Winter's King

by Bryce O'Connor

  It had started to snow in earnest again. Looking up, Raz watched the thick tumble of flakes fall across the sky, further muting the already dim glow of the moon behind a ceiling of stormy clouds. He wondered, as he settled in for the night, if Talo waited among Her Stars now. Would his Lifegiver allow it? Would he, rather, already have been born anew to the world, as his faith decreed?

  Raz smiled to himself, chuckling softly, and wished silent luck to the parents of whatever newborn had been gifted with the bright, fiery soul of Talo Brahnt, High Priest of Cyurgi’ Di.

  XXVII

  “We are not a perfect people. We are perhaps considered as such by many, held in the highest regard by those who draw strength and inspiration from the Lifegiver and his Laorin, but we are not a perfect people. The faith is—like any congregation of different-minded individuals—rife with disagreement, dislike, and enmity. Laor knows that, despite all efforts to the contrary, such difficulties are an inevitable part of life. It is an unfortunate truth, but truth nonetheless: we are not a perfect people.”

  —ERET TA’HIR, HIGH PRIEST OF CYURGI’ DI

  REYN HARTLET watched in silent, seething anger as the pale glow of fire, muffled and discolored white by the falling snow, extinguished in a wink far below. As it did there was a rustle of shifting cloth beside him, and Cullen Brern got to his feet at his right, standing up from where he’d been crouched along the edge of the path, peering down the twisting, turning stairs.

  Without a word, he motioned for the advance.

  As one Reyn and ten other bodies straightened themselves up and fell in behind the master-at-arms, moving as quietly as they could. Ordinarily they would have cleared the way with fire and heat as they descended, but Brern had given the order that they would handle the stairs without such magic for the time being, in case a suspicious lack of snow unnerved possible envoys as they resumed their climb the following morning. That was the official reason, at least.

  Reyn thought it more likely Brern wanted to save all the strength they could, in case the night culminated in a fight.

  The wind was godsend, for once, the storm masking the sound of their feet and staffs crunching through ice and against stone as they took the steps in a careful line, one after the other. Reyn could barely hear his own footfalls, and very much doubted whatever waited for them below would make out their coming. Brern had mercifully allowed for the summoning of three small orbs of light, empty globes of white that floated through the group. It was barely enough to see by, the glow just enough to illuminate the path beneath their feet, but they made do. Any less would have made the descent precarious, and any more would probably have been visible from where the Kayle’s men had settled in for the night, in the alcove far below.

  It was a good problem to have. Focusing on where he had to place his feet forced Reyn to focus on something other than what he wanted to do to the men they were cautiously stealing down upon.

  For a quarter-hour they descended, slowly winding their way along, back and forth across the mountainside. More than once one of them slipped and gasped involuntarily, and Brern would signal an immediate halt, peering down through the dark and snow, listening for shouts and watching for the flare of light that would have meant they’d been found out. Reyn found it odd that the fire had been extinguished in the first place, leaving the Kayle’s men to the bitter cold of the altitude and night, but he brushed the thought away. As much as he hated to admit it, the tribes were more accustomed to nature’s cruelty than he or any other Laorin could ever hope to be. Perhaps they’d simply chosen to suffer the assault of the freeze rather than risk their fire being seen from above after darkness fell.

  Too late for that.

  Eventually the group settled in, just a single turn above the alcove in which Reyn knew the mountain men had taken shelter for the night. Brern motioned for everyone to crouch down, and they did so, inching to the edge of the steps to peer down as the master-at-arms extinguished their lights with a wave.

  It took a long time for Reyn to make out the scene below him through the dark and falling snow. When he finally managed it, though, he felt a rush of elation course unbidden through him.

  Two! he thought, a harsh smile cutting across his face suddenly. There’s only two of them!

  The Kayle, it seemed, had sent a pair to make his demands, whatever that may be. Reyn felt the anger he had struggled with for the last weeks flare up as he took them in, eyeing the large form of one of the men—apparently asleep on a bedroll almost directly below them—then the hulking, indistinct outline of the other—keeping watch at the entrance of the alcove. Off to one side, the silhouette of a massive stallion stood in repose along the wall. Reyn found the presence of the animal queer, as no mountain tribe to his knowledge had domesticated horses, but he again ignored the momentary nag of incertitude. Most likely the beast was bounty from the sacking of Metcaf or Harond, and was simply being used as a pack animal.

  Only two…

  He turned hungrily to Brern, praying the man was seeing the same opportunity he was. He’d hoped to see an excited gleam in the older man’s eye, the shine of anger and battle-lust Reyn himself felt trembling through his body now.

  The look on master-at-arms’ face, therefore, hit him like a fist to the teeth.

  The man looked relieved! Of all the possible emotions he could have been experiencing, Cullen Brern looked relieved, gazing down at the pair of men below as though he were grateful they were there. He was watching them, eyes flicking from one to the other, then to the stallion, then about the rest of the scene, as though searching for the possibility of a larger force hidden among the rocks and snow.

  When he found none, Brern sighed and smiled in grim content.

  Then he raised a hand, and formed the signal to turn back.

  Reyn felt his self-control chip, and as Brern and the others started to back away from the edge of the stairs he grabbed the arm of his superior’s robe.

  “What are you doing?” Reyn demanded in a furious whisper as the master-at-arms gazed down at him in surprise. “There are only two of them!”

  “Exactly,” Brern hissed back, tugging at his sleeve and looking annoyed. “Which means we fall back. If they’re envoys, they’ll show themselves tomorrow. If they’re not… well… the wards will let us see them coming a mile off regardless.”

  “But this is an opportunity!” Reyn insisted. “There are twelve of us! We could capture them! Make them tell us what they know about the Kayle!”

  The annoyance in Brern’s face grew suddenly cold.

  “Jofrey’s orders were clear, Reyn,” he growled, almost menacingly. “If they pose no immediate threat, we fall back.”

  “Jofrey’s not the High Priest!” Reyn said furiously. “Not really! If Talo were here he’d tell us—!”

  “He’d tell us to trust in the man he left in charge of the Citadel’s safety,” Brern spat. “Now enough. Get on your feet, Priest. This conversation is finished.”

  “But they could tell us everything!” Reyn’s voice pitched dangerously loud as he felt his fury spike at the incomprehensible cowardice of the man before him. “They could tell us the size of their forces! Where they’re camped, and what their plan is! They could tell us if they have prisoners! Where they are keeping Syr—!”

  “Syrah Brahnt is dead!” Brern practically howled, his own voice rising to dangerously high levels as he lost patience. “Get that through your damned head, boy! She’s gone, and your pitiful need for blood and vengeance is a stain on your robes. Elber was right. It was a mistake to bring you along. Now—for the last time, Hartlet—get on your feet, and get moving! We’ll have words about your idiocy later!”

  With that, Brern ripped his sleeve free of Reyn’s insolent grip and stood up. For a second he looked down on the younger Priest, his gaze disgusted, and Reyn felt his own anger start to boil over in truth, rising to surpass the older man’s fury.

  Then Brern turned away from him, spitting bitterly into the snow as he
climbed up through the quiet, shocked forms of the other ten Priests and Priestesses. Once he’d reached the head of the line again he repeated the signal for them to move out.

  For several long seconds Reyn watched the men and women file upward, not one turning to meet his eyes as they left. He felt betrayed, deserted. Not a one among them spoke up. Not a one among them voiced concerns for Syrah, or shared the wisdom in his words.

  Fools.

  They had climbed high, taking the turn in the stairs and managing the steps until they’d reached the twist above, when Brern stopped the group. The master-at-arms peered over the edge of the path, glowering eyes meeting Reyn’s. The old Priest motioned aggressively for him to fall into line, the furious promise in the gesture all too obvious.

  Reyn, though, didn’t move from his crouched place at the edge of the stairs. Instead, he turned his back on the men and women above him, looking down once more at the paired silhouettes of the mountain men below.

  “Reyn…” he heard Brern’s voice hiss warningly, weaving its way through the wind.

  Reyn looked back up. For a moment he met the man’s seething gaze. As though feeding off the emotion there, swelling under the pressure of his companions’ cowardice and ignorance, Reyn felt the rage inside erupt, bubbling over and consuming him in a boil of hot, devouring hatred.

  Without a word he showed Cullen Brern his back.

  Then he leapt off the stairs, taking the sloped, snowy earth at a run, aiming for the open top of the alcove as he heard the older man curse and shout after him.

  The crunching beat of booted feet over icy stone ripped Raz from distracted thoughts even before the attacker’s howling scream broke the stillness of the winter night. Instinct and practiced skill kicked in long before his mind caught up to his actions, and the gladius flew from its sheath with a deadly hiss of steel as Raz leapt to his feet in an instant, already running into the alcove, towards the descending noise.

  “Raz!”

  Carro had woken suddenly, undoubtedly spurred from his slumber by the breaking of the ward. He yelled in warning while struggling to get up, weighed down in the layered leather and iron he wasn’t accustomed to.

  It didn’t matter. Even in the limited light of the dim Moon Raz needed no assistance to make out the form of a man in the night, shapeless against the falling snow, leaping down on them from the outcroppings that surrounded their little shelter. There was the glint of metal in his hands, and Raz had just enough time to throw himself out of the way as the indistinct weapon slammed down into the stone exactly where Raz had been standing.

  “BASTARDS!” the man screamed shrilly, sounding almost hysterical. “WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS—!”

  Whatever the next question was, though, it was cut short as the stranger turned to find that Raz wasn’t where he’d expected him to be, off by the wall to the right. He froze, dumbstruck, staring at the spot Raz had vanished from.

  “Too slow,” Raz said in a hiss, launching himself upward as Gale whinnied in confused terror off to his left.

  Raz had moved with all speed, using old skills and the uneven surface of the wall at his back to get above and halfway behind the man. Now he was in the air, plummeting down even as the attacker whirled in shock. Raz had the briefest glimpse of a handsome, fair-skinned young face beneath a hooded robe before the gladius point fell in a spearing stab, driven true towards the crook of the man’s neck and left shoulder. Helplessly the stranger threw up a hand as though to defend himself from the falling steel, and Raz almost felt sorry for him.

  Felt sorry, that is, until the gladius slammed into something thick and invisible, like molten glass, nearly all the momentum drained from the blow by the unseen force. It was so surprising that Raz’s hand nearly slipped off the hilt, his body suddenly moving faster that the sword.

  Adjusting reflexively, without really understanding what had happened, Raz used the suddenly transfixed gladius like a handle, swinging himself forward and down. The man had saved himself from being skewered, winning another few seconds of life.

  Whatever he’d done, however, did nothing to stop Raz’s steel-clad shin from whipping around with wicked force, using the suspended blade as a pivot point and catching the man a tremendous blow to the side.

  There was the crack of breaking ribs, and even as he careened sideways the stranger gave a shocked gasp of pain. He tumbled and skidded across the slick stone and through the entrance of the alcove, the long weapon he’d been holding clattering to the ground. It ricocheted off the metal guard around Raz’s left leg, spinning away as he leapt once more to finish the job.

  Raz was practically in midair when his mind registered what the weapon had been. As he powered skyward, gladius poised for second attempt at a killing strike, the other details clicked into place. The white hood and the robes that accompanied them, making the man indistinct against the snow. The inexplicable barrier that had protected him like an invisible shield.

  The steel staff now rolling across the ground…

  “RAZ, NO!” Carro shouted out from behind him, trying to be heard over Gale’s continued screams. “HE’S A PRIEST!”

  Priest, Raz repeated to himself in silent understanding.

  He dragged the gladius away at the last moment, the steel sparking against stone as it slammed into the steps upon which the Priest who had attacked them had come to rest. Raz landed atop him, absorbing the force of the jump on two legs and his free hand. Rather than leap away, though, he flipped the gladius over and brought the blade up under the man’s chin.

  “You move, you die,” he snarled.

  The Priest made little reply, his eyes shut tight and his face screwed up in pain as he clutched at the side where Raz’s armored leg had connected. His breaths were coming in shallow, wheezing gasps, and Raz’s anger turned abruptly to uncertain concern. The Priest probably didn’t even notice the razored steel resting beneath the hook of a jawline.

  Shit.

  “Carro!” Raz yelled, standing up quickly and starting to haul the young man back through the slash in the wall. “He’s ruptured a lung! I don’t think he can breathe! Can you—?”

  Before Raz could finish the question, though, there was a series of thump thump thumps as a number of white-robed figures fell into the nook of their campsite, jumping down from the rocks above, following the path of the young Priest now being towed along in Raz’s one hand. About a half-dozen in all, Raz had time to register another five that had remained above, standing along the outcropping like sentries. Three of the ones who had jumped down surrounded Carro in a blink, the other three moving on Raz, steel staffs at the ready. Their aggressive press forced him to take a step back towards the sheer drop of the path’s edge some seven or eight feet behind him.

  “Reh’las ül-meyn!”

  A man had stepped forward to lead the trio, staff raised aggressively. He had a heavy frame, about the same size as Carro, but there was a firmness to this Priest’s body and posture that lacked in the healer, obvious even beneath the billowing edges of his white robes. He was stout and muscular, and held his staff in a way that told Raz that he very, very much knew how to use it.

  “Stop!” Carro was trying to yell, waving his arms about in panic as the three robed figures drove him back against the wall. “Wait! You don’t underst—urk!”

  Carro’s voice was cut short as he was shoved back into the stone, a steel staff pressed against his throat to silence him.

  “REH’LAS ÜL-MEYN!” the large Priest at the head of the group bellowed, repeating the command as he advanced on Raz, flanked on either side by comrades in identical stances, one male and one female.

  “I didn’t understand it the first time, so I very much doubt it will come to me when repeated at a louder volume!” Raz growled back, rapidly losing his patience.

  The Priest froze, looking suddenly hesitant.

  “You speak the Common Tongue?” he demanded, sounding confused. “Both of you? What manner of tribesman doesn’t speak the mountain
speech?”

  “I speak the Common Tongue because I’m not a fucking tribesman!” Raz roared, losing all self-restraint. “Carro and I were on the way to help you shits when this asswipe—” he swung his sword down to indicate the wheezing Priest he still held in his left hand “—decided to attack us in our sleep and—!”

  Raz instantly realized the mistake he’d made. The sudden movement of the gladius towards the injured man at his side was the spark, igniting the tension of the scene. Even as the eyes of the large Priest in the middle grew wide in realization at Raz’s words, the Priestess to his right reacted in panic. She yelled in alarm and, in a jerked, reflexive motion, punched out at Raz with a gloved palm.

  It was a spell that Raz had never actually seen, but understood instinctively. As the air before him rippled, rent apart by some terrible, invisible force, Raz had just enough time to hurl his gladius and the injured Priest to either side of him. The concussion hit him just as he fell on all fours, digging claws and steel into stone, seeking desperately for a lip or crack. It overwhelmed him with a crushing, suffocating weight, and his legs flexed and strained, struggling to keep his body earthbound and prevent him from being hurled over the ledge into the void of the Moonlit mountain cliffs. Hind claws scraped against ice and metal, screeched against stone as he was forced back, foot-by-foot. His sunset wings flared out to their extent, tensing on either side of him as though instinctively trying to slow his perilous horizontal slide towards the edge. His hood was thrown back off his head and face as though by some hurtling wind, and his neck crest rose as Raz roared under the strain of the effort, feeling his back foot slip off stone and into nothingness.