by Hal Emerson
The Prince tossed the Defender’s sword aside and drew Aemon’s Blade in one fluid motion. The long single-edged Valerium blade shone even in the darkness with a bright radiance that gave hope to the Prince and struck terror into the remaining Defenders. They looked quickly at their companions, one of whom was unconscious and the other bleeding severely, and simply turned and ran.
The Prince didn’t waste time gloating – he sheathed the sword, and returned to the horse, finishing tying on the saddle. But then he paused.
It would be faster if you went yourself … if you took matters into your own hands again.
If he killed these two men, and then chased down the others, he’d have more speed and strength than the horse, even though it was of a fine looking breed. If he used the Raven to take the innkeeper as well, and maybe the drunks inside the inn, and then took more lives to replenish himself as he continued on the road, he’d be able to make it to Banelyn and fight any of the Children who happened to be there –
He knelt down and shouted wordlessly into the night, drowning out these thoughts. The sound of his scream echoed around the barn, bouncing off the weathered wood and warping as it returned to him, sounding like equal parts predator and prey, hunter and hunted.
“What is happening to me?” He whispered.
How many more innocents will die if you don’t reach Banelyn to warn the others? YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME!
“Shut up!” He cursed the voice in his head. Where had these thoughts come from? What was he becoming that he could think such things?
He saddled the horse quickly, threw himself onto it, and burst from the stable, running from the thoughts into the black night.
The horse road like lighting and wind, fast and long and hard, pushed by the Prince’s urging, through the night and the swirling mists that numbed and coated him. His wounds began to burn as his sweat dried and the salt stung them. They scabbed and then were ripped open once more by the motion of riding, and soon his shirt and armor, even his coat and cloak it seemed, were stuck together. He bound the wounds as best he could from horseback, but knew he’d need a surgeon soon to stitch them back together. He felt a trickle of something on his forehead, falling into his eye. He brushed it away with his glove, and his fingers came away red. He had cuts everywhere it seemed, and what was left of him was barely holding together at the seams.
His head began to ache, his throat to crack, and his back to throb. The horse’s coat was lathered with sweat, and the beast’s breathing was labored – it would soon collapse from under him, but still he pushed it relentlessly. He needed to get to Banelyn, needed to …
Light began to rise around them, and he realized the sun was rising – and there, in the distance, visible just at the edge of the horizon as he crested a hill, was Banelyn.
He spurred the horse again, only to have the creature fall from underneath him, crashing to the ground. He rolled forward with the last of his strength, just managing to avoid injuring himself. He continued on foot, as fast as he could go, his whole body aching, leaving the dying horse behind.
The sound of the battle came to him first as he made his way forward, running as fast as he could, pulling out any last reserves of strength he had within him. Swords crashing together, the cries of men fighting, and cheers as well. What did that mean? He burst through the last bit of forest that covered the Formaux road leading out of the city to the east and saw figures clashing on the top of the Black Walls; his heart was beating in his throat, but he was so tired he couldn’t think straight – what was it he need to tell them? He needed to …
He fell to the ground, unable to hold himself up anymore. Shapes approached him, and he tried to rise, but found he couldn’t. Shouts sounded around them, and the Prince focused harder so he could make them out.
“Tell Perci we’ve found the Prince of the Veil just outside camp,” said a dry voice, unusually full of panic and fear.
He stood then and took a few steps forward; hands caught him as his knees buckled again.
“Elder Spader?” The Prince mumbled, looking around him wildly, trying to get his eyes to focus, doing his best to see through the fog of exhaustion. He felt as if the air had suddenly become solid – as if his limbs were draped in heavy metal weights.
“Yes, that would be me,” said the man dryly.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, trying to focus, pushing away the hands trying to hold him.
“Why are you here?” Spader asked quickly, looking carefully at him. “You’re supposed to be at Formaux – what happened? Did the plan fail?”
Motion caught his eye over Spader’s shoulder as an arrow broke from a patch of brush and flew straight for them.
Without thinking the Prince simply fell forward, collapsing on Spader and bearing them both to the ground.
Shouts of surprise sounded all around them and a number of men in the colors of the Banelyn guard and that of the Defenders burst from concealment and rushed toward them.
The Prince rolled off of Spader and came to his feet, barely managing to stand. A man ran for him in the brown and red of the Defenders and he swung Aemon’s Blade in a long, wobbly arc. He got lucky and the blade caught the man in the side, laying open his chest. The man cried out and fell to the ground, where the light in his eyes went out.
Strength and lucidity flooded back into the Prince. He pushed the memories to the back of his mind and swung at another of the men, just in time to keep him from beheading Elder Spader. He pushed his advantage, his movements once again strong and sharp, and thrust the Blade through the man’s stomach, gutting him.
More strength flooded into him and he breathed deeply. The world was clear again. It was a good thing these men had come along.
And then the words of Tiffenal echoed through his head – how are you different from me? You kill to serve your own ends.
The Prince pushed these thoughts away, telling himself he’d deal with it later. He couldn’t now – not now, he had to –
And then he remembered, and he was off and running, leaving the men behind him.
He breached the outer edge of the camp with no trouble – the Kindred who stood guard recognized him and stepped aside, with looks of shock and wonder. He ran through the camp as fast as his legs would carry him, making his way to the center. Where was it, where had they set up the damn –
There. The command tent.
He ran forward the last few yards, threw open the flaps, and stepped inside.
Henri Perci and the other Generals, as well as several under captains, all turned and looked at him with open shock.
“What in the name of –”
“You have to pull back – the siege is a trap! Geofred saw us coming, he set this all up, he had Tiffenal steal the dagger to provoke us to invade, he knew that we’d come for Banelyn as the best option, knew that we –”
“Why the hell aren’t you in Formaux?” Commander Wyck demanded.
A shadow disengaged itself from the edge of the tent and came forward and the Prince almost killed Elder Ishmael before he realized who it was.
“What’s going on?”
“You look terrible, what happened?”
“How are you here?”
“I was at Formaux,” the Prince said quickly, “and we killed Tiffenal.”
Silence greeted this, and only Henri Perci was unmoved.
“Impossible,” the man said immediately, “it’s more likely you deserted and left them to die.”
“Shadows and light Perci, not now!”
He turned instead to Ishmael and Oleander, Wyck and Gates and Dunhold.
“I was at Formaux, and when I killed Tiffenal I took his memories, just like I took Ramael’s. I saw what he was planning – he and Geofred, Prince of Eagles, planned to lure us to Banelyn and crush us. Geofred thinks the Black Wall will hold, that we’ll be caught between them and Dysuna coming up behind. Something is going to happen, it’s –”
Henri Perci drew his sword and swung fo
r the Prince’s head.
Time seemed to slow as he tried to understand what was happening. The sword came for him and he ducked just in time. If he hadn’t had extra strength and speed there was no way he would have survived.
Perci spun with the momentum of the sword and came back in a fighting stance. People were shouting and there was movement around them. Commander Wyck came forward, shouting, and Henri Perci turned to him with a terrible look.
“NO!”
The sword swung and Wyck’s head left his shoulders.
And then Henri Perci was gone, fled from the tent. The Prince went after him, drawing the Blade, shock still holding him by the throat –
And then General Oleander stepped in his way and thrust a dagger at his face.
The Prince ducked, mind reeling once again, and brought up Aemon’s Blade. He moved to the side, pivoted, and the sword took General Oleander in the throat.
A flash of sparks lit the tent as the blade tore through the flesh. A blinding red light and a rushing sound ran through the tent, shaking the Prince and leaving spots across his vision.
“What the … ?”
The General fell, and as he did a whirring sound filled the tent, and the man’s limbs jerked uncontrollably. His head lolled back on his partially severed neck to reveal –
Gears.
“He’s a construct,” the Prince said. His mind couldn’t understand it – he couldn’t come to grips with what was happening. No, this was … this wasn’t possible!
His mind flashed back to all the strange ways Oleander seemed to become tongue-tied around him, the way the man could never seem to form a coherent thought when the Prince was in the room. Ever since they’d embarked on the journey north to invade the Empire …
The Talisman interferes with Bloodmagic. He was a construct, formed by the Visigony and enchanted by a full circle of Bloodmages. They must have spent years perfecting such a thing. How long has this all been planned?
“This isn’t possible,” said the stunned voice of Elder Ishmael. His eyes were wide in his normally expressionless face. “I’ve known this man since childhood, he … he …”
Silence fell, and no one moved.
“We’ve breached the walls!” Cried a voice outside the tent.
Cheers went up around the camp, shouts and cries of joy. The Prince and Elder Ishmael looked at each other, not knowing what to say.
“It’s a trap,” the Prince said in disbelief, “I know it is.”
And then more horns began to blow, the harsher, deeper sound of an alarm, shrill and fearful, coming from the opposite side of the camp, away from the city of Banelyn. The Prince closed his eyes and dug deep for courage and whatever reserves of strength were left to him.
The Wolf had arrived to spring the trap.
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Prince of Eagles
The Prince rushed out of the tent, looking south.
In the distance, just cresting the horizon, was the advance guard of an army, flying the gray wolfshead flags of Tibour.
“Dysuna,” he whispered.
But something was different from the memories he’d gleaned from Tiffenal. The plan had been to trap them between the Black Wall and the approaching army, crushing the Kindred in a vice.
He spun back around and saw that the whole of the Kindred army was already inside the Outer City, the collection of Commons houses and shops that formed a ring around the Black Wall. In fact, it looked like many of the Kindred were already inside the Wall, no doubt securing the city itself.
They didn’t know we’d found a way into the city. They didn’t think we could take the walls this quickly.
There was still hope.
“Get everyone inside the Black Wall!” He shouted, running through the camp. He saw a man with the insignia of a captain on his chest and pulled him forward.
“Get all of your men, all the reserves inside the walls – now!”
The man nodded and ran, screaming for his men. The call was taken up by others, and then still more. The Prince whirled around and dashed back inside the command tent, to find everyone still where they had been. Even Ishmael looked too shocked to move.
“Dysuna is leading an army, approaching from the south,” he said quickly, motioning to the under-captains by the table of maps and lists. “Get all of this, keep it safe, and get it inside the walls now! We set up a new command post there – don’t bother with the tent, it’ll take too much time.”
They were looking at him blankly.
“NOW!!!”
They lurched into fervid, frenzied action. The Prince turned to Ishmael.
“Get the other Elders – Spader, Keri, and anyone else who’s with you. We can’t let another sambolin get captured by the Empire and we can’t let them ransom anyone of importance.”
Ishmael nodded and left.
“You!” Raven called, pointing to an Ashandel-Eshendai pair. “I don’t know who the hell you are and I don’t care – find every Rogue, Ranger, and Spellblade and get them up on the Black Walls. We need to hold them no matter the cost, and we need to clear out any last defenders now. We commit all our troops in a full-out assault, we have maybe one hour at maximum before the Outer City is in flames and we’re under siege. Do whatever you can to repulse the first attack, cover the retreat, and then fall back or we close the gates on you. GO!”
They ran, shouting as they left the tent. Others had come in, camp followers and servants, running, packing the maps and plans, breaking everything down.
The Prince looked down at dead Commander Wyck and the imposter General Oleander. Gates and Dunhold had fled, no doubt trying to organize what resistance they could. He needed people he could work with – he couldn’t run a whole army on his own.
I need Leah and Tomaz.
He ran from the tent and raced toward the city as fast as his legs could carry him. The strength he’d gathered from killing the Defenders was still with him, and he used it now to spur him forward.
He raced through the wall-less Outer City, watching as the Kindred rounded up the Commons and pulled them from their homes with only as many possessions as they could carry. The main gate was open, and the entire army was rushing through it. The gate itself was intact – the plan had worked, they’d been able to infiltrate over the walls and seize the city from the inside.
The main battle will be at the inner gate – the ones around the Inner City where the Most High live, where the Seekers keep their lair.
He raced under the enormous Black Wall that had stood for hundreds of years and had never been breached.
Until now.
He heard the sounds of fighting, but it was spread out and distant. He raced among the Kindred, shouting at them to get everyone inside the walls, shouting that an army was approaching from the south. His words and presence seemed to spur them all to faster motion, and he left swirling pools of action in his wake.
He rushed around the park in which he’d seen a slave auction almost a year before, moving in haste past the members of the High Blood and Elevated that were being taken from their houses and rounded up by Kindred soldiers.
The Inner City was before him, the one surrounded by an extra wall that separated it from any but the Most High and the Children. There was fighting in front of it – a huge man had managed to place himself beneath the lowering portcullis that closed the gate. His armor was hanging off of him and his shirt below was in tatters – he must have led the assault himself. The exposed patches of his body glowed with red outlines, as if coals had been placed beneath his skin. He held the portcullis up as Kindred fought around him, men and women in every color of the Kindred forces, fighting with a vengeance for control of the gate. One of these fighters was laying about her with two wicked daggers.
The Prince ran for Leah and Tomaz, feeling the weight of Aemon’s Blade in his hand. He raced into the fray and cut down two men before they knew what was happening, leaving them alive but out of the fight. A spear flew through the air, thrown for To
maz, and the Prince leapt in front of the giant and cut the shaft in two, splintering it and sending it awry.
“PRINCELING?! What in the seven hells are you doing here?!”
The Prince struck down two more men, smashing their temples with the flat of his blade and knocking them out cold.
“Shadows and fire!” Leah shriek at him. “How are you – what are – how –“
