It felt like hours before Gûlraht was finally too tired to continue. As he straightened up, chest heaving from the anger and strain, he realized that all around him silence had fallen once more, the men of his army staring up at their Kayle in equal parts awe and terror. He stood, a blood splattered, angry titan amongst lesser men, staring down at the grisly mess that was left of his cousin’s corpse.
Then, in a final motion, he stepped to the side and brought the ax down one last time, striking at the one part he had avoided in his rage.
Schlunk.
Kareth’s head rolled off, coming to rest against Gûlraht’s boot as the ax sunk deep into the hard-packed earth.
Wrenching the weapon free with one hand, Gûlraht knelt and lifted the head up by its hair in the other. Bringing it to face-height, he glared at the thing for a long time, watching it revolve slowly in place, suspended before him.
“In the end, cousin,” he spoke to Kareth’s closed eyes finally, his voice a black hiss, “you were of even less use than your father.”
Then, before any of the hundred men around him could think to protest, he spat in the thing’s face, then swung the head around and tossed it into the blaze of the fire.
As the stench of burning flesh and hair filled the air, Gûlraht turned to face the crowd. He stood beside the ravaged remains of his cousin’s corpse, a great shadow among the still forms of the dead.
“NOW,” he thundered in a growling voice that carried over the crackle of the blaze, “TELL ME WHAT MANNER OF CREATURE WAS FOOL ENOUGH TO STEAL THE WITCH FROM ME!”
“A dragon?” Rako the Calm demanded, sounding none-too-convinced. “They claim a dragon slew Kareth and took the Witch?”
“Whatever manner of creature, all say it was no man,” Agor Vareks murmured, watching as Gûlraht—having taken a seat along the back of the tent—allowed his bloody hands to be washed in warm water by a pair of slave girls on either side of him. “They say it had the head of a serpent, the wings of a bat, and claws and teeth of iron and steel.”
“Then they’re mad,” Rako said impatiently. “That, or they have conspired to feed you a great lie, my Kayle.”
There was a pause at these words, in which the Kayle glowered at the oldest of his advisors. They were in what was left standing of Kareth’s tent, the still-burning braziers in each corner providing warmth enough while they waited for the camp slaves to pitch their own abodes. The generals had arrived not ten minutes after Gûlraht had brutalized Grahst’s corpse, leading with them the rest of the army. After settling the affairs of getting the ranks in order and starting the lengthy process of setting camp, they had met with their Kayle here, in this place of his choosing, and listened to what it was he had discovered in their absence. Rako—as one might have expected—had immediately thrown himself into the usual meek tirade, claiming treachery and foolishness.
Gûlraht, though, wasn’t so easily convinced. What was more, the tingle of fear he had felt when he’d first laid eyes on the remnant carnage of the dead had twisted and evolved as he’d stood among the fallen, waiting for his advisors. It had shifted, altering in the heart of a man who had met and vanquished every challenger in his life without hesitation or concern.
Now, rather than anything like fear, Gûlraht was beginning to feel only the emerging hint of excitement, bloodlust, and anticipation.
“Have you examined the bodies, old man?” he demanded, sneering at his aged general. “Did you not see the marks and wounds that have turned more than two-dozen hard warriors of the clans into little more than shredded flesh and bone?”
Rako flushed at that, though he knew better than to rise to the bait.
“I saw the bodies, my Kayle, and I saw the wounds. I am merely suggesting that it is often the nature of man, faced with consequences, to cling to any story that will lessen his punishment.”
“And so they would craft some nonsense about a dragon?” Agor asked testily from his spot leaning against one of the tent ribs behind Rako’s shoulder. “Of all the other plausible explanations? Unlikely.”
“A ‘plausible’ explanation is exactly what they would avoid!” Rako spat, his temper flaring now, his eyes not leaving Gûlraht’s. “Your army knows that you do not treat failure kindly, my Kayle. Perhaps this tale is nothing more than an attempt to escape your wroth. I have told you before that you are too hard on the men. They have resorted to base story-telling and lying in order to avoid punishment!”
“Or,” young Erek Rathst spoke from the far end of the tent, where he was examining a great slash in the leather wall that was letting the cold air in about their feet, “they are telling the truth.”
There was a long, heavy pause.
“The truth?” Rako demanded derisively, giving the younger man a scathing look. “That a dragon has been set upon us? What foolishness is this?”
“Oh, it is foolishness,” Erek replied without turning around, and Gûlraht saw him feel the edges of the sliced cloth between his fingers. “Or rather, it is superstition and the product of weak minds and weak men. All the same, though, that is not to say that the story they tell is not the truth, at least to their understanding.”
“Erek,” Gûlraht rumbled in warning, already tiring of the riddle. “Speak plainly.”
Erek turned around at once, bowing his head briefly to the Kayle in apology.
“I mean simply that it may not be we who are misinformed, my Kayle, but rather those who are informing us. Did you know that this is not the first time this ‘dragon’ has made its appearance?”
Gûlraht kept his face impassive, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Agor blink and Rako jerk in blatant surprise.
“Not the first time?” the older man demanded. “Explain, Rathst.”
Erek smiled, clearly enjoying his moment of power. “It is indeed not the first, but the second. Two days past, the sentries posted along the base of the mountain stairs suffered lesser losses, but all claimed the same story: they were attacked by a dragon, a dahgün.”
“How do you know this?” It was Agor’s turn to demand. “Who has told you this?”
“One man, and then a half-dozen more,” Erek answered with a shrug, stepping away from the cold to warm his hands over the embers in one of the braziers. “I overheard mutterings, and I followed the trail. Regardless, the facts stand: this is the second time this creature has attacked. More importantly, Kareth apparently had a theory as to where it came from…”
He looked to want to pause dramatically, then, but Gûlraht gave him such a chilling glare that the man continued almost at once.
“Kareth thought the beast had been conjured,” he said quickly. “He believed the dragon was a thing of magic.”
There was a collective silence, in which Gûlraht and the other two generals took this to mind. It resonated with them, bewildering them in its simplicity. Agor looked mildly appalled, while Rako looked nothing short of impressed.
The Kayle, though, felt something altogether different, as the budding hope of a fight worthy of his ax started to slip beyond his reach.
“Magic,” Rako finally said in slow, thoughtful voice. “Yes… It would certainly explain much and more. I find it hard to believe such devastation could be caused by a single being, beast or otherwise. But a creature of magic…”
“‘The head of a serpent, the wings of a bat,’” Agor followed up, repeating the quote. “What else but the wicked power of the false-prophets could conjure up such a beast…?”
The Kayle for his part, frowned, feeling his anticipation fade even further. He admitted to himself, then, that some part of him had hoped to find truth in the story the men of the vanguard had spun for him.
As it was, it was starting to look as though winning the glory of slaying a dragon was not a thread of his fate.
“Magic,” he muttered, the word spilling from his lips as though it were a putrid, abhorrent thing. He said nothing more, letting it hang there, spelling out all too clearly his disgust.
�
��My Kayle…” Agor said finally after several long seconds of heavy silence. “If this ‘dragon’ is truly nothing more than blasphemy and spellwork, then it is of little consequence to the greater need. The vanguard has done as it was assigned. The Laorin have been kept to their temple. Even if the Priests can conjure beasts by which to protect themselves, it makes little difference against the power of your will, much less the strength of your army.”
Gûlraht frowned further at that. He had little mind, at the moment, to dwell on anything other than the lost opportunity to fight a creature of myth, but the man had a point. They’d marched with all haste for more than two weeks now to catch up with the advance line, and now that they were here there was greater business to attend to.
Making up his mind, he looked around at one of the slaves still scrubbing diligently at his hands. At once she paled under his gaze, then hurried to stand. Grabbing the other girl by the hand, they bowed together to the Kayle and his advisors, then hurried from the tent.
Once the flap had rippled shut behind them, Gûlraht looked around.
“Agor,” he said, putting an elbow on the armrest of the chair and leaning his cheek into his fist, “divide the contingents that would have been under Kareth’s command between the three of you. Erek will take what’s left of the vanguard in addition. Rako—” his cruel eyes fell on the older man “—find out everything you can about what has happened here in my absence, and report back to me, especially if you hear anything more of this ‘dragon.’ Erek—” his gaze moved to the last of his generals “—you’re to see to the pass. As mere sentries aren’t doing the job, I want the entirety of the vanguard camped along the tree line. No one, NOTHING, comes down those stairs, do you understand?”
Erek nodded at once, but Agor looked concerned.
“Does this mean you intend to wait out the faith, my Kayle?” he asked, sounding almost frustrated. “Need I remind you that time is not on our side, and that if the freeze should end before we—”
He cut himself short, though, as Gûlraht rose to his feet with all the fearsome power of a god. He stood, two-head taller than any of them, his wild, beaded braids brushing the fur-lined ceiling. His shadows whipped and shimmered about them in all directions, faded, monstrous outlines cast by the glow of the braziers. He stared down at Agor, eyes wide, as though challenging him to continue speaking.
When the general didn’t, Gûlraht reached up, sliding a hand into the side of his leather breastplate.
“I intend, Agor,” he said in a voice of deadly calm as his fingers fumbled around in the space between the armor and the shirt beneath, searching, “to not play the fool. I intend to allow my army to rest, to allow my men the reprieve they need after two weeks’ hard march. I intend to revel with them as we prepare, to drink and fight and fuck until the battlefog descends, until every ax is honed and every arm is strong and ready again.”
His fingers stopped moving, and he slowly pulled something from behind the leather.
“Then,” he continued, holding the thing up for all of them to see, cast in the orange glow of the embers, “I intend to bring the wrath of Them of Stone down on the heads of the false-prophets, and to leave them and all their ilk as nothing more than a stain on the face of the mountains.”
He watched as Agor’s face, followed quickly by Erek’s, broke into a slow, hollow and ravenous smile. He watched as Rako frowned, but said no word in defiance. He watched their eyes, following their gaze to what he was holding in his hand.
There, clenched so tightly between his fingers that its limp ends trembled as they hung down from the bottom of his fist, was a twined clump of bone-white, braided hair.
CHAPTER 42
“The only of his kind, he will fall for a face of snow,
and follow and be followed to dark depths and icy summits…”
—Grandmother Arro
Syrah awoke slowly, rising from so deep a sleep that, as she cracked open her eyes, she couldn’t be sure whether she was leaving a dream or entering one. All around her she felt warm softness, and she blinked as blue and white light shimmered overhead, playing against the ceiling above. Slowly, second by second, the world came into focus, and before long Syrah was staring up at a familiar pattern of uneven stone hanging comfortingly above her.
At once she felt tension build up in her lips and cheeks, and she swallowed, fighting the impulse to sob.
Laor have mercy, she prayed. Let it not be a dream…
In the end, she couldn’t help it, and she began to cry softly, spilling small tears, each weighed down by heavy, almost desperate solace.
“Syrah?”
The voice, hoarse and tired, took her by surprise, and Syrah rolled her head to look beside her. There to her left, blinking away what seemed to have been weak sleep as he sat forward in the wide armchair that had been dragged up to the edge of her bed, was Jofrey.
“J-Jofrey,” she said in a low, breaking moan that was mixed wretchedness and relief. “Oh, J-Jofrey. I’m so s-sorry. I couldn’t-couldn’t stop them. I—”
“Shh, child,” the aged Priest said, leaning forward at once and reaching for her bandaged hand, laying atop the blankets that covered her. “Shh. It’s all right. It’s—”
But as his fingers settled atop hers Syrah gasped, wrenching her arm away. A wave of something very much like nausea ripped through her, and she felt—albeit unwillingly—the touch of a dozen other hands, warm and rough on her skin, pulling and pushing at her, forcing her down.
The tears started to come in truth.
“I’m so sorry, Syrah!” Jofrey said in a hurried whisper, his face a wretched picture of grief and pain as he pulled his hand away again. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t think! I shouldn’t have…”
But he let the words trail away as Syrah continued to sob quietly, clutching her hands to her chest. She turned her face away from him, intent on waiting out the stir of helpless dread that was coursing, unbidden and unwanted, through her.
But, as she rolled her head to the other side, Syrah suddenly felt all the fear drain away.
There, awkwardly slumped half over himself in another chair pulled up on the right side of her bed, was Raz i’Syul Arro.
He wasn’t the terrifying, grisly form she remembered from Kareth Grahst’s tent, now. Nor was he the ragged, shivering and wheezing man who had carried her up the mountain, whispering comforting words to her between gasping breaths as she faded off against the reassuring firmness of his neck and chest. Rather, the atherian was clean and still, his whole body rising and falling slightly with every slow, deep inhalation, the worn cotton shirt he wore looking tight and almost odd on him. His ears and wings twitched on either side of his head and shoulders as he moved, his big, clawed hands resting across his lap to reach out in a strange, pleading sort of way, lightly grasping the hanging lip of her blankets.
Sleeping, she realized.
And, for some reason, it made her smile.
“He’s been like that since the moment you were put to bed,” Jofrey said gently from her other side. “He raged and roared and threatened to tear off every one of our heads until we agreed to let him stay by your side.”
Syrah saw, then, with a jolt of revulsion that tightened about her heart, the rectangular wood and iron bracket that encircled his wrists, shackling his hands together.
“You’ve chained him,” she whispered sadly. “Why would you chain him?”
“It was at Petrük’s insistence. She did her own ranting. Wanted to make sure we didn’t ‘let him loose’ in our home. When Arro first arrived he… uh… to say ‘made a scene,’ seems a very mild way to put it.”
“That bloody hag,” Syrah mumbled, reaching out to touch the cold iron of the bindings with the shaking fingers. “She doesn’t realize he could be out of them as soon as he has half a mind to be?”
Behind her, Jofrey chuckled.
“Fear is blinding, as they say.”
Then, abruptly, his voice sobered.
“Syra
h…” he said gently. “When I put that on him… The man has scars. There, on his wrists. They look like… well… I think he’s giving up much of himself, to wear that thing now…”
Syrah nodded, but said nothing. She knew all too well what Raz i’Syul was giving up, allowing himself to be bound in such a way. The bandages around her hands encircled her palms and wrapped halfway up her forearms, hiding what was beneath, but she could still feel the pain, that thrumming ache that followed chafing and blistering. Despite this, she felt oddly as though she wouldn’t be afraid of removing the cloth bindings.
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 121
