Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  These attacks seemed to be happening simultaneously at points all along the edge of the Eastern Hills, which left the terrified Cynmeren with a single question: how do you stop an enemy that is both everywhere and nowhere? The Voice of War’s frown deepened with each passing minute spent at the edge of the smoke, but whenever she was asked what needed to happen next, her answer was always the same. “Be patient. I have a plan.”

  To escape the agonizing hours of waiting, Ryna had gone to assist with the injured. The Handsisters turned her away at first, but they finally began tasking her with minor chores like boiling bandages. Then the number of wounded had increased ten-fold, and Ryna was instantly called upon to assist with more critical duties. Now she worked until exhaustion or until one of the Handsisters demanded that she sleep for a few hours, and even then, she normally lay down in one of the vacant sick beds just in case she was needed.

  Thirna approached her when things stabilized briefly within the sick tent. “You need to get away from this place for a while. Go eat. Go sleep. Go do whatever else you need to do. I’ll send for you when we require your help again.” Ryna assured the old Handsister that she didn’t need a rest yet, but Thirna was adamant.

  Ryna soon found herself standing at the edge of the camp, staring west at the smoke once again with the morning sun still low in the sky in front of her. In the chaos of her hours spent in the sick tent, Ryna hadn’t been able to feel the pleasantly cool air that had formed in the Eastern Hills overnight, but now its presence was a comfort amid the countless stresses that surrounded her. Because of the sharp decrease in temperature, a bank of fog hung in the valley that separated the Cynmeren camp from the line of low hills at the edge of the desert; at times, a faint breeze swirled the fog up high enough to completely obscure the unmoving smoke from view.

  Ryna sighed. Halwen would have appreciated this, she realized, but she crushed that line of thought before memory and emotion reduced her to inconsolable fits of weeping. A strong burst of wind swirled the fog in the distance, and this was thankfully interesting enough to occupy Ryna’s thoughts briefly. She watched as thin grey tendrils swept through the valleys like water and brushed the edges of the neighboring hills, but then the fog suddenly shifted direction again. All of the grey tendrils rushed towards the hill where she was standing, propelled upward by an unimaginably powerful gust. Then a startling realization made Ryna’s blood run cold in her veins—there was no wind.

  Paralyzed only for an instant, Ryna stumbled backwards into the camp, her mouth opening and closing in an effort to find her voice. “Smokedwellers,” she said, only loud enough for herself to hear, then her shock finally gave way to terror. “Smokedwellers!” she shouted, running through the camp to rouse as many fighters as possible. She glanced back and saw the first wisps of smoke cresting the top of the hill, then she crashed into someone wearing a full set of Sreathan plate.

  “Where?” the Voice of War demanded as she helped Ryna to her feet.

  “The hilltop, the valley to the north…everywhere!” Ryna exclaimed frantically.

  “Calm yourself and grab a weapon, girl. Our force is more than fifteen hundred strong. We will repel any attack the Penitent Faithful dare to attempt.” Her confidence was reassuring, but the tales of other outposts being overrun shook Ryna’s resolve.

  “Ryna! With me!” Eyrie called as she donned her Watch helmet and tossed one to Ryna. “Put it on quickly or you’ll be lost in the smoke.” Ryna put aside her disgust and did as instructed, then picked up a spiked oar from a weapon rack and followed Eyrie back towards the edge of camp. Her instinct was to run as far from the gathering smoke as possible, but her duty was to defend these people. Along the hillside, deep trenches had been excavated throughout the days of waiting so that the entire camp was now ringed by wide pits that Tilia said were impossible for the nysk carts to cross. Ryna and Eyrie leapt into a section of trench and prepared themselves to fight. Eyrie lifted her oar so that its deadly spike pointed away from the camp; Ryna copied this action and waited.

  “Pray that they see our defenses and turn back,” Eyrie whispered. Ryna nodded, panting within the stifling confines of the Watch helmet. Even through the helmet, the smell of freshly-turned earth was quickly being overpowered by the scent of smoke as the Penitent Faithful charged silently closer. An unsettling stillness blanketed the hill—the Smokedwellers seemed to have stopped. A Stonebrother farther down the line to Ryna’s left raised his head slowly above the top of the trench to investigate, but before the people beside him could pull him back to safety, three arrows sped through his glowing Watch helmet.

  This was evidently the signal that the Smokedwellers had been waiting for—loud shouts, horns, and sounds of clanging metal erupted across the hillside. The spike oar shook in Ryna’s hands. “Steady,” Eyrie reassured her. Ryna looked towards her and caught a glimpse of a dark figure as it leapt across the wide trench. Smoke followed behind it and instantly drifted throughout the Cynmeren line. Another figure crossed the trench much closer, and this time Ryna saw that it was a person dressed as Aemetta had been who was holding a large, smoldering torch.

  Clicks from the Cynmeren deeper within the camp preceded a volley of arrows that whizzed over Ryna’s head. There were several cries from wounded Smokedwellers, but then they returned fire with terrifying force. Hundreds of arrows sunk into the hastily-constructed wooden barriers that protected the Cynmeren bowmen, but many more found flesh and bone waiting for them.

  Ryna could do nothing but watch and listen as this exchange occurred less than two strides over her head. Then she spotted something else in the air above the trench just before it tumbled to the ground beside her—it was a burning lump of something that belched out smoke faster than any normal fire possibly could. Hundreds of these objects fell into the trenches in unison, and terror gripped Ryna as the smoke quickly blocked out anything farther than a stride away. She reached for the burning object but dropped it instantly when she felt its searing heat. Eyrie was quick to realize what was happening; she skewered the smoking mound with her spear and flung it back towards the mass of Penitent Faithful. It was just as she did this that the first Smokedweller appeared in the trench beside her.

  Ryna spun to face the grey-clad threat, but before she could even lower her oar, the Smokedweller had already vanished again with a mocking laugh. Eyrie let out a gasp and lifted her hand to her left side—her trembling fingers were coated with blood when she lifted them in front of her Watch helmet. “NO!” Ryna shrieked, and her rage suddenly took over. Another Smokedweller appeared by Eyrie’s right side, but this time Ryna was ready. She thrust the spiked oar past Eyrie with all her might and skewered the Smokedweller through his ribcage. Eyrie looked at her in horror as the blood-coated oar was ripped from the man’s chest, but Ryna was too furious to care—she would save as many of the Penitent Faithful as she could later, but this group needed to die.

  Before any more threats could appear, Ryna leapt out of the trench, pulled Eyrie up beside her, and began sprinting towards the sick tent, all while still gripping the bloody spear tightly. As they ran through the layers of smoke, there were flashes of people fighting on all sides—the Smokedwellers had infiltrated the perimeter and were inflicting massive casualties throughout the camp. One of the runners with the strange smoking torch appeared in front of her, and without any hesitation, Ryna drove the spear through the back of the Smokedweller’s neck. The torch tumbled to the ground in front of the runner and Ryna crushed its embers with her foot as she ran.

  Eyrie said nothing as she ran by Ryna’s side, whether from pain or shock, but her skin slowly grew pale and her pace began to falter. As soon as Ryna noticed this, she slung the wounded Bloodsister onto her left shoulder and charged forward. The sick tent was still beyond the reach of the cursed smoke, so as soon as she made it to clear air, Ryna was relieved to finally be able to see where she was going. Still with the spear in hand, Ryna burst through the tent flap and set Eyrie on one of the empty pallets.
“Help here! Now!” she commanded, and one of the terrified Handsisters rushed to tend to Eyrie.

  As much as Ryna wanted to help seal the wound, she knew that wasn’t her task at the moment. She spun to face the entrance just before the flap was thrown aside by one of the Penitent Faithful with a triumphant laugh. Ryna brought an abrupt end to that laugh, however, by shoving the tip of her oar into the man’s throat and then dragging him into the tent. “Do what you can for him, but tend to our people first,” Ryna heard Thirna say from somewhere behind her.

  Before the man was taken away, Ryna reluctantly threw her spear to the side and removed both of his curved blades. Their weight felt strange in her hands at first, but she knew she could be more precise with her attacks by using these blades and—possibly—avoid killing some of the Penitent Faithful in the process. Another figure wrapped in grey leapt into the tent, but Ryna was waiting beside the entrance this time. She swung her blades down deep into the soft tissue above the Smokedweller’s elbows, and both of the attacker’s arms were instantly useless.

  The Smokedweller—a woman, from the sound of her voice—shrieked in agony before one of the Handsisters thrust a small spike into her back. Ryna looked at the Handsister curiously as the Smokedweller collapsed to the floor. “It’s tipped with the haugaeldr’s poison. She’s paralyzed, not dead,” the Handsister explained quietly as she dragged the woman away.

  Ryna suddenly had an idea. “Bring some of the poison to me. We’re going to coat these blades with it. Hurry if you want the chance to save any more of these people.” With her blades prepared a moment later, Ryna waited in silence by the flap for more attackers. For several tense minutes, the sounds of fighting echoed in the distance but no more Smokedwellers tried to enter the sick tent. “How’s Eyrie?” Ryna asked quietly.

  “Still with us,” Thirna called. “Her wound will mend, in time. I cannot say the same for the man you struck with the oar, though….” Ryna looked at the old Handsister and realized there was fear in Thirna’s eyes—not from the terror of the attack itself, but from the things she had just witnessed Ryna do. “Still, thank you for your…help….” Thirna stammered as she backed away. Ryna knew she couldn’t afford to regret her actions now—she would accept punishment for killing the Smokedwellers later. What she did had kept this group alive for a few more minutes, and at the moment that was all that mattered.

  Outside the sick tent, the sound of the fight shifted suddenly when a massive explosion shook the ground. The shouts and clatter of metal subsided briefly, then four more explosions ripped through the air, one immediately after the other. Shrill horns filled the silence that followed, as did renewed screams of the injured and dying, but another unexpected sound drifted into Ryna’s ringing ears. On every side, hoots and cries of victory rushed out towards the trenches. Ryna cautiously lifted the tent flap and peered out at the devastated Cynmeren camp.

  Pockets of smoke drifted across the ground, revealing scenes of unimaginable carnage as they passed, but the living also charged through this smoke. The Cynmeren leapt over debris and the fallen fighters from both sides as they pursued the now-retreating Penitent Faithful. Ryna was elated to see the attack coming to an end, but more than anything she was confused.

  As though in response to her unspoken curiosity, she spotted three riders atop scrid sweeping in wide arcs along the trenches. These riders passed—first in one direction, then back to where they started—hurling dark orbs into the fleeing Smokedwellers. Whenever one of these orbs struck anything, living or otherwise, an astonishing explosion followed that sent a spray of dirt and bodies soaring in all directions. Between the thunder and blinding flashes of fire, Ryna noticed the Voice of War rushing towards this group of riders from Gasric’s Watch on a scrid of her own. She had removed her Watch helmet and appeared to be shouting, but her words were lost at first in the commotion. Then, in a moment of relative quiet, Ryna heard her command clearly.

  “STOP!” Tilia roared. “By the Kingdom, STOP NOW!” Ryna stepped forward in disbelief as the Voice of War swung the bow from her back and fired three arrows with incredible speed towards the riders, each arrow striking one of the scrid and quickly bringing the animal to a halt. The riders shouted in anger as the wall of smoke receded from the hill, taking with it what remained of the force of Smokedwellers. “They are defeated! Enough!” Tilia called as she approached the group, who were still tossing orbs in the direction of the fleeing smoke.

  Tilia spun the bow to her back, then leapt off her scrid and sprinted to the nearest of the three riders. Just as the man was about to throw another orb, she caught his wrist and seized the deadly object with her other hand. “It is done,” she said loudly, and the man reluctantly let go. “All of you listen! LISTEN!” The victory charge slowed and the sounds of excitement faded as the Voice of War spoke. “The threat is gone, the fight is over, but look around at what you have done—what we have done. This disregard for life is unacceptable; it makes us no better than those Murk-blinded fools who are still forced to serve the Cultivators. For the honor of Cynmere and all who have gone before us, we will not abandon who we are. Our goal must be peace, even in this time of war.”

  The Cynmeren were confused, many lowering their weapons in respect of what the Voice of War had said, while others remained fixated on the smoke in the distance. Ryna felt a spike of shame dig into her core when she thought about her own actions and how they were a direct betrayal of Cynmere’s beliefs. “But we survived,” one of the female riders from Gasric’s Watch exclaimed suddenly, replacing the group’s quiet confusion with tense silence.

  “Yes, we did,” Tilia replied with a sharp nod, “but I also instructed your people not to utilize those thunder stones unless I explicitly called for them.”

  “We were being overrun!” one of the men from Gasric’s Watch protested.

  “I’m glad to see your vast experience outweighs my own,” Tilia said dryly, barely masking her outrage. “Why don’t we have a quick discussion about tactics in my tent? Perhaps I will learn something. All three of you. Now.” The riders reluctantly stepped down from their paralyzed scrid and followed the Voice of War back to her tent.

  With the fighting done, it was time to regroup, fortify, and heal. Ryna returned to the sick tent to continue with her tasks from earlier in the day, and she quickly spotted Eyrie on one of the pallets. She was sleeping quietly, but beside her was the Penitent Faithful woman with a large gash above each elbow, who stared at Ryna with unwavering hatred. We survived, Ryna thought as pride and disgust battled for control of her emotions, but at what cost?

  39

  Keltin blinked again, hoping to clear the flickering afterimage from his left eye, but the reminder of the explosion still lingered. He could see well enough, but having a constant layer of color across his vision was quickly becoming annoying. Combined with the shrill ringing that washed away most other sounds, Keltin found it very easy to become frustrated in his current state. He winced from irritation more than pain as the Servant wrapped another cooling bandage around his left wrist, but then movement in the shadows suddenly stopped Keltin’s internal complaining.

  On the other side of the cart’s lower level, two Servants lifted the body of one of the Penitent Faithful who had not been as fortunate as Keltin during the assault of the Cynmeren camp. He didn’t know the man’s name, just that he had been a Protector, but judging from the wound on the man’s stomach, he had died slowly from one of the Cynmeren arrows. The Servants stepped carefully off the back of the cart, and Keltin watched with a sense of shame as they vanished with the fallen Protector into the swirling smoke. My injuries are a blessing compared to most, he scolded himself, resolving to suppress his irritation out of respect for the truly wounded and the dead.

  As the Servant continued wrapping Keltin’s singed wrist, another figure appeared from the smoke and stepped into the dim light inside the cart. “Venerates watch over you, Keltin,” the dark form of Draeden Ansund said.

  “And y
ou, Draeden,” Keltin replied.

  Ansund stood in impatient silence, eyes darting from the Servant to Keltin’s arm as the bandage was secured. “I would like to speak with him alone if you’re finished,” Ansund at last blurted out, and the Servant bowed his head and quietly retreated into the smoke. The Draeden leaned close to Keltin. “How bad is it?” he asked with a worried frown.

  “Just a burn and a few other minor complaints. Nothing serious.”

  Ansund nodded with a relieved sigh, but then his face grew dark. “You were a fool to be one of the first to rush into an enemy camp.”

  “Everyone else was beside me,” Keltin protested, stunned by the abrupt change in Ansund’s tone.

  “But you are not everyone else. It is good for the Penitent Faithful to see you leading the charge, but you must do so wisely. They see your actions and will emulate them—do not allow them to think that being reckless is acceptable. Many died today, and you could have been among them.”

  “I did what I thought the Venerates had called me to do,” Keltin said quietly.

  “And you showed great bravery and dedication, but those two traits alone will not keep you alive in battle for long. Victory is earned through careful thought and swift action, not impulsiveness or heroics. Our people need to see you as the embodiment of that idea.” Ansund stared intently until Keltin at last lowered his head in acceptance, then the Draeden’s tone changed once again. “Did you at least put my knife to use?” he asked with a tired smile.