by Ken Scholes
“You may be right,” the woman said. And then she’d sent them off with a wave into the early morning.
Now Winters picked her way to a place at the fire and took the steaming metal cup Hebda pushed into her hands. “How did you sleep?”
She sipped the hot chai. “I’m dreaming still.”
Tertius looked up at this. “That is … unusual.”
Winters pushed aside the guilt that mumbled at her. “I should be writing them down.” After a lifetime of dreaming and carefully recording those dreams, it seemed foreign not to.
The old scholar cleared his voice. “Are they about the moon?”
Winters shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. There is a voice. Someone called the Grandmother. But she mentioned the Seaway.”
They glanced at the Y’Zirite soldiers. One appeared to be dozing in his armor. The other was either disinterested in their conversation or couldn’t understand it. Neither of them spoke much Landlish.
“They could just be dreams,” Hebda said. “You’ve been under a great deal of stress.”
She smiled at him and took another sip from the chai. “I don’t know what I would do if suddenly I just dreamed normal dreams.”
Tertius chuckled. “Aye. That would be something.”
She’d spent her lifetime dreaming, culminating in the Final Dream that, like a river, had jumped its bed and taken a new course. Winters was confident that though this new dream was different—along with its new voice—the gist of it remained the same. There was a time when she’d fervently believed it was Heaven—the beyond that her people went to after wandering the Beneath Places when they died—that guided her dreams.
Winters yawned. “Regardless, I’m dreaming more than sleeping.”
They drank their chai in silence after that, and when they finished, the sun was up and casting its watery light upon the muddy road. After they’d loaded their gear back into the wagon, she crawled up into the front next to the Y’Zirite tasked with the drive. “The next town is ten leagues up the road,” Winters said after consulting the map beneath the driving bench. The soldier nodded.
Then Winters reached into her pocket and curled her fingers around the phial of voice magicks. She’d started up the preaching yesterday morning, drawing from her and Neb’s talk on the docks and expounding upon it and, of course, drawing from the dream itself and the white tree full of promise.
She sighed as she examined the phial in her hand. If Erys chose not to take her advice, the woman was likely dead. And if it weren’t for Winters’s heritage, she’d be dead by now as well. She’d used blood magicks off and on since childhood, especially the voice magicks of late. For the longest time, Hanric had used them for her, bellowing out his War Sermons as her shadow when he took the Marsher army to field. But she’d been using them since his death, most notably when she climbed the spire with her Wicker Throne strapped upon her back to declare herself as Queen of the Marsh.
And now, because that river had changed, she no longer preached the War Sermon that set her and her people apart from the others in this place. Instead, she unstopped the phial and touched a drop of the black, sour liquid to her tongue. There was thunder in her voice when she cleared it, and then, as the wagon bumped along the rutted road, Winters preached.
The moon was still in the sky as she described what Neb and the others had found there and as she recounted the dream she had unintentionally shared with the world. Winters kept her voice even and calm, letting it roll out into the early morning for league upon league. She laid the dream out before them and invited them to meet with her in the town ahead to hear more.
And two hours later, when they rolled into the town of Oxenford at the edge of the Third River, Winters saw that not only had a crowd gathered but some of the townsfolk had erected a makeshift shelter for them to stand beneath along with a platform and a pulpit for her to speak from to keep them from a persistent rain. She took to the platform with no fanfare or introduction and went straight to it. The last of the voice magicks lent her voice power over the wind.
During the talk, she thought she saw Endrys Thrall in the crowd, though this time he was dressed as a lumberman. Still, his eyes had shone bright from his place near the front as he hung upon her every word. She singled him out to talk to afterward, but by the time she finished, he was nowhere to be seen. And the people, eager to give something of themselves back to her in light of what she’d given them, quickly dragged her off to the town’s hall to regale her and her companions with the best of the town’s cooking. That night, she would sleep in a bed, and then in the morning she would get up and they would head north to do the same thing again.
And if her words had any impact, then others would also rise up early in the morning. Only they would go south to Caldus Bay for the ships that waited there. And as they went, others would join them. Y’Zirites and Named Landers alike.
Yes, that ancient voice whispered. The Time of Sowing is upon us, Daughter of Shadrus.
Winters looked up from her half-full plate to see if any of the others had heard it. The others were busy laughing or talking or eating. I’ve spent my lifetime seeing and hearing things no one else could and convincing myself it was Heaven.
But perhaps, Winters thought, where these notions came from was unimportant. Perhaps, she thought as she slowly chewed her roast rabbit, the heaven or hell they made from these revelations were more important than their origins.
Winters looked at the room around her. In the midst of war, here was laughter and warmth and a longing for home.
No, she realized. In this moment, we are home.
And Winteria bat Mardic smiled at the revelation.
Chapter
15
Lysias
The sun rose over the Y’Zirite camp at Windwir as Lysias watched his scouts slip out into morning fog and vanish beneath fresh magicks.
He and the leftovers of his forces had met up with Tybard and his men the night before, and the most recent moon sparrow from Rudolfo informed them that Philemus and the Wandering Army would arrive the following day. Lysias had considered waiting until Philemus arrived, but movement in the camp in the hours before dawn hinted that the few Y’Zirite survivors remaining were preparing to abandon the site.
Cold water from the melting snow he lay in trickled into his boots and seeped through his uniform. He grimaced and turned to Tybard. “How many were there at last count?”
“Forty-seven,” he said. “There have been four desertions.”
Lysias’s eyebrows furrowed. That meant four more shallow graves. Rudolfo had been clear on the matter of prisoners, and Lysias had operated with the same ruthless pragmatism before he’d even received those orders when he’d dispatched the young Y’Zirite soldier just a few days earlier. There was no kin-clave with Y’Zir governing the treatment of prisoners of war, and he landed on the same side of that cipher as Rudolfo and Orius in sending a strong and final message to the invaders—a message now reinforced by the pathogen’s sharp scalpel and the promise that the same awaited any other Y’Zirites who followed.
Which of course raised another curiosity—a concern even—to the surface. “And you’re certain the woman the scouts identified among them is Ria?”
The captain nodded. “We believe so. The Firstfall Axe is in her quarters, and the others are deferring to her leadership.”
It didn’t seem possible. Lysias was fairly confident that Ria had used blood magicks for her visit to the Seventh Forest Manor back in the days just before the bombing that had led to Rudolfo enlisting Lysias to build the Ninefold Forest a standing army. And yet the Androfrancine pathogen hadn’t affected her.
Lysias squinted down at the camp. The Gypsy Scouts were impossible to pick out in the morning gloom as they carefully approached and took up their positions. When they struck, it would be fast and hard, but they would leave an opening that funneled any who fled into the blades of Lysias’s waiting infantry.
He glanced at Tybard
again. The younger man’s lips moved as he counted silently, his eyes fixed on the buildings below. Just as he stopped counting, Lysias heard the whistle of alarm rising from the camp mixed with the sounds of combat. The skirmishes were largely out of view, hidden by the clustered buildings, but from time to time, he saw a running form suddenly beset by an invisible attacker and brought down to thrash in the muddy snow. Lysias waited, remembering the long-past days when he was the scout and his general watched from safety. He’d gruffly given up those days, finally convinced by his own superiors that the Academy and a career in leadership were a better use of his skills.
Movement from the corner of the closest building caught his eye. It was a swath of green cloth—the color of peace—extended slowly upon a broken spear. The man holding it was a young Machtvolk—his uniform nearly indistinguishable from the Y’Zirites. Lysias knew his scouts surrounded the man with drawn blades.
The man knew it, too, and raised his voice along with his flag. “I am Garyt ben Urlin,” he shouted. “I serve the true Queen of the Marsh, Winteria bat Mardic the Younger and hold kin-clave with the Ninefold Forest Houses.”
I know that name. He was the Marsher that Rudolfo had pledged support to. Until the birds had died, he’d fed what intelligence he could to the Foresters.
“Hold,” he shouted to the scouts.
Then Lysias stood, and Tybard shot him a questioning look. “I don’t think it’s safe to approach yet, General.”
“It’s safe enough,” he said. His voice had more growl in it than he’d intended, but this was an unexpected turn. Slowly he picked his way down the hill, and as he did, he saw the first of the Y’Zirites attempt a retreat. As the infantry fell upon them, Lysias continued making his way toward the man and his green flag.
He was halfway there and the fight on his left was gaining in ferocity when a shriek rang out across the gloomy snow. “Traitor!”
Lysias slipped, caught off guard, and regained his footing as he turned his eyes in the direction of the voice. He saw nothing but a flurry of snow and mud erupt as invisible objects collided. He heard the magick-muffled ring of steel on steel and watched as Garyt tumbled into the snow and clawed his way out of the fight.
Lysias drew one of his knives and pressed forward. Tybard caught up to him now, already fading from sight as his magicks took hold. “We can’t afford to risk you, General. Let us deal with this.”
But it was obvious to him as he watched that the attacker fought under blood magicks. They held their own easily against four of Rudolfo’s best scouts. And though he didn’t know how it was possible, he suspected it was Ria. The sound of her voice had bolstered the last of her forces, though it was only a matter of time. The Forest Army was new, but now they fought in the snow and mud and not in tunnels beneath the ground, and Lysias was pleased with their effectiveness.
Hopefully it is just Ria and no others. He knew anyone could use the blood magicks … once. But without a lifetime of slow exposure, they would ultimately kill the user within three days. And from what he’d heard, it was a painful death. Still, he couldn’t afford to waste men.
He moved slower now, eyes on the scouts. Garyt was clear of the fight now, and Lysias knew he needed to make a decision soon. They were wearing her down. Rudolfo might not concur, but if this was the Machtvolk queen, she had ties to the very beginning of the conspiracy to bring down Windwir and the Androfrancines and open the doors for a carefully planned invasion of the Named Lands a generation in the making. She had a great deal of intelligence both on Y’Zir’s military forces and plans in the Named Lands and also on the homeland where she’d been raised.
Lysias sighed. “Take her alive,” he shouted above the sounds of battle. Then he looked to Garyt ben Urlin. “Him too.” He whistled for a medico and when one approached he pointed to the grunting, splashing patch of mud. “Get your kallacaine ready. You’re going to need a lot.”
“Aye, sir.” The medico pulled a satchel from the pouch on his belt. Then he pulled another and made his way carefully down to the edge of the fight.
Now Ria howled, and Lysias thought he heard something in it beyond the rage she expressed with her feet and blades and teeth. It was the cry of something lost and forsaken, something broken and despairing. And for some reason Lysias’s mind flashed back to the Y’Zirite boy and his tree drawn in the snow.
Because her cries are the counterpoint of the dream. A lamentation in contrast to that hymn. Because, he realized, she knew was losing.
To his left, the infantry had finished up. They gathered now in the care of their sergeants as the medicos made their rounds. He moved closer and watched as the medico leaped in once Ria was secure. “Hold her mouth open,” he said. Then he leaned forward to get the kallacaine into her.
They dosed her twice before she finally succumbed. “Manacle her and keep her down,” Lysias told the medico. “She is your responsibility. Tybard, assign this man a security detail and secure a wagon and horses.”
Lysias didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he turned to Garyt. “Find this man a better uniform. He’s under guard until we’ve had a chance to communicate with General Rudolfo.” He met the Marsher’s eyes. “Understood?”
He nodded. “Aye, General. But ultimately, I intend to join my queen on the homeward journey.”
The man was fortunate to have been spared the pathogen. Lysias wasn’t sure exactly how many Marshfolk had used the blood magicks in the days before and after Ria’s rise to power. “Understood,” Lysias said. “I am certain that if you’re being truthful, Rudolfo will honor your kin-clave.”
Garyt inclined his head. “Thank you, General.”
Lysias returned the gesture. Then he forced himself away from his new prisoner and in the direction of men who needed praising for a job well done.
He only hoped Rudolfo would feel the same way when he learned that Lysias had spared Ria’s life.
Vlad Li Tam
They moved quickly through the Beneath Places, Amylé out ahead, light blazing from her as she ran the corridors. Vlad kept up with her as best he could, already aware of how much strength and stamina he drew from the staff.
Twice they encountered magicked Blood Guard. With the first group, he drew the magicks from their bodies while Amylé laid into them with hands and feet. The second time, though, he held back and watched in awe as she defeated them without his help.
She is getting better with practice. The young woman had steel in her, and a childhood spent with the military had given her access to excellent training. And now I simply show her how to build her pain into an army.
An army he could use in his war. Alongside his own.
Another ambush ahead. He saw the flash as her body suit absorbed the impact of an invisible blade.
Vlad tapped his staff and then swung it out ahead, feeling it make contact. Then he grabbed hold of the thin black thread of blood magicks and tugged it into the staff. He felt the metal heating and pulsing in his hand. He shoved it forward again, connecting with another.
And then they were moving again.
The Y’Zirites were easy enough to track. Most of the branching tunnels had been sealed off, leaving only a few viable paths. And the one they ran now ended at a closed hatch ahead.
Vlad swung the staff at the locking mechanism, feeling the impact in his hands even as the staff flashed and the hatch sparked. On the third blow, the door swung open. Three men in black robes waited, each raising hands that bore dark rings.
Magisters.
Vlad raised the staff quickly as the rings popped and electricity leapt from them. He felt the fire of it burning into his hands even as something heavy struck his legs and tumbled him to the floor.
The magisters were not alone. Magicked Blood Guard hemmed them in. The chamber beyond them had no visible exit, and half of it was some kind of liquid. This was not another ambush. This was a last stand.
“Conceal me,” he heard Amylé shout to his right before the silver light that surrou
nded her swelled and then went out. Still, he saw the evidence of her work as she moved through the Blood Guard one at a time.
As he fell, Vlad heard a gentle cough followed by another and another. And with each, he felt the slightest sting. It took a moment for him to realize what was happening.
Darts. Whatever they’d put on them was fast-acting, and he already felt his muscles trying to seize. The staff fell out of his hands as he struggled to roll onto his back. He closed his eyes and stretched out his fingers, feeling the heat of the Firstfall steel as it crackled with whatever energy the magisters’ rings employed. Vlad forced his hand around the staff and roared his frustration at the fire that engulfed his arm. He pushed with another shout, and this time their rings exploded, taking fingers with them as they did.
Vlad’s vision grayed at the edges now, and his tongue felt swollen in his mouth as he tried to call to Amylé. He took a deep breath and pulled from the staff, drawing its power into himself like kallaberry smoke through a pipe, bidding it flood him and chase down whatever toxin they had laced their darts with.
He crawled to his knees, then pushed himself up only to slump against the wall. From here, he could see the uniformed men in the shadows, the long tubes held ready in their hands as they took aim at him.
He’d seen the Y’Zirite thorn rifles from a distance, but this was his first encounter with them. He raised the staff against them but knew he couldn’t use it to deflect their darts and wasn’t even confident he could stay conscious long enough to counter the toxins.
He didn’t have to. Amylé shrieked, and in her cry there was a sense of abandon to rage and despair rising off the Younger God in waves. At the crescendo of that shriek, she moved through the last of the magisters and fell upon the soldiers and their thorn rifles.
The tubes coughed, and the silver light that shone from her burned the thorns to cinders as they struck her. Behind them, Vlad saw the two women huddled there and smiled.
“You have something that I need,” he said to them.
