by A. K. Wilder
“Wars are won in the will, not the weapons.”
This is hardly the time to philosophize. And speaking of war—Gollnar in league with Aturnia? When did this happen? It’s another thing to warn Master Brogal and the Magistrate about, but how I can’t imagine. It is very likely we are being marched to our demise.
“You don’t have all the facts.”
What does that mean? Facts like the exact number of warriors in the camp? How we will be tortured? My stomach’s in my throat.
“Other facts,” my inner voice replies.
The rain falls harder. It runs off my head and down my nose, giving me a terrible itch. We’re on Rita, third back from Marcus, who is being led behind the captain. They must know exactly who he is now. Palrion gold and the Baiseen Magistrate’s family seal on a savant far off route to Aku equals highly prized captives, most likely spies.
“And not very good ones.”
I agree with my inner voice on this. The next time Marcus plans to travel across enemy territory, I will do the packing. But in all fairness, this jaunt to Mount Bladon was never planned. “So goes the path,” I say under my breath.
“Don’t give up, lass.” Kaylin speaks so softly, I barely hear the words, but they ring warm in my mind nonetheless.
“Thank you.” When I turn to acknowledge him, he seems surprised. There is so much more to say than a simple thanks, but I turn back, not wanting to draw attention.
Only Marcus and I know of the military encampment in the valley. If the others knew, they might be inclined to think up a way to escape before we’re surrounded by a thousand swords, which by my count will be in three minutes. I have to try something.
“Then do.”
I look over my shoulder, around Kaylin, at the scout riding behind us, and smile. He has light skin and curly, reddish-blond hair escaping his bone-colored knitted cap. He wears an Aturnian coat, baggy riding pants, and sheepskin-lined boots, all darkening in the rain. His face is sharp and angular—but less severe than the captain’s. I hold my brightest smile in place. “It would be so nice to have someone to chat with, you know? I’ve been traveling with these scholarly savants for a full month! They are terribly reticent to converse.”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t tell me to shut up, either, so I keep going.
“How far to your camp?” I ask in Palrion to make sure my party listens. I feel Kaylin straighten. “Just ahead? It’s hard to see around the trees.” I glance forward and note Samsen’s ears all but prick as well. “I caught a glimpse of your site from the plateau,” I go on. “Quite impressive. I particularly like your spotty horses. Such a large herd of them.”
The scout nods, and his horse, a black mare with tiny white speckles over her round rump, flutters her nostrils.
“You must have a huge galley tent to feed such a horde.”
Kaylin knees me in the back of the leg. Too much? “Perhaps—”
“Silence!” the captain says from the head of the trail. His look is not friendly or tolerant. I close my mouth, hoping the others have a better idea of what we’re in for, that it will spur them to some action. In any case, a few strides down the track reveals all as the enormous camp comes into view and speaks for itself. To the left of the trail, through the trees, I catch sight of flagpoles and the three banners flying from them that we saw from the summit—the Aturnian stars, Gollnar horse, and the twin, overlapping circles or suns. As I wanted to tell Marcus, it’s new and belongs to no realm I know. But I’ve seen the image three times since docking in Clearwater. First on the notice at the apothecary, then these flags, and finally tattooed on the inside of the captain’s wrist. I have no idea what kind of political mishmash this represents. Most likely I will never find out.
“Quite pessimistic.”
True, but in my defense, it’s where the facts point.
That, and being bound and taken captive.
I realize, even as the thoughts come and pass, that I’m incredibly calm, all things considered. Shock? Suspended belief, perhaps?
My inner voice has no answer.
As we descend, the rows and rows of brown hide tents come into view, only a few minutes’ ride away. Beyond the camp are rolling hills covered with horses, a thousand of them at least. My blood goes cold, and the rain makes me shiver. Although that could be the fear catching up to me.
Kaylin, on the other hand, remains unruffled behind me. He should be highly alarmed by now. His grip, where his tied hands hold a fold of my coat, relaxes, which is reassuring, but as the descent continues, the trail curves westward and “city-size” suddenly seems a conservative estimate for the enemy camp. Beside the fields of horses grazing in the hills are at least a hundred mounts being ridden in formation around a vast parade ground. The numbers are too many to count. This is no military exercise or even show of force.
It’s an all-out war campaign, and we are being taken straight to the heart of it.
19
Marcus
I have to do something, and it has to be now.
The Heir of Baiseen and his company are not going to fall into enemy hands. Not like this. Not without a fight. Ash did a good job warning the others of the sheer size of what we face, but this is one situation she can’t talk her way out of. And this is all my fault.
Rain falls harder, the trail going muddy. The horses slip and slide down the track. It might be an advantage. I don’t know yet. There’s too much rage—both mine and my phantom’s—to think clearly. And the pain in my head… It’s nearly unbearable. I test the binding at my wrists, again. Nothing gives. We have to make a break for it now, before reaching a shout’s distance to the Aturnian legions. But how?
Crush them, my phantom suggests once again, and I see an image of a lion breaking out of a cage and devouring its captors.
At least he’s talking to me, and like last time, it’s not a bad suggestion. “How?”
Touch ground and I’ll show you.
Could it be that simple? The trail widens not far ahead with a steep cliff on my right and a stone retaining wall to the left. If there’s going to be an escape, it must happen in the next thirty feet. I search for the courage to act and run straight into De’ral, his presence pressing in on my mind. He’s ready. Echo knows something is up. Her ears pin back and her head juts high. Fifteen more strides. Fourteen. Thirteen.
Do it! my phantom growls.
I feign a cough, lean forward, and check the cliff’s edge. It’s between two to three yards to a rock ledge. It’s survivable. Probably. I cough again and hunch over. De’ral must rise immediately, before they shower me with spears. Another deep breath and I inch my boots out of the stirrups until only the toes press the metal bars. I cough a third time and make a huge hacking sound at the end to clear my throat, a habit Ash hates. It’s the only warning I can think of.
I fall back, slamming my spine and shoulders hard onto Echo’s rump. She startles and bunches her hindquarters. I heel her shoulders and she crow-hops forward, crashing straight into the lead mount. Sorry, girl. But it gives me the seconds I need to scissor my legs and flip off her back. The ground comes up fast and punches the air out of my lungs. “De’ral, be ready.” I tuck my chin and keep rolling, right over the edge.
Hit the dirt; raise my phantom. It’s my only thought.
But the fall breaks me in half. I can’t swallow or breathe. White lights flash in front of my eyes. Acid races up my throat and I try to heave, but that requires breathing, something I still can’t do. “Rise!” I command my phantom.
De’ral is already exploding out of the ground. I duck, shielding my head against the rocks and dirt that avalanche down. The whole cliff face rattles apart as my massive phantom rises to full height, thundering a challenge.
“Kill the enemy,” I gasp. “Harm none of our own.” A phantom shouldn’t have to be reminded, but De’ral’s untrained. B
y the bones, I hope he can tell the difference between friend and foe.
De’ral climbs, the ledge crumbling under his hands and feet. I drag myself out of the way to keep from being buried alive. There’s no way to gauge what’s going on above me save for the little I perceive through the tunnel-vision rage of my phantom, and the wails and chaotic shouts of everyone above. De’ral’s intent is so burning that I can’t take full phantom perspective. But I must. This attack can succeed if it is swift and quiet, before reinforcements come from the camp. We’re already far beyond silent, so swiftness is the key. The barrier between me and De’ral finally bursts and a rush of emotions flood in along with a full view of the road. Violent rage is at the top of my feelings and pooled below a sickening, oily darkness I don’t recognize, though the pounding in my head is all too familiar. Only one thing is certain. The Aturnian scouts are dying under my phantom’s crushing blows. For now, it’s going to plan.
20
Ash
“Look out!” Kaylin shoves me against Rita’s neck as a shadow sweeps over our heads.
I try to hold on, gripping her mane with my bound hands, unable to shorten the reins and hold her back as she shies toward the rock wall. Marcus’s phantom is climbing up the cliff. By the Drop, De’ral is huge. I’d heard the rumors, but nothing could’ve prepared me for this.
Our eyes lock, sending chills right through me. He raises one arm high overhead then brings it down, smashing the captain flat to the ground, spotty horse and all.
My jaw drops and I can’t move.
“See,” my inner voice says.
“De’ral is one Barlargka of a phantom,” I whisper.
“Indeed.”
My attention snaps back to the present. Kaylin’s untying his binds with his teeth while De’ral stomps among our captors, ignoring the thrusts of spears and slices of blades, destroying the enemy right along with their horses. I can’t take my eyes away. It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever witnessed.
“Give me your hands.” Kaylin breaks my bonds as if they were string. The mare rears again as De’ral smashes the scouts in front of us. Kaylin and I slide off her back to the ground and Rita bolts. We run toward Piper, whose chestnut gelding whinnies, head high, whites of his eyes showing.
Piper kicks her foot out of the stirrup. “Knife in my boot.”
Kaylin retrieves it as she vaults out of the saddle. I take her horse’s reins, and with a quick slice, Kaylin cuts her bonds.
“Hold him and the donkey,” she says to me. To Kaylin, “Weapons?” He offers her the knife and an Aturnian blade from the ground. Piper nods and pushes into the fray, carving her way to Samsen and Belair, who are stranded in the thick of it.
“Mind the battle,” Kaylin says. “And don’t take your eyes off that monstrous phantom.” He lifts his chin toward De’ral, who is busy hammering scouts flat like a blacksmith works iron. “You didn’t mention.”
“I didn’t know!”
Blood arcs through the air like a macabre rainbow. Horses scream and the sounds of battle ricochet in my ears. De’ral bellows a war cry and punches a scout into the rock wall that holds the hillside back from the road. The blow cracks the stone, the scout’s skull smashing like a melon, blood spraying as the wall crumbles. I turn away from the bulging eye protruding from the scout’s face. Spears still rain into De’ral’s chest and forearms, sticking there like oversized toothpicks. They don’t slow him in the slightest, but what is this doing to Marcus, who must be on his knees below the cliff? Does he have phantom wounds? Will he bleed out? While my mind races with these thoughts, De’ral picks up the body with the smashed skull and winds up to throw it over the cliff.
“He’s dead already, De’ral,” I say to him in my mind. It’s not like I expect him to hear me, but he glances my way and drops the corpse.
Add that to the shocks of this day.
I give De’ral a faint smile. Maybe it was my look of horror that stopped him. Surely not my thoughts.
“Catch the horses!” Kaylin shouts amid the fray.
I rush back up the road, pulling Piper’s horse behind, but the donkey isn’t fast enough. “De’ral, no!” I think it fast, on the chance that knowing his name will allow him to hear my thoughts. But it’s too late.
The donkey squirms a moment under the warrior phantom’s unintended stomp then lies still. If it makes any sound, it’s lost in the rest of the madness. De’ral gives me a sheepish look. So…he can hear me? Plenty of time to ponder this more when there is less killing and screaming. “Be more careful, for rit’s sake!”
So many scouts are crushed, dead in the road, rivulets of blood streaming from them, aided and buoyed by the rain. Those left alive struggle to control their horses and retain Belair and Samsen. Thank the gods of the deep those left are all non-savant. Two try to bolt away, but Marcus’s warrior backhands them off their mounts and over the cliff to the valley below, where their shrieks are cut short by resounding thuds. The phantom plucks a spear from his arm and hurls it at another of our captors. It flies past his face and impales his horse’s neck, dropping it fast, but the rider rolls free.
“De’ral! Slow down. Take aim.” Where in all the bones is Marcus? His hands must still be tied.
Kaylin cuts down any scouts that cross his path as he guards Piper’s back. They reach Samsen first and free him, his phantom taking to the sky, talons extended, but his horse panics and runs. I turn back to catch him. We’re going to have to ride out of here, and fast.
I make my way to Frost, shivering as she presses into the bank, too well trained to bolt, but clearly terrified. “Easy girl.” I put my hand on her shoulder and reach for the reins. She relaxes the moment I touch her. I turn to search for Echo, whose reins are trapped, but Rita is close, so I lead Frost toward her first.
“Bring it in!” Samsen shouts over the cliff to Marcus. “We have this.” Samsen’s pale hair is wet with rain and blood. He dashes out of the way as De’ral sweeps a stray scout off his feet and hurls him into the distance. When another makes a run for the enemy camp, the huge phantom plunges his fist into the rock wall above the scout’s head. It collapses, burying the man alive, and half the road with him.
Belair points wildly. “One’s getting away.” He falls to his knees and up comes his sun leopard, rising through the middle of the road, rocks and gravel and bodies flying. It attacks a scout who is near dead, shaking an arm until it detaches from the socket. Then the big cat sees the one running toward camp and streaks after him.
“Marcus,” Piper calls over the cliff. “Call him in!”
He must hear her, because his phantom disappears into the earth, leaving a pile of broken spears behind him. De’ral looks at me again before his head vanishes, his grimace softening.
As I stare at the muddy mess in the road where Marcus’s phantom went to ground, a wounded scout climbs onto the nearest horse and gallops away. At the top of his lungs, he shouts, “Marcus Adicio! Marcus Adicio! The Heir of Baiseen is among us!”
“Stop him!” I shout at the savants. “He can’t reach the camp.”
Samsen’s eagle is high overhead. It folds its wings and dives, dropping the scout on impact, rising again with a red ball in his talons, streaming ribbons. I squint. Not ribbons, blood vessels. The phantom has ripped out his heart, but not before the enemy’s warning sounded through the valley. The rain turns into a downpour and for a moment, all we can do is stare at one another and pant, water streaming down our faces.
And pray to the old gods no one else heard.
21
Kaylin
It’s a fine battle. I’m drenched in blood and water, smack in the center of the best massacre I’ve seen for some time. No reveling in it, though. A hundred horsed Aturnians and their new Gollnar friends are apparently about to run us down, with a thousand more to follow. Does Teern know about this alliance, I wonder? He’d hav
e a spy or two in that camp, surely. But for now, I focus on escape, seeing only one way.
“They’re coming.” Ash jumps from her perch on the rock wall. “Too many to count,” she says louder, startling when Marcus emerges from the ravine, supported between Samsen and Piper. “Is he all right?”
“He will be.” Piper sounds proud. “Let’s get him on his horse.”
Ash heads for the frightened black mare. “Let me.”
Echo stands next to the Aturnian captain’s broken body, anchored by her reins tangled in his dead grip. I soften as I watch Ash soothe the animal. She has a way…
“Easy, girl.” She strokes the horse’s neck before prying the captain’s fingers open to release the mare’s reins. Once done, she lingers. Something attracts her attention on the ground.
“Quick is best, lass,” I call. “Company’s coming.”
Ash wrenches her gaze from the severed arm and leads the horse toward me. Samsen has Rita and Frost, but that is all. Belair’s bay is dead lame. He untacks it and shoos it away, tears in his eyes as the animal lingers over the donkey flattened into the road. The other horses, including Piper’s, are gone. As Ash leads Echo toward me, she passes a scout’s corpse slumped against the bank. His hand is up over his head, as if even in death he tries to ward off the assault. She stares for a moment and I see what catches her eye. A tattoo on the inside of his wrist. The Twin Suns.
My body stills as my mind races.
It can’t be. Not yet.
Marcus stirs, his hair thick with mud, blood running down the side of his face. “Well done, Heir. They didn’t have a chance against your warrior.” I have new respect for him. My plan for escape wasn’t nearly as fantastic.
Marcus gives a satisfied smile, though it obviously pains him. The fall wouldn’t have been pleasant. I lift Marcus into the saddle. He flops forward and we secure him in that position with straps from the donkey’s harness.
