“Earth spirits!” she called again.
But no fresh furrows appeared in the ground. Glancing over her shoulder, Lea saw the spirits following her, but too slowly. She frowned, uncertain what held them back, and looked ahead in time to see a skeleton leap at Caelan, nearly dragging him from the saddle.
“No!” she screamed. “Caelan!”
But her brother straightened, his sword slashing hard. Relief filled her, but only for a moment. He was attacked from behind. This time his horse reared up, and he was pulled off, vanishing from Lea’s sight as though the ground itself had swallowed him.
“Caelan!” she screamed in horror. And then the skeletons were all around her, too.
Shadrael’s horse was starting to pull away from the skeletons pursuing him when the animal stumbled and went down. Shadrael heard the unmistakable sound of a fetlock snapping as he was tossed through the air. He hit the ground hard, rolling over from the impetus, and found himself fending off a human foe before he hardly had his wits about him.
Driving his dagger in the man’s ribs, he forced himself to his feet. His head was ringing, and he could not seem to orient himself, but instinctively he kept moving. By now the skeletons had caught up with him. Shadrael pulled his axe from his belt. Using it in one hand and his sword in the other, he started knocking the skeletons back.
Behind him, his horse was kicking and thrashing, unable to gain its feet, and moaning in pain. Shadrael saw more skeletons closing fast, but he ran to the horse and killed it out of mercy, not wanting the shadow creatures to attack it. Even so, they swarmed the animal as though attracted to its blood.
Ahead of him came a flash of yellow, and his wits pulled together. He remembered seeing Urmaeor running for cover. He’d been chasing the devil when his horse went down. The only way to truly stop the skeletons was to kill the priest controlling them.
“Gladly,” he muttered.
With a wary eye on the skeletons still clustered around his dead horse, Shadrael ran after the priest on feet that felt too clumsy and slow. But as he gradually gained on his quarry, he saw that it wasn’t Urmaeor after all. Several priests were scurrying among a scattering of boulders, like mice in search of cover.
Grunting with effort, Shadrael heard the horrible clatter of bones as pursuit resumed behind him. His outstretched fingers closed on the robes of the priest, and he yanked hard, pulling the priest off his feet. Shadrael was on him in an instant, striking hard.
His axe hit something unseen that was not flesh or bone, but rigid like an invisible shield. Shadrael’s blow, however, broke through and the axe bit deep into the man’s body.
The priest’s scream rent the air, and black shadow flowed forth from the wound instead of blood, becoming ashes that blew apart in the wind.
Forcing himself onto his feet, Shadrael left the man for the skeletons to pull apart. He caught another priest and killed him the same way. Behind him, the skeletons began to fall, more of them crumbling to dust. A ragged cheer in the distance went up from human throats.
Shadrael paused only to wipe sweat from his brow with a weary hand. He had to find Urmaeor if this bloodbath was to stop.
Halfway up the ridge, he found a narrow track of sorts that twisted through the rocks. Pulling himself past larger and larger boulders, he suddenly caught up with Urmaeor. The priest was clinging to his staff as though it were precious. He was guarded by two cringing mercenaries and a mutilated lurker.
The lurker shrieked at the sight of Shadrael and fled, lurching awkwardly as it vanished. Urmaeor spoke sharply to the mercenaries to keep them from fleeing also. They stared grimly at Shadrael, their hands white-knuckled on their weapons, and when their gaze shifted to look at what was coming behind him, Shadrael attacked.
One man fought him, only to die as Shadrael struck him down. The remaining mercenary ran.
And then it was Urmaeor and Shadrael alone. The priest lifted his hand and Shadrael felt something push past him. When he glanced over his shoulder he saw the skeletons held back by some invisible barrier.
“How long can you hold them off?” Shadrael asked, gulping in deep breaths while he had the chance.
“You will not prevail,” Urmaeor snarled at Shadrael, his deep voice raw with strain. And he grabbed at Shadrael’s threads of life.
In agony, Shadrael felt the ground heave and tremble beneath his boots, and he was released. Urmaeor swayed, nearly losing his balance, and Shadrael sprang at him.
He knocked Urmaeor sprawling and pinned him fast, smashing one hand across the priest’s mouth before magic could be uttered. Even so, he felt Urmaeor’s power pulsing against his palm, burning him until he had to grit his teeth to keep from releasing the man.
They were too close for him to use his sword. Dropping the weapon, Shadrael drew his dagger while Urmaeor’s eyes widened and he struggled harder. There came a tremendous cracking sound, and the ground heaved again just as Shadrael struck.
He missed, losing his hold on Urmaeor, and tumbled off as the priest scrambled for freedom. Shadrael tackled him and pinned him again, but Urmaeor was spitting out curses that flamed in the air. Some of them struck Shadrael, and they hurt like darts piercing his skin. He could not seem to get his dagger close enough although he strained to break through Urmaeor’s resistance.
And then a fissure opened in the ground, coming toward them as the earthquake shook boulders loose and sent them tumbling dangerously in all directions. Flung about on the heaving ground, Shadrael lost his hold on the priest and scrambled away from the fissure. It ran beneath Urmaeor, who flailed wildly and fell into it. His cries abruptly cut off as the ground closed, crushing him.
The tremors continued, while Shadrael dodged a boulder in time to avoid being knocked flat. He stumbled over Urmaeor’s staff and saw the green mist swirling inside its crystal prison. Picking up the staff, Shadrael swung it with both hands and brought it crashing down upon a stone.
The crystal broke, and the mist that was Lord Barthel’s essence spilled out into the sunlight and fresh air. It turned into black ashes that the wind blew away.
The earthquake stopped abruptly. There was complete silence for a moment as though the world struggled to catch its breath; then Shadrael heard the sound of voices calling out. Men began to cheer and whoop.
He climbed to his feet, wearily gathering his weapons, and saw that the fighting had stopped. Across the field, the skeletons were all crumbling to dust. Someone raised Vordachai’s banner, its tattered ends catching the breeze only for a moment before Imperial soldiers closed in, pulling it down.
Shadrael saw the surviving Ulinians throwing down their arms. His heart squeezed in anguish for a moment; then he collected himself and ran in that direction.
Pulled off her horse with Thirbe separated from her, Lea kicked and struggled against her captor, only to be crushed against a breastplate with enough force to nearly squeeze the breath from her lungs.
“Be still, little one!” her brother said in her ear. “When did you learn to fight like a hellcat?”
“Caelan?”
“Who else?”
Disbelieving, she twisted around to gaze up into her brother’s face. His silver eyes smiled a little quizzically into her blue ones, searching as though he had questions of her. A tremendous rush of joy swept through Lea. “Oh, Caelan!” she cried, and flung her arms around him.
Chapter 25
Long before Shadrael could stumble wearily across the field to rejoin his brother’s force, he was captured and made to surrender his weapons. Eventually, however, he was pushed into the midst of the Ulinians—perhaps less than two hundred men by the looks of things. Vordachai, hale and safe, was roaring his displeasure at the top of his lungs.
“I’ll surrender to the emperor and no one else, you damned, verminous pox mark! I’m the warlord of this province, and—”
“You’re a filthy traitor and a prisoner of war,” a grimy centruin said, unimpressed. He was tall, with the height and size of a Traula
nder. He wore the insignia of the Tenth Legion. “Strip that armor and look sharp about it. Strip!”
Faced by a man who could yell louder than he, Vordachai unbuckled his armor and let it fall in a loud clatter to the ground. He kicked it, muttering in his beard. “And it comes to this, eh?” he said to Shadrael. “Begone, brother! No need for you to stand with us now.”
Shadrael gave him a rueful smile. “When you go before the emperor, some contrition might gain you mercy.”
“My head will be on a spike in his quarters by nightfall,” Vordachai grumbled. “And don’t give me more advice! I’m no diplomat and never was. No, and no court posy either to mince about and flatter His Imperial Damned Majesty.”
“Keep quiet!” the centruin barked.
Shadrael grimaced at Vordachai in fresh exasperation. “Do you want your tongue cut out for insulting him? Have a care!”
“A condemned man taking care,” Vordachai said with a snort. “I’ll be dragged before him and he’ll sneer at me and I’ll break my sword and fling it in his face. Then some brute will run me through.” Vordachai rubbed his face with both hands and sighed. “Damn.”
“Ask for his mercy,” Shadrael suggested. “Tell him why his taxes are choking you. Ask for another chance.”
“Beg, you mean.”
Shadrael raised his brows. “Better a beggar with your head on your shoulders than the alternative. Show some sense now, at least.”
“You,” the centruin said to Shadrael. “Strip that armor and be quick about it.”
Shadrael had just unbuckled his breastplate and felt the cool kiss of air through his sweat-soaked undertunic when he felt a hand tap his shoulder from behind. He turned around and saw Fomo, wild eyed and grinning nervously, right behind him.
Shadrael took an involuntary step away from the man.
Fomo’s gaze darted in all directions. He held up the talisman Shadrael had tried to give Vordachai earlier that day. “Worked sweet, didn’t it? Never thought I’d make it, did you?”
“Fomo—”
“Still here,” Fomo went on, unheeding. “And now look at you, going to get off free as air, because of that witch making eyes at you. Leaving the rest of us to be executed.”
“We’ll all go to the executioner’s axe,” Shadrael said quietly. Beside him, Vordachai’s hand gripped his shoulder as though offering comfort. Shadrael glanced at his brother and gave him a quick, rueful smile.
But Fomo wouldn’t go away, not even when they were pushed into a line and marched forward. He stuck close to Shadrael.
“Not you,” he whispered to Shadrael, his gaze darting in all directions. “No execution for you. Got your soul back,” he said raggedly, hugging himself as though he were cold. “Ain’t sworn to shadow now. Ain’t going to die like the rest of us. Got that witch to speak up for you, but you won’t speak for us. Too good for us now. Too—”
“Shut up, Fomo,” Shadrael said.
In front of him, Vordachai turned around. “Who is this piece of lice and why does he plague you?”
Before Shadrael could answer, Fomo screamed in rage and pulled a knife from his undertunic. He grabbed Shadrael, trying to pull him onto the blade. Shadrael twisted his torso and missed being impaled, but Fomo was already striking again.
Only the blow fell short because Vordachai punched him hard in the chest. “You filthy whoreson!” he shouted, and punched Fomo again.
Staggering back, Fomo doubled over, coughing harshly. But he hadn’t dropped the knife, and he sprang at Shadrael a third time. Shadrael had seen him pull that trick before and was ready, but Vordachai stepped between them.
Shadrael heard his brother grunt and saw Fomo back away with a scowl. Vordachai sagged, and Shadrael caught him, trying to support him as his brother sank down with Fomo’s dagger in his chest. Too late, their guards restrained Fomo, who was swearing at Shadrael like a man demented.
Ignoring him as he was bound and hustled away, Shadrael knelt beside Vordachai. He watched blood bubbling up around the blade and heard the wet, sucking rattle in Vordachai’s lungs. The knife had been driven deep, clear to the hilt. Grief welled up inside Shadrael, burning his throat and eyes.
After surviving today’s harrowing battle with no more than a few bruises and scratches, for Vordachai to be struck down like this, so senselessly, so stupidly . . . frustration swelled inside Shadrael until he could barely hold back his rage.
“Vordachai,” he said in a little moan. “Ah, gods, no!”
His brother’s eyes sought his. He smiled a little, tried to speak, and slumped over.
Shadrael lifted him up, tipping his chin. “Vordachai?”
But his brother was dead, sightless eyes staring at the wintry blue sky.
The other Ulinian prisoners gathered around, heedless of the soldiers that tried to move them along. Everyone looked shocked. The two surviving barons hurried up and stared at their fallen lord. And Shadrael bowed his head, unable to release his grasp on his brother although nothing remained to hang on to.
“He saved your life, my lord,” someone said.
“That madman would have killed you,” another agreed.
The Traulander centruin strode up to them, looking exasperated. “Back in line! One dead prisoner means one less—” He broke off, looking surprised. “The warlord?”
The wounded baron, cradling a bloody arm, spoke to him in a murmur while the other baron suddenly knelt before Shadrael. “My fealty to you, Warlord Shadrael. May your governance be long and prosperous over us.”
Having quelled the impatient centruin, the wounded baron now knelt with assistance. “My fealty to you, Warlord Shadrael,” he said hoarsely, his eyes dark with shock. “My sword, my lands, my honor are yours to command.”
The remaining Ulinians also knelt, one by one to swear their fealty, while their guards stood silent, allowing it.
Numb and silent, Shadrael barely listened to what they were saying. His thoughts were on his brother, burly, hot-tempered, impulsive Vordachai, who had bullied and teased him throughout boyhood, resented him and felt jealous of him by turns through their adulthood. Vordachai had always turned to him for advice in a pinch, yet seldom followed any of it. And now his foolish, impulsive elder brother had saved his life.
For what? Shadrael wondered bitterly. For what?
Eventually the centruins moved the prisoners on. Shadrael was pulled away from his brother’s cooling corpse. A cloak was laid over Vordachai, and his official seal on a small silver chain was unfastened from his throat and handed to Shadrael, who took it without a glance. Still holding it as his wrists were bound, Shadrael was herded with his fellow prisoners to await the emperor’s decision.
The afternoon waned and grew cold. Shivering, Shadrael was surprised when two decivates came, saluted, and escorted him to the emperor.
It was his first time to see Caelan Light Bringer face-to-face. Shadrael knelt, his expression grim and set, and regarded the man who had so long been his enemy.
Seated on a camp stool draped with fur, wearing his crown and a face as stony as Shadrael’s own, the emperor was a bigger man than Shadrael had expected. Caelan Light Bringer was a man head and shoulders taller than most, with a brawny chest and muscles any man would envy. His blond hair hung loose to his shoulders, and his silver eyes were hard to meet.
No mercy softened his face, and Shadrael could well believe this was the man who had hounded so many capable officers from the army during the Reforms. He had the look of one who had walked through fire and worse. He clearly knew shadow, knew evil, knew the devious hearts of men, yet there was nothing idle, dissipated, or corrupt about him. In that sense, Shadrael found him nothing like Emperor Kostimon at all.
Forcing himself to return that steady silver gaze, Shadrael frowned at this emperor whom he’d hated since the day of Kostimon’s death. He suddenly found that he had no more hatred left. Vindicants and their monsters had been the enemy, the only enemy.
The silence between them grew long,
but Shadrael did not fidget or seek to break the quiet. This, he knew, was the end of him.
“So,” the emperor said at last. “You are the new warlord, I hear. And the man so long a thorn in my side, the man who would not pay his taxes, who would not bow his stubborn neck to my authority, the man who dared steal Her Imperial Highness from family and friends—jeopardizing her life—lies dead.”
“I abducted her, Excellency,” Shadrael said gruffly.
“But on his orders,” the emperor said.
Shadrael met those silver eyes and could not lie. It was time, he reminded himself, to stop protecting Vordachai from his folly. “Yes, Excellency. He gave the order.”
“And so I am robbed from dealing justice to this miscreant, this traitor who dared rebel against my authority.”
Shadrael’s mouth closed to a thin line. “We served him gladly.”
“You are his successor?”
“Yes, Excellency.” Shadrael frowned in an effort to control his emotions . . . and his voice. “His younger brother.”
“Praetinor Shadrael tu Natalloh.”
Shadrael looked up. He could not speak.
“Dishonorably discharged, I’m told.”
“Yes.”
“Yet once a hero and a legion commander. A man given a triumph through the streets of Imperia. I remember hearing about it. For a legend of the empire, Lord Shadrael, you have not behaved respectably. Have you more sense than your hotheaded brother?”
The conversation began to puzzle Shadrael. He frowned. “I used to think so, Excellency.”
But the emperor grunted and leaned back. He did not seem pleased by Shadrael’s answers.
There came a commotion from somewhere in the crowd surrounding them. The Imperial entourage parted to let Lea walk through. Her unbound hair hung in a shining veil around her shoulders. Her eyes were as intense a blue as the sky. She wore a gown of cream and fawn and gloves a bit too large for her dainty hands. Her necklace sparkled at her throat.
The Crown Page 27
