by Lee Dunning
Kiat was right, W’rath did come up with the most awful ideas. “You can’t know that,” she said. She was close to hyperventilating. I have to calm down.
W’rath shrugged as if the entire situation made perfect sense. “Lady Winterdawn mentioned four suitors but only one stood out because of his black hair. Lord Icewind stated the K’huls would never stand for such an individual sullying their ranks. Logically, one of their number decided to remove the embarrassment and rid themselves of a few other undesirables at the same time. If not young Lady Itarillë, then who?”
“I might know,” Kiat said, his voice growing faint with dread. “He’s a hateful individual, but even so, I’m reluctant to accuse him without further proof.”
W’rath started to speak, no doubt to ask whom Kiat referred to, when the diviner’s eyes rolled up in his head. He dropped to the floor like an unstrung puppet. The guards rumbled in concern and shifted uneasily. Everyone in the room winced as the air pressure dropped dramatically and then reversed. Lady Winterdawn stumbled around the table to kneel next to Kiat and cradle his head.
“What in the Nine Hells just happened?” Lady Swiftbrook demanded of no one.
From the floor, Lady Winterdawn looked up, fear clouding her golden eyes. “The wards,” she said. “They’re gone.”
Chapter 21
At last! Renoir had to force himself not to cheer as Queen Cherish, Matron DuBoi and Master Favre put their signatures to the document before them. Renoir generally avoided participating in the tedium of bureaucracy but with the arrival of Harry, he felt compelled to attend the meetings surrounding the proposed wedding. If the queen’s uncle acted up, the cleric wished to be on hand to instill discipline. He rubbed his still-aching jaw. He wouldn’t admit it to Harry, but the man knew how to throw a punch.
For his part, Harry sulked at the far end of the room. He hadn’t changed out of his patchwork of velvets, homespun and salt-stained leather. He’d spent most of the meetings gnawing on his mustache in frustration. Renoir, despite finding the man crude and insensitive, spared Harry a drop of sympathy. While the crusty king might stand just a step or two above the pirates his country constantly battled, he took the security of Scoffula seriously. His folk feared a large, powerful, church-backed assault.
The former marriage of Cherish to Oblund, along with some excellent trade agreements, helped keep a buffer between Scoffula and Renlin. Now with the likelihood of Teresland and Renlin melding into one, Harry had to sense the hot breath of the church against his neck. Yes, Renoir understood Harry’s concerns, but Scoffula couldn’t keep the people of Teresland alive through a long winter. Renlin could.
Polite applause broke out after Master Favre laid down the last signature. Even the elf guards scattered about the room pounded their weapons against their shields. A few breaths too late, Renoir joined in. Queen Cherish raised an eyebrow at his preoccupation and broke away from the others to join him.
“My Queen,” he said as she gazed up at him with sad, weary eyes.
“Chalice, my friend,” she said. “We’ve seen little of each other these long weeks. I’ve missed your counsel.”
“I apologize. I had little to contribute to your arrangements, and Lord Icewind needed help navigating our bureaucracy.”
She gave a light laugh and pushed a limp strand of copper hair behind her ear. “I heard about the incident with Lord Icewind and the diplomat from Greater Triach.”
The queen refrained from commenting on Renoir’s part in the debacle, but mention of the incident brought color to his cheeks. “Not one of my better moments.”
Cherish laughed again and patted his arm. “You’re always so serious, Chalice. It pleases me you dropped that wall of sobriety of yours and enjoyed the absurdity of the situation.” She reached up and prodded the impressive bruise spreading across the right side of his face, grinning when he winced. “I should scold you for resorting to fisticuffs with my uncle. After all, he’s a king. I appreciated you standing up to him, though.”
“You didn’t appear pleased at the time.”
“I left because I couldn’t keep my laughter buried any longer,” she said, her eyes squinting up in mirth. “I didn’t deem it appropriate for a queen to howl at the antics of grown men pummeling each other into jelly.” She gave a small, mocking curtsy and started to turn away.
“My Queen,” he called and she paused. “I will endeavor to have myself and Tarako assigned to Renlin. You will have at least a few friendly faces to watch over you in your new home.”
She flashed him a grateful smile from over her shoulder before gliding back to join Matron DuBoi. “You should rejoin your family in the throne room, Chalice. They have need of you.”
More like he needed his wife and children. It would do him good to bask in Tarako’s solid presence, and smile at the excited chatter of his daughters. He bowed to Queen Cherish, touching the fingers of his right hand to his head and heart before marching toward the exit.
The doors burst inward, sending the priest stumbling back to keep from being trampled. Half a dozen First Born soldiers and a harried-looking Sky Elf caster poured in. The helmed leader of the elves gestured for his people to spread out across the room to line the walls with their fellows. The caster slammed the doors shut and immediately started to chant.
Master Favre bristled. “How dare you creatures interrupt these proceedings!”
Renoir could practically hear the creak of the commander’s taut muscles as his helmet swiveled in the direction of the ancient priest. Even up close, the only thing visible through the helmet’s visor was the glow of the elf’s lupine eyes. His gaze rested a moment before moving on, dismissing Master Favre the same way another might ignore a yappy little dog. “Queen Cherish?” he asked.
She nodded.
Without another word, the helmet turned until the elf’s fierce scrutiny rested on Renoir. “We haven’t formally met, Chalice, but I am Commander Orcbane. Lady Swiftbrook ordered me to find you and Queen Cherish. We’re to see to your protection.”
Uneasy muttering rippled through the air. A chill settled into Renoir’s bones. Tarako! “What’s happened?”
Orcbane regarded Renoir as if judging how much to tell the human before him. “Something got past the wards set up along the sewers,” he said at last. “I’m embarrassed to inform you, we have a demon incursion.”
The world whipped around K'hul in a hurricane of delirium. Screams, roars, and sobs of laughter blended into a cacophony of madness. Even his own breathing and heartbeat did nothing to assure him he lived. Only the constant weight of the sword in his left hand and the shield in his right provided him any sense of solidity.
He swung, sometimes slashing, sometimes smashing, but always moving. Resting meant death. If he died, everyone died. Of that he felt certain.
For once, arrogance didn’t motivate his thoughts. Terror and rage had burned away his pride. No, his certitude came from the knowledge the only thing between the elves and total annihilation was the towering elemental he’d called to aid them. While he lay unconscious, it lost its focus. If he died, it would fall to rubble. His usual pleasure in possessing the power to summon such a creature, while others could only call forth elementals a quarter of its size, turned his stomach now. He’d gladly give up the ability if it meant every elf on the field could gain it and fill the plains with elemental rage.
Something careened off his helmet, staggering him. His helmet. He’d confiscated it from one of his people who no longer needed it. Practicality replaced disgust at scavenging from the dead. He swung around and spilled the guts of the shrieking creature with the long reach of his sword.
The ground flowed and he rode the rippling wave while gray devils and nameless horrors sprawled. Each step the elemental took shook the land. Even the creatures with four legs had trouble keeping their feet. Any elves with an affinity for earth and stone could do as their warlord did. He hoped that was most of them.
As the monstrous army staggered and
struggled to right itself, the horizon cleared enough for K’hul to catch a glimpse of the field around him. To the east, a large gathering of elves fought in a wedge formation. He ached to join them but it seemed no matter how much he fought, he made no progress in their direction.
Something streaked overhead, followed in quick succession by two more. K’hul craned his neck to watch the black masses as they flew overhead. Two crashed into the torso of the elemental, while the third landed on its shoulder. Immediately, long, waving tentacles shot out of the blobs and started thrashing at the stone armor of the elemental.
The demons have ballista? K’hul’s gaze followed the trajectory of the living projectiles and found himself staring at three oily-looking devils set far back from the main fight, overseeing all.
The First Born smashed a fly the size of a wine cask and rushed forward, eyes locked on the devils. One arched its back, balancing on its tail. Its huge, distended belly warped and a coiling blackness opened. The devil shuddered and another of the tentacle creatures shot out of the vortex to arc across the field. This one joined the earlier creature digging at the elemental’s right shoulder.
They’ll rip it apart! He made another push toward the main body of the elven army. He needed to have enough freedom to send new commands to his companion. Without his direction, it wouldn’t have enough sense to fight off the creatures intent on its destruction. In desperation he spun, looking for allies closer to him. He’d become separated from Lady Earthfire in the melee. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.
The glint of red armor caught his eye. She’d fallen behind, her fake leg finally taking its toll on her mobility. The elemental took another heavy, ponderous step giving K’hul the reprieve he needed to backtrack as the ground heaved and the enemy faltered. Somehow, Lady Earthfire had gotten disoriented and faced the wrong direction. K’hul shouted to her in warning as a centipede-like demon with a scorpion tail sped toward her from behind.
It wasn’t Lady Earthfire. A leering devil turned to greet K’hul. While the giant centipede ran circles around the devil’s legs like a happy puppy, the devil pounded the confiscated elven-made breastplate it wore. It brandished a serrated sword, ready to gut the fool it’d lured with its ruse.
K’hul couldn’t stop in time but he could cast a quick spell. He roared a simple but powerful word. Stone ripped from the ground in a vertical slab. The First Born bounced off the wall even as the devil’s blade connected on the other side. It screeched in outrage and then in death as K’hul’s momentum brought him around the rock wall to sever the creature’s spine just below the stolen breastplate.
The centipede thing let loose with an ululating trill and rippled along the ground, chasing after the backpedaling elf. It reared. A broad fringed hood shivered open, dripping with curved hooks. Along its bared torso a trio of tiny, wrinkled faces, trilled in outrage.
The faces twisted. K’hul didn’t wait to see what they intended. He smashed shield-first into them and brought his sword down in heavy chop. The top portion of the monster sagged against him, but the rear pulled free, trailing goo. It skittered back, its spiked tail poised to strike.
K’hul tried to retreat but the creature’s hood closed as it died, sinking hooks into the joints of his armor. Its weight dragged at him as he pulled against it. He fought to extricate himself to no avail. The tail plunged. The tip hissed by as he twisted away in a perverse slow dance with his dead partner.
He tried a counter swing at the tail, but the hooks dragging at his joints made him as awkward as a toddler with a club. The thing skittered around for a better angle, somehow sensing him even without the benefit of eyes. He hefted the corpse and staggered around in an attempt to keep it between him and the tail.
His ankle turned.
With all of the corpses, broken weapons and bits of stone, a damned gopher hole brought him down. The air exploded from K’hul’s lungs as he slammed into the ground. His right knee tore itself to shreds but the pain didn’t register. He lay, transfixed, as death dove toward the opening in his faceplate.
A blur of movement and the tail’s tip spun against the harsh, washed-out blue of the sky. Slowly, the darkness encroaching on K’hul’s vision expanded. Sound returned in the form of labored breath and cursing.
“If this was an attempt to test my loyalty, Warlord,” Lady Earthfire groused, “I hope you’re well satisfied. I’m sick of chasing you all over the battlefield.”
“I came back to save you.” The minute the words left his throat, K’hul wished the creature had succeeded in killing him.
The expected laughter didn’t come. Instead, the elfess cut the dead demon’s cocooning embrace from K’hul and held out her hand to him. K’hul stared. Somewhere the smith had lost her gauntlet. On the pad of her palm a small blister rose. In a nightmare rush, memories of Second Home flooded his mind.
People covered in blisters.
Creatures bursting from those sores to consume their host.
K’hul did not think he imagined the twitch of movement in the blister on Lady Earthfire’s hand. Another one swelled next to it. No!
Sword arm no longer restrained, K’hul swung. He aimed for her elbow—just to be sure. His blade connected true. Her blood sprayed both their faces. As her arm tumbled away, he wondered if he’d live long enough to explain.
As Chalice Renoir digested Commander Orcbane’s news, High Master Favre and High Matron DuBoi continued to protest the elves’ invasion and demand a better explanation. The elves in turn ignored the priest and priestess and set about casting spells on their weapons and armor. The magic user continued to ward the room’s door.
Harry jumped up, all wild-haired fury and came at the leader of the soldiers as if he intended to lay into the elf as he had Renoir two days prior. The First Born barely moved but Harry went tumbling backwards like a child’s toy. “Sit down and shut up,” Orcbane said. “We’re here to save your miserable hides, so at least have the courtesy to let us do our jobs.”
Under other circumstances, Harry’s chastisement would have brought a smug smile to Renoir’s scarred face. Instead, he turned back to the door, knowing nothing he said or did would convince the elves to let him out. It wouldn’t keep him from trying, though. “I need to get to the throne room.”
A large presence settled in next to Chalice Renoir. His bodyguard stood there. The elf put a hand on Renoir’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” he said, “We can’t leave. Lord Orcbane won’t risk people running around where they might be killed. Or possessed. There’s at least two dozen guards protecting the throne room, so I’m sure your family is safe.”
Master Favre stepped up to Renoir’s other side. “Your duty lies here, anyway,” the old priest said. “Queen Cherish is here. You also owe it to the church to stay and protect its leadership.”
Renoir gaped at the elder priest. “You forget our tenants, High Master,” he said. “Family comes second only to the Brother and Sister themselves.”
“Mistress DuBoi and I embody the Duality, Renoir,” Favre said as if addressing a recalcitrant pupil. “Your duty is to us above all else.”
Renoir’s bodyguard shifted and a large shadow settled across Master Favre’s wrinkled visage. “Go away,” the elf said to Favre.
It had probably been a good twenty years since Favre moved so spryly. He scuttled away, though not before throwing a scowl in Renoir’s direction. It promised a comeuppance.
Renoir sighed and found himself gazing upon Queen Chalice. She mouthed something at him that might have been, “I’m sorry,” but he wasn’t certain. She turned away and joined Matron DuBoi, putting as much distance between herself and Harry as possible.
“There must be some way to at least get word to Tarako,” Renoir said. “I need to know she understands what’s happened.”
The soldier nodded toward the busy mage. “Perhaps when Lord Mistborn finishes with his warding. Don’t approach him yourself, though. Let me speak on your behalf.”
“Thank y
ou.” Renoir hated feeling so helpless. He’d distinguished himself in combat, serving both king and church. Now he felt like … nothing.
“It’s all right,” the guard assured him. “We have access to our elemental magic this time. We’ll prevail against anything the fiends throw at us. Your people are our responsibility now. We won’t let the demons have them.”
Renoir turned his tired, distraught eyes up toward the elf who had shadowed him for weeks now. “Your people don’t even like us,” Renoir said. “Why are they risking themselves on our behalf?”
The elf chuckled. “We don’t dislike all of you—even if your customs do confound us. Besides, the demons probably wouldn’t be here if we weren’t here. Even the most rigid of us wouldn’t abandon you to them.”
Despite the truth of the soldier’s words, Renoir felt a stab of guilt. Commander Orcbane hadn’t specified the extent of the attack—but the fact they’d sent so many soldiers and then sealed themselves in the room, told him they all faced a great deal of trouble. “I’ve never even asked your name.”
“There’s four of us, actually, Chalice,” the elf said. “We’ve rotated watching over you.” He laughed when Renoir’s face went scarlet. “It’s all right. We know we look alike to you. But you may call me Tyan.”
“Lord Tyan,” Renoir began.
“Just Tyan, Chalice. I haven’t taken a last name yet. I’m only seventy-eight.”
“Brother and Sister,” Renoir said, shaking his head. “My father died before he turned seventy, yet your people consider you too young to have a family name.”
“Let’s worry about your family right now, Chalice,” the young soldier said. “Lord Mistborn has finished with his castings. Let me see if I can’t get him to do us the favor of checking on your wife and daughters. Excuse me.” Tyan bowed and went to speak with the Sky Elf mage. This mage had silver hair and a piercing gaze Renoir feared might reflect a soul disinclined to care about some wretched human’s loved ones.
