The timbre of his heart beat a rhythm to the songs of swords as he stepped into the dead-eyed Taken who drove and leaped at him. The blades met flesh and bone, severing the creature from shoulder to pelvis with the resistance of scything a stand of corn. Pitch blood painted him from chest to thighs, but the Latcu blades shook free of the splatter, pristine clean in a sweep to sever another’s leg, then a head.
The Colok roared around him and he wanted to match their raging screams, but the focus the Twins forced on him kept his lungs breathing steady and eyes clear. The whispering song changed and he ducked, spinning, a Twin twisting to send its blade through a Taken flying from behind, thrown by a Colok. Gore washed over his clothes, seeping down the neck of his cloak, but there was no sense of decorum now, no pandering to gentility and kindness, his focus was survival and butchery.
A Colok bellowed in agony and Solineus spun, watching as an ally fell dead with spikes of ice driven through his body. The Broldun lord priest strode toward the fray, ice sweeping from the sky to kill another Colok. The songs in Solineus’ head melded and swept into a different tune and he stalked toward the fat man whose eyes seeped snakes of Shadow. He slipped into a sprint, slashing three Taken from his path as he ran. If he couldn’t kill one lord priest, another would suffice.
Frigid cold besieged him, his lips and face frosting, the air so cold his lungs seized, but another energy surged through him, thawing his breath. An unintelligible scream ripped from his throat as he charged the Broldun.
The Twins deflected spears of ice, the world took on a fiery orange hue, and sweat beaded on his forehead. The Twins rose and slashed at the priest with his hands raised in prayer, severing them at the elbows. Black blood, bone, and flesh hit the ground, but tendrils of Shadow slithered from blackened flesh, reaching for Solineus’ neck.
The Twins followed through, sweeping the man’s head from his shoulders, and the body collapsed, but unlike Taken before him, this Shadow stood unfazed, and bitter cold struck a second time. The Twins crossed in front of him, parting streaks in the Shadow that glowed orange with the light of the world on fire. The Shadow froze and moments later dissipated into nothingness, a death so quiet it angered Solineus further.
The whispers warned him and he twisted, blades striking through a Taken, but two more crashed into him, driving him to the ground. They clawed and bit, defeated by his mail, and he smashed one’s head with a hilt, but another came for him. He thrust the tip of a Twin through an eye and rolled to the Broldun’s headless corpse and spun the man’s body onto him.
Taken feasted on the Broldun’s flesh but missed his own, and he lashed out with the Twins, severing an ankle and an arm before blazing sparks raged into their bodies.
Eliles’s voice penetrated the din of battle. “Run!”
Solineus rolled from beneath the lord priest’s body and scrambled to his feet as the world returned to its natural color. Tiny fires streaked the air, striking the enemy, burrowing into flesh and Shadow. Smoke rolled from the mouths and ears of the Taken, some fighting, others collapsing into heaps of smoldering meat.
He trotted after the group as they ran. Ivin limped, but everyone but Eliles was so covered in blood he had no idea of injuries. They’d lost three Colok, but were otherwise intact. When the party entered the gatehouse, Solineus stopped at the edge of the bailey, darts of fire lighting the sky. The stables were on fire, everything that could burn smoldered and smoked, but his job remained incomplete.
He turned to the tower, arms outstretched with the Twins in his hands. “Ulrikt! Come to me, you coward! Face me!” He waited, chest heaving, the whispers in his head singing a furious tune. “Ulrikt!” A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he spun nose-to-nose with Ivin.
“Don’t be a fool, let’s get out of here.”
Solineus seethed, licked his blood-caked lips, and nodded. He followed the other man through the gatehouse, knowing he’d failed and worrying after two young girls.
FIRES STILL DANCED in the smoke over Istinjoln as they untethered their horses. Ivin looked to Solineus. Blood and filth covered the man, and his lips quivered, his legs and arms vibrating with nervous energy. “You’re the craziest son of a bitch I ever met. Are you hurt?”
The man’s eyes flashed to him, and Ivin thought maybe a madness took him, but his voice was calm. “Bites and scratches, nothing worse than your own face, I reckon.”
Ivin wiped his cheek and gazed at the red of his own blood amid the black of the Taken. “Damned near forgot about that.”
“And your leg.”
A limp. His right calf bore a gash, but nothing a poultice couldn’t handle. “I’m good enough.”
Lelishen kneeled, taking a look at his leg. She poured water from her canteen on the wound and wrapped it in clean cloth. “Good enough to ride, I’d say.”
Ivin took Eliles’ hand. “We tried.”
“And I failed. I should’ve known… but I didn’t.”
“The mother won’t get through so long as we hold the Sliver, we haven’t lost, not yet.” His words felt flat even if true. “We should ride for the Fost, then get the Sliver to Herald’s Watch, safest place I can think of.”
Ivin swung into the saddle, but Tokodin stood with his back to them, staring at fires licking the heights of Istinjoln’s towers. “Monk, you with us?”
The man turned, a solemn look of loss and tears in his eyes. He didn’t answer, but walked to his horse and mounted. Ivin grabbed the man’s bottle and handed it to him, receiving a nod and grin for thanks.
“We’ll make for Ervinhin first, see if we can find fresh horses. Either way, we make straight for Purdonis Bay afterward. Zjin?”
The Colok stared, his face unreadable. “Home.”
Ivin nodded. “We can never repay your people for their blood and kindness. One day I hope to fight by your side again. Thank your father for me.”
“Choerkin. Live.” Zjin roared to his people, and they trotted north, disappearing into an icy ravine.
They pressed their horses into an ambling gait as the sun drifted toward the western horizon and the glow of Istinjoln lit their back. The walls would remain and the towers rise high, but at least maybe the fire earned them a head start.
A GLOW ROSE in the heart of Istinjoln and Tokodin leaped onto a boulder for a better view. Fires sprang into the sky and raged a circle around the Tower of Sol, and he knew he would never see his precious bottle of liquor again. The fools would get the fools’ end they asked for, he figured, but the bottle didn’t deserve to be broke, the liquid jewel within seeping into the cobbled streets. Perhaps, boiled away by the defiled bitch’s feral magic.
The flames circled, licking the sky, power beyond his imagination. Maybe they’d succeed, destroy the Shadows and Taken, shut the gate on the mother.
I’m a coward, I should be there for the victory.
He loathed himself, until the flames of victory faded, and the shaft in the sky remained. Istinjoln burned, but it wasn’t enough.
Now they’re all dead, and I’m the wise one… the living one, the coward. He turned to the Colok left to watch the horses with him. “We should go, they’re dead.”
But the beast ignored him, and against all odds, he was proven not just a coward, but a dumb one, as the party returned. Gore clung to their cloaks and armor and fur, remains of people he’d once known. But his bottle survived with them, so he forgave their living for a time.
They rode west for Ervinhin and he had little choice but to follow, but he didn’t have to stay sober. He waited a candle into the ride, long enough for folks to forget him again, then eased the cork from his bottle and took a swig. Familiar notes of sweet cloves and raspberry kissed his palate, and he swirled it full around his tongue before swallowing. The alcohol burn warmed him all the way to his belly. It wasn’t the warmth of prayer; it was better. No gods necessary, Pantheon of Sol, nor Vanquished. This warmth didn’t tell him what to do, how to live, what to believe… but the Touched had been right, he needed to watc
h his tongue when drinking the stuff. Throwing down a finger of the liquor could loosen the tongue and make him say the damnedest things.
Not that the defiled girl didn’t deserve a terse word or three. How the hells did a defiled girl hide in the monastery, right beneath the lord priest’s nose? Make her way through the ranks, celebrated by the priesthood, taking only a single blow from the Maimer’s Lash while Tokodin struggled, enduring scar after scar until admitting defeat. He remembered the day perfectly, fifteen and wailing like a child, like the day his father took a switch to his face instead of his ass.
At least he made sure I closed my eyes.
Tokodin shut his eyes tight, clinging to his saddle horn as he wobbled, trying to drive the memories of whip and willow from his mind, but they wouldn’t leave until clove and raspberry washed his tongue and put a fever into his gut. He eased the bottle back into its place of honor in his saddle bag and stared at the girl’s back.
It was unfair. One Lash. A defiled. He spit and rocked in the saddle, damned grateful it was cinched tight or he might’ve been taking a nap on cold stone. Or better, just be dead. That wouldn’t be so bad, or it might be, who knew what hells he had coming? He grinned a stupid grin, but he couldn’t help himself.
The girl. Yeah, her. The pretty one, she didn’t deserve the accolades, and now there she was tight as a noose with a Choerkin, those sons of bitches. Probably taking his pokes every godsdamned night too, if not yet, godsdamned soon. Unholy bitch and the son of a son-of-a-bitchin’ Choerkin. “Ha! It makes perfect sense!” And he laughed before he realized he spoke out loud. He decided he’d either drunk too much or not enough.
Every last one of the bastards turned to stare at him, but not the girl, she didn’t deign to look at his scarred face. His laughter stopped and he reached for the bottle, another sip, a tiny sip. “What the hells you sonsabitches looking at? Eh? Damn your eyes.”
He made certain the bottle was safe in its home, but he couldn’t remember if he’d taken another drink as he leaned over the horse’s mane, face resting in the coarse damp hairs, the musky smell of animal and hay and sweat filling his nose.
“For the love of Januel, monk! Wake up!” He tried to raise his head, to give whoever the hells spoke to him a piece of his mind, but instead he sagged, arms draping over the horse’s neck.
42
REUNIONS AND DEPARTURES
I miss the smell of the fallen sky,
The rain, the vision of bows without arrows,
A world cleansed without sterility of fire.
Trapped in a hole worms can not conquer
The smell of marble and granite, fresh carved forever,
the only thunder the sealing of fate each day
Serving to weary my Bones.
—Tomes of the Touched
Ervinhin was a ghost town by the time they arrived, but the lack of blood gave them hope that everyone had fled before evil arrived. They washed and grabbed fresh gear not caked in blood before barricading themselves in a room to sleep for the night.
When morning came, they struck south cross-country instead of sticking to the roads, hoping to avoid the enemy and speed their trip. They warned one group of hunters they came upon to head for the sea. Later they found bodies and blood in a small village; prints leading south included children. Ivin swallowed hard, it was hard to drag his eyes from the horror, and he breathed easier when Rinold veered the party east.
The second night out from Istinjoln the shrill screams of Shadows echoed over the hills, and they eschewed fire. In the morning they rode hard, hoping they might make it to Merutven before the enemy, but smoke billowing from the small fort the next evening spoke of a last-ditch defense instead of fresh animals.
Ivin ran his fingers through his mount’s mane, fighting tangles while rubbing its neck. “We’re less than a day’s ride from the Fost; we can be there by morning if the horses hold up.”
Solineus said, “And we don’t fall out of the saddle asleep.”
“It might be our only chance to reach the Fost before them.” Determination marked all their faces, except Tokodin, who sat in his usual state of melancholy, silent and staring at his hands. When he spoke, it was to piss and moan, but Ivin asked anyhow. “What say you, monk?”
“The high and mighty bothers with my opinion?” His chin slumped to his chest. “We’ll be rotting in one hell or another come soon.”
Ivin shook his head, disgusted. “We might make for a village along the coast, but there’s no guarantee there’d be boats to take us to the Watch.”
“A Luxun caravel is anchored at the Fost waiting for me,” Lelishen said.
Ivin pursed his lips and squinted. “Luxuns or no, there’ll be ships and boats in harbor. How wealthy are you?”
“The Luxuns say, a favor owed is a favor paid. The Captain owes me.” Her smile was innocence
“We press on to the Fost, then.” He looked to the monk. “You’re welcome to stay here if you want to find which hell you’re headed for sooner than later.”
“You let us know which hell soon as you get there.” Rinold slapped the monk on the shoulder as he rode by, taking the lead.
They nudged their horses into a walk and the disgruntled monk fell in behind, so far back that in the darkest point of the night Ivin knew the man was there only by the clop of hooves on turf.
The Squirrel’s navigation turned out flawed after so many candles in the saddle without sleep. Sunrise found them on the shore of Purdonis Bay, but the Fost was candles to the west. Exhausted horses and riders found the road, and about the time Ivin thought he might learn to sleep in the saddle the castle walls appeared on the horizon. Too tired for fear, they approached the wharf-side gates to find them guarded by living men.
“Hail! I’m Ivin Choerkin, ridden here from Istinjoln.”
A watchman cried out, the portcullis lifted, and the inner oaken gates swung open. Ivin pulled his sagging eyes open with a hand running through his hair as guards approached on their entry. “I need to see my uncle, Lord Lovar.”
The men stared as the portcullis ground closed behind them, and the lead man with horsetail trailing from his helm cleared his throat. “Lord Lovar Choerkin was murdered, on the Eve of Snows, he and his kin. Knives in the night, taking the blood of his lordship and his children, except… Lord Eredin sits as head of the Clan now.”
Ivin sat numb, awake but wishing this a nightmare. “What of Herald’s Watch?”
“No ill word, not as I’ve heard. The Fost has been sailing to the Watch since Pikarn brought word from Ervinhin, so I’d guess we’d have word by now.”
Ivin nodded, thankful for a kindness on a bitter day. “We’ll need to speak to Eredin .”
“He’s been in the main keep for days, best I know.”
Lelishen dismounted. “I’ll check on the Luxun captain, if you don’t mind.”
Ivin nodded to the woman, too tired to care. “Rinold, give this lady escort; we’ll meet you onboard as soon as we’re able.”
The Squirrel looked at him with sullen, bloodshot eyes. “Lovar’s passing—”
“Is a loss we’ll need overcome, like the others.” Ivin tapped his horse’s flank into a walk, his legs aching and fatigued. They avoided the docks by riding the edge of the city wall. Pensive guards stood their watches along the allure in numbers Ivin had never seen before, brave men ready to fight and die against an enemy they didn’t know or understand. He wondered how brave they’d be if they fathomed the threat heading their way.
Every man here should be on a ship, standing in the water, swimming for the Watch if they knew how to paddle. They’d die in the frozen currents, but it was a fate better than what fighting held.
No. Ivin slapped his face, the tingle in his cheek revitalizing his mind as they rode into the Fost’s castle. An enemy we can kill is one we will defeat; find a way. He may not survive to see the day Kaludor was free of demons, but his people would live. Hopelessness and fatalism were for lesser peoples, not the Sil
one Clans.
Ivin dismounted in front of the Keep and his eyes swung to catch a glimpse of Solineus, wide-eyed, pale, staring as if looking through the world instead of at it. He’d seen the man wade into demonic enemies without hesitation, but for the first time Ivin swore he saw fear.
“I’m coming,” he whispered. Solineus shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “I need a fresh horse.”
The man was strange, no doubt, but they’d need his swords and skill if the enemy reached them. “What the hells are you talking about?”
“There’s a family of fishers, maybe six leagues down the coast… the Taken have reached them.”
“If Shadows and Taken have pushed so far south, we need you here, Shadows could climb the walls—”
“I don’t have time to explain!” The man didn’t like his own tone, clenching his fists and speaking with more control. “I swore an oath to two girls. Get me a fresh horse or I’ll ride this one ’til it’s dead.”
Ivin locked eyes with the man. He owed Solineus his life and more, and as a man of Emudar, Solineus didn’t owe Ivin fealty. Ivin broke the gaze and pinned his glare on a guard. “Take this man to the stables and get him a fresh steed.”
“Thank you.”
“It damned well better be worth it. Stay alive.” Nothing else mattered.
The man grinned. “I’ll see you on the Watch.”
Ivin turned to Eliles and Tokodin. He couldn’t get lucky enough for the damned monk to leave. He took Eliles’ hand as he led her through the great doors and walked a straight line to Choerkin Hall. Ivin expected warriors and sailors bickering over strategies and supplies, what he found was silence and a man alone.
Eredin sat at the head of a table seated for forty, the room aglow from the great fireplace and lanterns hung high. Behind his cousin hung the Crystal Sword, a weapon deemed fragile decor, but Ivin knew now its ability to slay Shadows. For five-hundred years the Choerkins had dusted the zweihänder and handled it as glass, afraid to break it, when it was a finer weapon than any might’ve dreamed.
Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One Page 38
