Night came, and everyone but me and the sentries slept. Through the long hours of darkness, I formed my aura into different shapes, attacking Lilik’s shields with lances and hammer-strikes, the gentle press of fog and the incredible weight of a boulder. She slept through every assault, indifferent and unaware.
Another day came and went, messengers traveling back and forth between the garrison and Fishel’s refugees. The fleetest scouts had already left to assess the potential destinations, while closer, rangers delved into the folds of the terrain and marched up Westpass Cut, marking areas of safe travel and those that needed debris or trees removed. The number of parchments laid out on the table in the gatehouse grew, and more notes marked their surfaces.
The lines of the forest drew back from the road like covers sliding off the bed. Felled trees stacked up beside the garrison, and soldiers sawed them into planks. A horse arrived at a gallop, carrying a Prov refugee whose Function had been as a wheelwright. Wagons were made, axles affixed, wheels attached. Hunters returned with deer and rabbits and even squirrels for the stew pot.
Through it all, Kostan’s spirit remained… hard. His true self lay hidden somewhere deep beneath that armor, concealed even from his own mind.
Two days had passed when the first of the main body of refugees trickled into camp. Haunted eyes darted over the terrain, seeking monsters they knew were coming. Tents opened on the freshly denuded hillsides, springing up anywhere the ground was level enough to sleep without rolling down the slope. An infirmary had been erected beneath canvas awnings on the north wall of the garrison. The first wagon load of injured and sick Provs filled the cots. Those who came after were given spots on the trampled meadow grass beside the shelter. Too often, the healers examined patients and simply shook their heads, despairing.
The work details swelled with those new arrivals healthy enough to help, and the pace grew frenetic. The scouts went back and forth to watch the plateau for signs of encroaching Riftspawn. With each report, the leaders held their breath until they learned there’d been no sightings near the entrance to the Cut. Everyone was waiting for the headsman’s axe, and as the days stretched on, eerie silences came and went in waves, gripping the camp only to be banished by an awkward, too-loud laugh. Nonetheless, Kostan and his council moved in and out of the gatehouse, laying plans between their shifts with the work details.
The third day came and went, and still, the citizens of Jaliss poured into the narrow valley. Weak. Exhausted. Coughing and limping. They slept shoulder to shoulder and ate from communal pots, and Kostan walked among them offering blankets.
There weren’t many spare weapons among the combined forces of Stormshard and the protectors. Those Jalissmen and Jalisswomen with direct combat experience—mostly mercenaries who reluctantly admitted to their activities—were given the available blades. The other likely fighters became marks on the ledger and orders for the blacksmith who worked the small garrison forge.
By the morning of the fourth day, the last of the refugees arrived in the valley. The tents were a field of stained canvas. The leaders withdrew into the gatehouse to review their plans for the next phase.
Faces were grim.
No one mentioned the lack of word from the advanced scouts.
Chapter Nineteen
Azar
A cavern in the Icethorn foothills
THE SHRIEKS ECHOING from the inner reaches of the cavern system sent ice down Azar’s spine. She walked with shoulders hunched and teeth clenched. Ahead of her, the procession of ferro mages filed silently through the corridors.
Hoareld, the highest ranked of the living ferro mages, carried an enchanted lantern. Within the black-iron cage, a glass globe spilled light. The illumination sketched shadows on the rough-hewn walls and gleamed off rivulets of moisture that seeped from tiny fissures.
Another wail rolled through the corridor. Azar grimaced and clenched her fists. For once, she was glad to be at the back of the line. Though her close association with the new Emperor had raised her in the eyes of the other ferro mages, the losses they’d suffered during Steelhold’s collapse had left Azar is the only remaining apprentice. Rank two. The lowliest of the surviving ferros.
The mages clustered at the entrance to the beast’s chamber. With just twenty remaining in their order, there was room for everyone to have a view into the low-ceilinged room with its cage of black iron. The Riftspawn, a horrifying mix of alley cat, pig, and a creature that one of the well-traveled ferros had referred to as a monkey, crouched in the center of the cage. It reeked of overripe fruit and rusting metal. Azar fought the urge to cover her nose with her tunic.
The beast’s capture had been a miracle, as far as Azar was concerned. From a distance, she’d watched as the highest-ranking mages had surrounded and corralled it. They’d bound each limb and shoved a metal ball gag into its mouth. Still, it had been a struggle for the mages to carry its thrashing form. Though she hadn’t been asked to aid in the capture, she’d felt like a coward hiding and watching from near the cavern’s entrance. She still felt like a coward, hunkering behind heavy stone walls festooned with black-iron charms while out on the grasslands, people died.
The cavern system was likely the safest place in the Empire right now. The ferros were secure until either their food or sanity gave out. Lately, Azar had begun to think the latter would be the first to go. Especially if this beast kept shrieking day and night.
“Velanel,” Hoareld said, “please observe.”
A middle-aged woman with eight ranks in ferro magic drew herself up and stepped forward. Azar’s stomach turned over in sympathy at the thought of the woman’s task. Only once, and very briefly, had Azar peered at the Spawn’s spirit. Just the memory made her feel sick. It wasn’t just the awful mingling of souls. It was the fetid tendrils that infested the beast.
The Riftspawns’ nature had shocked the ferro order to the core. It wasn’t just the grotesque mingling of separate beings. It was the clear resonance their taint had with the undercurrents of darkness in ferro power. While no one had admitted it aloud, it was obvious to Azar that every mage who’d worked with black iron from the Maelstrom understood that the beasts’ corruption lived in their souls, too. Standing near the captured Spawn, she could feel the throbbing corruption in the rings of black iron she wore around her fingers. Since her first contact with the beast, nightmares had plagued her sleep. Somehow, the ferros had helped bring this monster into the world. But they hoped ferro magic could also help eradicate its kind.
From an ornate sheath of dark-dyed leather set with onyx and blood-red garnets, Hoareld extracted a black-iron blade the order had crafted. The man raised a silk-garbed arm and wiped his brow while rotating the knife in his hand. He stepped forward, approaching the cage as if the beast might lunge through the bars and strike him dead. But the enchantments worked into them held. The beast shrieked but remained in the center of the cage.
Hoareld swallowed and raised the dagger.
Azar looked away, too afraid to watch. The head mage grunted as he leaped, feet scuffing over stone.
The beast shrieked.
Chapter Twenty
Kostan
Westpass Garrison
“FIRE!” CAME THE cry from the wall.
I threw on my trousers and tunic, shoved my feet into my boots, and sprinted outside.
The moon glowed mournfully above while, outside the garrison walls, hungry flames outlined the square edges of the fort’s masonry.
“Buckets!” I yelled, dashing toward the kitchen. Soldiers were already there, snatching barrels and pails and emptying their contents. I ran for the armory and overturned one of the tubs holding broken weaponry. The polished wood was slick in my grip. I clutched it tight and ran through the gate.
Chaos ruled the encampment. Already, a quarter of the tents were ablaze. Panicked refugees spilled down the slope, dragging children and blankets, shoving through the soldiers who were trying to form lines for
bucket brigades. Farther from the blaze, frantic people tore stakes from the earth and ripped down their shelters, dragging the canvas away from the showers of sparks and licking flames.
A family staggered across the road, bound for the solid stone walls of the garrison. I muttered an apology as I snatched a blanket from the woman’s hands. Abandoning my tub—it was too big around, too hard to hold—I sprinted for the stream and plunged the blanket into its frigid water. The sodden wool soaked my clothing as I slapped it over my shoulder and started scrambling up the hill toward the blaze.
It felt like I fought the fire for hours. Days. Beating at the flames with my soot-crusted blanket, hurrying up and down the hill to wet the ruined thing even after coals had eaten it down to the size of a child’s cloak. A few soldiers followed my example, forming lines at the edge of the blaze to beat it back while others organized into three columns that passed sloshing buckets up the hill.
The clouds of billowing steam loosed by the water hissed inside the fire’s roaring heart. As the flames began to weaken, those working the buckets fanned out and grew bolder, spraying stream water over wider and wider areas.
We who beat at the fire from the outside shouted to one another and advanced, pace by pace, over ruined tents, bedrolls reduced to ash, and a few, charred bodies.
In the trees uphill from the camp, adolescents moved in sweeping lines, stomping out any cinders the wind had carried into the forest.
By dawn, only scattered pockets of fire burned. I stomped through the ruins of the camp and vented my rage on the flames. The little fires burned cheerily in the morning light until I slapped them cold.
Over the course of the next few hours, we took stock of our losses: one-third of the shelters meant to defend my people from the cruel mountain nights; most of the bedrolls, tools, and provisions that had been inside; a wagon full of flour and vegetables that had been parked too close to the tents; over two hundred men, women, and children.
All without our true enemy anywhere in sight.
Chapter Twenty-One
Savra
Westpass Garrison
THE AIR SMELLED of stale smoke. People trudged through the ashes, searching for anything that could be salvaged. Many buried loved ones in the small cemetery behind the garrison, the mountain meadow grass sprouting pine grave markers in a sad echo of the forest that had been cleared opposite the stream. Other families stood together without even a body to bury, their departed kin never found but surely burned to nothing but ashes.
I drifted above. Unable to help. Powerless to offer comfort. Keeping vigil only.
As the day stretched toward noon, Kostan and his leadership organized ragged groups to begin marching deeper into the mountains. The disaster had shown how vulnerable the encampment truly was. The march had to continue.
Those strong enough to carry packs were given supplies from the wagons. The landslides weren’t yet clear; the work crews had managed to gouge a path just halfway through the closest berm. As the days had marched onward, hopes of clearing the road had been as obliterated as the areas of the camp that had burned.
The discussions in the gatehouse went round and round. What would happen to the infirm and elderly and the children too small to march for days on end? How many more graves would mark the refugees’ path through the mountains. Rattly coughs peppered the air, weakened lungs struggling with the smoke and ash. People staggered as they walked. Some didn’t even walk.
No one had an answer, but as the day moved into afternoon, the council broke up to help with the ongoing work. Kostan stalked uphill toward the landslide debris but halted when he reached one of the groups of marching refugees. A child had stopped in the roadway, exhausted after the sleepless night. He cried about the walking ahead, going limp and heavy when his mother and grandmother tried to urge him on. Kostan swept the boy onto his back. Over the mother’s protests that the Emperor had more important work to do, he carried the boy to the far side of the landslides. Two hours march in either direction.
When he returned, he hefted a pickaxe and started striking it against a stubborn boulder that blocked the road. No one but me noticed the tears that welled before he blinked them away.
A strange breeze blew through me as I watched him. Cold, fresh as morning dew. For a moment, I felt almost human again. If I’d had a body, I would have gasped. I whirled to seek the source, but the feeling was as fleeting as it was startling. Exhilarated and hoping to catch hold of it again, I cast my awareness wide.
Disappointment settled over me when I felt nothing. I returned my focus to Kostan. He’d taken off his shirt, and the muscles in his back and chest rippled as he swung the pickaxe. Atop the mound of debris, other men and women worked with spades and saws.
My soul ached at the sight of Kostan’s sweat darkening his hairline. He threw himself at the boulder as if he could single-handedly cut a road to safety. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and assure him that his presence alone gave these people strength. I could see it in their auras. But then, what good did optimism do if safety was just a fool’s dream?
From near the garrison, the sound of a trotting horse brought Kostan upright. He pulled a rag from his pocket and dried his brow. The sun had left the lower reaches of the valley as evening approached. He squinted to make out details in the shadows.
The rider, a Stormshard ranger, drew a halt and thumped his fist against his chest. “We’ve received a new report, your eminence.”
And?” Kostan asked.
The man shook his head. “One of our scouts got a story from a Prov shepherd who stumbled out of the high pastures.” He swallowed. “The leading edge of the horde has reached Jaliss. The shepherd said he saw scattered areas of battle, but the fight appeared to be… Well, he said there were just a few pockets where the Spawn ranks were disrupted. He caught only fleeting glimpses of their attackers—I assume the aurums were moving too fast to be easily seen. Eventually, though, the Spawn lines straightened out and marched uninhibited. I imagine you can guess what it means.”
“I understand what it means, soldier.” Kostan’s jaw clenched as he shook his head. “We won’t forget the aurums’ sacrifice.”
“Many of the scouts we sent toward Jaliss haven’t returned. At this point, I’m afraid we have to assume they won’t be coming back. Should we send more?”
Kostan drew a deep breath and shook his head. “I won’t waste their lives. We know the enemy is coming. Our only hope is to move forward.” If Kostan’s tone expressed how helpless he felt, his spirit said it ten times over.
“As you say, your eminence.”
Kostan leaned the pickaxe against his shoulder. “No news from the outlying settlements, I imagine.”
The rider shook his head. “Nothing, your eminence.”
Sighing, Kostan turned to his work. “Thank you, soldier.”
As he swung the first blow, I swirled in the air. I was so storms-cursed useless now. I looked up to the high peaks where evening’s glow colored the rocky buttresses a brilliant gold. As a sense of forlornness filled me, the breeze came again, stronger this time and fresh as alpine snow. My spirit surged with energy as, below me, pine needles danced in the gust. The little whirlwind capered down the road toward the garrison.
Behind, I heard the shouts travel between the members of the work detail. Time to rest. Dinner was served around sunset, and after, another shift would work through the night. Someone mentioned the swirling wind and commented that whirlwinds were more likely during Chilltide. Darting, I hurried along in the wind’s wake.
Beside the large wooden gate that defended the garrison, a small door opened. Lilik slipped out and started up the road. Until seeing her walk, I’d never noticed the way my feet turned out a little. Lilik tugged at the hem of her tunic while she headed along the front wall of the garrison. I wondered if that was my habit or hers.
Kostan hadn’t noticed Lilik yet; the corner guard tower stood between them. I didn’t want
to watch or feel his emotions when he did spot her. Even with his efforts to contain his feelings, he couldn’t help his confusion. Part of him still saw the woman he cared for when he met her eyes.
“Well, now look at that,” someone called as the swirling wind gusted harder. It lifted dust from the road and cast it high, forming a column of haze. The dust grew thicker and more solid. Every pair of eyes turned to the pillar. The wind blew harder still.
A few shocked yells echoed. From the walls, a guard cried a warning that a geognost was in our midst.
Everyone froze when the wind abruptly stopped. The haze thinned and blew away on the last faint stirring of air.
A shout went up. Steel sang.
A dozen guards converged on the young girl left behind by the dissipating dust.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Kostan
On the road outside Westpass Garrison
THE SOLDIERS SPRINTED to the girl, surrounding her with swords drawn. She stood wide-eyed in the dust, wearing a strange coat crafted from some sort of sleek fur. Thick mittens covered her hands, and her fur-clad legs disappeared into boots that looked to be half again the size of her feet.
Spots of pink stood out on her cheeks, and a strand of hair fell across her face. There was something about her cheekbones… It seemed almost as if I’d seen her before.
One of the soldiers grabbed her by the arm and pressed a dagger to her ribs. From somewhere distant, almost as if a phantom cried out, I heard a voice.
Fate of the Drowned (The Broken Lands Book 3) Page 14
