by Tammy Salyer
At the moment, Stave arrived at the top of the wide stairs to their floor.
“Oh good, Stave, can you—” Jaemus began.
But the Knight cut him off. “Novice, get your sword.”
He could swear his heart had just turned into a block of ice, if ice could experience terror. “Come again?” he stuttered.
Stave wasn’t about to win an award for patience. “Winter’s Bite. Think you can fight with it yet, do you?”
“…Er—”
But Stave appeared to dismiss the whole line of conversation. He walked inside Jaemus and Cote’s room and swept up the hallowed sword, which Jaemus had carefully and considerately placed as far in the room from anywhere he might sit, stand, or lie as possible.
As the Knight retrieved the weapon, he explained, “The wards are breached. Don’t know by who or what, but whoever’s here will be in our basement in a split. We’d best get your people—”
He stopped short when Mallich’s voice rang through the Mentalios lenses, astonishing Jaemus to be hearing it too. Stave, show the Himmingazians to one of the arms chambers and have them select weapons if they wish. Then bring Jaemus to the catacombs and meet me there. Quickly.
The ice of Jaemus’s heart was suddenly melting, turning him into a puddle of goo from the inside out. “I, uh, I think we should—”
Inexplicably, Stave slammed him on the shoulder with what he must have thought was a good-natured pat and smiled almost joyfully. “Don’t you worry, novice. Swing this like I showed you and you’ll be fine. You can’t die, remember?”
“But what about—”
It was no use. Stave’s frame, as impassable as any wall, was pushing him and Cote toward the other end of the hallway and the stairwell leading to one of the many storerooms of weapons as he hollered out to the other ’Nauts to join them.
With scarcely any memory of how he’d gotten there, Jaemus looked around the dim room many floors beneath Vigil Tower in which he, Roibeard, and Stave now stood. The floor was roughened stone, the ceiling the same, and the air was much damper than inside the great tower above. Clearly, this was the entry to some kind of tunnel or cave system. The heavy wood-and-iron door they’d entered through, cracked slightly open, stood at their backs, and the equally stout door before them apparently led to the things they called “wards.” Or maybe the door was the ward, but Jaemus was too ruffled with fear to ask at the moment.
After bustling the Glisternaut crew and Cote into a chamber that had been filled to bursting with both sharp and blunt metal objects and many more of indeterminate danger, Stave had told Jaemus to warn them to stay put, then pulled him down the stairs after Roibeard before he could protest.
Now, Stave and Roibeard stood between him and the far exit of the small chamber, hardly big enough to add more than two or three additional people. They said nothing, both so quiet the sound of Jaemus’s own breath nearly deafened him. He couldn’t control his anticipation.
“Master Knights, if you would, please tell me again why I’m here.” They’d laden him with an over-the-shoulder bandolier from which dangled a dozen round fist-sized objects, and he pulled one free from the loose binding knot to hold out as he spoke. “I’m a bit confused about the part I’m supposed to play with regard to these…er, balls.”
Stave glanced over his shoulder, saw the object in Jae’s hand, and contorted his half-brow in a look that was either subdued apprehension or frank irritation. “Careful with that now, Bardgrim. Treat it wrong, and ping-pang wiggle-waggle, it’ll do to us what Halla’ll do to a worm under glass. Crispy, if you take my meaning.”
“Yes, yes. I’m hearing what you’re saying, but I’m not understanding what you expect me to do with it. This whole idea of ‘crisping’ something is not settling well. If you take my meaning.”
Abruptly, though calmly, Roibeard turned and took a step toward him. “Novice, your task is simple, but not enviable. If whoever arrives through that door puts Stave and I down and you can see we aren’t going to get back up before they reach the door to the tower, you turn and you run. But first, you drop that bandolier, twist that emberflare petard in your hand till the top spins round, and throw it into the pile. You’ll have the time it takes to draw maybe three sharp breaths to get back behind that door before it goes. And you must be on the other side of it. Understand?”
“And where exactly is it going?” he managed through numb lips. Stop asking stupid questions, Jae, or he may spin your top around.
“It’s simple, it is. You know what a Vinnric looks like on the outside by now, do you?” Stave said, and Jae nodded, confused. “Well you throw one of those petards at them, and you’ll know what they look like on the inside too.”
Roibeard added, “No one—no one—gets through that door, Bardgrim. That’s your job. You have to hold the fortress until Ulfric and Safran can get back. And you have to protect your own people. That bandolier will turn this room to rubble and buy you time.” He put a reassuring hand on Jaemus’s shoulder. “You can, and you must, do this.”
“They’re coming. I hear them now,” Stave growled.
Roibeard turned back and took up a defensive position. Then they all heard it.
Rap-rapraprap. A pause, then: Rap-raprap-rapraprap.
Stave and Roibeard looked at each other.
“Eisa?” Stave said.
Roibeard closed his eyes as if concentrating, then said: “She would have disabled the wards, not tripped them. And she’s not responding to me through the Mentalios.”
The knocking was repeated. Rap-rapraprap…rap-raprap-rapraprap.
Stave shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, it doesn’t. She’s traded the knock code to some enemy. And whatever they paid, they’re about to get it back tenfold.” He tossed a handful of his klinkí stones overhead, where they hovered and glowed like tiny blue moons. In his fright, Jaemus decided not to retrieve his own lonely stone. Who knew what havoc he might cause with one under these conditions. Their little alcove was too small to hope any stray flick would skirt his fellow Knights.
Fellow Knights, he marveled distractedly.
Roibeard looked at the door and called, “State your name and venture, stranger or strangers.”
He’d spoken in Elder Veros, and a muffled, accented voice from the outside replied in the same. “The Dyrrak have arrived to serve our celestial maker Vaka Aster upon the direction of the Nazarian Most High. We bring our swords but have come in peace.”
So what are the swords for? Jaemus questioned. Trimming the hedge?
The two Knights exchanged wondering stares.
“You’ve got to be riddlin’ the feeble,” Stave muttered. “Nazarian Most High? Since when has Eisa been high anything, other than highly full of—”
“Now not,” Roibeard cut in. “Eisa sent the Dyrraks.”
“Yes, I hear that. Means we’ve got one more enemy horde to face, and the Dyrraks were always fight-crazy.”
Jaemus almost asked what Stave considered a man who’d forged and assembled over a thousand battle axes to be but kept his mouth shut.
“The Dyrraks would not be here in small numbers. They’d know better. They’ll have their army, probably. Their martial strength is—or was prior to the Cataclysm—primarily with ground troops.” Roibeard spoke quietly, as if his mind were on other things.
“Doesn’t matter if they’re swimming, flying, or lurching—if they were sent by Eisa, they bring her deceiver intentions with them.”
“It may be. It may be—but we don’t know Eisa’s will or what she was doing at Magdaster.”
Stave nearly shouted, “She sent Mylla to Himmingaze—after firing on her scout!”
“Aye,” Roibeard replied, still calm. “But she didn’t kill her. She could have, she had two chances, but neither time did she. Maybe she was trying to protect her.”
“Now you’re riddlin’ the feeble, Roi. Don’t you go sticking your neck out for that blargin’ traitor again, I tell you. Don’t do it.”
Thou
gh Roibeard’s face was still perfectly composed, Jaemus saw one of his hands bunch into a fist. Caution being the bruiseless part of valor, Jaemus took a furtive step backward.
Roibeard’s next words were as tense as his fist. “The one thing that has eternally been true of the Dyrraks is that they would die for Vaka Aster—”
“Bunch of barmy zealots, they are.”
“Yes, but they are a kingdom that exists for the sake of their loyalty to our Verity. Who better to keep them—both Vaka Aster and Ulfric—safe from Beatte’s machinations now? Eisa might have sent them here to protect the vessel.”
“Or she sent them to kill us so she could take the vessel, just like her zealot kin probably want to do. Remember, she doesn’t know what’s happened, she doesn’t know Vaka Aster is among us again.”
The two fell silent, no sound in the chamber but their breathing. As little as Jaemus wanted to see the insides of a Vinnric, much less a Dyrrak, his mouth started speaking before his mind could tell it to shut up. “Just a quick point. Wouldn’t someone who had the best of intentions simply have knocked at the front door?”
Both the Knights looked at him, then to each other.
Roibeard said, “If we can’t find somewhere safe to take the vessel, then we are failing our first duty as Knights. We have to speak to them.”
Stave squinted up at his still-hovering klinkí stones. “They could kill us first, they could. Or’ve been turned by Balavad.”
“What other choice is there? They’ll come through that door one way or another. After all, they were able to breach the wards.”
“No doubt Eisa told them how.”
“No doubt.”
Finally, Stave swirled his empty hand, spinning the trove of stones around in the air, and nodded. “Always wondered if the rest of the Dyrraks are as ugly as the Nazarian Most High, I have.” He spit on the floor. “Let’s find out.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ulfric had to take a slow, considered breath to hold back his first response to the Arch Keeper’s ill-considered demands, but his ability to draw from his Knightly discipline was diminishing quickly. Remaining still to allow Safran to work her charms was his last resort. They could never open the doors of Vigil Tower to commoners again. Or at least not until he had released Vaka Aster and the Verity was unhindered by human vulnerabilities once more.
Instead of Beatte, Safran looked pointedly toward the Arch Keeper of Yor. “The profundity of your kingdom’s suffering and losses, Arch Keeper Fergus, shines like tears in your eyes.” Her voice carried a resonate compassion through the Fenestros that soothed even Ulfric’s agitation like a balm. “I can only guess at how vulnerable your people must now feel at having been so long under the usurper’s occupation. The Knights heard rumors of the decimation of your militaries, and with the history of unrest between Yor and Dyrrakium, you must be desperate to rearm and rebuild before they learn of your weakness.”
Ulfric turned, his curiosity to see Fergus’s reaction equal to his curiosity about Safran’s tactic. The flaring of the Yorman’s cheeks reminded him of the low rumble one hears just before a volcano erupts, but his words were calculated and calm.
“You cut quickly to the heart of our troubles, Knight. And the answer is, we are.”
Safran nodded and ran her fingers over the Fenestros, still lying on the table before her.
It was Beatte’s turn for reddened cheeks. “Why do you hesitate, Knight Glór? Stallari Aldinhuus, what say you?”
Be ready, Safran, Ulfric sent, knowing he didn’t need to. I’ll take it from here.
He responded to both Arch Keepers at once. “What use do you believe the Fenestrii would be to you, Beatte, Fergus? They are not weapons. Never mind. Don’t answer that, it isn’t important. Experience, recent experience, has shown us that the kingdoms are not equipped to ensure the security of the stones, which are far more dangerous left among you than they will be with us—where they will stay. As for the Vigil Star, our creator is the only entity who may command us. And, Arch Keeper,” he said directly to Beatte, “the Vigil Star cannot be commanded.”
Ulfric rose and Safran followed as Beatte, Fergus, and the cadre of court attendees soaked in his refusal. Beside Ulfric, Beatte gripped the arms of her chair. He could nearly feel the heat of her rage.
He fixed the Ivoryssian leader with his eyes, though she couldn’t see them, and finished. “The people of Ivoryss look to their leader to make the wisest and often hardest decisions to ensure their safety. They will need you today of all days to be both pillar and mortar for rebuilding their hopes and ushering in a safe and prosperous future.
“Have your mourning ceremony, Arch Keeper. The Knights will decline to attend for one reason: we do not serve Ivoryss. Our fealty is not given to you. Do not forget this. While you and your company from Yor negotiate peace between yourselves, the Knights Corporealis, as ever, keep you, all of you”—his gaze swept over the attendees—“safe from ultimate destruction.”
He nodded to Safran, and the two stepped away from the table. “We’ll take our leave now.”
The Ivoryssian leader shot from her seat. “You will not!” With a quick jerk of her chin, she summoned the resident guards to readiness.
The moment he and Safran had entered the room, Ulfric had calculated the number of Marines present: twelve, an easy force to beat. However, the rear of the chamber contained a stairway, and at the top, a balcony fed by hallways leading elsewhere inside the keep. Any number of reinforcements could enter through there, though they’d be grouped tightly before they reached the lower floor.
Ulfric, show them your eyes, Safran sent. Show them who they truly face.
Not yet, he returned. And why not? The reason, he admitted, was simple. He was tired of Beatte believing she ruled over him and the Knights, and he wanted the satisfaction of making her finally accede to her own limits.
“Aldinhuus, you and the Knights Corporealis no longer get to decide our fates. Seize them,” Beatte ordered the guards.
Ulfric had no desire to hurt anyone, either, at least none who didn’t deserve it. Therefore, he cast his klinkí stones into a cerulean net of light, Safran doing the same. The entire group of attendees gasped, no doubt having heard, and some even having witnessed, the capabilities of the wystic stones.
“You mean to take us prisoner?” he asked, his tone one of mock interest. “You wish to go to war with our Order, the same people who saved you and Ivoryss, as well as Yor? What will the people you lead think of that?”
Fergus had not moved from his seat, and Ulfric noted that he watched the proceedings with a spectator’s interest, not the interest of a commander being refused, and he had a sudden insight. The Yorish leader was not here specifically to ally with Beatte, but to ally with whoever offered the greatest benefit. It’s a wonder the kingdoms haven’t clashed in all-out war again since the Cataclysm, Ulfric thought distantly.
No time for pondering it now. The Marines had formed a circle around the table, their own weapons at the ready, and all but Beatte and Fergus had stepped outside their ring. None of the fighters were familiar to Ulfric, and none showed a hesitance to engage the Knights if necessary. Foolish commoners.
“The people of Ivoryss wish for nothing but peace,” Beatte seethed, “and your Order seems to think you have a right to stand against ensuring we have it.”
The delusions of youth and power, he thought. Had she always been so short-sighted and callow, willing to believe whatever convenienced her?
Safran met Ulfric’s eyes. Keep them distracted for a moment, she sent.
To divert their attention—and maybe to speed things up a bit, as this summit was clearly over—Ulfric leaped onto the table with his shield net still active and drew Star Spark. Safran did a slow spin in place, as if she had suddenly decided to take in the room. But Ulfric saw the way the surface of her Mentalios had begun to swirl in a spectrum of iridescent colors. She was watching something outside from the bruhawks’ eyes. Why was her atte
ntion drawn to the outside, when the real festivities were here?
The Knight stopped her slow spiral, and her Mentalios cleared as she looked first at Ulfric, then Fergus, then at Beatte.
“Perhaps you are right, Arch Keeper,” she said. “It may indeed be best if the Knights Corporealis no longer remained an influence on Ivoryss. We will be taking our leave, I assure you. And it will be permanent.”
Surprised, Ulfric sent, What is this about, Safran?
At that moment, the heavy chamber doors were pulled open so abruptly they crashed into the walls, causing everyone to jump and some to shout out in surprise. An out-of-breath Marine, one of those who’d met Ulfric and Safran at the base of the keep’s rampart, plowed inside.
“Arch Keeper, the city is under attack! We must take up arms!”
“The Desecrator!” Beatte gasped, instant fear turning her voice shrill.
“No, not the Verity or Raveners,” the guard cried. “It’s the Dyrraks!”
Chapter Eighteen
“If you so much as breathe loudly, I’ll remove your lungs through the new smile I carve into your throat,” Eisa said into the ear of a strange, remarkably green-in-color man who stood behind Stave and Roi, holding of all things an emberflare petard.
The man stiffened as her dagger pressed at his throat and her armor at his back. He let out a sound like a donkey choking, but quietly, and offered no resistance.
“Good,” she said. And the moment had come for a reunion. “Roi, Stave, it’s safe to open the door to the catacombs. I’ve spoken with the Dyrraks.”
The Knights spun around so quickly they blurred before her eyes. Either they recognized her voice, or they knew it would be hazardous if they accidentally struck a man wearing a bandolier of petards with their klinkí stones, because they didn’t attack. She wondered if they might, given the nature of her departure and what they knew or might suspect they knew of what had occurred between her and Mylla.
