Before Shadrael could answer, Vordachai wheeled his big warhorse and rode away. “Sound the horns!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, waving his sword.
As the trumpets sounded, and the men cheered, Vordachai glared at Shadrael. “Better collect your rabble and creep away, little brother.”
“I said I’d stand with you.”
Vordachai didn’t look pleased. “Don’t expect my gratitude. I’d rather see you dead than without your nerve.”
“Vordachai—”
“I had meant to ask you what sort of commanders we’re facing, but you’ve wasted the time with your mewling. We’ll charge straight through, and mind you keep those ruffians you brought to one side and out of the way of my men. And keep well away from me today. I want no part of you.”
“Wait—”
But his brother was spurring his horse, making it rear. “With me, men!” he roared over the noise. “To victory!”
Everyone cheered except Shadrael. He sat there, fuming in his saddle, not knowing whether to curse his idiot of a brother or beg his forgiveness.
“M’lord.” It was Fomo at his stirrup, his ruined rasp of a voice barely heard in the din of shouts and war cries. The former centruin held up the battered talisman that Vordachai had thrown away. “The warlord dropped this.”
“Keep it,” Shadrael snarled, and joined the stream of warriors galloping to battle.
Wrapped in silence, Lea rode inside the shelter of Thirbe’s arms as the morning sun rose higher in the sky.
They’d reached the foothills to the south and were climbing away from the old lava fields in the Valley of Fires when Lea suddenly frowned and leaned forward.
“I’ve been so foolish,” she said aloud.
“What’s that, m’lady?”
“We must turn back and help them.”
Thirbe grunted. “Ain’t likely.”
“Commander Shadrael means to fight Caelan,” she said. “We have to stop them both.”
“Can’t be stopped now,” Thirbe said. “The fight’s well joined by this time. There’s not a thing you can do.”
“But—”
“No,” he said firmly. “I’ve got my orders, and you’re going to where it’s safe. You’ve been through enough, and I ain’t seeing you jeopardized again.”
“And who gave you those orders? Commander Shadrael or the Vindicant?”
Thirbe cleared his throat gruffly. “Sworn to safeguard your life, ain’t I?”
“No, Thirbe,” she insisted. “It’s not that simple. Shadrael worked some bargain with the Vindicants to get me freed, didn’t he?”
“As to that, I couldn’t say.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
Thirbe didn’t answer. She leaned forward and gripped the reins, stopping the horse.
“Now, m’lady—”
“Don’t argue,” she said.
Shrugging off her blanket, she reached for the gli-emeralds fastened around her throat. Balancing them in her hand, she breathed over them, and their lifeless, dull appearance suddenly sparkled into a glow of power. She ran her fingers over the jewels, feeling their gli-energy flow to her. Their power did not feel quite as strong as before, but that was because she knew shadow now. She had felt it coil through her spirit and forever leave its stain. And now she knew she must go back and face whatever evil lay in wait for both Shadrael and Caelan.
“You can tell me not to argue, but that don’t mean I’m following any itty-witted orders,” Thirbe was saying with spirit. “You ain’t about to go to no battlefield, not with Vindicants and monsters—”
“What monsters?” she asked sharply.
When he didn’t answer, she twisted around to look at him. “What monsters?” she asked again.
“Don’t know. Don’t know anything, except I’m taking you to Kanidalon.”
Abruptly she slid off the horse, stumbling as her feet hit the ground.
Thirbe reined up fast. “Now, don’t give me trouble, m’lady. You’re going to Kanidalon, and that’s all there is to it.”
“No!” she said stubbornly, watching for the pale raven. In a moment she saw it, gray wings almost the same color as the early morning sky.
“Gave my pledge to take you there.”
“You gave your pledge to an evil man sworn to shadow,” Lea replied, watching the bird fly closer. “But I did not.”
“Now, that’s no way to be,” Thirbe said. He reached down to offer her his hand. “Climb back on the horse, and let’s get well away from this blasted—”
“Thirbe,” Lea said, half-closing her eyes as she touched her necklace and summoned an air spirit. “That priest has put a spell on you. Don’t you feel it?”
“No.”
“I was foolish enough to let myself be distracted,” she said, calling the air spirit again. “Too worried about Shadrael to pay attention to what Urmaeor was doing. This isn’t the direction to Kanidalon. Why did we come this way, Thirbe? Why?”
The protector didn’t answer. With the raven flying straight at Lea, she had no time to wonder why.
The air spirit came, ruffling her hair affectionately before it surged up and knocked the raven tumbling from the sky.
The bird landed on the ground hard enough to bounce. It lay there, its wings crumpled and beak open. Momentary compassion touched Lea, until she saw its small form shrivel and blacken into a misshapen lump as dark as the chunks of lava stone lying scattered about.
“Beware. Beware,” the air spirit whispered in Lea’s mind. It slid around her, blowing her hair and whipping through her clothing.
Hearing a sound behind her, she turned and saw Thirbe changing shape, his familiar features blurring into the nightmarish countenance of a creature with bulging eyes and an elongated snout. Saliva dripped from the shape-shifter’s jaws. It sprang off the horse, charging at her with the lurching, stumbling gait of a lurker.
And as it came, it laughed.
Chapter 23
Panting hard, Shadrael drew rein under the overhang of a huge rock, and gave himself and his horse a breather. His arm and shoulder were trembling with fatigue, and sweat was pouring down his face from beneath his helmet. His fingers had gripped his sword hilt so hard they were starting to cramp.
The battlefield was a melee of confusion, with riders and foot soldiers fighting in all directions. Vordachai’s initial charge had met the advance of the Second Legion with a brutal clash that had seen an enormous amount of blood-shed on both sides. Meanwhile, the Tenth had bided its time, letting the Ulinians tire themselves before surrounding them and cutting off retreat.
That’s when Shadrael had led his poorly trained cohort into the fray. The element of surprise had carried his men long enough to give them heart, so that they fought harder than they’d known they could. But then the surprised soldiers regrouped, turning away from beleaguering Vordachai’s men in order to deal with this new threat. Shadrael’s men had been cut down systematically by ruthless Imperial forces that fought—not for glory or loot—but to win. It ended as the slaughter he expected. Cohort One, he’d called them, and they’d died around him while he did his job and kept them from fleeing until he had none left to lead. But they’d given Vordachai a chance to break his warriors free of the corner they’d been in. And while Vordachai regrouped, his bellow carrying over the din of screams and clashing weapons, Shadrael had fought his way clear, and paused here to reassess the situation.
Across the battlefield, he could see other officers doing the same thing. The sun hung high overhead, casting shadows from the spikes at Shadrael’s shoulders. He pulled off his blood-spattered gauntlet and wiped perspiration from his face before grimly unwrapping the bandage from his wrist.
Sweat and grime had worked their way across the symbol painted there, smearing it. Shadrael rubbed it off with his palm, unswearing himself to Beloth in a tired mutter, and pledging his soul and conscience instead to Gault. The uneasiness did not leave him, but at least he felt free of the degradation Urm
aeor had put him through.
He pulled open the cut on his wrist, and let a few drops of fresh blood fall on the ground before tying it up with a fresh cloth pulled from his saddlebag. He drank thirstily from a water skin and pulled his gauntlets back on.
He was surprised the Ulinians had lasted this long. The battlefield was cramped and tight, bordered by low ridges to the east and a series of arroyos to the west—time-consuming to travel through. The north was blocked by a canyon too deep to cross. The south lay fairly flat, opening to desert devoid of water holes or much life. Shadrael had chosen this location because such a small battlefield was ideally suited to the Ulinian’s advantage since the Imperial foot soldiers could not maneuver well. Yet the numbers of Ulinians were clearly dwindling, and there seemed to be an endless supply of legion cohorts—fresh and rested—coming over the ridge to join the fight.
By the numbers of dead and wounded sprawled on the ground, this battle had clearly become a tiresome slog, grim and entrenched, with little movement. Outnumbered and flagging, the Ulinians could not last much longer. Shadrael knew all too well that this kind of fight always went to the general with the greatest number of men.
“You fool,” he said under his breath, watching Vordachai galloping past a line of retreating warriors to send them back into the fray. “Fall back while you still can.”
From his vantage point, Shadrael could see the Imperial Banner waving proudly in the wind above the emperor’s standards. High atop one of the ridges bordering this field, the emperor sat astride a white steed, his crown and breastplate shining in the sunlight. His men could see him watching and feel cheered. His enemies could see him watching and feel despair.
Shadrael’s emotions churned. For a moment he felt anew his black anger at what Caelan Light Bringer had done to him, but tempering that old resentment was his gratitude to Lea. Now Shadrael realized the only thing he truly hated was his brother’s stupidity in provoking a fight he was doomed to lose.
The valor of the Ulinians impressed Shadrael’s heart. They were fighting for the worst reasons—for land they loved, for honor, for freedom. As a professional, Shadrael had been trained to fight without emotion, to feel nothing but determination to win.
Now he knew that he must stand by his brother, for Ulinia, no matter how hopeless, or never forgive himself.
A roar of shouting caught his attention. He saw the standards of the Ninth lifted high as at least three cohorts poured onto the field to surround the Ulinians. Vordachai and his men could not flee even if their courage deserted them.
“Fight,” he whispered, knowing they could not surrender in the circumstances. “Fight, you poor devils.”
Unable to watch the massacre to come, Shadrael drew his sword and kicked his horse toward the battle, determined to die with his brother.
Crying out, Lea stumbled to one side and barely managed to avoid the shape-shifter’s leap.
“Earth spirits!” she called.
The ground shook beneath her feet. The wind blew harder as more air spirits joined the first, slinging sand into the creature’s face and driving it back momentarily.
It howled and clawed at its hideous face, emitting a foul stink.
Choking, Lea squinted against the lash of wind and sand. “Earth spirits, help me!” she cried.
Again the ground trembled beneath her feet, and numerous furrows appeared, converging on her and the beast. There came a tremendous crack of sound as the ground split open under the shape-shifter. It screamed and toppled, clawing desperately at the edge to keep from falling completely in. The ground closed, crushing it, but the gush of fluids splattering from its death throes created serpents and black lizards and queer, misshapen things that scuttled on their bellies toward Lea.
She retreated, desperately looking behind her, and scooped up a handful of stones to pelt the creatures and drive them back.
More furrows appeared in the ground, and a fissure opened almost at Lea’s feet, between her and the demonic reptiles.
At the same time, a whirlwind sprang up, twisting and flinging sand. A voice said in Lea’s mind, “Enter my heart.”
She obeyed, shielding her face with her hands as she leaped into the center of the whirlwind. A loud roaring noise nearly deafened her, but inside the swirling cloud of dust and whipping sand, the center was calm. Lea felt as though she were floating. Stray wind currents tossed her from time to time, and then the whirlwind died down to a mere whisper and was gone, leaving the ground scoured of sand down to hard-baked dirt.
She saw no serpents or lizards, no demons. Just a scattering of tiny bones blown apart and scrubbed clean.
Lea found herself panting and shaking in the quiet aftermath. She crouched a moment, for her legs did not seem to want to hold her. Thirbe, she thought, trying to rebuild her shaken quai as she pushed back her tangled hair and brushed sand from her face, what have they done with you?
Fearing for him among the evil Vindicants, she established her inner harmony as best she could. A sense of rising urgency made her turn her gaze back toward the Valley of Fires. She blamed herself for having been weak enough to let Urmaeor cloud her mind and trick her.
But now she knew clearly that she must go to the battlefield. Caelan needed her. Shadrael needed her. Both of the men she loved must be kept from fighting each other directly, for she did not intend to let either of them fulfill the evil purposes of the Vindicants.
Knocking a soldier aside with his sword, Shadrael heard Vordachai’s voice shouting over the noise and saw his brother surrounded by five soldiers. Hemming in the warlord with tall shields, they were hacking at him from all sides.
Horseless, and with only one warrior at his back, Vordachai stood roaring curses and fending off attack with a sword in one hand and a maul in the other. A soldier feinted, drawing his attention, while another struck him from behind, making him stagger.
Swearing, Shadrael spurred his horse and rode right into the back of the nearest soldier, knocking the man down and trampling over him while his sword took off the head of a second one. By then, his charging horse had carried him through the circle. He took down a third man, improving the odds for Vordachai, who yelled with renewed fervor and found the strength to fell his fourth opponent. The remaining soldier picked up his shield and fled.
“Shadrael?” Vordachai shouted, panting so hard he wheezed. “That you?”
“Who else?” Shadrael replied.
Still panting, so red faced he looked as though he might burst in apoplexy, Vordachai peered up at Shadrael. His beard was soaked with sweat, and a trickle of blood was running down his face. His weapons were smeared with gore, and there was a fearsome dent in his breastplate. Even so, his dark eyes were dancing with the joy of battle.
“Well fought, brother!” he gasped out, lifting his sword in brief salute. “Gods, what work this is.”
Shadrael fended off a man in a fierce skirmish that cost his foe an arm. As the soldier staggered away, spurting blood and screaming, Shadrael turned back to Vordachai.
“Where’s your horse?” he asked.
“Killed under me.” Vordachai wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. “These brutes are tireless. They never stop coming.”
Shadrael bit back the obvious comment and pointed. “The Ninth has joined the fight.”
“May Gault blight them,” Vordachai said, sucking in air. “My men are cut off. Surrounded, I think.”
“Yes.”
“Yours?”
“All dead.”
A pair of soldiers ran toward them, yelling the war cries of the Tenth. Shadrael spurred his horse forward, blocking them from Vordachai. He made the animal rear, its forefeet striking at one soldier while he swung at the second. The man staggered backward with a cry, clapping his hand to his bleeding face. As the horse came down on all four feet, Shadrael met the first soldier’s grab for him with a quick short blow that gashed the man’s arm. Blood spurted, and Shadrael gave him a second, fatal blow in the neck.
Wheeling his horse around, he saw Vordachai in trouble once again. The warlord was exhausted, staggering on his feet, and barely able to lift his weapons. His opponent knocked him down and knelt on him, raising his short sword to drive in a fatal thrust.
Shadrael’s blade cut off the man’s head, sending it spinning through the air, helmet and all.
“Vordachai, quickly!” he shouted, reaching down his free hand. “Up behind me!”
Thrashing about like a beetle flipped on its back, Vordachai managed to roll over and climb to his feet while Shadrael fought off more attacks. Finally, panting too hard to speak, Vordachai scrambled up clumsily behind Shadrael’s saddle.
Shadrael’s horse shied under the extra weight, but he sent the animal in the direction Vordachai was pointing. Riding across the field, fighting off every attempt to bring them down, Shadrael heard his brother laughing aloud and marveled at Vordachai’s ebullient spirits even in defeat.
Ulinians cheered them as they rode by, and Vordachai waved as though he had victory instead. Heartened by the sight of him, his warriors fought on with enough courage to make even Shadrael proud of them.
Shadrael dodged a pair of soldiers determined to pull him from the saddle, and spurred his way through the line, breaking free and fetching up beneath a vantage point of jutting black rock where the surviving Ulinian barons were crouched, surveying the progress of the battle and arguing among themselves.
As Vordachai greeted them and plunged into the discussion, Shadrael kept a frowning eye on the battle. More and more Ulinians were being cut down while their leaders chattered, apparently unable to agree on how to proceed. It angered Shadrael to see such weak leadership and lack of preparation displayed before the men. These warriors—exhausted and outnumbered, obviously close to throwing down their weapons in surrender—deserved better.
“Vordachai,” he said impatiently, overhearing some fantastic scheme, “in the name of the gods, have done—”
Trumpets sounded, causing him to break off. He turned that way, seeing the emperor riding toward the battlefield on his white horse. Drums were beating, and standard bearers and flag bearers proceeded Light Bringer.
The Crown Page 25
