A Sea of Skulls (Arts of Dark and Light Book 2)

by Vox Day

  “And you, Bereth.” With a brief wave, Mellt took to the skies again in a brief explosion of wind and feathers.

  She walked in the direction of her tent, her stomach rumbling. She hoped the mess chefs would provide something edible this evening; the mushroom-stuffed quail she’d eaten the night before hadn’t sat well in her stomach. She’d cried herself to sleep, with the salt from her tears burning wherever they crossed the scratches on her face. She didn’t know if she’d ever felt so bereft, or alone, even though she knew there was still a place for her in the raiders.

  Several of them greeted her as she walked by, as did various members of their support staff. Their forward base had been here long enough for a variety of amenities to spring up, although unfortunately nothing like the hot bath for which she would cheerfully murder an entire squadron of goblins. It was evident that word of her loss had spread throughout the unit, as they spoke to her in soft, subdued voices that indicated their sympathy without forcing her to acknowledge it. It insensibly angered her, and yet she loved them for it.

  She had nearly reached her tent when she heard someone calling to her. She recognized the voice and sighed. It was Ilriathas, of course, and he was bearing a bouquet of flowers, lilïaugwyn. She smiled faintly at him, took them from him, and permitted him to put an arm around her. For a moment, just a moment, she put her head on his chest, and for once, the safety and comfort that he offered was welcome.

  After holding her for a spell, then giving her one last squeeze before releasing her, he turned to face north, more or less in the direction where Merlian had fallen, crossed both hands over his breast, and bowed.

  That bravest of hearts

  Beats no more on high.

  Yet his great spirit lives on

  As long as elves ride the sky.

  A memory always with us, forever.

  “I have something else for you,” he said as she wept silently, touched by his words. “If you want it.”

  Without opening her eyes or looking up at him, she shook her head. “If you propose marriage to me again, Ilri, I swear to you that I will gut you right now and leave Mons Kelethan without heir.”

  “I spoke to the King.”

  She had to admit, ready access to the crown was one benefit of being a High Lord of Elebrion. “About what?” She scarcely dared to hope.

  “Your egg.”

  “My– my what?” She pushed away from him and looked up at his face. His green eyes were sincere as ever. “My egg?”

  He nodded. “I couldn’t secure one from the next clutch, but you’re to have the second pick of the third clutch. It’s been arranged.”

  “Oh, Ilri!” Impulsively, she pulled him down to her and kissed him on the mouth. Then her eyes narrowed and she pushed herself away again. “That must have cost you considerably.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Cachu adar!” she swore, knowing that he lied. She knew very well how much an egg right was worth. He might well have given up a village, or even an entire demesne, simply to let her move so many clutches up the waiting list. “Ilri, you know I’m not going to marry you just because I’m in your debt!”

  “Obviously.” He shrugged. “How fortunate I am to be able to wait for you to come to your senses and give up your maiden sorceries.”

  She stared at him. “You didn’t even ask me first.”

  “You can always change your mind between now and when the egg hatches.” He smiled. “In which case, I might even make a profit.”

  “No, but be honest with me. You can’t tell me this isn’t exactly the moment for which you’ve been waiting for ten years!”

  “I would never take advantage of you that way, Bereth! Yes, I love you. But I know you far too well to try to buy your affections! I know you’re not ready to give up the sky, give up all of this. Your magic, it’s part of who you are, at least right now. But I thought I’d lost you forever yesterday. It just about killed me.”

  She frowned at him, skeptical. “Well, all right. You can’t blame me for being suspicious.”

  “Haven’t I proved my innocence in that particular regard?”

  “Yeah, and in an admittedly impressive manner. It must be nice to be that wealthy.”

  “I find it is more the influence and the royal connections that are truly valuable,” he said, mock-pretentiously. “Gold only gets you so far.”

  She smiled faintly. “Far enough. Will you come tonight?”

  “I’ll fly you there myself if you’ll let me.”

  She thought about it for a moment. When a hawk died, it was customary to burn his body on the Brig Brenin, the only peak higher than Minith Eleb, on a bonfire lit by the sorceries of his rider, or if the rider had been killed too, by a fellow sky rider. But since Merlian’s body was lost, and by now, probably butchered, cooked, and devoured, she had only the one extra feather to burn. She could burn it in the camp tonight and save her fellow riders the not-inconsiderable trouble of saddling up their birds and taking the time to fly to the mountain and back in the dark.

  She tried to explain that it wasn’t necessary to Ilri. But overcome by her emotions, she suddenly found that she couldn’t talk. Breathing hard and biting her bottom lip, she reached into her jacket and pulled out the two feathers, then held them out to him imploringly, her eyes filled with tears.

  He understood, of course. Cupping her hand gently in his, he leaned forward, closed his eyes, and inhaled the fading scent of the feathers. Then he looked at her, and with great solemnity, offered her a formal certhbas in Merlian’s honor.

  Harthwch a dewrder

  Dim’mwy hela yr awyr

  Mae’r wylais wynt

  The grief was suddenly more than she could bear. He took her in his arms as she cried against his chest. He held her as long as she needed, until she cried herself out. She finally pushed herself away, her nose running, her face red and blotchy, feeling both embarrassed and resentful that he should see her this way. She wiped at her face and tried to apologize, but he shushed her.

  “Let us honor him properly, Bereth. Let us grieve with you. You are still one of us. You are not alone.”

  “But–” she waved her free hand indicating the camp. Somehow, he understood her. He tapped one of the feathers still clutched in her hand.

  “He will be burned on the mountaintop tonight, with a feather from the breast of every warhawk in the High Guard. Leave it to me.”

  “All right,” she managed to say. “Will you carry me?”

  “I will come for you before sunset,” he promised. Then he kissed her on the forehead and walked away. She watched him go, wondering how it could be that she simply could not find it in her heart to love him. He was so good to her, he was, as her mother often reminded her, quite literally too good for her. And he loved her, there was no doubting it. Why, then, when he kissed her, did she feel nothing inside?

  It was three days after the High Guard gathered on the Brig Brenin to honor Merlian and half the camp was staring at the two distant specks in the sky that were rapidly growing larger. They all knew something was brewing by the speed with which the morning patrol was returning early. Bereth glanced at Lassarian; Lord Oakenheart had assigned her temporarily to the rider of the big warhawk and the two of them had been having what could either be considered a late breakfast or an early lunch discussing Lassarian’s patrol the previous evening. He hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, but as the camp began stirring with unusual activity, they both fell silent and turned to the north.

  “They’re flying hard,” she said, unnecessarily.

  Lassarian nodded and threw back the remaining contents of his silver flagon. He winced; he’d been complaining that the wine was sour. “Two to one they’re on the move.”

  “Two to one what?”

  He simply raised an eyebrow. She laughed and shook her head. “Mellt has a better chance, Lasri. And he smells better too. When is the last time you took a bath?”

  The tall elf wrinkled his nose a
nd sniffed at his leathers, then recoiled. “Gods, you’re right. It’s those bloody night patrols. About the time I start feeling capable of anything more than eating or sleeping, they’ve got me in the clouds again.”

  She cringed a little inside; losing Merlian had put more pressure on the already overworked riders and hawks alike. But she forced a smile. “It doesn’t look like you’re going to be any less busy now.”

  “Nor you,” he waggled a finger at her, then reached out, took an apple, and tossed it to her. Then he took two more for himself. “Better save that. They’ll be giving everyone their orders tonight and who knows when we’ll be able to find any time to eat a proper meal.”

  She nodded and stowed the fruit away in a pocket of her leather flight coat. This high up the mountain it was cool enough, especially with the wind coming from the north, that she habitually wore it hanging open about the camp. “What do you think the Prince-General’s plan will be?”

  “Same thing it always is. Harry them from above, use the cavalry to cut off any deep thrusts, and use the infantry to destroy them. Then hope that they get bored dying the death of a thousand pinpricks and go home.”

  “That many orcs, they can take a lot more than a thousand pinpricks.”

  Two hours and one very cold immersion in a mountain stream later, she was standing in between Lassarian and another raider, listening to Lord Oakenheart give them their flying orders. As Lassarian had predicted, Prince Hoelion wasn’t going to try to stop them cold, merely make their march south unpleasant.

  “The most important targets are their shamans, their officers, and their mounts. And by mounts I mean the boars, don’t bother with the wolves. The goblins are no match for our cavalry, but their warboars are not only heavy enough to defeat our cavalry if they can catch it, they’re heavy enough to break our infantry line. They’re going to be protected, of course, but I want to know where they are at all times. We can pick off a few from the air here and there, but our real focus is going to be taking out entire corrals any time they get sloppy or careless.”

  “What about their magic,” Lassarian called out. “Have we seen any more of whatever it was that happened to Rhian’s bird?”

  Their commander looked back and nodded to an elf wearing the gold-threaded robes of a Collegium magister. The magister stepped forward and answered for the prince. “It is our considered opinion that it was a form of daemonology. The hawk was most likely possessed, momentarily, by some form of demon summoned and held captive, then forced into the bird by the demon’s summoner.”

  “If the bird was possessed, how did it get away?” another raider asked. They had all been briefed on the orc’s new defensive tactic already.

  Because I killed the summoner, Bereth wanted to say, but she held her tongue. If the bird was already possessed, then how would killing its summoner have banished the demon possessing it? She recalled enough daemonology from her weeks at the Collegium Occludum to know that wasn’t likely.

  “I’m afraid we can’t be certain,” the magister admitted. “While we have conducted several successful experiments inserting a demon into a hawk from similar distances, I regret to say we were unable to test the effects of killing the summoner due to a lack of the volunteers required.”

  The raiders laughed, assuming the magister was joking, although Bereth had the impression that he was speaking sincerely. Lassarian nudged her. “I don’t see why not?” he murmured. “We brought them a shaman, didn’t we?” She grinned. Lasri might try the patience of a devil, but he was good company and he made her laugh.

  “Our assumption is that the demon had no interest in the hawk, but was under a compulsion. The compulsion being broken by the summoner’s death, the demon was therefore free to abandon the bird and did so at the earliest opportunity.” Bereth nodded. That made as much sense as anything else she’d heard bruited about.

  Lord Oakenheart cleared his throat and the magister bowed to the assembled raiders and returned to his place. “Today you’re going to stay high and out of range of this new sorcery. Is everyone clear on that? We don’t know what other tricks they have in store for us, but considering that they’ve shown us one new tactic, we have to conclude there will be others. You are to withdraw at the first sign a bird has been possessed and make no attempt to either kill the possessing shaman or rescue the bird’s rider. Bad enough to lose one; we simply can’t risk losing more.”

  There were some rumblings and grumblings amidst the raiders, but they all knew that the prince was right. The raid to obtain prisoners had caught the orcs by surprise, but now that they were on the move again, they would be keeping a wary eye on the skies.

  “Remember, those of you who are flying second saddle, your primary job is to be the general’s eyes. You’re not there to hunt orcs. If you don’t have a gweldbel crystal, see the Magister here and get one. Stay attuned and let your rider know that you’re in rapport so he can show the prince-general what he needs to see if he calls upon you.”

  A raider raised a hand. “Commander, what is the point of hitting them now? Even if we bloody their nose, they’re hardly likely to give up right away.”

  “They’ve already taken one bloody nose from the Men in the west. We’re going to give them another one. This war isn’t going to be won by a single battle, that army is too big. Prince Hoelion is going to bleed them, and slow them down, until they’re too weak to even think about climbing Minith Eleb.”

  “What if they go for Merithaim instead?” another raider asked.

  “Then we will adjust our plans accordingly. The Merithaimi regiments have been assembled and are prepared for that eventuality. But according to the prisoners who have been interrogated, and whose information has thus far proven accurate, Elebrion is the Great Orc’s objective. It is our duty, and it is our honor, to ensure that he does not get there!”

  “Byth y corachod ymlath!” most of the raiders, knowing a cue when they heard one, called out in response. The elves will fight!

  “Byth y corachod yn sefyll!” The elves will stand!

  “Byth y corachod futhugoliaeth!” The elves will triumph!

  They were arrayed in triads of three. Her triad was typical, three birds and five elves. Tywyllas, as the triad leader, flew alone, Rhian carried a mage whose name Bereth did not know, and she flew with Lassarian. Aside from the four hawks of Prince Hoelion’s escort, were nine other triads, which represented a disturbingly large portion of the High Guard. They would act as the prince-general’s eyes when needed, allowing him to swiftly give orders to his officers, all of whom were accomplished adepts capable of hearing his orders, and in some cases, reporting in to him, through the gweldbel crystals. It was the only way their paltry numbers could even think to engage with the massive number of orcs marching towards them.

  And that was the other, even more important reason Prince Hoelion, who flew a huge tawny-feathered hawk named Fflyd-Adenyth, had ordered more than 30 hawks and ten mages aloft with him. If, through some unfortunate turn of fate or unexpected enterprise of an orc commander, either the infantry or the cavalry was cut off and found itself unable to retreat, the prince-general could rapidly summon sufficient archery and spellcraft to create an opening for them.

  She knew their squadron of sky cavalry must have made for an impressive sight. But there was a time, long ago, when the warhawks of the High Guard would have numbered in the thousands.

  The prince-general could certainly have used a thousand skyriders now. Seen from on high, the orc army on the move was an awesome and intimidating sight. What she knew was all disorder and chaos closer to the ground looked almost organic from her current height. The army spilled out from the forest like a flooded lake overflowing its banks, a rising dark green tide so large that it seemed impossible anything could stand before it. Smaller rivulets stretched out before it, growing longer and thinner as the lead units spotted the seven small white stones that were the elven regiments that had ridden north two days before. The largest regiment, nearly
twice the size of the others and forty White Oak Knights strong, was in the fore, commanded by the Horse Lord Malchderas.

  She couldn’t see their infantry anywhere, but she suspected they were concealed behind a line of hills lying to the south.

  Bereth slipped her bow from where she’d tucked it in the saddle and quickly strung it with a brand new string.

  “You brought that? I thought you were supposed to leave them behind.”

  “Didn’t say we had to,” she reminded Lassarian. She held up the translucent red crystal hanging suspended from a silver chain around her neck. “I’ll feel it if the prince wants me. Until then, well, I can hardly miss, can I.”

  He snorted. “From this height, you could probably kill one with an apple core.”

  “No, their skulls are too thick.” Then she frowned. Actually, bringing along a bag of rocks or two wasn’t a bad idea. With such a mass of orcs below, she could probably kill nearly as many as a bolt hurled by a mage simply by emptying out the sack over their heads. She made a mental note to cadge some sacks from the quartermaster next time.

  Two of the larger rivulets reached out for the closest white stone, which abruptly transformed its shape into a small triangle and leaped forward at a much faster pace. The rivulets tried to shift from columns into lines, but before they could manage the trick, the white wedge smashed though the left rivulet once, neatly turned, then smashed through it again before slashing through the right one. She saw intense bursts of red and golden light erupt in the midst of the forward edge of the giant lake, as the mages in the cavalry hurled spells so hellishly powerful that they actually arrested the flooding for a few brief moments.

  She knew that hundreds of orcs were screaming and dying under the lances, swords, hooves, and spells of the royal knights, but from her present vantage point, it looked more like living art, like a painting come to life. The death and destruction taking place before her eyes simply did not seem real.