“That should do nicely,” Trucida said with a satisfied nod.
Irmina’s body stung all over. She felt as if she’d fought a real battle and suffered several blows. She touched her cheekbone and eye. The area was swelling, and if she peered into a mirror, she was certain it would be black and purple.
“Was that much necessary?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“You wanted it to look real, no?” Trucida’s lips twitched.
Irmina bit back on a scathing response that would only serve to please the old woman. Focusing her will she sent a command out to Charra. Moments later he loped to her through the dark trees. Perhaps thirty feet away, Nema clansmen led several of the Tribunal’s crimson-armored Dagodin. The process repeated along the tree line.
When all were in place the captors pushed the Tribunal’s soldiers from the trees. Those who resisted found themselves harried by wolves or daggerpaws.
A horn wailed from the encampment. Soldiers marched out from the tents, shifting into precise formations. Archers stood in a line, bows aimed toward the Netherwood.
Muttering a prayer, Irmina strode from the trees, joining the line of prisoners. When a few realized no treachery was planned, their fearful steps and backward glances changed into jogs, and then into stumbling runs across the grassy plain. She copied them.
The horn sounded again, followed by shouted commands. Her chest constricted as the archers drew flecthings to ears. She prayed they wouldn’t loose.
Horses, each occupied by two riders, headed out to the released prisoners. When the first Matii arrived, they leaped off their mounts. Inspections led to a signal. Another horn blew. The archers lowered their bows. Irmina breathed easier.
Soon she was being led into the encampment and toward tents she assumed contained menders. The din of shouted orders and practiced formations abounded, and the smell of animals, men, and food made for a vile mélange. She made certain not to meet anyone’s eyes and kept a hand to the bruised side of her face, moaning for good measure.
“Praise Ilumni, I’m alive,” she said when a Devout passed nearby.
The woman repeated the words in reverence.
Once inside a tent stink with the smell of blood and mending concoctions, she allowed herself to be led to a bed. “Monsters,” she muttered. “Giant daggerpaws and wolves and dartans. P-possessed by the shade, they are. And, and Forgers, thousands of them. M-must tell the Knight Commander.” Over and over she repeated the words.
Soon enough, a Dagodin, with a pin on his lapel of four swords and a shield that marked him as Knight Captain, arrived at her side. “What is it that you saw, Knight?”
She gripped his hand, eyes wide, and looked around as if she didn’t recognize where she was. Another prayer escaped her lips.
“You’re safe in the camp, soldier.” The man’s voice was strong, reassuring. “I’m Knight Captain Sorik. Tell me what you saw.”
“Monsters,” she whispered. “Giant daggerpaws and worse. I was able to sneak close to the walls.”
“Hold that thought.” Sorik turned on his heels to the Devout mender in white. “See she receives all your attention.” He ducked outside.
Irmina picked out the faint sounds of Sorik issuing orders. The wait dragged before the rhythm of marching boots drew close. Past the mender’s arm that was trying to get her to drink some foul brew, she saw a gauntleted fist draw aside the tent’s flap. Sorik stepped inside accompanied by Varick, resplendent in his silver armor filigreed with gold.
“Devout Roslina, if you will be so kind as to leave us,” Sorik said as they approached.
Bowing, the mender withdrew.
The moment he had full view of her face, Varick gasped. The Knight Commander recovered quickly, his eyes glinting pinpoints. His hand darted to his sword.
Irmina sat up with her hands raised. “I intend no harm, Knight Commander Varick. If I did, all those Matii we freed would be dead. I’m here on behalf of Ryne, Stefan, his sons, and his daughter, Queen Lina.”
Chapter 44
A storm brewed in Ancel’s chest. Massacre was not what he’d wanted or intended, but a part of him knew it had been a possibility, and perhaps a necessity. Still he’d gone ahead with his plan. Sometimes sacrifices were needed, and the little village in Calisto’s Gap had served its purpose.
At first he’d harbored doubts regarding the willingness of the village folk to send for help. The place once held its allegiance to Doster, and their dislike for anything of the Tribunal’s had been clear. But after the panic he stirred among them with his maniacal cackles while speaking to the ball of flame hovering over his palm, he was certain someone would make the necessary report. For an added touch he’d tossed the flame out ahead and called it back as he made his way to the forest.
Now, with a bonfire to keep him company, he sat and waited, pondering the probability of losing his sanity. Mirza would have said he was a madman for his current scheme. But one man’s madness was another man’s brilliance.
Smoke rose in plumes, staining the sky above the village in black and gray. The reek of burnt flesh and buildings made the storm of his emotions grow even stronger. He thought he might have been used to the stench after the Broken Lands, but the smell rekindled memories he could do without. The earlier screams had died, and with them so had the ring of metal on metal and the shouts and cries. Silence reigned for scant moments before hooves drummed. As they drew closer to the woods, and eventually stopped, Ancel reminded himself that he needed these murderers alive.
The mercenaries swept through the copse with such skill and stealth that even the woods’ denizens barely noticed the intruders, continuing their musical interlude of chirps and calls with abandon. Acting as if he hadn’t seen the unlikely shadows, or the silhouettes that slipped from tree to tree, he continued to play with the flames he’d called forth.
A twig cracked. The forest’s song cut off.
Ancel made sure not to cast a hostile Forge. Killing one of his captors wouldn’t go over well no matter how much they deserved death, as the shaded threads that played through their auras suggested. These were men marked by dark deeds and darker thoughts. By slaughter. Rape. And perhaps worse. A part of him itched to slay them. With a grunt he suppressed the urge.
Patience.
A muffled cry, a choked gurgle, the reek of blood. And then the sense of a Forging.
Grimacing, he allowed the fire to wink out as if the enemy Matii had cut him off. He jumped to his feet and glanced around with as panicked an expression as he could muster. An arrow streaked through air. He barely managed to leap from its path.
“You there, Matus,” called a voice in Granadian but with a Calvarish lilt.
Ancel turned slowly. Three men, dressed in cloth and leather, held bows trained in his direction. He raised his hands, palms open.
“If your first thought is to get to the edge of that Warping so you can Forge again, forget it. We have more than enough fodder to keep it on you.” The speaker had the whitish hair and pure green eyes associated with Calvarish folk. “Our other friends could burn you to a crisp where you stand, but that’s obviously not our intention.” His gaze drifted over Ancel, lingering on the Etchings. “Those tattoos and clothes say you’re a Danin. Pretty far from home, aren’t you? How did you get here?”
Ancel glanced down at his faded browns and whites and shrugged. “I Materialized and then I walked. How else do you get some place?”
Hard eyes answered his sarcasm. “Show your face. I like to see who I’m speaking to.” The arrowhead didn’t waver.
As cautious as he could manage Ancel unwound the scarf connected to the cloth wrapped around his head. He let the scarf fall over his shoulder. Glad to let his bearded face breathe, he almost smiled.
“What were you doing out here?” the man asked.
“Same as you … hunting Matii.”
“And how do we know you weren’t part of the uprising, one of the Matii that escaped from the Tribunal’s attack on Ca
listo?”
“You don’t.”
“Then we have a problem.” The Calvarish gestured with his head.
Faint rustlings and the scuff of a boot on stone announced more mercenaries. Ancel glanced over his shoulder at the newcomers. Seven in all, four of them archers, the other three Alzari dressed in Ashishin crimson.
“They claimed you’re strong,” the leader said. “And they also think you’ve lost yourself to Mater. Normally a Danin would be welcome, but in order to confirm who you are, and if you’re safe, you must come with us.”
Ancel turned his palms outward in a helpless gesture. “I don’t see what other choice I have.”
“Good.” The leader smiled but it held no mirth. “I like when a man knows sense when he hears it. Before I lower my bow, keep one thing in mind, there’s plenty rebel Matii in these parts. Give us trouble, and we won’t hesitate to kill you and move on to a better target.”
“Understood.”
Rough hands seized him, and moments later he wore chained manacles on his wrists and ankles. The Alzari became more wary the moment he crossed out of the Warped area. A spear point prodding at his back reminded him how easily his captors could run him through. Soon he was trundling along in one of two caged wagons in the company of several other captured Matii, all of them bedraggled, once rich clothes now dirty, and several bearing cuts that were scabbing over. Their guards quadrupled, each riding a horse or a dartan.
Not much conversation passed between the captives, and most of it happened in whispers. When the guards felt there was unnecessary association they would prod and poke with their long spears or bang clubs against the bars near the offenders. Throughout the journey Ancel kept to himself.
At least one guard lacked an aura. Ancel considered the bit he’d read in the Cyclic Omniverse. A strange name for a Chronicle he’d thought when he saw it, a name he didn’t understand, but the tome was one of the few with details on netherlings. At least according to the listing of contents. He wouldn’t know for certain until he studied each one thoroughly. Referring to the book, he allowed his mind to roam over his Etchings, seeking out those that represented sight through binding three different essences. The three didn’t matter, just the fact three were used.
The nimbus of an aura bloomed around the man. Or rather, the netherling. Similar to Charra’s in the Entosis, it was less discernible, in a constant state of change, adapting to the surroundings. But unlike before, Ancel could tell the creature’s intention, and pick out certain definitive aspects in the aura. He wished he had another netherling with which to compare. Regardless, he received the impression this creature was simply an observer. Satisfied, he let the sight recede.
The guard turned his head. Dead eyes stared into Ancel’s. What he thought to be a flash of recognition crossed the netherling’s features. Ancel prepared to draw on his Etchings when he recalled Charra’s words in the Entosis. Doubtful of the pact’s absolute hold on the netherlings, he waited, not daring to breathe. The guard’s expression became blank once more, and the creature continued to ride beside the wagon as if nothing happened. A weight eased from Ancel’s chest, allowing him to breathe easier.
Not wanting to draw undue attention he rested with his back against the bars and allowed the monotony of wheels on hard ground, the bump of ruts, the snort and smell of animals, and the odor of unwashed bodies, to take him away. Vestiges of the evening sun speared the sky in golden hues when their caravan crested an incline that offered the first view of Calisto, its walls matching the aptly named Red Ridge Mountains behind it.
A vast army camped outside the city, Lightstorm battle standards hanging limp above several tents. The smell of waste pits set a reek to the air but paled in comparison to the stench of death. Smoke rose from certain sections of Calisto, puffs of black against blue. Pulled by horse or dartan teams, numerous carts trundled through the battlefield, corpses piled upon them. Men chased away crows and vultures that voiced their displeasure in raucous dissonance.
Ancel assumed the conflict had to be remnants of Matii or people loyal to Jerem. Why the man would have left anyone behind was a mystery. From the dark clouds of ravens, the numerous glints of metal and armor on the battlefield, and the blackened ramparts, this had already been a lengthy siege.
Instead of heading down toward the encampment they veered off toward an open area busy with soldiers. A portal opened in a space cordoned off by ropes. Several wagons and a cohort of crimson-wearing Dagodin advanced through the opening. The portal became a vertical slash before it twisted horizontally and disappeared.
Cage rattling, his wagon rolled toward a similar space. A nearby Ashishin Forged another portal. The guards herded them through and onto a sprawling plain.
In shining silver, the Iluminus dominated the landscape, looming like so many giant spikes fallen from the heavens. Several of the captives gasped. The wagons trundled toward the structures.
From a distance the Iluminus had been a dozen or more shining needles that pierced the sprawling blue above him, its spires touching wispy clouds. Up close, they stretched skyward until Ancel needed to crane his neck. A latticework of walkways and bridges spanned between the numerous buildings.
Every Granadian kingdom had representation along the streets. Lace-wearing Calvarish, be-ringed Torsenians, brown-skinned, tattooed Danins, Ishtari in their silks and satins, and hook-nosed Barhamians were among the most prominent. Those came as no surprise as they were all fiercely loyal to the Tribunal over the years. Sprinkled among them were Sendethi and Dosteri. Considering the hardships both kingdoms would now be facing for the part they played in the Setian resurgence, he understood why their representatives would come to pay homage. Or beg.
What he did not expect were the Barsonians. The cream-colored men and women strode among the crowds as if they belonged, Golden Tide insignia plain for all to see on their hooded short cloaks. Why would a people who’d sworn to fight against the Tribunal, who’d done just that for the past thousand years, now support them?
The wagons drew to halt at the towering ramparts that surrounded the Iluminus’ outer residences and farms a ways before the shining spires. The leader rode to one of the many gates along the edifice, this one a lot less crowded than the others, the avenue before it populated by folk whose clothes spoke of riches. After a few words to a Dagodin, the Calvarish signaled to the drivers. Their caravan rolled past those waiting and entered the Iluminus.
Along an expansive avenue they clattered toward the westernmost spire. Light essences penetrated every surface and at no point did Ancel see a single shadow. Children ran after their caravan, laughing, some tossing fruits that burst apart on the bars, leaving the prisoners ripe with the reek of rot. He couldn’t help but think the smell a comfort compared to their former odor. People pointed. Some shook their fists. Fear radiated from the expressions of many, but still they jeered. For all their bravado not one came within twenty feet of the wagons.
Panic began to set in among a few captives as they drew closer to the spire. The number of Matii along the streets increased. Crimson-armored Dagodins, and Ashishins of various rank, striped sleeves or robes denoting their stature, became more prevalent. They gave a cursory glance in the wagon’s direction. A few black-garbed Raijin strode by. Notably absent were the Pathfinders.
The caravan’s leader veered off onto a side street that led them around the spire with its gleaming stone. A dozen Ashishins and at least a full Dagodin cohort guarded a gated entrance.
A Knight Captain strode forward. “Hail, Jeosen.”
“Hail, Knight Captain Lontan.”
“Nice haul today, eh?”
“Better than last week, for sure,” the Calvarish answered.
Lontan’s gaze roved over the prisoners before pausing on Ancel. “A Danin? The Tribunal might not take kindly to that.”
“This one was out in Calisto’s Gap, said he was hunting rebels.”
“Alone?” the Knight Captain took another look at Ancel, ass
essing him. “They say at least a few of those damned Setian Forgers strong enough to be High Shins are hiding up there.”
“Which is why I brought him here, and in chains,” Jeosen said. “Until one of the Danin representatives can say for certain this man isn’t in league with the rebels, I thought it best. Besides,” he added with a nod toward the Alzari, “they say he’s lost it. So did the one or two wounded village folk we found. They were so scared you might’ve thought they’d seen shadelings or Hydae itself. They said he was spraying fire and laughing like a madman. Killed almost all of them, burned the village down.”
Lontan spat to one side, disgust plain in his expression. “Seems pretty calm now, but that’s common when the madness starts. We’ll take him down to the lower levels until one of the High Shins can test him or the Tribunal says different. Wait here.” The Knight Captain strode away and entered a small guardhouse near the gate. He returned with a parchment. “Check it to make sure I got the count right. I added a bit extra for that one.” He nodded to Ancel.
Jeosen took the paper, perused it, and then his mouth spread in a toothy grin. “Thank you, Lonny. Drinks, later?”
“For sure.” The Knight Captain laughed. He waved to the soldiers behind him.
Dagodins off-loaded the wagons. Ancel was passed into the care of two Ashishins. Offering no resistance he let them lead him through the gates and down into the Iluminus’ dungeons.
Cool air that smelled of old blood and death wafted up to him. Amid the cries and moans of prisoners they descended level upon level, the reek growing more prominent. At last they proceeded along a corridor lined with metal doors, an Ashishin standing outside of each. From such doors came feeble pounding or scratching. Shade commingled with each Ashishin’s aura, showing signs of corruption. The essences near the Matii had been Warped, and they stood guard just outside the affected areas.
In the middle of the corridor was a large cell crowded with men and women, every one of them emaciated, sickly. One of his handlers nodded to a Dagodin outside the cage. The soldier opened the door, kicking away any prisoners who clamored to him, begging to be released. Most of the others shied away. He grabbed an old man by his hair and dragged him out.
Embers of a Broken Throne Page 31
