her distracted during the trip with a history of the monastery. “The old scrolls say the Gullperi built it for one of their gods,” he said. “When the Gullperi abandoned it, the forest swallowed it whole in vines. Supposedly a sorcerer stumbled upon it and cleared away the foliage.” He gave a disbelieving sniff. “When you see the monastery, you'll probably think that unlikely. I suspect it's more a matter of treasure hunters came to explore and loot, with a few of them getting roasted by Elder magic for their curiosity.”
His remark emphasized the potency of Elder magic still lingering in Gullperi holy places. Powerful, sometimes lethal magic. Anhuset had witnessed it firsthand atop the tor when Brishen invoked a necromantic spell to turn himself and four others into the deathless Wraith kings. It didn't surprise her that the same power pooled latent in an ancient Gullperi temple.
Cuama was right to predict her disbelief in the notion that one man had freed the monastery from its venial prison. Its size alone made that impossible.The majestic structure rose from the valley floor in a series of rose granite walls that blushed pink in the sunlight. The Gullperi had carved it straight out of a hillside, a tribute of colossal arches, soaring columns and decorative flourishes made for a forgotten god. Strange symbols etched into the granite decorated its façade, and the temple towered above the tallest trees carpeting the valley floor.
As they rode closer, she noted details beyond the majesty and decoration. This was a fortress dressed up as a place of worship, possessing all the architectural hallmarks of any military stronghold. No wonder the Jeden Order had claimed it as their own. It was the perfect sanctuary for sorcerous warrior priests who walked the line of heresy in their belief in and worship of a single god they called Faltik the One.
A swarm of robed and armored clerics spilled from the monastery's entrance and crossed the bridge spanning a dry, shallow moat. They surrounded the arriving group. Anhuset bared her teeth in a warning snarl when one monk reached over the wagon's side to touch Serovek. He pulled back and dropped the same hand to the pommel of the sword sheathed at his waist. Anhuset mirrored his action.
“Peace,” Cuama said in Common tongue. He then addressed the monk in Beladine, but in an accent too thick and too swiftly spoken for her to understand what was said. The other monk backed away from the wagon with a bow but kept pace alongside it.
“You're safe here,” Cuama reassured her. “As is the margrave and Megiddo. Ulsten is one of our best healers. His lordship will be in good hands under his care.”
Anhuset was prevented from asking questions about Ulsten and what the monk intended to do to Serovek by a voice shouting her name from the entrance gate. Erostis stood there, bandaged on one side of his body. He waved to her, face haggard despite his joyous expression. She left the wagon to guide her horse past the procession to where the Beladine soldier waited. She dismounted, offering her arm. “You live,” she said by way of greeting, grasping his forearm in firm grip.
He did the same to her, his smile widening at her succinct salutation. “I do indeed, and I'm glad to see you're still breathing as well.” His gaze traveled to the wagon, the smile slipping away as he caught sight of the riderless Magas. “His lordship?” he asked, voice pained.
“Injured but alive.” She ran her gaze over his bandages. He was up and walking without a stick or the help of another, though he wore the same sickly pallor Serovek did. “One of the monks boasts of strong healing skills. It seems it isn't empty crowing.”
Erostis tapped his shoulder gingerly. “I took two arrows. Bodkin tips instead of broadheads, or I'd be long dead by now. These priests know a thing or two about healing magic.” His grave visage saddened even more. “Klanek wasn't so lucky. The monks tried to save him but to no avail.”
Anhuset had known Erostis and Klanek for a short time, yet it felt as if she'd lost a battle mate. “I didn't know him well, but he was your friend and a valued soldier. I offer my sympathies.”
He nodded. “My thanks, sha-Anhuset.”
Their conversation ended when the wagon carrying Serovek and Megiddo rolled past them. A monk among the group waiting for the procession to pass approached Erostis to coax him back to his room. Erostis shrugged him off, his expression pleading when he turned from watching the wagon roll by to Anhuset who gathered her horse's reins to follow. “You'll tell me when he wakens?”
