There in that room, Volyn learned how the woman his brother had married two years before was a direct descendant of Coulabric Tor-Cavarill, and thus also their child, Alael. With his fading strength, Keraun showed his brother several brittle, yellowed parchments which proved the claim, then begged him to help his wife and child. With the male scions of House Tor-Galantai slain, Keraun asserted that only the line of Tor-Cavarill could now provide a fitting monarch for Khatrimantine. Through his weary sorrow Volyn felt the bright, invigorating touch of destiny once more and vowed to protect his brother's wife and the infant Alael, and to work towards the goal Keraun believed in.
It had all been going so well, the alliance with the Knights of the Fathertree, the growing ties, the detailed planning of the uprising. Then at the eleventh hour came the unexpected, Korregan's bastard son by the Duchess of Patrein. Volyn's support for Tauric was intended to allay any suspicions of ill intent, an apparent burying of the hatchet. So that when Tauric fell into his hands, he was finally free to act according to the fundamental purpose of the Hunter's Children. Once the uprising had begun, the Fathertree Knights would be forced to lend their aid, and if the boy Tauric had to die...well, tragic accidents happen in times of war.
These thoughts and others came to his mind as he led Coulabric's girl-heir by her hand out of the draper's back door and across the lightless yard. He shuddered inwardly to think how close he had been to losing the most precious person in all of Khatrimantine. Mazaret's intent could only have been that of murder, and if he had been permitted just a few more seconds with Alael she would be dead and the future would have belonged to a crippled, untutored boy.
All life is a struggle against corruption, Arogal Volyn thought grimly.
There was an acrid taint of smoke on the air and he could hear cries and shouts coming from the square and a clash of swords from the darkened building next door. Volyn felt his smouldering anger flare up at having to abandon one of the Children's most valuable safe houses. The idiot townsmen and Vaush's paid thugs had between them turned Oumetra into a cauldron of malice and resentment, but it was Mazaret and his allies who had almost taken advantage of the situation.
"Have courage, Alael," he murmured over his shoulder. "Once across the canal we shall be safe with other friends."
In the poor light her features were unreadable but the weakness of her grip on his hand and the way she trailed behind him made plain her reluctance. He curbed his annoyance and kept it from showing as he led her across the yard to the corner furthest from the back door. There were a couple of planks missing from the heavy wooden fence and through the gap Volyn was just able to make out the form of one of Geraine's men standing nearby. Gesturing Alael to be silent and still, Volyn flattened himself against the fence and made a 'hsst' sound. After a moment the man's head and shoulders appeared, and Volyn struck a savage blow to his throat. The man gave a choking gasp and collapsed in the opening, half in the yard, half out on the walkway.
"Quickly," he said to Alael, steering her through the gap. He then bent and dragged the insensible man into the shadowy yard before following her.
Beyond the break Volyn paused to survey their surroundings, the nearby footbridge and the path on the other side of the canal. All seemed to be safely deserted for now. He looked at Alael and beckoned.
"Come - friends await us."
But she did not move, just stood half turned away from him, her head lowered. He felt his irritation rise again and forced his voice to remain calm as he spoke.
"Alael, right now time is our foe and haste our only ally. We must be gone else our enemies corner us - "
"But what if I do not wish to go, Uncle Volyn? What if I do not wish to become a great queen? Have you never thought to ask me whether that is what I want?"
There was an anguish and a strength in her voice that Volyn had never heard before and while he was angered by her words, part of him was pleased.
"What we want and what we must do are not always the same," he said in low tones. "You know who your forebears are, what blood flows in your veins, and what destiny has gifted to you and yours..."
"Yes, I know because you and mother told me." She gazed out at the canal, her long hair pale in the darkness. "You both think you know so much about me," she said bitterly. "But you don't. There are things I have which are mine alone. Things which are not destiny's toys!"
Volyn stared at his niece with cold fury in his eyes. She glanced up to see his expression and backed away a step or two.
"Destiny? What do you know of destiny? You think it to be some grand force, arranging and moving us all like pieces on a game board, like a puppet master pulling a myriad strings?" He shook his head. "No, no. Destiny is like a mote, or a seed of glory floating across the lands, touching this life or that, drifting here and there like a feather on an endless journey. When it comes to us we have to be ready to grasp it with all our strength, harness it to our will and commit ourselves to the path of greatness..." His voice softened. "When the moment comes, choices become stark and some things, precious things, have to be discarded so that the seed of destiny can grow unhindered. I wish you could see that..."
She had not altered her stance but there was a hint of uncertainty in the way she bit her lower lip. Volyn sighed, spread his hands and stepped closer.
"But perhaps you are right. I'm getting old, and sometimes I forget what it is to be young and at the start of life." He laid a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. "I only have one thing to ask of you."
"What is it, Uncle?"
"Forgive me," he said and with his other hand in a fist quickly struck her on the jaw, just heavily enough to stun her. As she went limp he caught her and lifted her onto his shoulder, then hurried along to the footbridge.
Startled by sounds of fighting, several birds darted from the eaves of the building next door in a burst of fluttering wings, like shadow rags flitting and wheeling among greater shadows. Volyn was almost at the other side of the bridge with his burden when he heard soft swift footsteps come up behind him. Turning, he fumbled for the crossbow with his free hand, then went still as he looked round at the point of a sword raised to his face.
"Carefully place the girl on the walk," said Ikarno Mazaret, pale eyes cold and angry beneath dishevelled grey hair.
Volyn did so, bending with Alael cradled so that her head did not strike the wooden fencing. She moaned, eyes fluttering open. Volyn straightened and, with his gaze still on her, took a half step sideways towards Mazaret then brought his elbow round in a sharp arc, knocking the sword aside. With a growl of triumph, he swung his other fist with his full weight. Mazaret sidestepped the oncoming blow, grabbed Volyn's upper arm and pushed him across the bridge. Volyn struck the bridge's wooden handrail, it broke under the impact and he fell through the air, plunging into the freezing canal.
The water seemed to suck the warmth from his bones as he struggled to the surface. Shaking drops from his head, he heard footsteps receding and his rage filled him as he shucked off his cloak, swam over to a rusty iron ladder near the bridge. Uttering a string of curses, he began to climb. He pictured in his mind all the agonies and indignities he would inflict upon Mazaret, alongside his fear for Alael. He was almost at the top of the ladder when a hand came down, grasped his arm and pulled him up. Back on the canalside he squeezed water from his eyes and looked into the grim visage of his lieutenant, Kodel.
Relief surged through him. "Sentinel! - I cannot express my savage joy at the sight of you here. Coulabric's heir is in gravest danger, taken from me by the leader of those pettty knights. Now there are two of us and if we are quick we can yet retrieve what is - "
He stepped forward but Kodel put out a hand and shoved him backwards. Volyn was astonished then furious.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Kodel gave a sneer of contempt. "What a blustering, blundering oaf you have been, you and that clanking relic Mazaret. Now neither of you have the girl - she was up an
d off like the wind before he could lay a hand on her."
"I don't believe you."
Kodel shrugged. "I care not. For you are a fool, Captain, and you will die a fool's death."
Volyn tore his heavy broadsword from its sheath with a metallic hiss, and spat on the stone flags. "Treacherous dog! I'll split your face like a rotten cabbage!"
Kodel's only reply was a slight smile as, in a single leisurely movement, he unsheathed his narrower blade and attacked. Instantly Volyn knew that he was staring at his death, and was barely able to parry the cascade of lightning-fast thrusts and cuts. Kodel hardly seemed to under strain at all, his every blow and feint seemingly effortless while Volyn was fighting with everything he had.
He could not outfight Kodel, or outrun him along this canal, so his only chance of survival was to make a break for the bridge in the hope that he could get back to the draper's and out among the crowd. Then the opening came - he beat Kodel's sword back with a flurry of furious blows then spun on his heel and dashed towards the bridge, heart hammering in his chest, grabbed the wooden rail to swing himself round onto the span.
He was just a few steps across when he felt the sword enter his back low down and to one side, a flare of agony and the sense of deep, terrible damage. He staggered then slumped to his knees, blade hilt slipping from weak fingers, other hand barely able to hold himself up. There were steps nearby and a figure standing over him. He felt something hot pouring down his back then his arm gave way and he was aware of being pushed between the posts of the railing.
Great Father forgive me...Alael forgive me, he thought as he fell from the bridge. Who will protect you?...
And for the second time he was engulfed by the canal's dark and icy waters.
Chapter Eighteen
Thus the Nytebear prowls and roars,
'Neath fullest moon and blackest nyte,
Whilst the Skyhorse stalks in stealth,
Hiding her wings and greatest might.
—Temple carving from Northern Khatris, trans. Antil Fehris
Tauric shivered in the cold and coughed quietly, trying to clear his throat of the irritating reek of burning. In the quarter-hour since Kodel's departure, the fires Tauric had seen earlier seemed to have spread and a haze of smoke now blanketed the area. Gauzy light haloed a scattering of canalside lamps and the reflected glow from the square behind the high buildings across the canal was a dull, sullen orange.
He and the Armourer sat within the alcove in silence. He had known from past experience how fruitless it was to try and engage the big, impassive man in anything resembling pleasant conversation. Instead he rested as best he could with his damp cape held closed across his chest and stared into the dark shadows further along the canal towards the centre of Oumetra, the direction in which Kodel had gone.
But after their long journey from the forest of Falador, it was not easy to stay alert and he found himself having to stifle yawn after yawn. He dozed a moment or two, and then the massed sound of wings, mingled with a shrill piping, startled him fully awake and he jerked in surprise as a small cloud of birds sped past, some only feet away. In wonder Tauric leaned out of the alcove and watched them wheel in unison like a single creature climbing higher above the city, with other birds joining the flock as it rose still higher till they were lost to sight. He smiled as he looked back at the Armourer, who had apparently missed the entire spectacle. That was when he first spotted the girl running towards them along the side of the canal.
Her long hair flew like a banner as she came on, hair so pale it was almost white. Tauric found himself staring as she neared, as her features grew more distinct in the weak light. A taut feeling uncoiled within him, like the hollow panic brought on by teetering over an abyss, except there was more - expectation, fascination, and recognition.
He recalled the abandoned mill and the vision that had assailed him in his sleep, the armoured warriors who fell apart when he struck them and the one whose helm he wrenched away to reveal a woman with long white hair and eyes like starpoints...
The girl caught sight of him and slowed, staring directly at him. Her hair, he saw, was very light brown and her eyes were quite normal. But it was her, he was certain. He stepped out of the alcove towards her, ignoring the Armourer's grunt of disapproval, and her expression became fearful, her mouth gaping, one hand outstretched in denial.
"No," she whispered. Then louder: "No!" And she broke into a run again, rushing past Tauric and off down the canal towards a footbridge.
Seized by a nameless need Tauric looked back at the Armourer who was now on his feet, beckoning him to return to his side. Then another figure emerged from the darkness at a run - the Lord Commander Mazaret.
"After her, boy! Stop her! Help her..."
"No!" said the Armourer. "You must stay here." And he seemed about to draw his own blade when he recognised the Lord Commander. Tauric shrugged at him, and dashed off in pursuit of the girl with his own sword at the ready.
Up ahead, the girl tripped and fell and he heard her cry out in pain. But she got to her feet and ran to the footbridge, paused for an instant to look back at him then ran across. Tauric could hear the Lord Commander's own labouring pace behind him as he reached the bridge, feet hammering on the heavy wooden planks.
On the other side the girl ran straight on, up a sloping alley which curved to the right and away, Tauric hoped, from the square. Perhaps she thought to lose him in the maze of back ways, but she was visibly tiring and he was rapidly closing.
Then she turned the curve into the shadows between high walls and vanished from view. He pushed himself faster, hand grasping the brickwork at the corner for purchase as he hurtled round in time to see her dart into an archway on the left. Panting for breath he got there a second or two later and plunged on, leaping down a row of stone steps, through an ivy-choked opening and out to a dim alley, only to be confronted by a calamitous sight. The girl was sprawled in the mud, her legs trapped by a tanglenet while a man in black leather armour, maybe a city guard, was walking towards her while raising a spear to strike.
Without pause, Tauric threw himself at the guard. The guard saw movement and started to turn, but Tauric slammed into his shoulder and both crashed to the ground. He had his blade ready, holding it like a dagger, and in rage and fear he drove it between the man's shoulders. The guard let out a bellow of agony that reverberated around them, convulsed in agony.
Tauric let go the hilt of his blade and scrambled over to the girl. The guard's death throes, a horrible writhing accompanied by a gasping for breath, lasted a few seconds before he slumped into immobility. There was a roaring and a cheering and only then did Tauric realise that the fight had had scores of witnesses.
He and the girl were at the end of the alleyway, where it opened into the corner of the square. Fires were burning at the other side of the square, and crowds of townspeople armed with poles and axes were gathered around a large dais improvised from crates and furniture upon which was a pile of bodies, nearly all wearing a heavy black leather armour. Rioters danced over the corpses, or spat on them from the sides.
As Tauric worked to help free his companion from the tanglenet, a couple of slatternly market women came over.
"Are you well, dearie? That's a nasty cut, that is..."
"I'll - I am in good shape," he said, confused by their looks of awe, then looked down to see that the leather sleeve had come adrift and his steel arm was showing. He started to pull it back up, but resumed cutting at the tanglenet's fine fibres.
"You should have stayed away," the girl said sullenly. "I was in no danger."
For a moment Tauric was speechless, then inexplicably angry. "No danger? Then what was he about to do with that spear - go rat hunting?"
She shook her head, and Tauric thought he saw a little of the strange fear from before creep back into her eyes.
"Please," she said. "Leave me alone. Take care of yourself instead - "
An awful scream cut through the din, and v
oices began shouting: "The Mogaun are in the city!...they're in the square!..." In seconds, utter pandemonium ensued, mobs of people running away to the main thoroughfares leading out of the square, or into buildings which offered some safety, however meagre. Some stayed to construct hasty barricades in street entrances or doorways from upturned carts and any looted furniture, while a handful dashed by Tauric and down the alley. Then a column of riders entered the far side of the square at a canter. After a moment or two, the Mogaun split into several groups and attacked the strongest pockets of resistance first.
"We have to get away from here," Tauric said to the girl, but she gave no reply, instead looking behind them along the alleyway. He glanced over his shoulder and saw three figures coming slowly towards them up out of the darkness at the end of the alley. They were dragging their feet as they walked, heads hung low, and as they emerged from the shadows he recognised them as some of the townsfolk who had fled past them just moments before. Then they looked up and Tauric gasped in horror - each face had black pits where eyes had once been, empty sockets which sought out Tauric and the girl and guided their deathly owners onward. The market women shrieked and fled, long skirts lifted clear of their feet.
The girl tugged Tauric wordlessly by the arm, but first he retrieved his blade then backed away with her. He glanced at the opening he came through just moments before and saw the Armourer and the Lord Commander battling another five living corpses armed with clubs. Who could have done this, he thought, bring these unfortunates to life and send them to fight? Tauric could almost taste his own fear, and found himself trembling all the way from his stomach to his extremities, all except his metal arm, its cold and still hand holding his sword in a level, unwavering grip. It became his anchor as they retreated up the alley towards the square and the awful screaming clamour of the battle.
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