“MODI!” The cry came naturally, trained through nearly a century. His charge became the rush of a whirlwind, and he left a line of dying men in his wake. No longer needing to concern himself with defense, he slashed like a crazed thing. Control snapped, plunging his brain into a darkness deeper than hovering death. He was a spinning flicker of lightning, yet far more deadly. The gashes their swords tore in his abdomen and sides meant nothing to him, and his thrusts sent every Northman in his path to Valhalla.
Santagithi continued to fight as well, though he found himself slightly less pressed. He dodged a Northman’s stroke with ease. His foot twisted on an irregularity in the stone, and he fell to one knee. He threw up a hand in defense, but a Northman’s sword sliced through his face. A second sword buried in his spine.
With a roar of rage, Colbey sprang upon the remaining pair of Northmen as they extinguished all life from Santagithi. One lost his head before he could free his sword from Santagithi’s back.
The last Northman shrank from the icy glare of the grim-eyed demon who faced him.
CHAPTER 16
Storm Before the Calm
To Mitrian and the twenty-eight survivors of the war with the North, dawn seemed a welcome change from the confining darkness of the caverns. Homeless and horseless, they stared at the layered pink horizon in sorrow. A pair of brothers in guardsman’s uniforms clung to one another, unabashed. Aside from Mitrian, Garn, Rache, and Episte, who had one another, every other man and both of the women were alone. Mitrian resisted the urge to clutch her child and husband. Such an action would be cruel to the rest of the scraggly band that was all that remained of Santagithi’s people. And still they were not safe. Too many soldiers, wearied by war and running, depended on the guidance of their three remaining leaders; Bromdun, Garn, and Mitrian had little choice but to follow their general’s last command.
Thoughts of Santagithi sank Mitrian into the same grieving quagmire as her charges. She knew her father and Colbey had chosen to sacrifice their lives for these townspeople who quivered on the stones awaiting their leaders’ orders. She felt guilty mourning the lives of heroes when she still had so much. Yet, for all the relief she felt over the presence of three loved ones, it did not ease the ache of losing her father and the man who had trained her. These pained first, peaking crescendos of agony surrounded by the duller throb of too many friends dead to sort individuals from her mind.
“Quickly.” Turning her back on the Granite Hills, Mitrian hopped down a series of crags like stairs, and slipped into the forest between the mountains and the Town of Santagithi. Many horses grazed singly, or in clusters, still saddled and bridled for the fighting men stricken from their backs. Mitrian chose a hardy chestnut, watching her husband and their followers scramble for mounts as well. They moved with a despairing slowness, lost in the memory of friends, family, and the only reality they knew, stolen from them after ten years of war. Most of the women and children still lived, Mitrian knew, yet they could wait. First, she needed to get the men and women with her to safety. Only then could they worry about collecting survivors and rebuilding the town.
Mitrian set the pace at a trot, certain the Northmen would soon come upon them and renew the chase. She dared not look back as they traveled west, then south along the southern extension of the Granite Hills. Color faded from a sky that turned a uniform blue as the sun crept across the horizon. Mitrian’s thoughts slipped again and obsessively to Santagithi and Colbey. She imagined them plunging into battle with an exuberance that never seemed to fail. She saw Colbey as a blur of gold and silver. After watching him plunge into certain death repeatedly, to see age mark him so little, she had come to believe the Golden Prince of Demons invincible. But logic told her otherwise. The single factor that had kept him alive was skill. Numbers and luck would overpower even his abilities, and he had already been injured and exhausted in Emerald’s cottage. Nevertheless, she let herself hope. If anyone can survive an army of Northmen, it’s Colbey and my father.
As her nearly spent group crossed from woodlands to fire-cleared plains, Mitrian veered southward, toward Shadimar’s ruins. A wind rose, cold as steel, biting beneath Mitrian’s cloak. The sky dimmed to a neutral slate, and icy rain fell without warning. That was when the fog covering Mitrian’s mind lifted enough for her to recall the magical tempest that warded the Eastern Wizard’s home. She whirled on her horse, screaming a command meant to bunch her followers. But black clouds surged over them like tide, swallowing the sun, and the day grew as dark as a moonless night. Wind slapped Mitrian’s face, drowning her command in its howl. Rain pelted her, no longer stinging droplets but a frenzied wave of water that soaked through all the layers of her clothing. Her horse trembled. Mitrian considered turning, but she knew from experience that that would only rob her of all sense of direction. Instead, she hunched against the horse’s neck, urging it onward.
Guilt rode Mitrian, its surges as wild as the storm; and she cursed the grief that had allowed her to grow incautious. She had dragged her sorrow-stricken, exhausted followers into a threat familiar only to herself, a rain that sorrow had caused her to forget. She did not know for certain whether Shadimar had even returned from his mission; she could only trust his promise to be home if and when Santagithi needed him. She consoled herself with the realization that the ruins of Myrcidë would offer the surviving soldiers some shelter, and Shadimar’s gale would deter the Northmen. At least, her followers knew they headed toward the home of the Wizard. The sorceries might not catch them wholly off their guard.
Something unseen thudded onto the rump of Mitrian’s horse. The chestnut reared with a thunder-masked scream. Mitrian twisted numbing fingers in its mane. The horse reared upward again, and Mitrian fought its panic along with her own. She could not recall the storm seeming nearly so malignant in the past. This time, she feared that the slightest diversion might send her and her followers in the wrong direction. Without a horse, she could never hope to battle through the tempest. The chestnut reared again, forelegs clawing through fog, then dropped, rocking into a crazed buck.
Mitrian clung to the mane with one hand. With the other, she drew her sword and swung blindly over her horse’s hindquarters. Her blade cut air, then met slight resistance. Lightning split the heavens to reveal a tawny shadow bounding from her horse and racing into the darkness. The horse planted its hooves in the muddy ground.
Mitrian urged the animal forward, sheathing her sword, confused as well as concerned. She dared not believe a predator had smelled her horse through the storm, even had one chosen to hunt in a magical rain; but if it killed her mount she could never reach Shadimar. Even now, the wild surges of the horse had made her lose her bearings, and she feared she might ride the wrong way, right into the swords of waiting Northmen. The wind rushed, agony through her ears. Then another blast of lightning colored the sky, briefly revealing another horseman. Mitrian reined toward the figure. Her horse’s leap forward threw them into a wall of wind and rain. Afraid to lose the only person she had seen in the darkness, she flailed for the place where she had seen him. One sweep met a human arm, and she clutched it. A small, damp hand found hers, and closed comfortingly. They became two lost souls, locked together and no longer alone.
“Who are you?” Mitrian asked. It was a wasted effort. Only one sound penetrated the thrum of wind, a distant, piercing wolf howl. Idly, Mitrian wondered why she could hear this noise but not the frantic whinnies of her mount. Wolves reminded her of Secodon and Shadimar, so she reined toward the sound, hauling her companion with her.
Suddenly, stone scraped cloth and skin from Mitrian’s calf. She recoiled with a sharp intake of breath. Her horse reared. Its hooves came down hard on a shattered statue, and it staggered. Tossed abruptly sideways, Mitrian plummeted, scrabbling for a hold on her floundering mount. Gentle hands caught her shoulders, steadying, then guided her to the front of his own saddle. Pinched against the horn, Mitrian pressed to her benefactor, exploring his knee for some clue to his identity.
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The other placed his mouth to her ear and spoke loud enough to be heard. “It’s Episte. Hang on.”
Mitrian clung to the horse’s mane, relief bringing tears to her eyes. At least one of the young Renshai had survived the storm, though she could not help wishing she had found Rache. Guilty for the thought, she found that it again opened the floodgate of shame and remorse. Without a warning, she had led the survivors into a magical storm that might claim most of their lives. Yet she had never remembered the Wizard’s storm being lethal; before it had seemed more of a mild deterrent than a weapon. Another thought hit her. If she had skinned her leg on a statue, it could only mean they had entered the old city.
As if on cue, another flash displayed the ruins of Myrcidë. Knowing the way, Mitrian seized the reins at a point nearer to the horse than Episte’s hands and steered for the remembered location of Shadimar’s hall. Soon the door loomed before them, closing off an opening that Mitrian had entered without challenge once before, in dream, and had taken a note from on her second visit. The portal whisked open as they approached. The horse rushed for shelter.
Once inside, Mitrian found herself in a massive chamber that had changed little in the years since Shadimar had traded her the two topaz gems that still graced the wolf’s head hilt of her sword. She found the Eastern Wizard himself standing like a doorman. Thirteen horses feasted on blueberries, carefully picking around the branches with an unhorselike meticulousness. Their sodden saddles, blankets, and bridles lay in a disorganized heap nearby. Mitrian dismounted, surprised to find that Episte had leapt down first. He stripped off the animal’s saddle while Mitrian removed the bridle. Dropping the tack onto the pile, they released the horse. It wandered off to join its companions.
“This way,” Shadimar said. Without awaiting a reply, he headed deeper into the ruins. They passed through a long hall in silence, then the Wizard ushered them into a room. Two steaming bowls sat on a wooden table surrounded by chairs. A pot hung over a blazing fire in the hearth. The wolf sprawled by one of the chairs.
Shadimar gestured them into the room.
Mitrian stepped inside. Episte slipped past, taking a seat at the table. She turned back to face the Eastern Wizard. “Others are here?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes. And they were famished. Sit. Eat.”
Episte sat.
Mitrian moved toward one of the bowls, still too nervous to eat. “Were Garn and Rache with them?”
“Rache has come, but not Garn.” Shadimar ran through a list that included Galan and one of the two women. He did not mention Bromdun, and Mitrian guessed the other two commanders had hung back to help as many of the stragglers as possible. Since she knew the route, it made sense for her to stay in front and the other leaders to take up the rear.
“Can I see Rache?”
Episte lowered his head. He stirred a spoon through the mixture in the bowl, but he did not speak or eat.
“Soon enough,” Shadimar said. “He’s fine, but he’s sleeping. There are others who may or may not make it through the storm.”
“Hello, Secodon.” Mitrian gave the wolf a feeble greeting and deliberately took the seat nearest him, though her food sat one place further along. She reached to pet him.
Secodon stood stiffly, avoiding her touch. He limped closer to the fire.
Mitrian frowned, surprised by the animal’s behavior. He had always seemed friendly before. But, for now, more pressing matters needed attention. “Garn? Will he make it?”
Shadimar shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s no way to tell till he gets here.”
“You knew I was coming to ask about the falcon.”
“I didn’t predict that. I was watching when Santagithi sent you.”
Shadimar’s revelation did not surprise Mitrian. Sterrane had claimed that he and Shadimar directly spied on Béarn’s castle using magic.
Episte continued to stir, as if entranced.
Despite the Eastern Wizard’s hospitality, Mitrian could not help feeling betrayed. “This is your storm.”
“In a strange and simplistic manner of speaking.” In spite of the possible implications of his words, the Wizard’s tone made it clear he meant no offense.
“Were you trying to kill us all?”
“Certainly not.” Shadimar paused for a long time, as if he would let the matter rest half settled. At length, he finished. “I’ve told you magic is unpredictable. I only wanted to know when visitors approached. The storm came as a side effect. True, I do have some control over its intensity, and I did strengthen it when Northmen fell within its influence.”
“Northmen?” Mitrian repeated.
Episte looked up, his blue eyes deeply haunted and his yellow hair plastered in wet ringlets. To Mitrian, he appeared more childlike than usual, and she wondered where he had found the strength to help her to his horse. Though she knew he had Renshai training and age, he seemed so small and fragile.
“Yes, Northmen. Did you think Renshai would escape them without pursuit?”
“I didn’t think the Northmen knew we were Renshai. Except for Colbey.” Sorrow touched her again, but this time hunger accompanied it. The nutty aroma of the mixture in the bowls made her stomach rumble. She pulled the bowl and spoon to the space before her, leaving a wet impression on the wood in the shape of her sleeve.
“I’d be surprised if some hadn’t figured it out. Some of your own, too.” Shadimar returned to his original point. “I won’t have your battles at my doorstep. I saw to it that no Northman would make it here. If it costs you some of your own, I’m sorry. That’s the price of sanctuary.”
As cold as the Wizard’s comments seemed, they ceased to bother Mitrian. Among so many deaths, a few more scarcely seemed significant, a drop of sorrow and guilt lost in an endless torrent. Though Garn’s absence stabbed at her with a separate pain, she managed to eat. Starving herself would not help him, but she did vow not to sleep until he arrived safely at the Wizard’s home.
Episte stared, still not touching his food. Water dripped from his hair and clothing like tears.
Shadimar continued to talk while Mitrian ate. “If it makes you feel any better, I did send a guide. Unfortunately, he approached someone with less caution than the situation demanded.” He did not explain further, but Secodon’s whine told Mitrian the story.
In a flash of insight, she recalled the creature that had jumped on her horse. She looked at the wolf. Secodon met her gaze, then lowered his head to the floor.
The last bite of stew dispelled Mitrian’s hunger. She clambered from the chair to kneel beside the wolf. “I’m sorry, Secodon. I didn’t recognize you.”
The wolf heaved a deep sigh, and his plumed tail struck the floor twice.
Shadimar turned his attention to Episte. “You should eat.”
“Thank you, for the food and the shelter. But I’m just too tired to eat.”
“We’ll talk later,” Shadimar said, obviously seeing a need that Mitrian had missed, enmeshed in her own sorrow, fatigue, and responsibilities. “For now, come with me.” Shadimar returned to the hall.
Secodon rose awkwardly, following his master and favoring his right hind paw. Mitrian winced, then followed, and Episte accompanied her.
Shadimar led his charges to the next chamber, where the men and women he had named slept in sprawling disarray. Episte curled into a quiet corner. Finding Rache, Mitrian chose a spot beside him. Though she did not want to wake him, her mothering instincts overwhelmed her. First, she placed a hand on his chest. The deep rhythm of his breathing sent a joy through her that she had not known for days. With a finger, she brushed tawny strands of hair from his face. Then, exhaustion crushed her to the floor. She curled up beside him, resting her eyes while she waited for Garn. Her thoughts fragmented, mixed with picture-concepts from the deeper, uncontrollable part of her mind. Sleep came, unbidden.
* * *
Mitrian awakened pinned beneath Garn’s heavy arm. She sat up suddenly. Garn lay still, eyes closed, though
surely her movement had awakened her wary husband as well. Years of living among savage killers had trained him to read the subtlest patterns of breathing, to awaken with the slightest movement, and to hide his own alertness from those around him. Mitrian counted the others. She discovered twenty-one people of the original twenty-eight, and that did not include Episte and Rache whom she knew to be among the survivors, though they were not currently in the room. Bromdun slept deeply, sprawled in the corner where Episte had lain.
Mitrian wiggled free of the restraining arm, patting Garn to indicate that he should sleep. Tiptoeing around the sleeping forms, she crept to the hallway and toward the dining room.
Within a few steps, Episte’s voice floated to her from a cross corridor. “. . . said Rache’s father and mine hated each other. She said Garn broke my father’s back and bragged about it afterward.”
The words froze Mitrian. She had always known this moment would come, yet the constant threat or presence of war had allowed Garn to delay his heart-to-heart with his son. Though Santagithi had kept the guards quiet, Mitrian knew snippets of rumors would slip past. Guilt came in a rush for leaving Shadimar to handle this delicate history, yet she had promised Garn not to do so herself. And, though she hated to admit it, she wondered how the ancient Wizard would reply.
Shadimar cleared his throat, speaking with the annoying indirectness that had become too familiar. “Chance is man’s cruelest mistress. She acts without logic or motive, and you must never attribute her works to gods or mortals.”
In the silence that followed, Mitrian crept closer. She knew eavesdropping was wrong, but to announce her presence meant dealing with an issue she had promised to avoid. She considered waking Garn, but interest held her spellbound. For the sake of her son and Episte, she could not miss any of the conversation. Though he had, as yet, said nothing, Mitrian guessed Rache was with them.
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