But they were loyal and unflinching, and the permanent thralls felt no pain. That would be a problem.
Worse was the lack of Serindas. He sensed the blade nearby—its hunger tugged at him through their connection—but it was not close enough to pinpoint. Probably at the front of the caravan, in one of the travel-trunks Annia had brought along.
Get out of my shackles, out of the carriage, to Serindas. Find Cob. Then—
Impact flung him across the bench. Instinctively he twisted to hit the wall with his knees and the whole world went topsy-turvy in a storm of splinters and twisted steel. He curled up around the shackles, hiding his head in his arms as the carriage rolled and he was swung by the chain, slamming against another wall and then what used to be the ceiling. A long skid and then the carriage came to rest, upside-down, with a shattered hole in the wall where the doors used to be.
Darilan straightened cautiously, his preparations making him indifferent to the bruises, and yanked at the bolt that held his chains—embedded in what was now the ceiling. It held fast.
“That’s my piking luck,” he muttered.
Outside, the air filled with shouts and the whistle of arrows. He yanked at the chain again, and hung on it, and swung upside-down to plant his feet around the bolt and pull, but the floorboards were undamaged and the blasted thing stayed tight. Just as he dropped down again, cursing under his breath, something moved in the hole where the door had been.
A thrall. Sword drawn, face hidden by his helm.
Beneath Darilan’s sleeve, the black bracer put a shot of adrenaline into him. His world narrowed to the target, and he grinned viciously. “Come and get me.”
The man lunged in low, the carriage too small for him to stand straight. As he stabbed forward, Darilan gripped the chain and whipped his legs up, lifting himself almost flat to the ceiling so that the blade cut only air. His feet shot past the guard’s bent head, and as the man lurched back, Darilan let his left leg slide down but hooked his right leg over the man's shoulder, heel against his spine. From that position, he jammed his left foot into the guard’s hand as the man tried to raise his sword, then brought his knee up hard as he yanked the man forward with his other leg. He nailed the thrall right in the chin, bouncing his helm off the ceiling.
Something crunched in the thrall’s skull, possibly vertebrae. All that mattered to Darilan was that the man went limp, drooling blood.
Darilan released his grip to let the thrall collapse, then lowered himself again. Sliding a foot under the sword, he twisted it from the thrall’s twitching fingers, then up to his hands. With some cursing, he wedged it in the link that held his shackles to the chain, then wrenched it around violently, the bracer pouring unnatural strength into his arms, until blade and chain both snapped. Splinters of metal flew everywhere, but if they hit Darilan, he did not feel it.
His shackles still held. He grimaced in annoyance, but the lower end of the broken sword still held a sliver of blade, so he gripped the hilt with both hands and stepped over the fallen guard toward the door. Hopefully it would be enough to get him to Serindas.
*****
Cob’s carriage jerked to a halt, and he blinked from his half-drowse. Outside, sounds of conflict rose like a wave.
He closed his eyes. In the depths, he felt the Great Spirit waiting patiently for some unknown cue; it did not respond to his queries. Unable to share its calm, he glanced from the carriage door to his chains. He did not know what power the Guardian might have against metal. Could it break the shackles, or was he honestly trapped?
If someone came in to get him…
Like Darilan.
What should I do? Give myself over to the Guardian, just in case?
He sensed that he could. Every time that the Guardian had possessed him, it had been like falling down a well: plunging into darkness without a chance to catch himself. Darilan’s command in the tavern, Annia’s kiss—and even before that, when the rebel boys had attacked him near Ammala Cray’s place. From breaking the wards, he now knew that he could fall into the darkness on his own, but the idea unnerved him. What if he fell too deep? What if instead of giving control to the Guardian, he plunged into that black void where the magic had gone?
Maybe it has to be ready to catch me. Come on, Guardian, I feel you there. I don’t really want do this, but…
Something thumped against the carriage door.
He tensed and brought his chained hands up defensively. There was not much he could do, but he would try.
Another thump, then the rattle of the handle and a scritcha-scratch sound like claws on wood. His brows furrowed. The Corvish?
Silence, then a quiet click. The handle turned smoothly and the door swung open.
For a moment all Cob saw was the rock wall a few yards away, painted yellow by the glow of magelight. Then a rust-colored tail flashed into view, and a large fox swung from the handle into the carriage, a keyring in its jaws. It padded over to him and sat at his feet, bright-eyed, offering the keys.
Cob leaned down to take the ring and fumble at the shackle locks. After all he had been through, a rescue-fox did not surprise him. “Are you a person?” he said as he thumbed through the keys.
The fox perked its ears and bobbed its head.
“Well, thank you then,” he said. Outside, an arrow shattered on the rock wall, kicking splinters into the carriage, and the fox skittered to a safer corner. Frowning, Cob kept an eye on the door as he continued to flip through keys. There were a lot of them. “Are you winning?”
The fox wobbled its head back and forth.
A key fit, and he twisted it and the shackle came apart. He unlocked his other wrist and tossed the chains down. The fox yipped and made an undeniably happy face, then scooted from the carriage like liquid copper. Cob stared at the doorway and rubbed his wrists, trying to get up the nerve to leave.
Got to. Gotta get away before Darilan finds me again.
Grimacing, he forced himself up from the bench and stepped to the door, head ducked against the low ceiling. He gripped the door-frame and glanced out quickly, enough to take in the line of stopped carriages now bristling with arrows, the guards circumventing the rock wall, the mages flinging bolts of golden light up it.
He took a deep breath.
And tasted a sudden wash of honey, intoxicating, clinging to his lungs as he drew it in. His eyes widened and he covered his mouth with his hand, but already the slithering darkness rose to meet him. He swayed in the threshold, the nails of pain slamming into his forehead, and thought, It’s her. Annia.
Then he fell, and the Guardian rose to meet him.
*****
Lark breathed in the cloying scent and sneezed hard enough to smack her head into her bowstring. The shot went awry, burying into a tree on the forest-side of the road.
She cursed quietly and nocked another arrow, then sneezed again. On the rock ledge, she heard someone else sneeze, then screech in pain and anger. She looked up and saw two Red Corvish wrestling.
“What—“ she said.
Then Radha was on her.
She hit the cold mud under the Corvishwoman, bracing the bow between them. Radha grabbed her by the neck but Lark’s arms were longer and Radha’s grip was tenuous; a shove of the bow and a kick and wriggle and Lark managed to upend her. She scrambled aside as the Corvishwoman whipped back with a snarl, an obsidian dagger clutched in one hand.
“Void’s teeth,” Lark swore, and pulled herself up quickly. The Corvishwoman’s dark eyes were blank as inkdrops. From up on the rocks came more screams of anger, and someone tumbled down the side, smashing through dead brush as they went.
Radha stepped forward and Lark smacked her across the face with her bow, leaving a red stripe. The Corvishwoman never blinked.
“Lagalaina!” someone shouted from above, just as another rush of sickly sweetness swept through the forest. Radha lunged and Lark whacked her in the throat this time, and she stumbled back, coughing.
Fear and knowledge brou
ght a giggle of hysteria to Lark’s lips. Lagalaina…. She knew what they were: a type of Imperial abomination—seductresses, mind-controllers. Their powers worked on those who lusted toward them.
Two soldiers in heavy armor and Wyndish maroon tabards clambered up the rocks that Radha and Lark had been defending. They ignored the coughing Corvishwoman and rushed at Lark.
She bolted for the higher ledge. Bow in hand, she leapt the groaning fox-masked Corvishman who had tumbled down and flung herself at the rock, hauling up with fingers and feet. A gauntlet locked around her ankle and she kicked back, slamming her heel against a helmet. It sent a shock all the way up her leg, but the guard let go.
Up, up, and into the fray that had broken out among the Corvish. The ranks were equally male and female, but there seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason to who fought who; all of them, Red and Black, struggled with blades and fists as the arrow-beleaguered Imperials recovered below. A few had shifted into skinchanger-form, arms bristling with fur or feathers, minimal clothing hanging like harnesses around their half-bestial bodies; others, mostly women, were trying to retreat from the conflict while howling in their rough language. The enthralled Corvish seemed determined not to let them.
Realizing that this was no sanctuary, Lark scrambled to the edge of the rock shelf to peek through the few felled trees that still provided cover. The Corvish had dropped both boulders onto the road at just the right time, dividing the caravan neatly: three carriages ahead, three behind, and two smashed in the middle. The larger rearward boulder blocked a great swath of the path, having hit and rolled a carriage almost to the edge of the opposite embankment; the carriage was upside-down, wheels and side splintered, driver’s bench pulverized, fallen horses thrashing and screaming in their traces. The forward boulder had landed closer and knocked a second carriage askew, crushing its back corner inward. The rest of the trees that had screened the boulders from view had gone over the ledge too, further clogging the road.
Outside the second of the undamaged front carriages, under layered wards of shimmering magic, stood a golden woman in a blood-red gown, her hair rippling around her as if suspended underwater. Even from this distance Lark saw her eyes as faceted gemstones and sensed the waves of seductive, lascivious heat that wafted out from her.
Lark sneezed so hard she saw stars, then shook herself and glanced back. Hampered by their armor, the guards were just mounting the rock, and the whole frenzied span of Corvishfolk struggled between them.
Still, Lark knew she could not consider herself safe. Biting her lip, she looked down again. The rock shelf and the fallen trees half-obscured the caravan, but she could see some mages in their shimmering shells, spellcasting in support of the lagalaina. Shooting at them would draw attention to her and probably not make much impact, but the only way to get to the abomination was to go through her protectors first, and Lark did not think she could wait for the Corvish to sort themselves out.
Raising her bow, she nocked an arrow and leaned forward, taking aim.
Then she paused. Trevere had just swung atop the lagalaina’s carriage. She could shoot him from here and he would never know what got him.
For a moment, she wrestled with herself.
Then she turned her aim back to a mage and fired.
*****
The lagalaina’s intoxicants boiled in Darilan’s blood, and he gritted his teeth against them. His stolen body wanted to react, forcing the bracer to work hard to neutralize Annia’s control, and his left arm burned sullenly from the effort. He was having difficulty making his left hand work.
Adding to it was the Guardian aura somewhere behind him.
He had been halfway to Annia’s carriage when he felt its weight on his shoulders, trying to crush him down into the earth. For a moment he had stopped in his tracks, torn. But he was still shackled and the bitch had not faltered in working her influence, and he needed Serindas desperately. Now, as he swung up awkwardly onto the carriage roof, he felt the Guardian moving away and cursed himself for his choice.
The rain of arrows had ceased for the moment. No doubt the Corvish were having their own issues with Annia’s power. Taking advantage of that freedom from friendly fire, Darilan scrambled across the roof to the lashed-down trunks and forced one open.
Fancy silks spilled free. Curse her and her accursed wardrobe, he thought, and shoved it off the roof. Beneath it was another chest, and from the surge of hunger he felt, he knew this was his target. He yanked at the lid but it would not budge; it was locked.
He heard a shout and looked down to see a guard pointing at him from the road. Two others broke from their tasks to join the first man in clambering up after him. Most of the guards had scattered into the woods or up the rock after the Corvish, or formed up around Annia with her mages, and Darilan cursed again for managing to catch the attention of the few who were free. Kicking the baggage-ropes away, he waited until they started climbing the carriage, then shoved the chest down on top of them.
They fell in a crash of armor, and the chest hit the road and split open. More gowns and undergarments spilled free, but the tug in his gut told him that Serindas was down there. He leapt from the carriage and landed on a fallen guard, hearing a crack beneath the man’s breastplate; the guard gurgled and tried to rise but failed.
Darilan flung himself at the nearest rising guard, broken sword first. The splinter of steel punched through chainmail and slid up beneath cuirass into stomach. Undeterred, the thralled guard tried to grapple with Darilan but the assassin planted his feet and shoved hard, knocking the unsteady man onto his back. Darilan wrenched the broken blade free and kept moving forward, nailing it up under the chinstrap of the man's helmet into his throat then crouching beneath the third guard’s swing and retracting it to stab him through the right knee. A twist of the blade and the thrall's leg buckled, dropping him aside.
Straightening, Darilan left them to bleed and ran to the shattered chest, kicking away silky things until his foot hit something harder: Serindas and its sheath and belt. He gripped the broken sword in his teeth so he could catch up the belt and draw his partner, and as Serindas’ ravenous joy flowed into him, he chuckled around the jawful of steel. He twisted his wrists and wrapped the chain around the dagger, and as the red runes on its length lit up, it parted the metal like butter.
He snipped the shackles off the same way, feeling the blade pulse hungrily against his wrists. Then he pulled the sword from his teeth and ran Serindas along the flat, letting it drink up the blood that remained.
It tugged him toward the downed guards, but he reined it in. Swiftly he strapped the belt back on and tucked the broken sword into it, then reached into Serindas’ sheath to pull out the little surprise he had kept.
A crossbow bolt with a piece of parchment wrapped around the tip.
Pinching it between two fingers of his weakened left hand, he edged around the carriage toward Annia’s side.
She stood a few steps out from the carriage, radiant, her mottled golden skin apparent through the weakened influence of the illusion-pendant she wore. Under the hem of her backless red gown, her feet appeared to flicker between fine heels and split claws. She was defended on all sides by mages and thralls, and from this close the honey-scent was pervasive, overpowering. It pried at Darilan’s brain and sizzled along every nerve, imparting its seductive message: Serve me. Worship me.
He pinched his nose shut, feeling Serindas shiver against his cheek. On his arm, the bracer clenched harder, every hook injecting its counteracting agents, and his fingers tingled painfully. It was a bad time to be in this situation—body in decline, two enemy forces acting upon him—but if he let Annia work, the Corvish would tear themselves apart. He needed them to keep the Imperials in check.
Steeling himself, he gripped his weapons tight and stepped around the corner.
A thrall turned immediately, sword and shield raised. Darilan dodged the first stab and brought Serindas up to cut the sword effortlessly in half. The thrall shield-s
lammed him in the shoulder and lashed at his face with the broken sword but he let the push move him sideways, crouching low into the blind-spot and stabbing Serindas through the man’s leg-plate and thigh. The thrall bashed his raised left arm with the shield’s edge hard enough to make the bones ache, but Serindas was drinking and in a moment the man trembled and collapsed.
The scuffle had alerted the rest of the thralls, though. Annia’s mages glanced over as well but they were preoccupied with the wards, as arrows still flicked down from above despite the chaos among the Corvish.
Darilan tore Serindas sideways through the fallen guard’s leg, opening a gash that sent blood in a torrent up the thirsting blade. Stray droplets followed him as he stepped over the man’s twitching form to advance on his target. Three thralls got between him and Annia, but the lagalaina had not noticed him; head thrown back, her hair floating in an unfelt updraft, she was caught in the ecstasy of her own power. From behind, Darilan could see the gill-like vents that bracketed her spine, releasing the cloying scent.
Two of the thralls had spears, the third a sword and shield. They came at him immediately, weapons leading, but with the bracer’s chemicals still quickening him, Darilan did not bother to back away. He stepped in instead, twisting at the last moment to let one spearhead scrape his side and catch in his clothes as the other punctured the air right by his head. His left hand clamped on the second shaft, the bolt still tucked between two fingers, and he lunged forward and felt the first spear punch out the other side of his doublet. Their attacks and his movement ended up crossing the spears at his left side, and he rolled his arm over the spear he held so he could pin it in his armpit.
Stuck between the two spearmen, the swordsman stabbed straight for Darilan’s throat, but Darilan dropped all his weight on the spears at the same moment that he sliced Serindas through their undersides. The akarriden blade sheared cleanly, and the initial weight of the assassin tugged both spearmen forward to whack their shoulders into the swordsman’s, before both spears snapped in two and Darilan hit the ground. A half-spear still hung from his doublet but he disregarded it as he dropped the other from armpit to hand and rose fluidly, ramming the splintered end into the hollow between its former wielder’s crotch and thigh.
The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 57
