Battalion strength. Several hundred, maybe a thousand. One army of mages was unlikely enough. There could not be two. These had to be the same that destroyed Castle Brannagh.
“These same,” Daerwin seethed. “These had to be the same.”
Trocu grasped his shoulder and drew him away from the others. “Uncle, hear me. Yes, they are almost assuredly the mages who destroyed Brannagh, who killed your knights and your servants and––”
“And my Glynnis.” Angry tears filled his eyes.
“Aye, Uncle,” Trocu said. “Your loss is regrettable but it was not unexpected. I need you with me, not harboring some fantasy of petty vengeance. That way lies death and defeat.” Damerien looked into Daerwin’s eyes and saw there the agony of loss he himself had felt a thousand times. But it was different for him. Daerwin would not live to see millennia pass and the perennial bloom and fade of love and life. His uncle––truly, his son––had just lost his only love, the only love he likely would have in his existence, and for this, even after so long life, Trocu had no remedy. His tone softened “Time enough for that later.”
Daerwin nodded, and Trocu watched his pain harden into resolve, at least for now.
“An army of mages,” the sheriff said at last, turning back to the Hadrian. “Righteous cause, indeed.”
“Aye. You have to understand. Our city…our women…” the Hadrian shook his head. “Pyran could not withstand such another occupation as when first they came through. Worse, the enemy seemed at their ease coming back, in no hurry to be anywhere particular, and Captain Barod feared we might never be rid of them. So he sucked up his courage and asked Limi––this mage to help us fight them. Begged, more like. So this blue eyed mage, he said he’d draw them off away from Pyran if we’d take care not to engage, so we trusted and stood down and made ourselves just watch as they marched closer and closer. Standing down as they went by was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
“Go on,” prompted the duke. “What happened next?”
“A lot of fire and smoke and explosions flew at him from the mages, and we were sure he was done for. Not little tosses of sparks, either. More like cannonfire but crackling and blue-white and heat I could feel where I stood, all right at him.” He was breathing fast with the excitement of the memory. “Nobody could survive that. Our city walls could not have survived that. So Captain Barod bade us ready our weapons for when he fell because then they’d surely turn on the city next and with spite. But then we saw some of those mages get flung against the battlements and crushed to jelly.” He pointed helpfully to where the city wall was blackened with burnt gore.
The sheriff looked at the wall and asked, “What did you do with the mages’ bodies?”
“Well, sir, in the panic and disorder after all was done, I’m afraid they lay where they fell until the stench was too great. Then a detail went out and buried them, or what was left once the sea birds were done with them, anyway.”
“Ah, I see.” Nestor did not hide his disappointment. “Sure I’d like to have seen anything the burial detail might have taken up––any clothing or jewelry, anything to give answer to who they were.”
The Hadrian’s eyes grew wide. “Only Bremondines rob the dead!” he squeaked.
“Say rather, collect souvenirs from them what won’t miss ‘em, if that makes it more palatable to your Hadrian sensibilities,” Gikka glared at him. “Soldiers are soldiers the world over. Even Hadrians. Or are you so long away from war that you forget? After a battle, the goods of the dead are forfeit, taken as trophies.” She looked him up and down. “Especially by them as had no real part in the battle, aye?”
The guard blinked, a guilty flush rising into his cheeks. Trocu could not help but smile within his cowl. Gikka had read the Hadrian well.
“So now, stop wasting our time with your Hadrian nonsense,” she snapped. “We’ll not take their guilty trinkets from your men, but tell us, what did they find?”
He stiffened, and the duke fancied he might be trying not to shift from foot to foot under Gikka’s hard gaze. “We did search the bodies, it’s true, but for traps and exploding elixirs and such, not for gold or…”
“Such traps and exploding elixirs as would have blown up the gulls already?” Nestor smiled wryly. “Those traps and elixirs?”
The Hadrian nodded weakly.
Gikka advanced on the Hadrian menacingly. “What did you find, at last?”
He looked down, defeated. “They had next to nothing, Bremondine. A few had rings, a couple had medallions, some bits of this and that they’d gathered along the way. Souvenirs, as you say, of their own.”
“Medallions?” Daerwin’s eyes narrowed.
The guard shook his head. “I know what you’re wondering, but no, they did not match or anything. That’s what’s odd. They had nothing the same, not their clothing, not their rings or pendants. They seemed by their look just a collection of souls headed the same direction, not a proper military. But there was no mistaking them. They moved like a flock of birds, all together.”
Trocu looked at the sheriff, but Daerwin stood with his eyes closed, clearly dreading the answer to what he would ask next.
“Look now,” the knight said quietly, “and tell me, did they find any medallions like this?” He drew a chain out from behind his breastplate with a gold emblem hanging from it.
The Hadrian looked at it for only a moment.
“No, not a one.”
Daerwin looked up, and the hope in his eyes broke Trocu’s heart. “Are you full certain? You barely looked.”
He nodded. “I’d know that medallion anywhere. It belongs only to the House of Brannagh, to those who are…knights…” His colorless eyes went wide suddenly and he went to one knee, realizing to whom he spoke. “Knights of… Forgive me, my Lord Sheriff, I did not recognize you…”
The ship’s captain also dropped to one knee.
The duke looked away in exasperation. What was the point of riding cowled if they were to be recognized everywhere they went? Still, the Hadrian and the ship’s captain had not yet discovered who he was.
“Rise, rise, we have no time for this,” Daerwin said to them, his impatience barely hidden. “You are certain that the medallions are not this same?” He held it up. “Look once more, for my sake. Please.”
The Hadrian rose, looked at it once more and nodded. “As I say, none matched this.”
Trocu looked at Gikka, and she understood.
“My Lord, this might be good news.” Gikka touched the sheriff’s arm. “But it’s my part now to play the churl and remind you: it’s assurance only that these tiny few who fell here did not take from Brannagh themselves. Says nothing of the rest, and you saw…” She glanced at the Hadrian and the ship’s captain and lowered her voice. “You saw what happened, you and Renda both. I pray you, my dearest Lord, don’t be feeding your heartbreak with false hope.”
The duke could not bear to look at the anguish the sheriff worked so hard to subdue. Every instance like this, every time he came away without proof of her death would feed his hope and at the same time feed his despair. He found himself coldly hoping they would find something to prove Glynnis’s death soon, for all their sakes.
“Go on.” Trocu folded his arms over his chest. “You were describing the battle.”
The guard nodded, clearly grateful to get back to his story. “Yes sir. Explosions, fire, lightning, mayhem all around him, mages flying off into the walls getting crushed. Now, that was a mess. I’d say we buried what looked like over a hundred, though it was a bit hard to tell by then, what with how they’d been pecked to bits and eaten. We started out trying to bury each one, but it was hard to tell where one body ended and another began, so in the end, we had to make a big hole and then scrape and shovel the whole stinking pulpy mess into it.”
“Alas,” breathed Nestor in disgust.
Trocu smiled at his retainer sympathetically. To the guard, he nodded. “The battle? Please.”
“Oh
, yes, sorry. So all this is happening, and at the center of the maelstrom, this other one, wearing his doublet and sword and sitting atop his horse, was not only still there but by some miracle untouched! He lifted his hands so slowly, as if he were making dumb show to lift something heavy. Then everything stopped, and all the mages disappeared––one by one, vanishing, just pop, pop, pop––sounded like a pine knot burning hot. At the time, I thought he made them disappear, but now, I think they were scared by something, sir, like they somehow knew what was coming and were taking themselves clear. Next thing we know, this one is lifting up his hands, and the clothes and velvet cape and all are burning white hot, right off his back, all but his orange knapsack, which didn’t strike me as strange until now…and the ground is rumbling and rolling, and there’s a terrible noise of wrenching and ripping. We all of us fall to the ground and cover our heads, sure we’re going to die. When the noise finally stopped, when I got up to look, the sea was gone, the mages were gone, and here was all this new land.”
The captain nodded. “That’s how I saw it, as well, as I came out the tavern door. And off he rode, just like that.”
“Aye.” The guard turned to the duke. “Limigar or not, he saved us.” He considered for a moment, battling with himself. Then he dug in his pouch with a guilty look at Gikka. “This bit of slag? I found it just there, where he was before he rode away. This is all that’s left of his sword belt.”
Gikka took the strangely shaped hunk of iron and silver. The silver was from the buckles, and what steel was left… “Not much here. I’m thinking it were no more than a wisp of a blade with a fancy hilt made all of air, something showy but nothing to it, such as would break as soon as it touched flesh. Probably even engraved with some foolishness. A blade only a child could love.” She smiled fondly, and looked up at the others. “Or Dith.”
“Aye.” The sheriff stroked his chin. “Dith, if it is he, would not knowingly have resorted to such an extreme measure and put the entire coast of Syon without good reason.”
“And no doubt Byrandia, as well…” Trocu looked out across the landbridge. Indeed, if such a wave had destroyed the coast of Syon, they could assume it had done similar damage on the opposite coast. The implications were overwhelming. After four thousand years of silence, such willful devastation would be seen as an act of war, and certainly a pretext for any action Byrandia’s king might take. Without the landbridge, of course, such action would have amounted to no more than a lot of shaking of fists across the sea, but now that the landbridge was in place, the threat of war was very real.
“Aye, Byrandia, as well.” Daerwin shook his head. “I grant you, his actions at Kadak’s stronghold were likewise rash and not without severe consequences, especially for himself, but without them, Brada could not have survived, and we could not have won the war. I cannot help but believe that if he did this, he had good reason, as well.”
Trocu nodded. “Fear me not,” he said softly so only Daerwin would hear him. “Assuming it is Dith, I owe him too much, both personally and as head of state––a state which would no longer exist but for his rashness at the war’s end––to judge his actions without knowing more. Whether it is he or no, we should try to intercept him as quickly as possible, regardless of other considerations, as I believe that given the power he has just wielded before their very eyes, these other mages are unlikely to let him reach Byrandia alive, assuming they can manage to stop him.”
“Gikka, what say you?” asked the sheriff. “It sounds to me to be Dith, regardless of the horse, regardless of his peculiar state of dress and undress.”
“Aye, my Lord,” she sighed. “It could be no other, though what business it is as takes him to Byrandia, I’ve not the first guess. Nor what possessed him to raise the landbridge, of all things.” She swallowed hard. “Sure I’d know why he didn’t raise up the sea and wash away all them as vexed him instead and leave the rest lie. Until we find him, we’ve naught but questions. So the sooner we ride, the lighter my heart for it.”
“In any event,” the duke said, “I think our next course of action is obvious, and I thank the providence of the gods, or of Dith, if such be the case, for the landbridge. Since we have no idea how long it will remain in place or whether it might be his intention to lower it into the sea again upon reaching Byrandia, gods forefend, we should make haste to intercept him as quickly as we can.”
“Indeed so,” agreed the sheriff. “Nestor, take Jath and gather provisions, especially for the horses as I do not anticipate much fodder on the landbridge for them. Also bolts of cloth, leather, whatever you deem useful. We may need to fashion clothing for ourselves. Remember that we have the spare horses, so we can carry quite a bit. Be generous, be thorough, and be quick.”
“But what of my ship?” The ship’s captain stood helplessly looking out over the landbridge. “What of my Jenna Calera?”
“She is quite safe.” Jath looked at him dully. “You simply look the wrong way to find her,” he murmured.
“What?” The captain turned and looked at him in confusion. “Wrong way? How so?”
The Damerien stableboy smiled. He picked up something from the sand. It was part of a bird’s feather.
“Where do you normally look to find ships?” the boy asked. Absently, he ran his fingers across the feather, looked along the sharp edge of the strip toward the northern side of the landbridge and grinned. “Sure not on land.”
The captain stood staring at him for a moment, uncertain. Then he stalked away to the north toward the Pyran lighthouse, an unwilling spark of hope lighting his eyes.
But while Jath spoke, he had stripped the feather as for the tailpiece of an arrow, and now he blew across it. For a moment as their gazes touched, the boy’s eyes seemed uncharacteristically intense. Then, eyes dull as a simpleton once more, he tossed the broken feather aside.
Damerien frowned for a moment and looked out across the landbridge. “Nestor.”
“Aye, my Lord?”
“Do not neglect the bowyer and the fletcher in your provisioning.”
Nestor paused a moment, considering. Then he nodded, looking around at the knights. “How many bows, my Lord?”
“One apiece, and what parts he can spare us for repairs. That should allow for breakage afield. Plenty of arrows, of course. I hope we will need them only for hunting, but without knowing what awaits, best to have options.”
The old Bremondine nodded and gathered Jath to see to their business.
Meanwhile, Daerwin turned to Gikka.
“I charge you, bid my daughter and the others join us here, all but Chul.”
She drew back. “As you will, but… ”
Daerwin laughed. “Oh, I’d not have you leave him behind, but he cannot come through Pyran,” he said with a meaningful glance at the Hadrian guard, “for obvious reasons. I leave it to you to bring him safely to us once we’re out of Pyran, whether it means blindfolding him or skirting the city or both. Do what you must.”
“Aye, my Lord.” She turned to go.
“Bremondine!” the Hadrian guard called to her. “Can I have that back? Please? It’s the only thing I have as proof I was here when this happened.”
She snorted. “Your battle trophy.”
He looked miserable. “I did not take it from the dead.”
“No, that you did not.” She examined the bit of slag for a moment. “Very well. But best you keep your story of this true, aye? Comes to my ears as you’re making big boasts at how you come by this, I’ll be visiting your story upon you tenfold, Hadrian. And no mistake.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She tossed it to him and went to gather Zinion for the ride.
While Daerwin discussed logistics with the others, Trocu lowered his hood and stared out over the landbridge, a sight he had not seen in a very long time. It was not quite as he remembered it, of course. The years had changed the contours here and there while it slept beneath the sea. The hills were dulled, the valleys were filled with silt
or salt water lakes, and all the trees were gone, to say nothing of the farms, the shops, the homes.
Across the miles, he could see the strange new contours of great coral reefs that extended sometimes hundreds of feet into the sky, like enormous castles or ghosts of the great Dhanani cities he’d seen so long ago.
Deep in his soul, he remembered that last harrowing ride across the valley, the horrible wheezing of the horses, the prickling surge of tainted Wittister energy coming closer, trying to catch him and take his life force. He remembered feeling the ground shudder and tremble beneath him, the sudden plunge deep beneath the sea, and the terrible gamble he took to save himself––himself and an infant mage.
Thirteen
Kharkara Plains
Fifth day of the Night Elk’s Moon
Chief Bakti Ka-Durga Ba-Vinda felt a strange hush flow through the camp even from within his tent, and he paused in his meditations. This was not fear. He knew from decades of having led them, having heard their impassioned cries in the night, having watched them bear their children and fight and die. No, this was not definitely not fear. It smelled of awe, surprise, even excitement. He had not felt this kind of anticipation from them since the war’s end, when their healer, Aidan Ka-Zoga, had come back to them a war hero.
He sighed and lifted himself to his feet with apologies to Anado of the Hunt. He supposed he would have to finish his meditations later. The nervous silence filling the camp was not going away, so neither was its cause, and he could not know that cause unless he looked for himself. Solemnly, Bakti took up the Verge of Anado, at once his mark of office and his weapon, and stepped from his tent into the cold evening air.
His people seemed to have stopped right as the mood struck them, baskets and goods dropped beside them. They were not standing clustered, not gathered for common defense. They only watched from where they stood, craning their necks with their children upon their shoulders. In the dusky light, their eyes followed a ragged band coming toward them from the Bremondine forest, all afoot, all stumbling from cold and lack of food.
Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) Page 20
