“Fools!” cried a woman from a passing boat. “Turn back—while you still can!”
The coastline loomed. Argus strapped Reaver to his hip and his fingers started pouring sweat. Boats swarmed the harbor. Palatial merchant ships, tiny sailboats, and everything in between. If it floated at all, it floated away from Valcrest.
“What in the blazes is happening?” Siggi said.
No one had an answer for him. The Legion readied their weapons while Brenn steered them through the traffic. At last they entered the crescent-shaped harbor. The docks, usually teeming with merchants and longshoremen, were empty. Black smoke billowed above the houses that lined the harbor. Hundreds of Valcrestians ran between them, their eyes searching desperately for the sea.
Brenn grumbled as he guided the boat alongside an empty dock. That's when Argus noticed where the smoke was coming from. The emerald hills that overlooked Erith, the homes of the wealthiest women in all of Valcrest, were burning. Flames leaped from one rooftop to another. They ate through wood and stone and lush grassland alike, turning manses into piles of ash.
And still they were hungry for more.
“You sure you want to do this?” Siggi said.
Argus nodded. “It's the only way. If Valcrest is this bad I can only imagine how it'll be in Leith…” He caught the rope Nasira threw at him and helped Siggi secure their boat to the dock.
“Oh, gods,” she said.
“What?” Argus looked up and his heart stopped. For a moment he was as dead as the skeletons piled beneath the Cradle. Until it started pumping again faster than he'd ever felt.
Eyes. Hundreds of them. They burned brighter than the fires behind them, rushing onto the docks. The would-be refugees had just received an unexpected blessing: a new ship.
With one foot still in the ship and the other on the dock, Argus froze. Someone shoved him forward and he nearly fell overboard before catching himself on the slick wood.
“Keep moving!” said Brenn. “Unless you want to get trampled.”
Metal clanged behind him, and when Argus looked back the Legion had drawn their weapons. Out came Reaver; her grip sizzled in his hand.
She wants blood. No matter how badly these poor people want to avoid it.
Argus refused to give it to her. If they could just use their weapons for defense, maybe the mob would let them be.
Or maybe they'll end up plastered on the dock.
He forced himself to walk straight for those screeching faces. Nasira fell in behind him and Siggi came third, with Brenn taking the rear. “Don't waver,” he said. “Keep moving forward. Whatever happens.”
Nasira said, “Just try not to kill any of them.”
The mob was doing that well enough on its own. Every few seconds the faces in front changed. Some fell and were crushed; others splashed overboard. No matter what happened new faces surged to replace them.
“Keep walking,” said Brenn.
Their tiny column strode up the middle of the dock. When the mob saw their weapons a good deal of them broke away and hugged the edges. But others stayed their course, charging right for them.
Argus steeled his muscles for a terrible collision.
He raised his sword.
Closed his eyes.
Felt the meat mass barrel right into him.
He tried to keep his feet planted. Useless. All around were wild eyes and people breathing on his neck. Their momentum swept him up and sent him skidding back toward the end of the dock.
Toward their last lifeline out of Valcrest.
Argus shoved them, using every shred of willpower he had not to start stabbing. Nasira screamed. He felt himself being pressed into her chest but couldn't turn back to see her. All the while, Valcrestians lunged by on either side.
Still sliding, he thought. Have to stop sliding.
Siggi groaned. Brenn sounded his war cry. The Legion had become layers of a wedding cake—one about to be trampled. Argus lurched forward, backward, then forward again.
“Go on!” he yelled. “The boat's yours. Take it!”
Brenn gave them a mighty shove and the four of them shot forward, crushing a poor man who'd fallen. He flopped about on the deck, hands reaching, only to disappear beneath Brenn's boots.
“Keep moving!”
Hands wrapped around Argus's waist. Nasira? He leaned forward and worked the mob like a battering ram. His head bashed against other heads; those who refused to move aside received elbows and knees.
Water sloshed over the edge. His mouth flooded with seaweed and brine. The entire dock swayed from side to side, dancing, threatening to buckle.
They were still moving, though, and for now that was all that mattered.
A pug-nosed man with brown eyes clawed at him. Argus raised his sword, finally ready to use it, but the Valcrestian fell right through the dock instead. Others plunged into the hole after him. Argus yelled for his friends to stop but his voice disappeared into countless others. He jumped aside, knocking a woman over the edge, and hoped the Legion would follow. Nasira's fingers dug between his ribs.
“Watch out!”
Clammy hands tugged at him, trying to drag him into the water. Argus jerked away. The mob took half his cloak with them. When their hands settled on Reaver's hilt, peeling it away finger by finger, Argus let her fly.
The blade flashed.
Blood spurted.
Shrieking as the front few ranks dove off the dock. Some turned and tried to sprint back for land. Argus cut them down. He kept moving all the while. His friends were yelling, though he didn't hear a word they said.
Killing was the only thing now.
Each slash was like a pump on the bellows, heating his rage. Reaver sang. He'd forgotten how beautiful she sounded. Yet he remembered now.
Next thing he knew, he found himself at the other end of the dock, panting.
“Gods,” said Brenn. “You didn't have to paint the whole thing in blood.”
Reaver slid back into her scabbard. She'd stopped singing; she was laughing. It was the same laugh that woke Argus up at night, squirming with memories of mayhem that refused to be forgotten.
He winced, turned back toward the boat. What he saw there made him want to vomit. A trail of blood unfurled like a velvet carpet, littered with body parts and corpses. Beyond it, the Valcrestians who still lived huddled at the end of the dock, shoving, fighting, and crawling their way onto Nasira's boat.
Only the most limber ones made it. The boat was already drifting away, out toward the open sea. She left behind a horde of desperate swimmers.
Argus turned for the shore, clutching his chest. “I…” He ripped off his sword belt and shoved it into Brenn's hands. He still heard Reaver's song mocking him.
Please not again. Please not more blood.
But there it was. Just as she'd slashed through dozens of Valcrestians, she'd slashed a hole in his memory how it had even happened. He had only the corpses for evidence.
Nasira laid a hand on his shoulder. “Argus…”
He pulled away, pointed to his sword, and begged Brenn to keep it safe until they were out of Erith. The Nalavacian nodded. They scrambled past burning houses, covering their mouths with their sleeves. Argus moved with them but not among them. His mind lingered on that dock. All that blood. The others kept their distance now.
More Valcrestians rushed past, groaning at the sight of the empty docks. Practically all of the women were already gone. The situation would have been reversed in Leith, but the people of Valcrest followed a matriarchal order. Argus wondered if Queen Imogen had managed to escape her palace, the crown jewel atop those emerald hills—the ones engulfed in flames.
After skirting the waterfront houses they spilled into the heart of Erith. What had once been a meticulously-designed grid—the only one of its kind, as far as Argus knew—had descended into pockmark skirmishes and broken glass. Valcrestians ran between a slew of small fires, which were quickly converging into larger ones. Leithish men chased them with
swords and spears.
They wore neither uniforms nor armor, but they were easy to pick out because most stood a good head taller than their Valcrestian neighbors. Usually their features were almost identical. They were a world apart now, the Leithish faces flushed with a kind of ecstasy that Argus knew well.
They're drunk. Drunk on power and their first kills.
He'd seen that look countless times. It affected every race and gender and homeland. It was a look from which there was no turning back. After a lifetime of peace, that first taste of violence—and the power that came with it—was insatiable.
The Legion stood in the middle of a street, watching the killing and looting go on at random. No one seemed to be in command of the Leithish forces. Either that, or they'd lost the reins long ago.
“The Leithish can fight,” said Brenn, shoving aside a man who'd barreled into him on his way to the harbor. “Who knew.”
“Not very well,” Siggi said. He flourished his mace like he was eager to use it again. “Damn near anyone can kill unarmed townsfolk.”
“We've done enough killing,” Nasira said. “I'd like to get out of here without any more.”
Argus could only nod. He saw the dock again, the trail of corpses and blood, and felt so queasy he had to lean on Nasira for balance. “We'll go out one of the western gates. They're easy to find if we just keep the water to our left.”
“Aye,” said Siggi, and took off after Brenn around a corner. Nasira ran after them. She dragged Argus along, asking if he could keep up, and he waved her off and forced himself to move faster. They rounded another corner into an alley littered with dead Valcrestians, and when they reached the end of it he vomited.
After that he felt a little better, so he kept running. Even when swords and spears plunged from darkened recesses. Argus dodged them, but he made no effort to fight back. Reaver sang somewhere up ahead. A whisper. Sometimes Nasira slashed with her falchion, and Siggi and Brenn swung their mace and ax.
They added as little to the carnage as they could.
Away from the fires they went. Away from the screams of bloodthirsty men, always keeping the sea to their left. Whitecaps rolled through the blue-gray depths, oblivious and indifferent to the suffering in Erith. The Legion darted from alley to alley until the streets widened into a square.
A gate waited at the other end—one Argus had passed through many times in exile. He'd never seen it so crowded. Except these weren't farmers or traders coming into Erith to hawk their wares. These were corpses.
They stepped over them, picking their way closer. A few Leithish soldiers blocked the opening. Once Brenn lopped off one of their heads, the others broke and ran. The Legion of the Wind followed them west, away from Erith, until they could no longer smell the fires.
They didn't look back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“This place is strange,” said Brenn.
Siggi nodded. “It's too quiet. And I can't take a step without landing in something soggy.”
Valcrest was a strange place. And even stranger now. One wouldn't notice that where they were at the moment, following the coastline west from Erith. A typical gray day. Everything green and lush. Not a whisper of the chaos that had overwhelmed the Valcrest capital.
“I never thought I'd be back here,” Argus said.
Brenn smiled. “And to think you were worried about them taking our weapons!” He still held Reaver. Argus refused to take it. He turned away, nauseous after every look.
“This was a peaceful place,” he said. “Bringing weapons ashore meant guaranteed exile. They melted them down. Turned blades into jewelry and plowshares and all sorts of other things.”
Nasira shook her head. “Not anymore, I'm afraid.”
They trekked west. Mist gathered on their faces and eyelids. It was warmer here than Nalavac. Despite being farther north, the air was heavier this close to the water. Argus expected more encounters with Leithish forces, but the countryside was empty.
“It only took a few hundred to bring down the capital,” he said. “I can only imagine what's happening in the smaller towns.”
Siggi shrugged. “No one can say when a madman's at the helm.
Argus prayed this was only a one-time thing, a show of force. But he suspected the reality was darker. Many a Leithish king had dreamed of uniting the two kingdoms that shared this island. Looks like Silas started early…
With their boat gone, the Legion had lost most of their provisions. They rationed what was left carefully, refilling their waterskins at every stream. Nasira voiced concerns about running out. But Argus knew this land well. They could fish along the coastline, hunt rabbit and deer and the other creatures who roamed in these woods.
He was more worried about the Riven Mountains—and what he'd find there.
Night fell, and they slept in a cave they found near the coast. The Legion repeated the routine the next night, except this time there weren't any caves and they slept on the rocky beach. Finally, at the end of another miserable day where the drizzle never let up, the Riven Mountains poked through the mist.
“Is that really them?” Nasira said. “Or are my eyes playing tricks on me?”
Argus nodded. “That's them.” He turned to Brenn, and finally did something he'd put off as long as he could. “Better have my sword back.”
* * *
The Riven Mountains weren't as steep as some of the other ranges, but they were slippery.
Argus lost count of how many times they stumbled. Whenever you finally felt confident in your footing, another mossy patch would derail you. That was okay in the foothills—painful, but not life-threatening—but once they climbed high enough it would mean certain death.
He led the way up rocky switchbacks, winding above the mountain pass. At first the others complained. Why weren't they taking the pass? But the pass was gentle enough for Leithish forces, flatlanders, to traverse. The switchbacks belonged to the Vogaths, the tribe who lived among the frosty peaks.
Time had only sharpened Argus's memory of this place. The switchbacks belonged to him, too. He led the Legion into paths so narrow they had to climb in single file. Untrained eyes couldn't even see these little routes through the mountains, much less comprehend traveling them.
Argus used to do them barefoot.
Nothing except sword fighting cleared his mind like climbing a mountain. It demanded all of his focus, and swept away everything else like a rising tide. They climbed until his friends were doubled over and panting, dizzy in the thin air.
The Legion made camp in the hollow of a hill to protect themselves from the wind. After that Argus went out and killed some rabbits and squirrels for supper. He knew their habits, their tracks and their holes.
He knew everything about the Riven Mountains…
Except how the people who lived there would react when they found him.
Nasira skinned the catch while he used his magic to spark a fire. They spoke little. Even Siggi was quiet. His eyes darted around their camp, waiting for Vogaths.
When supper was over Argus volunteered to keep watch while the others slept. Everyone was too tired to argue with him. And so he sat and looked over the mountain edge. The breeze was cold but the fire was warm, and the stars flickered so close he yearned to reach out and pluck one out of the sky. He watched them in their nightly display, picking out constellations he'd learned from the Vogaths.
Down below, kingdoms rose and fell. But up here nothing changed. Just rocks and open sky. There was comfort in that.
But not for long.
Unable to wait any longer, Argus got up and stretched his legs. His friends slept soundly by the fire.
I'll only be away for a moment. They won't even notice.
Argus climbed higher, cutting across a switchback until they were out of sight. A few minutes later he scrambled down the side of one of the lower peaks, the one the Vogaths called Kirvu. He was panting and swearing by the end of it. Cuts covered his hands from the tree roots he'd
used as anchors on the descent. Yet in the end it was worth it.
It always was.
Argus edged into a hollow surrounded by higher peaks. Marmots scurried away, eyes flitting through the low grass. That grass was hardly higher than his thumbs right now, but indisputable evidence of spring.
Up ahead in that hidden alpine meadow, moonlight rippled across boiling water. Argus sighed and reminded himself he wasn't there to bathe. The steam coming off that water was more seductive than the priciest courtesans in Azmar. It was always this way, ever since he'd seen the secret spring for the first time.
There were others scattered through the Riven, though this one was the largest and most popular.
Was anyone there now?
Argus took a few steps closer, and then he had his answer.
Out of that water climbed six Vogaths. They were naked, their skin the same light brown as the boulders at the water's edge. Three men and three women they came. Moonlight glistened on wiry lean bodies, but found no home in those eyes darker than the night itself.
“Ashal pun mabi,” Argus said.
The Vogaths glanced at one another and hurried toward him. Argus laid down his sword, knelt, and waited for them to approach. He dared not lock eyes with them. His pale skin—the skin of an outsider—was threatening enough.
The Vogaths didn't stop until they had him surrounded. Water dripped off their bodies onto his back, though he stayed still. All he saw were shadows. Now their hands were full of jagged rocks.
“Polasi tum Vogathi?” one of the men said.
Argus told them he'd lived in the Riven Mountain once, and had years to learn their tongue. The Vogaths kept prodding. They asked how he knew about the spring. Most wanted to kill him for the intrusion. The spring was a sacred place, so special that no one had even given it a name because names, like people, were fallible and imprecise.
In Vogathi, Argus told them how they'd shown him the spring for the first time the night he became a man, after he survived the dracán.
One man called him a liar, and more than a few raised their makeshift stone weapons. Just before they came down and splattered his brains in the meadow, a woman tugged at his leg.
Fortune's Toll (The Legion of the Wind, Book Two) Page 19
