Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  While Ansund focused on the Conduit, Eyrie ran to free Cailla from her bonds. For Ryna, though, the actions of everyone around her felt distant and muted. She was fixated on Keltin, and each step towards him seemed to take an eternity. His eyes were closed, and he hung motionless against the post that kept him upright. Ryna watched his chest, praying to see him draw breath, but nothing stirred beneath his tattered shirt. “Keltin?” she whispered tentatively in the silence, but there was no reply.

  For so long, Ryna had hoped to never see this intruder from Aldhagen again; now all she wanted was the chance to spend more time with him. Because of Keltin, she had lost everything—her life in Locboran, her friends, even her own name—but he was also the reason she had lived long enough to witness truth and freedom. Anger, fear, and grief all battled inside her within the span of a second until Ryna finally reached her breaking point. Without thought, she dropped the arrowhead to the floor and curled her hands around the sides of Keltin’s head. She pressed her lips against his in a gesture she barely understood, but that was somehow the only action that made sense in the midst of her confusion.

  “Thank you,” Ryna whispered a moment later as she brushed her forehead gently against his cheek. To her amazement, she felt a nearly-imperceptible breath escape from Keltin’s mouth. Her tear-filled eyes darted to his lips, and it appeared that Keltin was not only breathing but trying to speak as well. Ryna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “What did you say?” she stammered as her entire body shook with emotion.

  Keltin made a noise as though trying to clear his throat and then his eyes fluttered open for an instant. “I should be thanking you,” he said in a clear but raspy voice. In spite of his injuries, a small smirk twisted the left side of his mouth and his eyebrows lifted playfully. Then he was still once more.

  For the third time in less than a day, Ryna was embarrassed to the point where she felt her cheeks growing hot. “Can you stand?” she snapped, refusing to look at his face for fear that his eyes might be open again. What were you thinking? she shouted at herself.

  “We’ll see,” he replied as she retrieved an isen from one of the guards and severed the ropes that held Keltin in place. He toppled into her arms but quickly put the majority of his weight back onto his own legs, shaky though they were from days of disuse. Only seconds had passed since the guards were immobilized, but to Ryna it felt like a lifetime or more. With Keltin leaning on her shoulder for support, Ryna turned her attention back to events as they unfolded between Ansund and the High Conduit.

  “Well? Do what you came here to do,” the High Conduit said impatiently.

  “And what do you think that is?” Ansund asked as he stepped closer to the old man.

  “To kill me, obviously.”

  “You know me well enough to be certain that if I had come here to kill you, you would have been dead the moment those doors opened,” the Draeden replied dryly. “No, I came here to give you an opportunity to do something right and good before you are forced to face justice. I want you to address the Penitent Faithful a final time—confess your sins to them and call for an end to their conflict. Then explain the truth that the Venerates are coming and that we must stand together against them.”

  The High Conduit sneered with disgust. “I would rather die,” he spat.

  Ansund moved even closer. “You choose to wait for death, to give up. I choose to fight. One way or the other, we are going to face the Venerates, and the only hope of destroying them is as a unified force. Your power over these people is gone—this lie is finished—but you can still set them on the path to victory.” The High Conduit trembled, his eyes darting from side to side as he searched for answers. “It’s over, father,” Ansund said gently.

  “Nothing is over!” the High Conduit bellowed, then his arm suddenly sped across the Draeden’s face in a streak of shimmering black. There was nothing Ryna could do but watch helplessly as Ansund fell to the floor with blood streaming from his head. Eyrie rushed to his side, but everyone else was too stunned to move. The High Conduit panted as he backed away and tears fell from his ancient eyes. “My son,” he breathed. “That’s my son.” The dark knife fell from his hand and clattered to the chamber floor as he stared at the pool of red surrounding Ansund.

  Unable to face the reality of his actions any longer, the High Conduit spun to face the enormous map on the wall. Then, with speed and silence to rival the most feared among the Shroud Legion, Cailla sprinted forward unexpectedly. Without stopping, she swung her arm low and seized the dark blade before leaping towards the High Conduit’s back. He sobbed until the instant Cailla drove the knife through the back of his neck and fell to the floor on top of him. So it was that the High Conduit died—not with a shout, but a whimper.

  Cailla’s silence ended quickly when it was clear the old man was no longer a threat. She lifted the blade and struck him again and again, each swing with more force than the last, until her screams of rage echoed within the chamber. The end of the black knife clicked against the stones of the floor after each pass through the High Conduit’s flesh; it established an underlying rhythm to the song of Cailla’s vengeance. Finally, she was either too exhausted or too distraught to continue and she backed away, leaving the knife planted between the corpse’s shoulder blades.

  Ryna looked away from the grim scene, though she knew it was more than justified. To her relief, it appeared the other victim of the same knife was still alive, albeit gravely injured. Eyrie knelt over Ansund and used an isen to cut off a short section of his black cloak. This she then used as a makeshift bandage to cover and maintain pressure on his ruined left eye. The Draeden said nothing—Ryna didn’t even notice him flinch—as Eyrie worked to stop the blood that poured from the gash. His jaw was set with determination and he stared at the ceiling with his good eye, possibly focused on ignoring the pain, possibly slipping into shock.

  After a few hobbling steps, Ryna eased Keltin onto one of the benches beside the massive stone table and began tending to his injuries as well. He had several deep cuts which had already begun to heal; those she wrapped as best she could. The burns, though…there was no immediate relief she could offer him for those. “We have to warn everyone about the Venerates. They’re coming,” Keltin said, suddenly in a panic as he tried to stand.

  “We will. You need to stay still for now, though,” Ryna advised as she applied another bandage. To her relief, he complied and sat down again.

  “She’s going to need help,” Keltin grunted a moment later. He nodded towards the right side of the chamber where Cailla was about to step into the corridor. Ryna’s brow furrowed with worry as her eyes darted back to Keltin, but a quick nod from him reassured her that there was no threat of him dying before she came back. After a firm squeeze of his hand, Ryna hurried after Cailla.

  The corridor twisted left and then right before opening into a wider hallway lined with doors on either side. There were heavy wooden beams keeping each of the doors in place, and Cailla was already in the process of moving the first of these aside when Ryna caught up to her. Without a word, Ryna helped lift the beam and stood in silence as Cailla rushed inside. The room was dark and cramped, and the air within felt unnaturally thick. There were no furnishings beyond a small bed along the back wall, and on that bed sat a woman who wore the same white robe as Cailla. Her eyes were wide with terror, but then she recognized who had just entered her room. “It’s over,” Cailla said softly as she helped the other woman to her feet.

  The three of them soon became four and then five as they liberated one captive after another. By the time the final door was open, twenty-three women stood with Ryna and Cailla. To try to understand what these Sacred Vessels had been through was disturbing, but their distant eyes spoke of horrors Ryna could not even imagine. Aside from an occasional quiet sob, the group returned to the main chamber in total silence. Ryna turned the corner just in time to see Keltin shuffling back to the stone bench. “Why are you up?” she demanded.

  He s
at with a thud and then pointed to his tattered sash—from it hung the dark blade. “My knife,” he said in a hoarse whisper. As Ryna walked over to Keltin, Cailla and the Sacred Vessels ignored him and instead congregated around the fallen Conduit. Once again, no words were exchanged between the women, yet they all moved in unison to lift the blood-soaked body. Ansund stood in spite of Eyrie’s protests and followed the group into the corridor on the left side of the great map. Not knowing what else to do, Ryna, Eyrie, and Keltin followed as well.

  Clouds hung low against the Holy Spire as Ryna stepped out onto a balcony that overlooked Dism Slyde. The uniform grey of the overcast sky was stained by streaks of dark black smoke that poured from fires scattered across the plain below. Gusts of wind swirled from the frozen north and carried the stinging smoke as well as the sounds of a terrible battle up to Ryna’s cold ears. Her attention was on Cailla, though, as she and the other Sacred Vessels clustered against the balcony’s edge and flung the Conduit’s body into the open air beyond.

  With their task done, the Sacred Vessels stepped away from the edge and at last began speaking with one another in brief whispers. Cailla’s expression of cold hatred melted into tears of both overwhelming joy and bitter sadness as she rushed into Eyrie’s arms. “It’s finished,” Ansund said as he stepped to the railing. With the wind rippling the black cape behind him, the Draeden raised his arms and then dropped them to his sides—it was the signal of victory that the main force of Cynmeren concealed high in the mountains had been waiting to see.

  The yellow glow of Watch helmets appeared beneath the clouds as dozens of black orbs tumbled in unison towards the valley below. This was not an attack, however, as each of the thunder stones was carefully aimed for an unoccupied area of Dism Slyde. The valley shook from the combined explosion with such force that tendrils of dust sifted down onto the balcony beside Ryna from levels of the Spire high overhead. As the rumbling echoes faded, she was elated to find that the desired result had been achieved—the battle between factions of the Penitent Faithful had ceased, at least for the moment.

  “Look around, all of you!” Ansund bellowed to the confused and terrified Smokedwellers. “The Cynmeren have surrounded us. Dism Slyde is lost, and the High Conduit is dead. If you don’t believe me, check the base of the Spire where he now lies. His reign is over, as is his manipulation of our minds, yet you still slaughter one another to either defend him or denounce him. It is a fight with no purpose.

  “Regardless of the reason you fight, there is one truth you will all admit: the threat of extinction is upon us. You see the glow of the Cynmeren on all sides and you assume I am referring to them, but I ask you this: why would they delay in destroying all of you? It is because they are here for something more. They know, as I do now, that we will soon face a far greater threat: the true enemy of all humanity, and that enemy is the Venerates.”

  There were murmurs and sounds of disbelief from the Penitent Faithful, but Ansund continued. “It is not an easy thing to accept that the group we once viewed as gods could be responsible for all the suffering of this world, but look at the man they entrusted with the task of protecting you—the man they chose to guide you. To his dying breath, the High Conduit embodied everything we revile. He served only himself, abusing his power and living in comfort while we fought to survive with humility. Then, when the cofa was destroyed and his people—you—needed him the most, he abandoned you. He watched you die without pity as he hid in the heights of the Spire.

  “I’m sure many of you want to kill me for the things I’ve just said, but I pray that many more of you realize I speak the truth. The Cynmeren are here—I am here—to make you an offer. Join us in the real fight; help ensure a future of freedom for all people of this world. There is nothing left for you here but death. We have food, water, and shelter, and you are all welcome to share in each. Otherwise, if you choose to remain here, you will lower your weapons and allow us to depart in peace. Know this, though: if any of you attempt to stand against the Cynmeren or those who wish to join us, you will be struck down without mercy—there is no time left for petty conflicts. Every one of you must now make a decision; be certain that you are prepared to endure its consequences.”

  With that, Ansund moved away from the edge of the balcony and turned to face the small group gathered there. Despite his demeanor of unfailing confidence, Ryna saw his hands twitching by his sides from exhaustion, shock, or both. “It’s time for us to leave this place as well,” Ansund declared with a thin, determined smile, and there was no protest from anyone on the balcony.

  Since his legs remained unsteady, Keltin relied on Ryna to help him, and he apologized with almost every step. “Can we stop?” he asked after they reached the main chamber. Ryna agreed, assuming he was too weak to walk more than a few strides without a rest, but to her surprise Keltin hobbled towards the large map that covered the northern wall of the chamber. “We need this,” he said with a thoughtful nod. Ansund overheard him and was thankfully tall enough to reach the hooks that held the upper edges of the large linwyrt sheet in place. Soon, the map was folded and rolled into a bundle small enough for Keltin to carry under his arm. Its utility was without question, but Ryna wouldn’t have thought to stop long enough to retrieve it; her focus was to leave this wretched place as quickly as possible.

  When they neared the bottom of the spiraling stairs, Cailla stopped Ansund before the exit to the valley came into view. “Your words were very powerful, but I worry they will not be enough to keep all of you safe,” she said with genuine concern in her eyes. “Since we are Sacred Vessels, none of the Penitent Faithful would dare to harm us, regardless of their other beliefs. I think it would be wise for us to form a protective barrier around you until we reach the safety of the Cynmeren camp.”

  Ansund frowned and shook his head briefly before at last conceding that Cailla’s logic was sound. So it was that Ryna found herself surrounded by an escort of white-robed women as she walked with Keltin, Ansund, and Eyrie across the charred and smoldering ground beneath the Holy Spire. An eerie stillness had replaced the sounds of battle, and everywhere Ryna looked she spotted tired and distant eyes either watching her or watching the Cynmeren high on the cliffs above. She found encouraging traces of curiosity and even excitement in a few of these faces, but the expressions of the majority ranged from uncertainty to seething hatred.

  To Ryna’s relief, several dozen scrid had descended into the main canyon and were waiting just inside the Gates of Contrition with their transport cages already on the ground. The injured were to be loaded into these and taken back to the site of the Cynmeren camp; she realized with a surprising pang of sadness that meant she had to part ways with Keltin again, even if it was just for a brief time. Ryna scolded herself—letting emotion take control on the battlefield would only lead to costly mistakes. She cleared her mind and refocused on the tasks at hand. “When the cage starts to flip, pull yourself up to the slats if you can,” she cautioned Keltin once he had crawled into the transport cage.

  Tired though he was, Keltin nodded. “I remember wishing I could do that during my last ride in one of these cages,” he said, then he smiled at her. “See you up ahead.” Before she could suppress it, Ryna smiled back at him.

  “He does have a beautiful face,” Eyrie commented quietly from behind Ryna’s back as Keltin was lifted into place by the scrid. Ryna swallowed hard from surprise and embarrassment as she spun to face Eyrie. The Bloodsister noticed Ryna’s reaction and laughed knowingly before turning away to help Cailla into one of the cages. Infuriated by her own foolishness, Ryna busied herself with assisting the other Sacred Vessels until they were all securely in place. Even Draeden Ansund begrudgingly accepted a ride with the scrid when Ryna pointed out that his bandage had already soaked through with blood again.

  “I’ll ask the Voice of War to send more transports when I reach the camp,” Ansund said as the scrid moved into position to lift his cage. Ryna responded with a confused frown and the Draeden p
ointed in the direction of Dism Slyde. When Ryna turned, she was amazed to find a mass of hundreds of Penitent Faithful moving uncertainly towards the Gates of Contrition. Many of them had bandages on an arm or a leg, while others with more serious injuries were being loaded into a handful of nysk carts in the distance. It seemed that Ansund’s speech had been effective after all; either that, or the prospect of food and drink was too appealing for these weary and starving fighters to resist.

  As Ryna helped the first of the wounded Penitent Faithful into the remaining transport cages, the nysk carts slid past with a sound like distant wind. Being close to creatures as imposing as the nysks was terrifying, especially since the only other time Ryna had been near them was during battle. Her fear was quickly stifled, however, when she looked into the back of one of the carts and saw the carnage within. The cramped confines overflowed with people who barely clung to life, while others worked frantically to save them. Ryna’s thoughts suddenly shifted to a new worry: with so many injured, would the Penitent Faithful prove to be a benefit or a burden when the time came to face the Venerates?

  “Ryna!” Eyrie called from the opposite side of the great arch, ending Ryna’s concerns for the moment. “I need your help with something.” She had a familiar note of determination in her voice, but as Ryna walked closer she realized there was sadness hiding in the Bloodsister’s eyes.

  Ryna wove through the flow of Penitent Faithful as they marched away from Dism Slyde for a final time. “What is it?” she asked after reaching Eyrie.

  “I’ll show you,” Eyrie replied. They sped along the edge of the column of fighters until the first of the headless Cynmeren corpses came into view. When Eyrie reached the suspended body, she quickly drew her knife and sliced through the ropes that held it upright. Ryna lifted her arms just in time to help Eyrie keep the body from falling to the sandy floor of the canyon. In doing so, though, this put Ryna’s face less than a hand’s length from the corpse. From the look of the dark, wrinkled flesh that was visible through the seams of the faded Sreathan plate, this man had died many turnings earlier.