The Witches tried to destroy the ram again, raging from behind their wall. Erol saw the three women clearly now. A tall blonde woman with her hair pulled back to expose her round face stood in front of two other women, all of them focused and intent on what was transpiring beyond the wall. They were all young and vital, but unremarkable in their appearance. Each wore simple trousers and shirts in woodland colors. To Erol, they looked ordinary. It just proved how plain folk could become a force to be reckoned with. It would not be easy ferreting out the pagan source in the land and eliminating it.
As soon as he finished his thought, Pontiff Erol’s vision swam and darkened as though he stood up too quickly. The feeling disappeared almost as abruptly as it had come, a flutter in the depths of his heart accompanied by nausea. He took a deep, steadying breath. He did not know what it was, but nothing would stop him from observing Laver Herid’s destruction.
Angered at her inability to reach the battering ram, the blonde coven leader ignored it and turned the Witches’ power toward Pontifex Lonoth and the hundred souls who made up his choir. Fire sprang from within Elmlin and hurtled across the sky toward Godwyn Keep’s priests in a fiery ball of twisting light. The choir responded with the Pontifex at its head, the soncrist sung in unison, but the fire came on, unhindered. A look of horror crossed the Pontifex’s face before he was consumed by the angry flames and thrown backward from the force of the attack. Screaming as their flesh charred, the rest of the choir disappeared in the chaotic fire until the sounds of their anguish faded in death. The Witches shouted and sent their pagan power into the surrounding hillside, attacking any Kingdom warden in sight.
What in the Seven…? Erol wondered, fear tugging at him for the first time.
Then the world turned to chaos.
Beneath his feet, growing in amplitude, the world shook. It was not like the march of seven thousand men or the momentary trembling of a heavy object falling over. It grew from a source deeper in the world, a tearing at the very fabric of stone in the depths, and the energy release bubbled up toward the surface. The land around him buckled and rolled like ocean waves. Trees swayed. Men and women on both sides of the wall were thrown from their feet, and Erol’s horse staggered about trying to maintain its footing. Buildings in Elmlin buckled and were thrown to the ground like toys. The remaining wintering birds launched into the sky despite the eminence of the rainstorm’s fury. Dust and debris rose into the air, graying the landscape and sky. The quake roared on, and Erol was deafened by it.
After what felt like an eternity, the shaking subsided and relinquished its power on the land. The rumbling vanished but echoed throughout the very fiber of Erol’s being. The Pontiff regained control of his frightened mount and knew something more devastating had happened than the destruction around him. It was not the woe of the men on the battlefield. It was not the destruction of some of Elmlin’s buildings or the terror he saw on the faces around him. It was something within him that had changed—a hollowness he could not describe, a weakness he could not ignore—and could not name. He was lacking in some fundamental way he had always taken for granted. Nothing was right inside, and he could not decipher its meaning.
The Witches were not stunned by the quake. Instead, taking the Kingdom’s forces by surprise, they attacked to gain the advantage over their foe. Fire streaked out, needing to kill.
Responding to the new threat and the destruction of Pontifex Lonoth and their fallen Godwyn brethren, Pontifex Reu brought her choir back into organization and sang. But the fire came on, rushing in a torturous heat wave nothing could survive. The conflagration consumed dozens of men, their screams penetrating Erol’s soul, and Pontifex Reu shouted to the First Warden and his High Captains for retreat.
Somehow Godwyn Keep’s power was gone, and the All Father was not responding to their need, to their prayers. It was as though that connection had been severed. Fighting the panic that rose into his throat, Erol remembered his moment of nausea before the quaking had begun. It was at that moment the link to the All Father had vanished.
It meant Godwyn Keep and its priests were powerless.
It meant the witchcraeft would go unchecked.
As if in response to his logic, the shimmer permeating the wall dropped and vanished altogether. The pagans, unafraid of Godwyn Keep, pushed forward. They swarmed from the gate in the wall and poured into the crumpled wheat fields surrounding Elmlin, unhindered by the threat of violence. With them came witches and warlocks of a lesser nature than the three Witches of the Marcher Lord, their individual might flaring against the retreating army. Laver Herid appeared for the first time, no longer hiding, safe within blood-red plate armor and brandishing his sword to order his army to battle. The Witches and their allies rushed forward from the wall. Kingdom warden died, their ranks decimated. Without Godwyn Keep able to protect them, it was a slaughter waiting to happen.
Astride his horse, the Marcher Lord forced his way to the forefront of his men, cutting Kingdom warden down even as his Witches protected him. At no point had Laver Herid shown himself to lead his men; at no point had his appearance mattered. Screaming with fury at the retreating Kingdom forces, he bolstered his army and solidified their purpose by being visible. A cheer from the men and women of La Zandia spurred others on. They were a tide, where magic and mayhem were tied together
It is like they knew, Erol thought. They were waiting for this to happen.
And they would crush the Kingdom army with their power.
Thomas acted. With his two-dozen hard-trained men, he rode down the hillside like a furious beast bent on destruction, screaming his affront at his enemy with Durendal raised high above his head. The men around him roared their conviction, intent on reaching the Marcher Lord. The Witches sent fire at them, but Thomas caught it on the blade, and the pagan magic dissolved as though the sword were anathema to it—just as the jerich had fled the blade upon being bested. Now, as Thomas bore down on his enemy, Erol knew the First Warden’s sword was more than it appeared, and Thomas intended to use it to change the course of the battle.
Taking it directly toward Laver Herid.
In a flurry of screaming horses, sweat, and angst, the Marcher Lord and his men clashed with those of the new First Warden. The Witches were unable to stop the might of the sword—could not use their power for fear of harming their leader—and the battle came to man against man and the strength of arms they brought to the fray. Using that to his advantage, Thomas worked his way methodically through the first ranks, his men hacking at the untrained guards of the Marcher Lord. Steel rang in a cacophony of clarion insult, and blood soon slicked Durendal’s blade. Thomas was an unstoppable force. No sound escaped him; he fought with calculated anger. Erol knew the First Warden was relieving the pain he felt at his brother’s death. Nothing was going to stop Thomas from his duty; nothing was going to prevent him from his revenge.
Then the two leaders were at one another, both impassioned by war. Thomas swung Durendal at Laver Herid with precise strokes. The Marcher Lord matched the First Warden swing for swing. Both men ignored the battle around them; they were absorbed with the other. All the while, the rest of the pagan army chased after the retreating Kingdom, intent on their destruction.
Anger seethed in Erol. They still had a chance. The Kingdom was retreating, and even the attack by their First Warden could not rally the army. Erol reined his horse around and tried to gain the attention of the High Captains. There was no one in charge. Even the High King had ordered the retreat and left the field, his safety and that of his men more important than winning the battle. Erol shouted at the men around him but it was useless. Fear etched many of the faces as the pagan assault—magic the Kingdom men were unfamiliar with—decimated their ranks. Only Rook remained steadfast, screaming at his warden but to no avail.
Erol grew angrier. The vision of his dead parents and his time spent on the streets of Aris Shae lent power to his rage. To his right, Pontifex Reu fled as well; without her Godwyn power, s
he had lost all her authority. He shouted orders at everyone—at his Aegis Guard and at the Kingdom’s men—but he went unheeded. His chance to quell the problems in La Zandia and kill the pagans responsible for the world’s ill was slipping from him, and he might not ever get the chance again. Hundreds against thousands—with magic or without it—should have been no match against the seasoned Kingdom army.
Rook went down—a victim of the chaos—and was crushed by retreating boots and hooves before being dragged and carried away by those still thinking clearly in the madness.
Suddenly, in the distance, Thomas was struck high on his left shoulder. His brown stallion reared in response, pawing the air with flashing hooves, buying the First Warden time to regain his composure. Blood blossomed and ran over the plate armor, but the older man held onto Durendal. Seeing an advantage, the Marcher Lord came in for a high overhand stroke to kill the older knight, but Thomas was faster. Before his horse had even settled, he lashed out with a blur of bloody steel and drove Durendal’s blade through the crimson armor protecting the Marcher Lord’s chest.
Laver Herid gasped in mid-swing. Shock crept over his face, and his sword fell from nerveless fingers. Thomas drove Durendal in further, and as the Marcher Lord slumped off of his horse, the First Warden pulled his blade free with a clenched grimace.
The pagan leader fell from his mount and dropped like a sack to the ground, unmoving. Those with the dead Marcher Lord backed away from the battle, uncertain what to do. Thomas and the remaining warden guard turned and kicked their horses into action, retreating with the rest of the army. They had stopped the majority of the Marcher Lord’s army, but Erol did not know how long that would last.
At the corner of his vision, even as he tried to overcome the retreat that was taking place, Erol was aware of a dark blur rising into the sky above him. Before he saw what was happening, the Pontiff was hit as though punched by two successive fists.
He fell from his saddle and hit the hard ground, unable to breathe. Confused at what had happened to him, he looked down at his chest.
Two black, feathered rods pointed to the sky from his white robes.
It took Erol a few moments to realize two arrow shafts from pagan archers had buried themselves deep into his chest. Crimson spread in a warm stain where the arrows protruded from his robe. He gulped air, and pain lanced through his body. The ground trembled beneath him as warden quickly fled, their booted feet trampling the ground next to his head, and in the sky, angry clouds swirled. The smell of fear, sweat, and dust hung about him. The thudding of his heart was heavy in his ears.
Defeated and dying, his vision blackening at its edges, the last thing Erol knew before cold darkness embraced him was unquenchable anger.
Chapter 41
With warm darkness clutching him like a mother’s overly long embrace, Pontifex Dendreth Charl struggled awake to the faint flickering of distant torches on jagged cave walls and to pain burning through his thigh amidst the normal ache of his joints. The thick woolen blanket surrounding him kept the chilly depths of the island at bay, but the cold emanating from the walls was hungry for his body heat. Beneath him, a shabby mattress stuffed with straw masqueraded as a bed, the smell of moist mold rising from it close and wretched.
The Pontifex coughed to alleviate the odor that had become buried in his nose and throat, and he looked around at his surroundings. Misplaced trappings from Arklinn littered the cave, adding to the dishevelment. It was not a living arrangement a Pontifex of Godwyn Keep usually had to endure.
But when one was homeless, any sort of comfort was worth the unpleasant points.
Dendreth grimaced as he rolled over on his hip; he would have to rise to work out the aches his body sustained. Days had passed since the attack of the dragons and subsequent mad flight he and the other members of the Kingdom had endured, and Dendreth had been in bed for all of it. The extended use of the All Father’s power had drained him, leaving him weak and at the mercy of others for care. The survivors of his group had visited frequently and Sion had maintained a protective watch over the aged Pontifex, but the living remnants of the harbor town of Arklinn had left him in peace, unwilling to disturb him or his recovery. It had helped. Dendreth had slept and eaten and slept more, until now when he was ready to rise and be of some use again.
The muted thrumming of waves pummeling stone came to him again, a rhythmic reminder of where he was. It was time to find answers and return to Aris Shae.
Dendreth began pushing himself out of bed when he sensed movement alongside the wall of the cave’s entrance. Not alarmed, he focused his eyes upon his visitor and smiled.
Janniva stared at him from a crouch, her dark eyes pools of obsidian glass as they met his gaze. Dendreth had not seen her since the day she had saved the group, but she looked much the same—smudged by dirt, short hair spiked with grease, whip-thin and just as strong.
“You are a son of Godwyn Keep,” she said in an androgynous voice.
Dendreth pushed himself up, the ache in his back from the manic horseback riding flaring anew. He tried to keep the pain from his voice. “I am a Pontifex of the Keep, yes. I serve the All Father and all His people.”
“Sleep well?” she asked.
“I did,” he replied, not too sure of the answer.
“The power you used to keep us safe from the beasts—is that learnable?” she questioned, her eyes sparkling with interest.
“It is, but with much devotion and training,” he replied kindly. “The All Father is for everyone.”
She nodded, her eyes wandering away from him in thought. Dendreth had seen the sense of wonder the use of a soncrist could instill in children who were raised outside of Godwyn Keep’s realm. To a person like Janniva, who had never experienced the All Father’s power firsthand, the soncrist appeared to be magic, a magic that anyone could make. She did not know the truth of it. It took a decade for some even to achieve the lower order of soncrists, and only those with an absolute love for the All Father succeeded fully in their training.
Dendreth decided to change the subject. “Thank you for directing my Feyr friend Sion to this cave. Without you, and the help of your people, we would be dead.”
“They are savage, but we are smarter than they are.” Hesitating, she met his eyes again. “I want to be trained.”
She meant it; the sincerity in her gaze held him pinned. And by staring there, Dendreth learned a bit more about Janniva: an event had happened in her life—possibly the destruction of Arklinn and someone she loved there—that steeled her to ask the old Pontifex for help. If it was revenge she sought, she would never be accepted at Godwyn Keep.
He was about to probe her with additional questions when Sion entered, his distinct Feyr features chiseled in the dancing light of the torches. Following him came Brunckal, the large fat man who had welcomed Dendreth to their cavernous home.
“Greetings, Pontifex of Godwyn Keep,” the overweight man said, his robust voice echoing mildly in the cave. “Are you rested? Do you require anything?”
Dendreth was hungry, but it could wait. “I need information, more than anything, Brunckal. What do you know about the dragons who have taken up residence here?”
The large leader of Arklinn’s people rested his girth on a small stool at the foot of Dendreth’s mattress. “The dragons came months ago, a trickle at first. The first few we attacked and killed, knowing we needed our livestock safe and livelihoods intact if we were to survive the forthcoming winter. But the stream of dragons soon became a torrent, a vast flood without reckoning. They ate our sheep, destroyed our town, and sterilized the island with their infernal fire. Those who stayed aboveground to fight died horrific deaths; those who understood the reality of the situation fled belowground and lived.” The large man spread his palms wide as if demonstrating their new situation. “It was an easy choice to make, really,” he said, turning toward Janniva. “We have a saying here on Falkind: ‘The future is sowed with hope.’ Our children, Pontifex, are that
hope.”
“There is nothing more important in the world than our children,” Dendreth agreed. “Do you know what the dragons are doing on the other side of the island? We witnessed them engaging in very strange activities with which I was not aware dragons were normally involved.”
Brunckal darkened again. “Our forays around Falkind have gone farther as our ability to remain hidden has strengthened and our needs have risen. Food is scarce. A group braves the coast for fish, but most of the livestock are dead. We scour the countryside in hopes of saving enough food for the cold season. I have not traveled far, but Janniva prides herself in going where others do not, even though she disobeys my wish to remain hidden and safe. She may know more.”
“The dragons dig and tear stones from the earth,” Janniva answered. “Massive stones shaped like rectangles.”
“What are they doing with them?” Sion asked her.
“Moving them to the north part of the island. For what, I don’t know. Even I have not gone that far.”
Song of the Fell Hammer Page 59
