Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  Carrying the heavy baskets, the two women left the rooms and headed down the corridor. When they reached the intersection, Ulandra turned left, and Thia followed her. She had just turned the corner when she heard the Princess call out, “Your Reverence!”

  Thia looked up and saw, halfway down the corridor, a tall man with a shaven head and dark, dark eyes. He wore a scarlet robe that made his pale skin appear even paler. Her breath stopped as their eyes met.

  “Master Varn!” she whispered, then, remembering the last time she had seen him, fear set in. Her basket slipped from her hands and she found herself backing away.

  She need not have worried. As soon as her erstwhile Mentor recognized her, he turned and fled down the corridor.

  Moments later the slam of a door eclipsed the sound of running feet.

  “Thia? Thia, what is it? Thia?”

  Thia staggered, and if it hadn’t been for Ulandra’s grasp on her arm, she might have fallen. The Princess was staring at her, shaken, her voice shrill with concern.

  “That was Master Varn,” Thia said blankly. “What is he doing here?”

  “I don’t understand,” Ulandra said. “Master who? That was His Reverence Varlon, who has been spiritual and philo-sophical counselor to King Agivir these past few months. He is also something of a soothsayer, or prophet, to hear the King tell it. What has he done to upset you so? You are as pale as a specter!”

  Thia looked at her new friend. “How do you know him, Princess?”

  “He has been my counselor, my friend,” Ulandra said.

  “He told me that his god had chosen me …” Seeing Thia’s expression, the Princess trailed off. “Tell me, Thia. What is going on?”

  Thia shook herself like a dog tossed into a snowbank. “It is a very long story,” she said, with a catch in her voice.

  Dropping to her knees, she hastily picked up her basket and repacked it. “And we have made a promise to join the others in the infirmary tents. Let’s find that carriage, and I will tell you on the ride up to Ombal Pass.”

  Once they were seated in the carriage, with its contingent of guards, Thia recounted the story of her life: how Master Varn had been her Mentor, what she had seen that terrible night in the depths of the ziggurat, and finally, how Varn had kidnapped her and been prepared to sacrifice her as Chosen to Boq’urak.

  Ulandra listened with an expression of growing horror and fear. When Thia was finished, she leaned forward on the padded velvet seat of the carriage and sank her head into her hands. Shudders ran through her entire body.

  “What is it? Thia asked. “What has Master Varn done to you?”

  Ulandra sat back up, still trembling. She did not raise her eyes, but stared down at her clasped hands. In a soft, lifeless voice she recounted what had been happening to her over the past few months, ending with a description of that last dreadful scene with Salesin. “I … thought …” She choked on the words, struggling for composure. “Earlier, I thought I saw something in the mirror. Something that was not I, but instead something … else. Something unhuman. And it must have been that same—creature—that emerged when Salesin threatened me. Thia, he was hurt, bitten and clawed.”

  She held out the soft hands Thia had so admired. “I think I remember my fingers, my fingers changing, becoming clawed. Oh, Goddess! Save me!”

  The Princess began to weep aloud, great, wracking sobs.

  Thia moved over to sit beside her on the seat, and, without thinking about the difference in their rank, put her arms around the other woman, holding her close, murmuring words of comfort.

  Finally, Ulandra sat up and dried her eyes. There was a new determination in her features and in the set of her jaw.

  She put her head out the window of the carriage and called out to the driver, “Please, stop a moment.”

  The carriage halted on the road and Ulandra stepped out to face the commanding officer of her guardsmen. “Captain,” she said, “I have an order for you.”

  He swept off his hat and bowed. “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “Send a messenger back to the palace, and tell the commanding officer of the Palace Guard to detain the priest, Varlon. Tell him not to harm him, but to lock him up in some secure place and to post a guard. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the captain replied, bowing again.

  “It shall be done.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Ulandra said with great dignity.

  Picking up her black skirts, she climbed back into the carriage. When she was seated, the Princess rapped her knuckles against the door and called, “Drive on! Make haste!”

  “Yes, Your Highness! Hup! Get hup!” Thia heard the driver shout, followed by the snap of his whip. The carriage jolted into motion again, rattling as it bounced along the road leading to Ombal Pass.

  Back behind the lines, Jezzil sat waiting on Falar, wondering if Company Two of the Royal Dragoons would be called into battle. What would it be like to actually fight his own countrymen? He thought he’d been prepared for the battle, but seeing that brave, foolhardy charge had shaken him to the depths of his being. Watching the horses fall, hearing the screams … he had been as upset as Talis, though able to conceal his reaction better.

  Still, he could not regret his decision to fight for Pela. His friendship with Thia, Talis, Eregard, and Khith was stronger than any comradeship he had ever felt for his Chonao countrymen, even Barus. Remembering Kerezau’s casual cruelty, he shook his head. I am no longer Chonao. I am not sure what I am, but I know that, of a certainty.

  Smoke from the battle was rising high into the hot summer air, but here, behind the lines, it was easier to breathe.

  He could hear the volleys, unceasing, punctuated by the booming of the artillery.

  The sun was well up now. Jezzil judged that it must be an hour or so short of noon. From what he could tell, the Pelanese were holding up against the Chonao superior numbers, due to the superiority of their firepower, but it wouldn’t take much to change the tide of battle.

  For the hundredth time Jezzil looked over at the green of the ravine, a quarter mile as a hawk would fly from where he sat. Narrowing his eyes, he peered through the pall of smoke. He stared so intently that his eyes began to water, and he was about to wipe them when he glimpsed a patch of brown against the dull green of the vegetation. A patch that moved.

  Jezzil rubbed his eyes like a child, fiercely, then stared hard. He could still make out the brown, moving patch, and as he stared, there was another. And another, and yet another!

  Scarcely daring to shift his gaze, Jezzil turned to Talis.

  “Look over there!” he said, not troubling to keep his voice down. “See that ravine, where those green trees break the ground line?”

  She gave him a puzzled glance, then looked. “Yes, I see it.

  What of it?”

  “Look along the ravine, even with the midpoint in the Pelanese troops, maybe a quarter mile from us in a straight line, do you see men standing there? Brown uniforms?”

  Talis stared along Jezzil’s pointing arm. “I don’t see anything,” she said.

  Jezzil turned back, half convinced that he’d imagined it.

  For a moment he couldn’t locate the incursion point, but then he had it again. More brown figures than before!

  “You don’t see it?”

  “No, I—” She broke off. “Wait, yes I do! Brown uniforms, there are men there! On the edge!”

  Jezzil felt a wash of relief as he waved to her to follow him, and urged Falar forward, searching for the major. He located him, receiving a report from a runner, and put Falar into a strong trot.

  Moments later he was saluting Major q’Rindo, who stared at him, obviously not pleased. “What do you think you are doing, trooper?” he demanded. “Get back in ranks!”

  “Sir,” Jezzil said, “have you a spyglass? I believe I’ve spotted an incursion by Chonao troops. They are coming up from that ravine over there.” He pointed.

  “I saw them, too
, Major,” Talis said.

  The major reached down and took a leather case off his saddle, extracted a spyglass and extended it. “Point it out, trooper.”

  Jezzil signaled Falar to sidepass until the two horses stood shoulder-to-shoulder, flank-to-flank. “Over there, sir. Follow the line of my arm. Brown uniforms, against the green trees.

  There must be twenty or more of them now.”

  The major took long moments positioning the spyglass, adjusting it, while Jezzil waited anxiously. Finally, just as Jezzil was about to speak, he took the spyglass away and telescoped it back to its smallest size. “I see them. Good work, trooper.” Turning to the runner, he quickly ordered him to spread the word that he was taking Company Two to deal with an incursion along the ravine and was requesting reinforcements.

  Moments later the company was trotting briskly after the major. Jezzil carried one loaded pistol in his hand, guiding Falar mostly with his seat and legs. Talis rode at his side, flushed with excitement.

  Company Two threaded its way past the ranks of Pelanese infantry, riding faster to follow the major, until they were cantering. The distance was too short and the disposition of the ranked infantry too close to allow a faster gait.

  Jezzil’s heart was beating fast. The last time I was in an attack force, I abandoned my comrades and ran, he thought.

  Will I have the courage to stand and fight to the end this time?

  Beneath him, Falar cantered, gliding like a gray specter through the smoke and the screams. Jezzil sat poised, his pistol gripped in his sweating hand, and sent up a brief prayer to Arenar.

  Grant me courage, O Lord of War. Grant me courage!

  Eregard took off his hat and wiped his brow on his sleeve. It was nearly midday, stifling. Midnight’s neck and flanks were wet with sweat, just from standing under him.

  The Pelanese had regained a bit more of the ground they had lost, and the right brigade had fought back another cavalry attack. King Agivir sat on his now quiet warhorse, scanning a dispatch from Adranan on the status of the left brigade.

  Eregard looked around at the battle through eyes stinging with smoke. They had lost one of the Royal Guardsman to the heat. The young man had passed out, tumbling off his mount like a sack of wet sand. Quickly, two other guardsmen had slung him over his horse and taken him back to the infirmary tent.

  Eregard’s gaze turned to the southeast. Dark, heavy-bellied clouds were beginning to crowd in over Royal Peak, whose crest was jagged like the spires of a crown. Hold off, he thought, to the storm. Hold off. Rain would hurt the Pelanese, because in a downpour the muskets would not fire, and the advantage gained by their better weaponry would be lost. If it came down to hand-to-hand combat, the Chonao still had the greater numbers.

  His mouth was so dry his lips stuck to his teeth. Eregard leaned over, unfastened his water flask from the saddle and tilted it up, allowing himself a few swallows. He didn’t want to drink too much, for fear he’d have to relieve himself.

  Bending back down, he slipped the flask back into its holder.

  “Eregard!”

  The Prince sat up, turning his head to see who had called him. It was his father, who was looking at him, his hand out-stretched. “Water?” the King said, smiling a little. “I’m parched. This is thirsty work.”

  Eregard smiled back at him as he bent over again, his hand groping for the flask.

  He had no warning. His ears had become accustomed to the constant volleys of shots, and he heard nothing different.

  One moment his father was sitting there, smiling at him, and the next, his father’s smile, nay, his entire face, had vanished in a smear of red. Hot saltiness exploded outward, splashing Eregard from head to waist.

  At almost the same moment, one of the Royal Guardsmen shrieked, high and shrill, and dropped like an anchor.

  The Prince felt something smash into his upper arm, into the muscle, like a punch, and he fell, landing hard on the ground. If he had not bent down, it would have struck him mid-chest. Gasping for breath, numb with shock, Eregard raised his hand, staring at it stupidly. It was red. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a flash of white as the King’s warhorse bolted away. His own Midnight shied, nearly stepping on him, as something heavy slammed against the gelding, then slid unresisting to the ground.

  Father!

  Eregard pushed himself up with his good arm and managed to stand. He ducked under his mount’s neck, and then he saw it, sprawled gracelessly in the dirt, facedown: his father’s body.

  “Father!” he gasped, and threw himself down. Knowing the truth, he still couldn’t help turning the old man over— and wished he hadn’t. The features he had loved were gone, the white hair and beard streaked red. He clasped his father’s body as well as he could and bowed his head, whispering the Litany for the Dead.

  When he opened his eyes, the first thing Eregard saw was the body of the Royal Standard bearer, staring sightlessly at him. The proud flag of his country lay in the dirt. The rampant sea serpent swam through a crimson ocean.

  Eregard raised his voice. “Guardsmen! To me!”

  Moments later two of them were there, one weeping openly.

  Eregard gently laid his father’s corpse down. “You two— tend to your liege,” he said. “Convey him off the field and see that he is laid out with dignity, covered by a shroud.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the captain said.

  Eregard tried to get up, only to have his legs buckle.

  “Your Highness, you are wounded!” exclaimed the other guardsman. “Let us take you to the medical tent.”

  “No,” Eregard said. His arm was throbbing, but he welcomed the physical pain—it helped eclipse the pain from the lump of rock that seemed to have replaced his heart in his chest. He forced himself to his feet, stood steady.

  As he did so, one of the guardsmen who was still mounted called out, pointed. “Look! Over there! Chonao uniforms in the midst of our lines!”

  Eregard turned to the highest-ranking of the guardsmen.

  “Colonel Delfano, leave these three men here to assist with my father. Take your remaining men over to deal with this new attack. You must stop them.”

  The man saluted. “Yes, Your Highness!” Signaling to his men, he drove his spurs into his mount’s barrel and leaped forward.

  Eregard turned back to the other two guards, who were busily removing his father’s armor so his body could be transported. Wincing at the pain, the Prince managed to catch the reins of a nearby horse. “Here,” he said, handing the reins over to the guardsman standing next to him. “Get him up over its back. Use his cloak to cover the body.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Eregard took a deep breath, then heard voices crying out … heard them spreading through the army like ripples on a pond.

  “The King! The King has fallen!”

  “I saw it! King Agivir is down!”

  “The King is dead?”

  “What do you see? Is the King alive?”

  “Head-shot! Agivir is dead!”

  “The King has fallen … long live the King!”

  “Are you sure? What did you see? Is he really dead?”

  “The King …”

  “The King!”

  They must not lose their will to fight, the Prince thought.

  Morale is crucial in warfare. They must know they still have a leader who will bring Pela to victory.

  He wondered where Salesin was, realizing, with a shock that felt like an actual sword-thrust, that his brother was now King. Where is Salesin? He must rally them!

  But Salesin was not there. There was no royal leader there to rally the troops.

  Except me, Eregard thought dully. I’m royal. I may not feel like it, but I have to at least act like it.

  Wiping his face with his sleeve, he walked over to the Royal Standard, bent over and picked it up with his good hand. They can’t see me, he realized. I have to get up higher, so they can see me.

  “Where’s my horse?”
he asked. Looking around, he spotted Midnight, reins dangling, wandering free. He pointed.

  “Bring him, and help me to mount.”

  The guardsman saluted and sprang to obey.

  * * *

  By the time Company Two reached the ravine, at least fifty Chonao had climbed out and were forming into fighting units, readying their muskets. Seeing them, Major q’Rindo shouted, “Charge!” and spurred his bay.

  Jezzil squeezed Falar with his legs, and the mare shot out in front of the rest. Within a few strides he was stirrup-to-stirrup with the major. Sighting one Chonao who was pointing his musket at q’Rindo, Jezzil aimed and fired his pistol.

  The Chonao went down.

  There was no time to reload. Jezzil jammed his pistol into its holster and drew his sword. Responding instantly to the pressure of his right leg, Falar swerved to the left, and Jezzil slashed down at another soldier. The man screamed as the sword sliced into him between neck and shoulder, then he, too, was down.

  The next Chonao’s musket misfired, and before he could draw his sword, Falar slammed into him, knocked him down, then the man was behind them, rolling and screaming.

  Jezzil laid about him with his sword, and his training stood him in good stead. A minute into the fight, he did use his reserve pistol—to bring down a Chonao whose sword was aiming for Falar’s neck.

  All the while that Company Two was fighting, more and more Chonao came swarming up out of the ravine, weapons ready. Jezzil’s unit found themselves hard-pressed for several minutes, until a contingent of Royal Guardsmen arrived.

  They were well-mounted and well-armed and made short work of the remaining infiltrators.

  By the time Major q’Rindo’s requested reinforcements arrived, Jezzil and his compatriots were climbing off their horses, reloading their pistols and heading for the rim of the ravine. The entire skirmish had taken only a minute or two.

  Jezzil looked over the rim and felt sick, realizing what was to come. The ravine was filled with Chonao, hundreds of them. As he’d suspected, guide-ropes led up the side. All a soldier had to do was pull himself up, and the climb could be accomplished in a matter of minutes.