Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  from the sermons of Konor Belenzo

  Thirty-Two

  His Imperial Majesty Prince Kai Saran of the Hadari Empire rode into Charren Gorge an hour after dawn. Owl-banners of green silk heralded his coming. A bodyguard of cataphracts cantered at his back. Marching songs melded with the clatter of hooves; barked orders with the groaning of oxen.

  Melanna watched from a rocky spire, lost in memories of yesterday. Her father’s long absences on campaign against Thrakkians, Tressians and Ithna’jîm. The embraces of his eventual return. The roughness of scale armour dulled by the bear-pelt cloak. She’d always longed for his arms to enfold her. It meant another day passed without a downcast messenger’s arrival. Without empty homilies and the silver ring that meant her father had fallen in battle.

  Suppressing a shiver that had nothing to do with the stiff breeze, Melanna drew her cloak tight, and went down to greet him.

  The column halted. In its way, the line of horsemen was no less terrifying than the shield wall of the day before. Melanna drew on that memory, let the echo of victory quicken her courage. Her boots struck purposeful rhythm on the stones. Awe billowed around her as she advanced. The Immortals of her father’s guard regarded her with uncertain – almost fearful – eyes. A backward glance revealed why.

  Melanna was no longer alone. Lunassera emerged from among the rocks, ghostlike and silent. Melanna felt a comforting hand brush her shoulder, and knew Sera stood at their forefront.

  “Father.”

  She offered a warrior’s bow in place of a curtsey. When she straightened, it was into the full force of a disapproving gaze. Eyes glowered beneath a furrowed brow. The laughter lines about his mouth set in stern appraisal.

  “You look like my daughter,” he said. “You even sound like her. But my daughter would never shame me as you have.”

  Melanna’s cheek twitched in irritation. If her father meant that – if he truly believed those words – then he’d paid little attention these past few years.

  “I won this victory for you, my prince,” she said instead. “As is a firstborn’s duty.”

  “As is the duty of a firstborn son.”

  Kos Devren stirred at her father’s side. Bony fingers tugged thoughtfully at a thin beard. “And I doubt if this victory was truly yours.”

  Melanna’s father shot him a warning glance. Her spirits lifted. At least he believed her. Or at least was not ready to countenance criticism. Hal Drannic, seated to her father’s left, spoke no word. His face was an impassive mask.

  “Whatever the truth,” rumbled Melanna’s father, “you had no place here. You have no business wearing that armour, nor bearing that sword. You will surrender it to me.”

  She gripped the hilt. Surrender the goddess-given sword? “I will do no such thing.”

  A twitch of the reins, and her father trotted closer. He leaned low in the saddle. Hurt welling in his eyes, he spoke too softly for anyone else to hear.

  “Essavim, if you hold any love for me in your heart, end this game.” He straightened, his voice raised to proclamation. “Give me the sword.”

  Melanna let her hand fall from the hilt. “It is not mine to give. It is of the goddess. As my purpose is of the goddess.”

  Devren snorted. “Are we supposed to be impressed? We’re not impressionable handmaidens.”

  Melanna ripped the sword from its scabbard and held it aloft. White flame blazed free. Gasps broke out among the Immortals’ ranks. Some incredulous, most undercut with fear.

  “Protect the prince!”

  Drannic, curved swords already in hand, spurred between would-be emperor and wayward daughter. Immortals broke ranks to join him, their own blades scraping free.

  Sera darted past Melanna’s shoulder. A silver shard-spear glinted to life in her hands. She was not alone. Lunassera formed a wall of braced spears between Melanna and her father’s escort.

  “I am not deluded!” Melanna shouted. “I am not a liar! I am Ashanal. I am chosen. I fight for my father, whether he accepts it or not. And I will bring him victory in the goddess’s name!”

  She sheathed the sword. Alone of his escort, her father showed no fear – and for a wonder, no disappointment.

  Melanna set a hand on Sera’s shoulder and nodded. The lunassera withdrew. Melanna stood alone before the drawn swords of her father’s escort. The last of her fear had gone. Reluctance was but a memory. The path ahead was clear as moonlight on open water.

  Kneeling, she unlooped her sword belt and held it extended. “If you believe yourself worthier of this sword than I, then take it, Father. But it will serve you no better.”

  Moments creaked past. Melanna fought the tremor in her arms and the urge to break eye contact with her father. Only two roads led away from this point, and the route not taken would remain for ever closed. Drannic leaned back in his saddle. His lips moved silently at his master’s ear.

  Melanna’s father nodded. “I will speak with my daughter. Alone.”

  Immortals sheathed their swords and withdrew. Devren went with them, his eyes hooded and unfriendly. Drannic went last of all. Before he turned, his left eyelid fluttered in a surreptitious wink. The lunassera had already bled away into the rocks. For better or for worse, Melanna and her father were alone. Or as alone as could be with wary eyes watching from either end of the roadway.

  Melanna’s father remained silent and motionless. She gritted her teeth and kept the sword level, determined not to cede even so petty a victory. At last, he swung down from the saddle. His fingers brushed the scabbard’s leather.

  “Keep it.”

  “Thank you, my prince.” Stifling a sigh of relief, Melanna eased the sword to the ground. “May I stand?”

  “Always. But I remain furious with you.” His hand drew her upright. She sought truth in his expression, to no avail. Her father seldom showed his feelings unless he wished to. “Drannic thinks I should indulge you. Devren believes I should send you home.”

  “And how would you do that?” asked Melanna sourly. “I surely cannot be trusted among your soldiers . . .”

  “. . . and you can be trusted around the lunassera even less, I know.” He stared out across the valley. “Why do they follow you?”

  “Because I am Ashanal.” It didn’t matter how much she used it, still the title felt unearned.

  “And is the daughter of the goddess still the daughter of her father?” His tone hardened. “Or do you seek to supplant me? The lure of a crown burns brighter than the strongest love.”

  “Not brighter than mine,” she said, willing him to believe. “I have never wanted anything more than to be your heir, as a son would be your heir. That is the goddess’s wish also.”

  That, at least, was the truth. Or had been.

  He nodded slowly. “Then I can protect you no longer. But I will not humiliate you, as you have me. If it is your wish to fight, then so be it. Tradition has no sway over the Divine, nor those they choose as kin. I will remind my warchiefs.”

  Melanna shuddered with relief. Her shoulders straightened as her father’s words lifted the burdens on her soul. She stepped forward to accept the coming embrace. “Thank you.”

  The embrace never came. Instead, her father hauled himself back into the saddle. “Thank me by surviving. I’d rather the embarrassment of a daughter who thinks herself a son, than the sorrow of her death.”

  He rode away, leaving Melanna with his acceptance renewed, but robbed of something harder to define.

  “This isn’t what we agreed,” said Crovan.

  Jesver Merrik halted on the edge of Maiden’s Hollow. As ever, he looked the weather-worn poacher more than he did the Terror of Kellin Valley. His fifty or so companions were no better, swathed in ragged leather and torn wool-cloth. But their weapons were sharp. They’d spent the better part of the morning honing the blades.

  Merrik shrugged, dislodging his haversack. “A week back, I agreed to fight. Then I agreed not to. Now I’m back to where I started.”

  Cr
ovan rubbed his forehead, searching for the words to carry the day.

  “The Hadari bring us freedom. Do you want to live beneath the Council’s boot the rest of your life?”

  He snorted. “I’ve never lived under the Council’s boot. And I’ll sure as Queen’s Ashes not live under shadowthorn rule. Should’ve said so when the duke was here. I’d rather fight for my freedom than hope for it.”

  Crovan didn’t have to ask what had spurred Merrik’s change of heart. New arrivals at Maiden’s Hollow had spoken of nothing else.

  “The Phoenix is a myth,” he said. “Nothing more.”

  Merrik ambled closer, his friendly tone laced with a hint of danger.

  “See? That’s why you’ll never belong here, northwealder. You can talk like us. You can pretend to share our cause. You can even mucky your blade, when called to it. But you’re still an outlander.”

  The words stung after everything he’d done for the Southshires. The career he’d thrown away. The bridges he’d burned. The disinheritance from a family who sought to hide roots buried deep in Eskavord. He felt something cold beneath his palm. The pommel of his old army sword. Crovan didn’t recall putting his hand there. Come to that, he hadn’t worn the blade since gathering the Vagabond Council. So much easier to preach non-involvement without a weapon slapping your thigh. Why had he belted the thing on that morning?

  Maybe it was for the best. Merrik was close. He suspected nothing. A show of strength, inked in blood for the rest of the Vagabond Council to see. They’d fall into line. Some might even thank him. Crovan blinked the thought away, appalled. That wasn’t who he was.

  “Calenne Trelan is a child. She’ll get you all killed.”

  “Then we’ll see our families again, won’t we?” said Merrik. “When you stop running long enough for the Raven to take you, seek me out in Otherworld. You can tell me all about how much better you lived your life while I was gone.”

  Merrik stomped away up the hill, his followers falling into step alongside.

  “I’m not a coward,” Crovan muttered. The words were not the balm to his stinging pride he’d hoped. “I’m not.”

  “Let him go.” Vorn folded his arms and sank against a tree. “Merrik has what? Fifty blades? Seventy? Not enough to change anything.”

  “But it’s not just seventy blades, is it?” Crovan snapped. “The twins left last night. Korsov at first light. I’m losing them.”

  “Not for long,” said Vorn. “I hear our Hadari friends’ll be at Eskavord come morning. Wind’s blowing for battle.”

  In his mind’s eye, Crovan saw the lowland approaches to Eskavord. Good, firm ground enfolded by the spreading eaves of Davenwood.

  “Akadra won’t let them get that far. He can’t.”

  “Like I said, they’ll not be gone long. First clash of shields and they’ll come running back, begging for protection. What does Akadra have? A thousand blades?”

  “More. If what I’m hearing is true, half of Eskavord’s villages turned out for him. Others too.”

  Vorn snorted. “Old men who’ve not touched a sword in fifteen years? Unblooded youths? Calenne Trelan had better be the Phoenix of legend if she wants to stomp the Hadari with that.”

  “There’s another thousand in Kreska.”

  “Fine, call it three thousand. Call it four, if you like. You heard Kerril’s report. The Hadari have at least six.”

  Crovan nodded. Numbers weren’t everything, but they helped. Between his own wolf’s-heads and those loyal to Gavamor and Silda Drenn, he’d nearly a thousand blades of his own. Enough to narrow the gap. Maybe even bring the victory the Southshires needed.

  Struck by sudden weariness, he glanced away through the trees. No matter Vorn’s words, he felt an abiding loss. No, he felt lost. More than he had since that night after his patrol had been ambushed by south-wealders, when he’d been trapped in Skazit Maze, with only his thoughts and a broken leg for company.

  He should have died with his patrol that night. Would have done, if only the ground hadn’t swallowed him up into the root-breached tunnels beneath Davenwood. Call it fever, call it enlightenment, but he’d experienced revelation in the darkness. He realised he’d more sympathy for his estranged southwealder kin than loyalty to his superiors. Rescue came at noon the next day, hours too late to change the course of Crovan’s deliberations. He deserted the army as soon as he’d healed, and never looked back. Not until now.

  “What if I’m wrong?”

  The question was a mistake. The words sounded foolish when spoken aloud.

  “You ain’t,” said Vorn. “Calenne Trelan’s not the Phoenix. She’s a frightened girl, cowering behind Akadra. Others want to gamble on her, more fool them.”

  Crovan wondered at the vehemence Vorn expressed for a woman he’d never met. He shrugged the thought away. After all, he was right. Drakos Crovan, the Wolf King, could save only the willing. If some allies perished to prove him right, then that was a price worth paying to save those who remained.

  Calenne awoke from rich, shadow-laced dreams into the stuffy, greyish light of Viktor’s tent. As she pulled on Katya’s old leathers, she peered blearily at the high-backed chair. Viktor had insisted it would serve him perfectly well as a bed. Judging by the stack of neatly folded blankets, it had not done so.

  She struck out for the open air. As she did, she spared a glance for her armour and cloak, but decided against them. The armour fitted well enough, but it was still a costume for a part she didn’t relish playing. It could wait.

  She emerged onto a hillside dotted with tents and smouldering campfires. She was surrounded by the king’s blue uniforms and the patchwork raiment of citizenry roused to the fight.

  To the north, the eaves of Davenwood – little more than shadows against darkness when Viktor had ended last night’s march – rippled in waves of brilliant green beneath the morning sun. And beyond that, smoke gathered against the clouds, a grim reminder of why she was there.

  The scale of it took her breath away. The crowds in Eskavord had been intimidating enough. The sight of the swelling army made her giddy – not least because so many of them were there because of her. Which meant a great many of them would die because of her. As humbling – as horrifying – as that thought was, it was somehow exciting. Was this how her mother had felt before Zanya?

  Belatedly, Calenne realised her slip. But there, amid the gathering ranks, it was hard not to feel kinship with the woman whose mantle she reluctantly wore.

  “Sleep well?” Even without his cloak, Viktor was a towering shadow in the glorious day.

  She nodded. “Better than I should. And you? I know you didn’t come back to the tent.”

  “I slept by the fire. I thought you’d appreciate the privacy.”

  Calenne laughed. Not at the kindness shown, for she knew the demands others might have made in Viktor’s position, but at the sombre, inevitable way in which he voiced it.

  “We’re to be married, Viktor. If you snore like a bull, better I learn that now.”

  He smiled, though she had the impression he did so to humour her, rather than out of mirth.

  “What is it?”

  He looped his arms behind his back. “Hadari outriders have been sighted west of Kreska. The bulk of their army won’t be far behind. I’d hoped to link up with Yanda’s forces before forcing battle. It seems we aren’t to be given that luxury.” He hesitated. “I think you should return to Eskavord.”

  “And you?”

  “I have a war to fight.”

  It wasn’t the first time Viktor had expressed that sentiment. It was the first time he’d done so with a note of . . . not defeatism . . . but certainly bitter concern.

  Calenne didn’t have to wonder why. She’d listened in as Viktor had discussed the night’s wayfarers’ reports. Even with the influx of south-wealders drawn to the Phoenix’s promise of freedom, they could scarce afford to be cut off from Yanda’s army.

  The invitation was obvious. Run away. Be safe. A
week prior, she’d have done so without hesitation. But so much had changed in that week. Strange how the further she tried to run from her mother’s legacy, the closer she felt to a woman she’d hated so long. Or perhaps it wasn’t Katya Trelan she felt closer to at all, but the man who’d haunted her nightmares for fifteen years. Either way, she couldn’t leave. Not even if it cost her life to remain.

  She folded her arms. “I’m staying. You’re not the only one with responsibility here.”

  A heartbeat flickered past. Viktor nodded. “As you wish.”

  Thirty-Three

  Grey robes shifted in the dark. Cold green eyes gleamed beneath ragged woollen hoods. In her haste to stand, Apara fell from the creaking chair. Her knees cracked against stone. Her breath fogged the air.

  “Where is he, cousin?”

  Apara couldn’t tell which of the three had spoken. The words came as a raw whisper, more like a crow’s croak than a voice. She’d only been in an elder cousin’s presence once before. When she’d been granted dominion over the chapel and its hidden trade. That had been one alone; stern, but kindly. As kin should be when a cousin had proved herself worthy. This had an altogether different feel. Cold. Angry.

  “In the . . . the . . . cellar,” she stuttered.

  “Show us.”

  A different voice. A woman’s. And not a request.

  Apara took the firestone lantern from its hook, shook it to life, and descended the stairs. The lantern helped a little, but not nearly enough. The elder cousins drank in the firestone’s glow as they had the moonlight from the windows. Still, enough remained to guide her through the maze of crates and barrels “liberated” from unwary merchants.

  At the centre of the room, Nikros stirred on a filthy bed. Blood crusted his bandaged stump and stained the sheets beneath.

  “Apara?” He stared up at her with bloodshot eyes. “What . . . ?”

  Shadows heaved. Apara’s hair danced in their wake. The elder cousins loomed over the bed, vaporous against the lantern’s light.

  “You have failed us, cousin.”