Outside, the darkness had been banished by the persistent light of the camp-ward, pinkish-red like a glass bowl inverted atop them. The mother moon shone faintly through it, the stars invisible. She imagined shattering it with a punch and watching the shards fall down like rain.
Waiting attendants and officers looked over, then away from her, returning to casual stances. A few haelhene stood among them like statues, but no airahene; the few who had joined them were in Bahlaer, assisting the assault. That burgundy one, Seimaranth, had promised more aid from its kin, but so far very little had manifested.
Beyond their cluster lay the vastness of the assembly yard, filled now by tents and patrolled by controllers with hounds. Ahead and to the east and northeast were the male refugees and the remaining male slaves, all mixed together. The female refugees were in tents further south, alongside the War Gate, while the female slaves were still in their barracks.
That little separation didn't make sense to her, except that perhaps there were only so many slave-women barracks. It certainly wasn't that one group provided sex while the other didn't, because she'd seen soldiers go off among the female refugees with that look in their eyes too. When she'd visited to ask the slave-women, though, they'd just stared at her like she was a bog viper that had learned to talk.
Dealing with humans was difficult.
Still, the slave-women had let her into their territory without fuss, even if they'd kept a wary distance. They'd been interesting to watch too, with their chores and their children and the faint weird traces of unfamiliar magic that marked their territory. Perhaps they would have some coherent answer for her this time—or some insight into Rackmar and the rest of this silly Imperial business. Visiting them was certainly more interesting than lingering at the fringes of Master Caernahon's work, or being rebuffed by soldiers and mages.
So she turned that way—west from the infirmary—and headed off at a brisk pace. It wasn't far to the women's quarters by the wiggly main street, but that led into the courtyard where all the men gathered to get drunk with the women on their laps, and she disliked crossing it. She could do without punching any uninvolved idiots right now. Instead, she hooked north as soon as possible, to loop around the ranks of barracks and come in from the side.
As the yard receded behind her, the other buildings closed in tight. Though the ward-light had eradicated most shadows, the place was still a warren, the alleys cluttered with rain barrels and scrap wood, the barracks barely labeled. Splinters snagged at her borrowed dress, aggravating her; cold, stinking mud squelched underfoot, yet another reason why flesh-people were disgusting.
She was just coming around the back of the first bunkhouse when she caught the sound of a hushed voice. She halted and caught another voice answering it, just as soft.
Intrigued, she cast a veil across herself and moved closer.
*****
“Apparently they're going to Bahlaer,” murmured Sergeant Gale. “Some turncoat company giving them enough trouble that they have to send in the wraiths and those...those monster-things.”
Sanava frowned as she glimpsed the whites around Gale's eyes. She hadn't gone seeking trouble by the mages' area, but her pet military policeman had, and he'd brought back worse and worse reports on what was coming out through the portals. She couldn't tell if he was shaken just because of the horrors he'd seen, or if his conditioning was reacting as well. Rumor said all the mentalists were gone, all the mindwork on soldiers and slaves alike starting to wash out, but she didn't yet trust it was true.
“All them?” she prompted, considering an opportunistic uprising. With the new refugees, they had a fair-sized force, but even without mentalists around, there were still the other mages, wraiths and abominations. If those left for Bahlaer...
Gale shook his dark-dyed head. “Very few. Those ahergriin things and some specialists but no common troops, and only some of the wraiths.”
“Still a chance,” said Sanava. “Monsters gone—get good support and we got the camp.”
“No, too dangerous. We can't turn the mages to our side, so even with some rebel soldiers and thousands of slaves and refugees, they'll chew right through us. Unless your friend Vesha is back from his spirit-walk...?”
She grimaced. “Still gone. Not dead yet, but not better neither. Think maybe wards trap him somehow, cut him off from spirit and flesh both. No shaman here, ken't tell fer sure.”
“Well, nothing we can do about that, then. We've no allies beyond the camp either. I hate to say it, but we might have to just—“
She yanked him in by the uniform collar and snarled up close. “Not rollin' over. This my life, all us women's life, and if we sit back, we gonna die a little each day 'til we done. We gotta stab where we find an openin', and if yeh en't gonna help, yeh can get stabbed wi' the rest.”
He didn't fight her grip—smart, since she meant what she'd said—but leaned as far away as she'd let him, sharp features drawn tight. “Sanava,” he said slowly, “this isn't the way to ask for help. I'm doing my best, but I have to think about my men too. If it's a choice between some of us dying or all of us dying...”
“We not yeh sacrifice. Yeh split from us, yeh bleed. Understand?”
“Yes, but—“
“It seems to me,” said a strange voice, a woman's, “that what you need is an arcane advisor. How else will you know how to deal with the mages and wraiths?”
Sanava released Gale and drew her blades in one motion, their sleek guard-less shapes sliding through the slits in her dress with ease. She lashed in the direction of the voice, but cut nothing—saw nothing, only empty air and a bare patch of the street beyond.
“See?” said the voice. “Clearly you need some assistance.”
“Kem out,” she hissed, dark eyes flicking back and forth wildly. There was nothing to see, not even a shimmer in the air, and yet when she concentrated she thought she felt a presence. Too muted to pinpoint, just there.
The voice chuckled, low yet somehow sharp. “I like you. You're fiery. Not the boy, though. Pike off, boy.”
“Boy...?” Gale echoed. Sanava pushed him with her knuckles, not releasing her blade. He gave her a surprised look, then backed away slowly, hands up.
“Keep going,” said the voice. “Perhaps we'll call for you later.”
Sanava felt him glance at her, but didn't return it. She still sought the intruder, tense with anger yet faintly—ever so faintly—intrigued. After a moment, she heard him scuff into a quick walk, which trailed off around the corner.
“What yeh want?” she muttered at nothing, shifting her back toward the wall.
A pace away, the air suddenly peeled apart, revealing a tall dark woman with startling teal eyes. Her emerald dress didn't quite fit, too short at the sleeves and the hem, but it was embroidered thickly with metallic thread—a mage-robe. Across her chest ran the strap for a makeshift sheath, holding a long green crystal splinter like a hilt-less sword. One of her hands rested on it, gloved strangely in silver.
Sanava had seen her before, lurking at the edge of the women's section and asking weird questions, but had never interacted with her. Now, tilting her head like some great bird of prey, the woman said, “I'm bored, and this army business is annoying me. You look interesting. Where are you from?”
Sanava curled her lip. “Nowhere. What yeh want?”
“That depends on what you want.”
“Eh?”
The woman grinned slowly, crookedly, like she wasn't quite sure how to do it. “You don't like the army, right? Don't like the monsters or that pig Rackmar?”
Sanava just narrowed her eyes. The robe-fabric was thick but she saw no sign of armor underneath. If she could stab past the inevitable wards before this interloper cast something on her...
“You want to save all your friends? Hoi, are you even listening?”
“Spit yeh offer or shove it,” Sanava growled.
The woman laughed, a surprisingly bright sound, then planted her fists on her hi
ps and stared down her nose at Sanava. She was a good foot taller, putting Sanava's head level with her chest. “Like I said, I'm bored and feeling destructive. What do you need to bring this place down?”
If it was a trap, she was already caught, so what did caution matter? “Kill the mages, kill the wraiths,” she answered. “Kill the monsters and all high officers.”
The woman's black brows arched. “Well, you're certainly ambitious. I can't do all that, sorry. Won't even touch the wraiths. Smaller havoc, though... Do you need anything lit on fire? Or if you just want to get out, I can make a portal.”
“Jes' like that?”
“I'm a sorceress, aren't I? It's what we do.”
For a long moment, Sanava stared at the woman. A portal would mean escaping this ever-more-locked-down camp—perhaps even returning home. To the foothills, to the shading trees, the caves and rivers and teeming wildlife, the spirits and spiritists, her mate and children.
She could barely remember their faces. It had been too long. Her people moved on quickly because they had to; by now, her mate would have taken new partners, would be raising her children with them. When she returned...
When she returned, it had to be in victory, carrying her enemies' severed heads and covered in strings of their ears. It wasn't enough to just escape. She had to triumph—to give these captive years a meaning.
“Not yet,” she growled. “If yeh ken't gimme the wraiths, I want Rackmar.”
The woman smirked and shook her head. “I'd love to, but he's running off to that city and I'm barred from following. We can ruin his day, though. What does he love most around here?”
Her gaze flickered automatically toward the command post, far out of sight beyond barracks and warehouses. Vesha's face swam up from her memory, tear-streaked, tormented—crying to her about the little girl he'd been forced to harm, the prisoner on the hill.
But she wasn't here to take up his banner or soothe his guilty soul, and stealing a child from Rackmar wasn't good enough. It was an insult, not an injury. If they wanted to harm him...
“The Prince,” she remembered. “Crown Prince, locked up here. Used t' run this army, lots still loyal t'him. Held by magic though. Nothin' we ken do ourselves.”
Eyes hooding, the woman seemed to consider this. “The army will follow him against Rackmar?”
“More'n they'll follow Gale. More'n we could move on our own.” The thought gripped her like a fist, and she felt her heart rise for the first time in ages. It didn't matter who this woman was or why she hated Rackmar—didn't even matter if she planned to doublecross them in the act. Finally, blessedly, something was happening: a tectonic shift in the possible futures.
“Well then,” said the woman, that smirk curving her lips like a snake stretching out in the sun. “Once Rackmar has gone, you will show me to this Prince.”
*****
Sarovy heard the conflict before he saw it, the roars of monstrosities and his own ruengriin mingling in cacophony. Firelight flickered around the corner—no, mage-light, the colors shifting with each flare and detonation. Mind clamped hard against the clamor of his fellow victims' voices, Sarovy stepped out into the street and beheld the struggle.
The garrison-house stood at the end of the road, its front facing the river and its western side taking up half of this cross-street. A spike-topped wall separated it from the alleys and all nearby buildings, but a huge gap had been smashed through the side of it, spilling stone into the street for yards.
From that gap and from the main road flowed an endless tide of what must have been ahergriin, no two alike. Bloated ogrish frames mixed with humans both big and small, and with beasts as well—things that had once been bears, wolves, great lizards and snakes, draft-hogs, and hairy things he couldn't name. Nor were any whole, their bodies an erratic patchwork of limbs and heads, hands, mouths, writhing exposed guts.
Ranged against them, even the ruengriin looked small, their Shadow-given shields an insufficient defense. They were using their bodies instead, helmed heads bowed and gauntleted fists beating at the hideous tide as the human infantry behind them stabbed past with short pikes and swords.
In the midst of the crowd, the Gejaran mage Regna stood on the shoulders of a metallic construct, a series of brilliant interlocked energy-wheels turning at her back. Azure threads flowed from them to dozens of objects that glinted above the mob, lashing down at the massed monstrosities like a rain of knives before rising to repeat it. More flew en masse at two robed figures who floated above the wall, their wards rebounding the blades as they spun their own hostile spells.
At a glance, Sarovy knew they were holding on, but barely. The monstrosities pressed endlessly toward the front ranks, not smart enough to flank them—a blessing since there weren't enough ruengriin to cover the perimeter. Step by step, his men were withdrawing toward a nearby alley, too tight to fight in but which would cut off the flow of foes and let them escape through the shadows. Their discipline had held for this long, but by the flare of mage-light he saw blood on many a face and a scatter of weapons on the brick pavings, dropped by deserters.
Corpses and pieces thereof littered the ground as well, trampled beneath the press. Most of the dead were unarmored, and thus ahergriin—a small relief, for the rest of them fought on with blind ferocity undaunted by damage.
The flick of crossbow bolts drew his gaze to a rooftop, to the black-clad shapes there. Shadow agents, reloading. Whether their assault had done any good, he couldn't tell; quarrels stuck out of a few deformed faces but didn't seem to trouble them.
His hand fell to his hip again, to the broken heirloom sword. Useless. Thinking to catch up one of the discarded blades, he started forward.
A gleam caught his eye. A light, behind him.
He dove aside barely in time to avoid an energy-bolt, which flew on to impact among the ranks of men and monsters. Another struck the ground at his feet, peppering him with chips of stone. He lurched up just to drop to a knee beneath another bright shot; raising his head, he saw two white-clad wraiths bracketing a new portal, the image within it clearing to show another ahergriin horde.
Pike's sake, he thought, then triggered the earhook. It took an inordinate amount of time to activate, as if his mind was as sluggish as his flesh, and when he spoke, it was with effort. “Vrallek, Arlin, more at your left flank. Linciard, Sengith, we need reinforcements—and Trifolders. Now.”
'Sir!' came the response, but the first ahergriin were already barging through. Still half a block from his men, Sarovy had no cover but the alley he'd stumbled from, and no weapon near enough to grab.
The wraiths raised their gloved hands again, and he cursed and lurched back the way he'd come. He couldn't hold his ground against the ahergriin, but if he distracted even a few, it would help his men. Perhaps he could get up on the roof…
A mage-bolt slammed into the corner of the building he'd ducked behind, taking out a torso-sized chunk of bricks. He staggered a few steps further, then pulled the half-sword from its sheath and shook the other half out into his off-hand. There was enough blade still attached to the hilt-side to do some damage, and It didn't hurt him to clench his hand around the shard that held the tip. They wouldn't serve for a proper fight, but in close quarters, they would do.
Despite the situation, they comforted him. The old familiarity of the eagle-headed pommel and grip, the lingering pain of the blade's breaking, the knowledge that he would be the last Sarovy to wield it… His distant family would carry on without it, without him, and perhaps that was for the best.
Bracing himself, he listened as the lumbering steps came close, arrived…
Passed.
First one, then another, then a steady stream of ahergriin lurched and shuffled and staggered by, paying him no heed. He stared at the dismal wall of flesh, the spasming limbs and snapping maws, then moved closer, cautiously at first but with increasing boldness. Nothing turned to assault him, nor even hesitated—not when he came to the alley mouth, not when h
e lashed out and cut one. They just ignored him.
He stared toward where his men had bottled themselves up, the ruengriin soldiers trying desperately to cover the others. It made sense suddenly why their formation still stood against the horde: the ahergriin must not attack abominations. Ruengriin who should have been dragged down and torn to shreds were instead just clubbed incidentally by grasping limbs and bulled-into by malformed bodies as the ahergriin struggled to reach human prey.
They'll rush the reinforcements, he thought with a grimace. No ruengriin there. The Trifolders can hold them back, perhaps, but how well? And if these things ignore arrows, Sengith's archers will be disadvantaged.
Maybe—the bridges? Draw them onto the bridges then drop them into the river?
Could work. Need to handle those piking wraiths though. Need the metal elementals.
“Linciard. New plan,” he said, tactics falling into place as he watched the monsters surge past.
*****
Shrouded in eiyets, Ardent listened to the captain's voice on the earhook, the connection made faint and muzzy by Izelina's less-than-suitable mind-type. Still, it was clear enough for her to follow the plan and identify the problems.
“I can get Trifold salve for the archers and horses for Linciard's crew," she said. "Not all of them—maybe six, seven—so the rest should stay here. But we were cut off from Lark and the goblins in the new crush. They're the only ones who can take down the bridges easily, and she's the only one with enough command of the language to explain it. If she's dead—“
'She's not,' Izelina's mind-voice cut in. It sounded much more adult than her real one, almost sultry. 'I can still feel her in the gestalt.'
“Kalla drosh, girl, tell us these things immediately.” She wasn't angry, the curse more of relief; they were all frazzled and overextended, not just Zeli. There was too much going on, over too wide an area, for anyone to have a clear view of it.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 83
