by Ash, Sarah
The day before, he and Temir had been met there by two of the High Steward’s druzhina. Today it was defended by a dozen warriors or so, ranged along the top of the battlements and armed with old-fashioned crossbows. A group of miners stood below, brandishing pickaxes as they chanted, “Hand them over! Hand them over!”
And leading the chant, pistol in one hand, punching the air with the other in time to the chant, was Iarko. It was obvious to Gerard—unless more druzhina lay in hiding behind the gatehouse—that the Nagarians were outnumbered by two to one.
“Break the door down!” Iarko waved his men forward and they began to hack at the great door, tearing the wood to splinters with their pickaxes.
“Stop!” cried Gerard, digging his heels into his mount’s flanks to urge it forward. No one paid him any attention.
“Fire!”
The druzhina began to loose their crossbow bolts on the intruders. Most missed their target, thudding into the mossy ground—until Gerard heard a hoarse yell of pain. One of the miners had collapsed, a bolt protruding from his shoulder.
“Nagarian dogs!” Iarko, voice shaking with rage, aimed his pistol at the druzhina who had given the order to fire on the attackers.
“Iarko! No! ” The cry rasped from Gerard’s throat.
A shot rang out, echoing through the forest, and the Nagarian staggered, then fell from view behind the crenellations.
Gerard’s horse, unused to gunfire, shied. Next moment, Gerard found himself tumbling out of the saddle. He hit the stony ground—hard. Winded, ears ringing, he tried to push himself up on to his knees. His horse skittered away from him, nervously shaking her head, eyes wild and alarmed. Blood trickled into his eyes as he tried to make out what was happening. Through the red, he saw the miners push open the battered gatehouse door—Iarko waving them on—only to be met by the Nagarian defenders.
“No!” Gerard dashed the blood away with the back of his hand and got unsteadily to his feet, staggering forward. His pistol was still in the saddle holster. He was unarmed. But he had to stop the fight from escalating.
“ Iarko! ” No one could hear him; they were too intent on exacting their revenge.
Must stop them. Any way I can.
A fierce blast of snow-chill wind gusted through the forest, setting the tree branches writhing. Its keen edge was like a dash of icy water, reviving Gerard, clearing his head, charging his body with new energy.
Suddenly the air was streaked with silver wisps of wind that curled and spun around him, just as they had on Berse Heath, on top of the academy tower, and only a couple of days ago, at Morozhka’s Round.
This sensation . . . so exhilarating. The mountain wind gusted about his ears, ruffling his hair, each buffet like the playful leaps and nudges of an exuberant hound.
Instinctively, Gerard raised both arms, reaching out to catch it and channel it through his outstretched hands, sending the full force of the snow wind hurtling toward the fighting men.
***
The distant cry, desperate yet fraught with fury, resonated through Kaspar Linnaius’s mind like a sizzle of lightning.
The wouivres sensed it too, for Izkael turned his horned head.
“Did you feel that, Kaspar?” he cried even as the sky-craft sped onward through the clouds.
“It’s him,” Linnaius said. The unfamiliar voice sent a thrill through him: hope, terror and fear mingled in equal measure.
“Is this the one you’ve been searching for?” Instinctively, Izkael had changed direction, his siblings following his lead, heading toward the voice.
“It could be.” Linnaius didn’t dare to allow himself to believe that his long search might be over. “Whoever it is, they’re in danger.”
Had Ardarel and the Heavenly Guardians already tracked young Bernay down? The thought that he might come too late was almost too unbearable to contemplate.
His skin tingled. A shiver ran through him as he sensed that other wind mage reaching out into the aethyr again to summon help. And this time the presence was much closer—and much more desperate.
He’s in danger.
Chapter 44
The sun, sinking in the far west, cast an eerie light over the empty steppe. Semyon felt a prickle of goosebumps and rubbed his arms, hoping it was no more than the chill of the oncoming night and not a presentiment of bad news. Another long day had dragged to its conclusion and Lord Gavril had still not returned.
He and Vasili had taken it in turns to patrol on horseback. They counted birds of prey overhead. They ate the last of their strips of dried meat, leaving only a handful of nuts and berries to sustain them until they traveled back through the pass and reached the inn at the border.
And to make matters worse, the gently undulating grasslands offered up no landmarks to help them mark their progress; whichever way Semyon looked, all he could see was grass and scrubby bushes. So when his keen eyes spotted the signs that horsemen had passed that way, he pointed them out to Vasili who instantly jumped down from the saddle to investigate.
“They’re definitely the prints we made earlier on.” Vasili looked up from examining the evidence: the scuffed grass, the hoof-marks in the earth. “No one else has come this way since then.” He straightened up, wiping the dirt from his hands on his breeches.
“Lord Gavril’s never abandoned us before.” Semyon dismounted and gazed out across the empty grasslands. He could see no hint of movement. Only the high keening cry of an eagle, wheeling high above their heads, broke the stillness. “He rescued me and Dunai when the Francian Commanderie abducted us. Snatched us right from under their noses.” Semyon still found it hard to speak of those dark days; the mental scars left by the Commanderie interrogators had gone deep, lingering long after the physical scars had faded. “He was . . . magnificent. And terrifying. I’ve never seen him so angry.”
“Was he in full Drakhaoul form?” Vasili stared at Semyon, wide-eyed.
“Oh, yes.” Semyon, lost in the memory, saw the midnight glitter of dragon scales, the hooked claws, hard as slivers of sapphire, the furious gleam in burning-blue eyes. He snapped back out of the reverie. “Didn’t your brother ever tell you?”
Vasili shook his fair head, in a way that reminded Semyon of his elder brother Dunai. Physically, Vasili and Dunai were strikingly similar, handsome young men with hair so blond it was almost white, but their personalities were diametrically opposed: Dunai had become the silent stoic, while Vasili remained resolutely cheerful and outward-going.
“Dunai doesn’t talk about what happened in Francia,” Vasili muttered. “Da said not to ask him. Said he’ll tell us when he’s ready. But when I saw what they’d done to his leg . . .” He gave a dry shudder of disgust. “Those bastard Francians.”
Semyon cuffed him. “Don’t let Lord Gavril hear you talk that way. They’re our allies now.”
“And Lord Gavril’s lost his Drakhaoul powers.” Vasili glared at him, rubbing his cheek.
“He’ll be back,” Semyon said staunchly, although he realized how hollow his words must sound.
“We should never have agreed to split up. One of us should have accompanied him.”
Vasili was right which only annoyed Semyon even more. “But he insisted on going alone.”
As the daylight faded to twilight, a wind began to sigh across the steppes, setting the grasses whispering. A faint whinny made the grazing horses raise their heads, startled.
“Did you hear that?” Vasili grabbed Semyon’s arm. “Someone’s coming!”
Semyon’s heart began to thud. Lord Gavril hadn’t betrayed their trust after all; he had kept his word. Eagerly, he scanned the darkening plain.
“Is that Krasa?” Vasili pointed at a shadowy shape moving toward them at an unsteady pace.
Semyon put two fingers to his lips and whistled encouragingly; he had known Krasa since she was a foal and had helped Ivar to break her in.
“That’s Krasa all right,” he said, starting out toward her, then halting when he saw there
was no rider in the saddle. “But where’s Lord Gavril?” He called softly, “Here, girl. Over here.”
The roan mare approached warily until he was able to reach up and catch hold of her slack reins with one hand, patting her reassuringly with the other. Her coat felt greasily damp and her eyes stared wildly at him. “It’s all right, Krasa,” he murmured, “you’re with friends now. But where’s your master?”
Vasili came over, moving slowly so as not to spook the jittery mare. Both men looked at each other in the dwindling light across the mare’s empty saddle.
“What d’you think, Sem?”
“No bloodstains.” Semyon checked the saddlebags. “But no sign of a message.”
“Has he fallen off?”
“Unlikely. Lord Gavril’s a good horseman.”
“But if they were attacked by those steppe wolves, Krasa could have bucked and thrown him.”
The thought had occurred to Semyon too although he hadn’t wanted to say it out loud, as if the very act of putting thoughts into words would somehow confirm the possibility they were true.
“Perhaps,” he began slowly, “he’s persuaded my lady to change her mind and they’re on their way back. Or perhaps he’s traveling with her deeper into Khitari to do . . . whatever it was my lady needed to do there.” But to just disappear . . .
“So what do we do?” He heard the uncertainty in Vasili’s voice. “Go back to the kastel without him?” He knew the young druzhina was looking to him to come up with a plan—and he had nothing.
“That’s what he said. If he didn’t return after a couple of days. We have to go back and tell the Bogatyr. Only it doesn’t feel right, somehow.”
“How will he travel without Krasa? On the tea merchant’s cart?”
“Everything’s still in the saddlebags,” Semyon said. “Water, provisions, pistols . . .” He leaned his head against Krasa’s sturdy neck, silently telling himself not to imagine the worst. He believed in Lord Gavril. There had to be a reason.
“The blood-bond,” said Vasili. “Try the blood-bond.”
Semyon had not wanted to resort to such a drastic measure as his lord had always insisted it was not to be used except in the direst of emergencies. And he and Vasili were not in any danger. To call to Lord Gavril when he had already told them to return to the kastel would be akin to disobeying his orders.
“But if he was injured, or worse,” Vasili insisted, “how would we know?”
Semyon thought about this. “Lord Gavril gave us a message to deliver,” he said slowly. “‘Tell the Bogatyr to be on his guard in case the Arkhels try to stir up trouble while I’m away.’” He let out a sigh that vibrated through his whole being. “So we have no choice but to follow his instructions and go back to the kastel.”
Chapter 45
The branches tossed and groaned as the gale tore through Kerjhenezh forest, stripping off leaves, pine needles and cones. It hit the Nagarian gatehouse with such force that roof tiles and loose stones were dislodged, raining down on the brawling men, along with a hail of forest debris. Some clutched their eyes as dry earth blew around in blinding dust clouds; others fell back as they were pelted with branches and debris. The roar of the wind was deafening as it lashed the trees but Gerard faintly heard Iarko bellowing, “Take cover!”
Have I stopped the fight? Half-blinded by swirling dust and grit, Gerard peered through streaming eyes to try to make out what was happening.
The cloudy sky was suddenly rent in two. Lightning dazzled Gerard—yet through the jagged rent he could just make out a figure emerging, cleaving the boiling clouds asunder with a fiery blade. Astonished, he stared upward, wondering if he was concussed and hallucinating.
Wings, each feather flame-tipped, unfurled from the figure’s shoulder blades; they rose and fell in shuddering strokes, controlling his descent, like a mountain eagle swooping down from the high peaks. The Winged Warrior’s hair was fiery gold, streaked with copper and crimson and his eyes burned like glowing coals as he scanned the ground beneath him.
An angel? It had to be some trick of the Nagarians to scare the Arkhels away, a kind of automaton designed to intimidate and confound attackers. But as the winged one came closer, Gerard felt a shimmer of heat issuing from his gleaming body.
Like standing too close to the blast furnace at the Iron Works. If this is some mechanical construct, it’s very advanced . . . a flying automaton.
“Where is he?” A voice issued from the angel’s mouth, brazen as the martial blast of a trumpet. “The wind mage?”
Gerard dimly registered that the guttural cries of the battling clansmen had ceased. All he could hear was the beating of the powerful wings and the clarion voice.
Wind mage. Who does he mean?
And then the fiery eyes fixed on him and he felt their heat searing into his mind.
“ There you are.”
Me? Gerard wanted to run for cover but his legs refused to move. Fear paralyzed him. Instinctively, he raised his hands and arms to protect his head. The silvery wisps of mountain wind swarmed to him, as if answering his silent plea for help. Even as the angel Warrior drew back the fiery blade for the final blow, he saw that they were not mere wisps of mist, they were translucent sky dragons, weaving in and out to create a barrier. Gouts of flame dripped from the angel’s sword, swirling to make one dazzling, burning barb that sang through the air as it descended.
“Die, Magus.”
The angel Warrior raised the fiery blade, bringing it down in a flaming arc that scored a slash of dazzling heat across Gerard’s vision.
Half-blinded, he closed his eyes, waiting for the white-hot metal to slice through flesh and bone, severing the thread of his life in one agonizing slash.
He felt his legs buckle beneath him. There was nowhere to hide.
“Toran,” he whispered. His heart ached with unfulfilled love and regret. If only I could have seen you once more before . . . He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the scorching blast of fire to obliterate him.
A tremendous gust of chill air swept through the glade. The temperature dropped as the fiery blast was extinguished in a sudden cloudburst. Gerard opened his heat-stung eyes.
The fiery angel turned his attention from him, swiveling around in mid-air to counter the new attack.
Swooping down through the storm clouds came a sky craft pulled by a great horned sky dragon. At its prow stood a stern-faced old man, one hand outstretched toward the fiery angel, white hair streaming behind him in the wind.
Chapter 46
The Emperor decided to wear his new uniform as commander-in-chief of the New Rossiyan Imperial Army to grace the final round of the competition.
The weather—thankfully for an unreliable spring in Tielen—was fine, with only the lightest of breezes blowing from the northeast. The sky above Swanholm was the palest blue, dotted with one or two innocent-looking white clouds as Eugene went out onto the wide viewing platform on the balustraded terrace above the gracefully curving double staircase overlooking the park. The fine morning only served to enhance his good humor: he had eaten some delicious local smoked herring with coddled eggs for breakfast and now he was ready to take the next step in promoting the new mechanical science of aeronautics.
The cadets from Tourmalise filed out in their dark blue uniforms to stand obediently to attention below as their team leader, a fearsomely mustachioed officer, inspected them. They looked painfully young and inexperienced alongside the rival team from Tielborg University, led out by Doctor Maulevrier, with Altan Kazimir hovering anxiously in the background. But Eugene’s attention was distracted by a ray of morning sun glinting in the hair of one of the cadets.
Arkhel gold.
He turned to Colonel Lindgren and murmured, “Who is that boy?”
Lindgren gave a start; he also had been staring at the contestants—but at Maulevrier’s team.
“Which boy, majesty?”
“You have a list of the team members, don’t you?”
“The list of competitors?” Lindgren beckoned one of his adjutants forward who presented an elegantly scribed document to the Emperor with a bow. Eugene scanned it, focusing on the names under the heading: Paladur Military Academy.
“Cadets Elyot Branville, Toran Caradas, Piers Lorris . . .” He stopped. The name Caradas was vaguely familiar but for the moment he could not remember where he had heard it before. He turned to summon Gustave to his side but heard the imperial palace band strike up the brisk, uplifting introduction to the New Rossiyan national anthem and was obliged, fuming, to stand to attention. The band master must have interpreted his gesture as the signal to commence the ceremony. This was instantly followed by the more sedate tones of the Tourmaline anthem which gave him longer to gaze at the cadets.
For a moment, I was convinced that Jaromir had come back. He blinked and stared again. A trick of the sunlight? But there was no doubt: the cadet had hair of the same distinctive bronzed gold peculiar to the Arkhel bloodline.
Another Arkhel born out of wedlock, like Stavy? Or could it be . . .
“Gustave,” Eugene said softly, “find out for me who Toran Caradas is and where he hails from. Go ask the Tourmaline ambassador.”
Gustave raised one eyebrow as if to say, “What, now ?”
“I need to know.”
***
Toran, dazzled by the clear Tielen morning sun and the austere grandeur of Swanholm Palace, stared up at the tall, broad-shouldered man on the terrace who, although flanked by high-ranking officers, ministers and ambassadors, drew everyone’s gaze.
Emperor Eugene.
In his simple cloud-gray uniform, the Emperor exuded an air of calm authority and confidence as he took the salute of his household troops. Then, as Eugene turned to glance at the contestants, Toran felt for a brief moment as if he had been intimately scrutinized and assessed. Beside him, he sensed Branville tense; was he impressed too, in spite of his earlier disparaging comments?
