“Not going to happen,” Nolyn replied.
Riley sent him a work-with-me-here look and gestured at the others.
“I didn’t mean to imply we aren’t going to survive. It’s just that my father will most certainly outlive me.”
“He could die from falling down the stairs,” Riley said. “You don’t know.”
“My father is a full-blooded Fhrey, which means that’s about as likely to happen as a cat tripping.”
“But if it did, what would you do?”
Nolyn took a deep breath and drew his cloak tighter. The garment was getting soaked, but it still provided protection. Nolyn hated the feeling of water running down the back of his neck. It reminded him too much of spiders on his skin. “Well, a long time ago, Sephryn and I had a friend named Bran. Sephryn is like me, the child of a human mother and Fhrey father, but Bran was different. Both his parents were human. As we got older, we saw how poorly he was treated, and that bothered us. When Sephryn’s family moved back to Merredydd—do you know anything about that place?”
“Mostly Instarya living there, right?” Amicus ventured.
Nolyn nodded. “Used to be a Fhrey fortress even before the Great War. We all lived there for a while when Percepliquis was being built. After the city was finished, most of the humans moved to the capital. Then the remaining Fhrey built the fortress into a proper city, and they weren’t happy living elbow-to-elbow with the humans who had stayed behind. An Instarya named Sikar is the governor now. Incidentally, that’s the same guy our legion is named after. Anyway, when Sephryn went back, she discovered firsthand what it’s like to be singled out because of her birth. The citizens of Merredydd could only see her human half, and they treated her like dirt.”
Nolyn popped the few remaining nuts he’d gotten from Amicus into his mouth, chewed, and then went on, “When she later returned to Percepliquis—a city where humans are treated as outcasts even though they outnumber the Fhrey—Sephryn stopped being just bothered; she became outraged. Ever since then, she’s been working to make significant changes but hasn’t gotten too far. She has a lot of crazy plans, and some that are actually pretty good. One night we came up with the idea of a Citizen’s Charter, a list of laws that would apply to every imperial citizen regardless of their race—rules that would be consistent, with punishment and reward that would be applied fairly to all.” Nolyn laughed self-consciously. “You have to understand that a lot of wine was involved.” He wiped the rain from his face, where a droplet was tickling his nose.
Jerel nudged Amicus and pointed to Nolyn. “See? I told you.”
Amicus frowned. “Doesn’t prove anything.”
“What doesn’t?” Nolyn asked. “What are you two talking about?”
“The One prophesied that if I joined the legion, I would help change the world for the better by protecting Nolyn Nyphronian, the next emperor.”
“He said that, did he?” Nolyn chuckled. “This god of tailors actually used my name?”
“He just looks like one, but yes, he did. Furthermore, he declared you would rule with the compassion and wisdom of your mother. Your idea for a Citizen Charter proves the truth of his words.”
“Your god is wrong. There was only one Persephone, and Nyphron isn’t going anywhere for another thousand years, and I’ll be dead long before then.”
“We didn’t believe Jerel, either,” Riley admitted. “But then you showed up.”
“And yet, you still didn’t change your mind,” Jerel retorted.
“It’s difficult to accept anything you say, DeMardefeld,” Smirch said. “You’re just so damn shiny. Inside and out, I suspect. That’s just not natural.”
Myth was nodding. “Jerel told us the crown prince of the empyre would breeze into the Seventh Sik-Aux. What were the odds?”
Before Nolyn could answer, he noticed faint movement in the ferns. The night was a noisy crash of rain, but that brush against plants resonated as a counter-note, the audible equivalent of brushing fur the wrong way.
Amicus noticed the turn of his head, the widening of his eyes. “What?”
“Movement.”
Amicus smiled. “Showtime.”
The soldiers scrambled to their feet. Blades were drawn and shields raised.
“Protect His Highness,” Amicus said. “And, sir, if you see a chance to save yourself—you take it. That’s an order.”
“I’m your superior officer and the emperor’s son. You don’t give me orders.”
“I do today, sir. And I don’t want you coming back here to bury us, either. If a god sent Jerel to protect you, maybe he knows something we don’t.”
Ghazel crashed through the brush. Intermittent, filtered moonlight reflected off the surface of the river and provided adequate illumination for Nolyn to see. Dark, twisted, and hunched bodies charged in. Amicus and Jerel stood in front of Nolyn and met the advance with Riley Glot and Azuriah Myth flanking. Once more, Amicus Killian performed his magic, hewing goblins in his perfect dance with a mesmerizing rhythm. Now, however, Nolyn had the chance to witness the others. Jerel, Riley, and Myth mimicked the First Spear, not as perfectly, not as elegantly, but they, too, killed goblins with remarkable skill—the same techniques. They weren’t equal, but the relationship was obvious. Nolyn was listening to one melody played on four different instruments, and the concert was a bloody one.
Ghazel came at them like rampaging bulls only to slam into a wall and collapse in a pile. More attacked from behind. Smirch and the Poor Calynian were there, but not nearly as proficient as the others. Nolyn lent his blade to theirs, and in comparison, he felt like a new recruit. Blood and rain mixed; thunder and metal crashed. Then, as suddenly as it began, the attack stopped.
“That’s the first wave,” Riley said, puffing clouds in the supersaturated air.
“No arrows this time,” the Poor Calynian said.
“Didn’t help last night,” Riley replied. “Guess they’re learning.”
“Not sure why they don’t just start with the oberdaza then.” Myth shook the wet off his head and beard.
“Don’t give them ideas.”
In the depths of the jungle, within the dark of the unknown, they heard the wailing of a long, single note.
“Oh, by the short hairs of the emperor!” Smirch cursed. “What is that?”
“That’s a legion horn, you idiot!” Riley shouted.
They all looked at him as the truth of his words sank in. In that span of time, the horn cut out and sounded again.
“That’s definitely a legion horn,” Amicus said, shocked. “How is that possible?”
They watched the brush around them. Amid the crash of rain, they heard the clash of combat. Somewhere in the trees, hidden by the big leaves and the inky black that filled in the cracks, a war erupted. The sound, like the rain, ebbed and flowed. It rose to a climax, tapered off, then silence. Still, they waited with swords in hand as the rain cleaned the blood from their weapons.
Something moved toward them: something loud, something big. It thumped through the trees, snapping branches as it approached. Nolyn could hear heavy breathing, too loud to be human, ghazel, or even Azuriah Myth. A jangling accompanied it as if the creature was adorned in ring mail. They prepared themselves for whatever hideous beast was about to emerge. Then it came, taller than any man. The moonlight revealed—a horse.
Acer! Nolyn recognized his mount, and upon the animal’s back sat—
“Everett!” they all shouted.
The young scout grinned and dismounted. He held out the reins to Nolyn. “Your horse, sir.”
“Everett, how—” Amicus paused as out of the dark came several legionnaires. These were regular infantry wearing heavy armor. “How did you get to Urlineus and back so fast?”
“I didn’t,” Everett replied. “I ran into the Fifth Regiment coming down from Craken’s Firth. I told them the Seventh Sik-Aux was in trouble, and they didn’t hesitate. Their commander split off a detachment and sent them with me.” The sc
out couldn’t stop grinning.
Neither could anyone else.
Then a rugged old soldier with a First Spear brush on his helmet stepped out of the murk, and Amicus began laughing. “Well, look at that—Brac Bareith. I thought you retired to a rocking chair.”
“Amicus Killian—you just don’t die, do you?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Not at all. Saving you and the famous Seventh Auxiliary will be something I’ll boast about for years to come.”
“Saving me?”
Bareith grinned while wiping rain away with one hand and reaching for his water pouch with the other. “We just pulled your ass out of the jaws of an angry hive of ghazel.”
Amicus chuckled. “Oh, I see. You thought we needed your help.”
Brac narrowed his eyes, rose up on his toes, and took a head count using a finger. “There are only seven of you and more than a hundred ghazel. If we hadn’t caught them by surprise and from behind, they might have put a serious dent in our detachment.”
Amicus nodded. “Of that, I’m certain. But we were fine.”
Brac appeared dumbfounded. “Bull’s wool!”
Amicus looked at Riley. “Do you think we needed any support?”
“With what? These cute little buggers?” He put a foot on the body of one.
Amicus looked to the others. “Does anyone think we needed assistance?”
Myth and the Poor Calynian shook their heads. Smirch was the only holdout. “Well . . .” he said, “I wouldn’t mind a little help. I got an itch I can’t quite reach. It’s on me bum. Here, I’ll lift my skirt for you, bossy.”
Brac frowned. “You’re all full of bosh.” Then he spotted Nolyn. His eyes registered the uniform, and he snapped to attention, offering a smart salute. “Sorry, prymus. I didn’t notice you there, sir.”
“Relax, First Spear,” Nolyn replied.
“Thank you, sir.” He eased his stance, then a smile came to his lips. “Surely you have a grip on reality. You’re required to make an accurate report to Legate Lynch. You’ll set the record straight about how we saved you, right?”
“Saved? From what, First Spear?” Nolyn asked.
Brac Bareith’s eyes widened. “Oh, by the beating heart of Elan!” He glanced at his fellows as they came out of the jungle, forming up to either side. “The emperor’s son . . . he’s one of them now.”
Amicus looked at Nolyn, smiled, and nodded. “Yes, I suppose he is.”
Chapter Six
Divine Providence
Mawyndulë slapped his neck and killed another of the monstrous insects that sought to bleed him dry. He pulled his hand away, rubbing the tiny bug between his fingers, taking pleasure in crushing its dead body, smearing it across his skin. Hideous flies, ridiculous heat, and the ever-present wetness plagued him. It rained every day. Even when it didn’t, the air felt poised to spit. That’s how it felt, like he was trapped in the mouth of some vile beast, inhaling secondhand its hot, moist breath. In a bout of delirious, wishful thinking, the empyre had nicknamed their newest city Urlineus—the Gem of the Jungle. Mawyndulë could agree only if the said gem was presently jammed up a boar’s ass.
Wretched Ferrol! How I hate this place, he screamed in his head as he dodged a mud-spraying chariot and nearly fell into a lake-sized puddle. After all these years, Mawyndulë still enjoyed speaking the name of the Fhrey god in vain. As a youth, he’d recoiled if anyone dared to do so. Now, he did it as a personal right. Ferrol was no longer his god. If ever there was a godless creature, Mawyndulë was it.
Making his way around the noisy city construction, Mawyndulë stopped, dumbfounded. Eight men dressed in auxiliary legion uniforms entered the city from the east. Capes torn, helms dented, mud and blood on their unshaven faces, they looked like they’d been dragged by horses. Scores of other legionnaires with different insignia flanked them. They, too, were fresh out of the bush, but not nearly so battered, and all of them—especially the eight—smiled and laughed as they marched.
No, not eight men, Mawyndulë corrected himself, seven humans and a crossbreed. The prince is still alive!
He peered up at the milk-white haze that he assumed was the sun. Barely midday, and already I have to deal with my second major setback. One mishap was bad luck but two in a single morning?
Trilos said it would work. But I guess he was wrong. Should have known better. If I say it’s going to rain tomorrow and it does, am I a seer or just lucky? Okay, it rains every day here, so that’s a bad example. But the point is that just because Trilos makes a prediction doesn’t mean it’ll come to pass, or that he’s telling the truth. I can’t trust him. After all, Trilos is a demon.
Mawyndulë was standing in the middle of the street as he mused, and the sight of the apparently unscathed prince made him more than a bit cross. So when another chariot charged his way, he was in no mood to dodge it. Instead, he clapped his hands, and the forelegs of the horses pulling it immediately buckled. With a whinny, they went down. The yoke and crossbar did as well, propelling the vehicle up and over, tossing its occupants.
Mawyndulë completed crossing the street amid the sounds of screams and shouts. He didn’t look back and grumbled to himself, “I shouldn’t have done that.”
It wasn’t that he cared about the riders or the horses, but his plan required invisibility. Everything hinged on acting in the shadows. He consoled himself with the knowledge that none of the Rhunes around him would take note of the cause and effect. With one notable exception, their kind was too primitive to wield the Art, and as such, they wouldn’t recognize magic when they saw it.
His foul mood descended further.
Two setbacks in one day? It’s a wonder I didn’t blow up a building. First, that useless idiot Sephryn couldn’t get the horn, and now the prince—whose liver was supposed to be the leftovers on a ghazel’s plate—just strolled into Urlineus.
Mawyndulë moved up the street, away from the turmoil he’d caused, then stopped to think.
What do I do now?
Mawyndulë had diligently worked for centuries to make his dream come true. Some of that time he’d spent in a hideous castle on the Green Sea, some in Percepliquis, and the rest in the southern province of Maranonia. But recently, most of his time had been consumed in the jungles of Calynia, prepping for the first act of his Big Show. Finally, he had unleashed his grand scheme—but its wheels fell off the instant he gave it a shove.
“You’ll succeed,” Trilos had once predicted through the thin lips of a young woman who had apparently died from starvation. “You’ll have your revenge, at least.”
In some ways, Mawyndulë missed his old mentor, but at the same time, he didn’t. Over the eight centuries they had been together, Mawyndulë suspected he had learned more about the Art from Trilos than in the entire history of the world. Learning to fabricate strawberries from thin air was just the first of many wonders he’d picked up, and broadening his magical abilities was one of the two reasons Mawyndulë had stayed with the demon for so long.
He has to be a demon. What else can he be?
Mawyndulë still had nightmares from the time Trilos came back wearing the body of a mutilated child. He explained it had been an emergency relocation. Soon after, the demon took up residence in the recently vacated body of a beautiful female Fhrey. Mawyndulë felt, in part, that Trilos was trying to make up for the previous choice. In a way, that body was worse. Mawyndulë found he was attracted to Trilos—or rather the dead body he inhabited. The whole thing was confusing and more than a little troubling.
Now that Mawyndulë was finally free of his mentor, he felt a bit lonely, a tad nervous, and even a dash frightened. He had bided his time and let centuries pass to ensure that any Rhunes who had known about his part in the Great War had turned to dust. He suspected even most of the Fhrey had forgotten him. Mawyndulë had been the crown prince of the Fhrey, but he hadn’t been well entrenched in the hearts of those he was supposed to rule. Having killed his own father, he was a
n outcast, forgotten, and likely presumed dead. After more than eight hundred years, no one would be on the lookout, no one on guard.
The soldiers, freshly back to civilization, stopped for food. The men would be at the canteen for a while. Then they would likely take time to wash, change clothes, and then get drunk.
I still have some time.
He looked up the hill at the only decent building in the province. The city of Percepliquis, having been proclaimed as sheer perfection, served as the model for all imperial cities. So just as the palace formed the heart of the capital, Urlineus’s center would one day be the governor’s residence—when the city finally obtained one. For now, it was the office of the legate, the commander of the Seventh Legion who was tasked with building the city and taming the frontier.
Maybe staying invisible isn’t the right approach after all.
Another fly bit, just behind his ear.
He slapped at it and missed.
As Mawyndulë entered the command quarters, a man behind a desk was tying scrolls into neat tubes and placing them in cubbyholes built into the wall. That was the sort of activity Mawyndulë imagined worker bees did deep within a honeycomb. It had to take about the same amount of mental acuity.
“May I help you?” The staff officer and general secretary, known as the palatus, hadn’t so much asked a simple question as insinuated Mawyndulë had no business being there.
The creature was the glorified servant to the legate, the sort to fetch things and make appointments. A miserable, spindly little man with pale skin, small eyes, and a hatchet nose.
If the little palatus were dead, it would be just the sort of body Trilos would use to needle Mawyndulë. “How do you like this one, Mawyndulë? Look, it’s got all its teeth. See! And don’t you love the whine of its voice? It sounds like a late-summer cicada. Want me to sing a song? How about The Wicked Brothers, eh? You like that one, don’t you?”
Trilos had to be a demon. What else lived longer than a Fhrey, inhabited dead bodies, and knew more about the Art than all the Miralyith combined?
Nolyn Page 10
