by R. J. Larson
Kien pressed both hands to his aching head. “Yes. He orders us to wait.”
“That’s impossible!” Akabe clawed the air in a gesture of wild frustration. “You must be mistaken!”
“I’m not. And I’ve the headache to prove it. Furthermore—” Kien raised a hand to arrest Akabe’s protest. “If we disobey the Infinite and leave to search for our wives, we’ll die.”
Akabe halted. “How do you know this?”
“Because if a prophet disobeys the Infinite, the sentence is death. I’m not exactly a prophet, but I am His servant. Therefore, I’ll obey. Meanwhile, we’re ordered to gather weapons.”
Riddig nodded toward the smoldering grate. “Someone banked the fire.”
Kien studied the hearth. Someone had indeed covered live coals to save them, though it couldn’t have been nightfall when this fire was banked. And if Kien had to guess between Ela and Caitria . . . “Ela! She must have expected something to happen if she banked the fire so early.” Kien stifled a growl. Headstrong little prophet! Why hadn’t she told him?
Akabe scowled. “I’m going to check those weapons!”
Beneath the blood-red sunset, they rummaged amid the bones, gathering swords, daggers, foreign coins, exotic clasps, and buckles and carried them in bunches into the tower.
As darkness closed in, Kien noticed Scythe circling them. Not grazing. Only circling, his destroyer-nostrils flaring as he issued occasional threatening snorts toward the woods.
Realization slid over Kien as Scythe tightened his pace, closing his restless, watchful circle around Kien—and Akabe and Riddig.
They were in danger. But from whom? Local thugs? Atean assassins? Or was another contingent of soldiers approaching from Belaal? “Sirs?”
Drawing his sword, Kien motioned Akabe and Riddig toward the tower.
Was this the place? Ela stared as they rode through the evening light into the military encampment. Yes. She winced, seeing those tents positioned exactly so amid this field. And the golden pennants, the moveable stands of shields and spears . . . All were as she’d seen.
Commander Vioc ordered his men to dismount. Ela followed their example, removing the branch from her saddle as well. While she shook out her robes and stretched, Caitria hurried to meet her, whispering, “If they haven’t guessed my rank by now, I’m certain they will. Ela, what might they do?”
“Commander Vioc will treat you with as much or more courtesy than ever. As for Bel-Tygeon, he is less predictable.” Ela felt her throat go dry. She was being watched, just as in her vision. She nodded toward a gathering pack of soldiers. “Lady, I’m about to be threatened by those men. Whatever happens, don’t run! Remain still and quiet.”
Caitria paled. “You’re going to burn them? Ela—”
“No!” Her voice emerged a pitiable squeak, nothing like a proper prophet’s voice should be. “I’m not going to burn them. Unless these men retreat, they’ll suffer an ambush of scalns.”
Caitria’s voice rose. “Scalns? But—”
A man’s harsh, low voice cut off her words. “Prophet!”
Ela looked up and met the now-familiar gaze of the soldier who’d spied on her wedding, then tracked her through Siphra. “Hyseoth.” The instant she spoke this soldier’s name, the branch turned metallic, silvery fire threading visibly along the vinewood’s grain.
“You cursed my men in Parne!” Hyseoth accused. “By your words, they died. Then your husband cut down my comrades in Siphra!”
“I did not curse your men in Parne! You and your king refused to heed the Infinite’s warnings; therefore, your men died. As for my husband—he rescued me. You would have done the same for any of your loved ones!”
“None of my loved ones weave spells and pronounce curses, sorceress!”
Gritting her teeth, Ela willed herself to remain calm. The branch glowed now, dazzling blue-white in the lowering sun. The angry soldier and his men squinted, their features stark within the branch’s light—all wound-marked and hateful as she’d seen. Please, let them listen, for their eternal sakes! “I am the Infinite’s prophet from Parne, not a spell-weaver. I warned your men before, Hyseoth, and I am begging you and the men with you now to return peaceably to your tents—at once. If you curse me or my Creator, then this has been your last day of life.”
Commander Vioc spoke from Ela’s left, ringing and authoritative. “Hyseoth, listen to me if you won’t listen to her! Two deputations of men ignored the prophet’s warnings in Siphra and divine fire turned their flesh to ashes! My men and I survived only because we did not threaten this woman—we honored her warnings.”
Hyseoth tensed with fury, his deepened color outlining a scar that lay like a cord against his cheek and throat. He swore, seeming to take courage. “We honor no murderers! We kill them and denounce their false deities who blaspheme against Bel-Tygeon, lord of all!”
The men around Hyseoth spat curses at Ela. Against the Infinite. One soldier, whose face was tightened with purpled disfigurements, yelled, “Restore health to those you’ve wounded, and we might allow you to live!”
“Retreat, all of you—now!” Ela warned as the branch sent fiery tendrils of light through her fingers. “Or you’ll die in an ambush of scalns!”
One of Hyseoth’s companions flung a spear at Ela, but its straight, ferocious path veered sharply to the left the instant it reached the vinewood’s dazzling glow.
Caitria muffled a shriek. Commander Vioc stepped in front of her to stand beside Ela. He snarled at the offender. “Cease! You will not threaten these ladies!” To Caitria, he said, “Majesty, lady, remain there, I beg you.”
Hyseoth studied the fiery branch, then bellowed, “I’m no coward to be shaken by false magic! Vioc, you traitor, you will die for this! As for you, Prophet—” He spat at Ela, cursing her and the Infinite. Hyseoth’s men took courage, adding their foul oaths to his as they lifted their curved bows and set arrows, taking aim.
Ela shuddered, longing to close her eyes against what she’d already seen and felt. Against what she saw and heard now. Hissings from her nightmares merged into lethal reality, making her scarred legs burn with searing memory. An ambush of scalns charged into the encampment and attacked, raking their poisonous red claws through mortal flesh, sinking blade-sharp teeth into the screaming men’s bare legs, arms, and throats. Ela cried, reliving the torment of her shredded skin—the poison burning through her blood.
“Infinite . . . ! Majesty, don’t run!”
25
Scalns!
Caitria gaped at the creatures. Even if Ela hadn’t warned her, she would recognize them from childhood lore—manuscripts, sculptures, drawings, and her writing master’s stories. But no secondhand account matched these beasts in the flesh.
Their guttural liquid snarls. The venom slopping from their gaping, jagged-toothed red jaws. Their powerful red-leathern bodies revoltingly graceful and pitiless, the scalns tore into the pack of soldiers who’d threatened Ela. Slashing, clawing, biting . . . spilling blood before their victims could draw swords. Caitria shut her eyes, too aghast to move.
The men’s terrified shrieks and cries lifted beyond any torment she’d ever imagined. A stench permeated the air, as if the dying men’s flesh had already begun to decay, and the odor’s thickness filled Caitria’s nostrils. Suppressing the need to vomit, she gulped, then slapped both hands over her mouth, stifling her inward screams. Quelling her impulse to run. Stay! She warned herself. Hush! Scalns chase anything that flees. Any raw, moving flesh becomes scaln-fare—her studies had taught her that much. But how had her peaceable studies come to such dreadful life? This could not be real!
Trembling, she fought her instinct to run, and her thoughts babbled in frantic cadence, be-still-be-still-be-still!
Needing support, she gripped Ela’s shoulder. The men’s screams lessened now, replaced by heart-wrenching groans and the throaty sounds of feasting scalns. Caitria shut her eyes tighter, sending tears down her face. As she wept, she felt Ela shudder, the movement acco
mpanied by a telltale sob. Caitria leaned toward Ela, hearing her gasp, “Infinite, who is like You!”
Then, as Caitria opened her eyes, Ela straightened, her strength seeming restored. She looked over her shoulder at Caitria, calmer, though her eyes and face shone wet with tears. “Wait here. I’ll return.”
Lifting her eerily bright vinewood staff, Ela walked directly toward the tumult of scalns and dying soldiers. What was she doing? Madwoman! She’d die too! Caitria covered her eyes, her stomach knotting so hard she wanted to scream. “Ela, no! Infinite, save her!”
Beside her, Commander Vioc hissed in disbelief. “She’s stalking death!”
Would the scalns turn against Ela? “Oh no, don’t! Please! Infinite . . . ?” Caitria peeked between her fingers, ready to close her eyes the instant the scalns charged, before the inevitable happened and Ela died.
But Ela planted the glowing staff in the bloodied grass and yelled, “By the Infinite’s Holy Name, He commands you to depart!”
As one, the ambush of scalns shrank back from Ela. Then, hissing and snarling, they fled from the encampment, their movements sinuous and sure, touching none of the survivors. Only the men who’d threatened Ela were dead or dying in the shorn field, their bodies stained crimson by blood and by the lowering sun.
Now Commander Vioc followed Ela, though he halted a short distance from the bodies, his frozen stance betraying shock.
For a brief time, Ela stood before the scene of slaughter, her head bowed, the branch’s glow softening to the metallic sheen of moonlight. As if unable to bear the sight of such carnage, Ela turned, her cloak and robes aswirl with the movement. She hurried to Caitria again, appearing so ill that Caitria was sure the prophet would collapse.
Just before she reached Caitria, Ela stopped and knelt, hugging her vinewood staff and trembling violently.
Caitria kneeled beside her, an unnatural hush closing about them. The surviving soldiers stared—their faces carved with fear. Closing her eyes to the men, Caitria hugged Ela tight and cried. Praying. To the Infinite.
In the stone-walled, firelit hall, Akabe surveyed the cache of weapons. Forty-two swords, thirty daggers, twenty pikes, and seven battle-axes. All were serviceable soldier’s armaments with keen-edged blades and sculpted ivory hafts, their silver pommels shining in the firelight. As for the coins, Akabe reached for a thin oval of silver. A stylized sun gleamed at him, its rays interspersed with the curling script of Belaal. Akabe’s stomach tightened.
Cait and Ela had been taken across the border.
Kien crouched beside him, studying the weapons, then turning a coin between his fingers. “Bel-Tygeon’s troops took our wives.”
“I agree.” Well-enough. Bel-Tygeon’s soldiers must be halted. As soon as his men returned, Akabe would muster them for a sortie into Belaal. He gathered the telltale coins and dropped them into his money pouch, not bothering to look at them or count them. “There ought to be enough silver here to last us for a few days, if not a week.”
“Us?” Kien tossed the oval coin to the stone floor, its thin bell-like tone drawing Akabe’s glance. “Again, sir, I’m not leaving this place and neither are you.” As Akabe drew breath to argue, Kien said, “You are no ordinary man trying to rescue his wife. You are Siphra’s king. You must serve Siphra above yourself and the Infinite above all—and He commands us to stay here!”
Akabe gritted his teeth at the reminder . . . then against the force of his own rebellion. He froze, stunned. When had he turned against the Infinite? What had he become? A ruler who trusted his own power more than his Creator’s sovereignty. Guilt swept at him like a spiritual torrent, threatening to bring him down. Horrified, he pleaded, “Infinite . . . forgive me!” He’d brought this upon himself and his friends with his own pride—his sin against his Creator. What could he deserve but death?
Even so, Infinite, save Caitria and my friends. I’ve brought them down with me. . . .
Kien approached now, his voice lowered with concern. “Majesty? What is wrong? Why are you—”
A tap at the hall’s broken door halted Kien’s interrogation. Riddig leaned inside, his white hair in disorderly spikes, his eyes wide with tension. “Sirs! Your weapons!”
Akabe straightened. Infinite? Had Bel-Tygeon’s men returned? Or had the Ateans found them? Heart thumping, Akabe checked his sword and joined Kien, grabbing extra daggers, his frustration welling to a murderous fury. They rushed across the hall and sidled through the broken, leather-lashed door, Akabe’s prayers quickening with their pace.
Outside, the deepening dusk revealed shapes in gray and black. Akabe stared, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. There. Two cloaked figures entered the gate, black against the grayed gloom beyond. Now lurking at the gate’s left, Scythe huffed, then lunged toward the moving cloaks. A man yelled and fled. The other backed against the wall like a trapped animal, screaming, “No! Wait! Augh!” The man’s cry heightened as Scythe clamped down on his arm and lifted him off the ground.
Before Scythe could fling away the unknown enemy and shatter him like a clay flask, Kien raised the Azurnite sword and bellowed, “Stop! Bring him here!”
Grumbling warnings despite his full mouth, the destroyer carried the dangling form across the yard and dropped it in a limp heap before Kien and Akabe. Kien rested the Azurnite blade over their adversary’s throat, then nudged him with a booted foot. “Unconscious, sir. Unless he’s dead.”
Riddig Tyne unsheathed his dagger, bent and sliced open the man’s sleeve. Even in the dimness, Akabe saw the unmistakable black-etched coils covering the man’s bicep. An entrenched Atean.
Riddig huffed, “He’s alive.” He removed the assassin’s belt, using it to bind his feet as Kien removed the fallen man’s weapons.
Akabe retrieved a coil from his horse. Riddig wrapped the Atean’s cloak cocoon-snug and bound him with fiercely cinched knots. “That should restrain him. I’ll tend his wounds if need be.”
Casting a wary glance at the gate, Akabe said, “Thank you, Riddig. Continue your watch with Scythe. Kien and I will call you when we’ve dealt with this man. Alert me when our other men return.” What was taking them so long? Disquieted, Akabe crouched beside their prisoner.
Obviously guessing Akabe’s intent, Kien grabbed the Atean’s booted feet, ready to carry him inside the tower.
In the fortress’s kitchen, the bruised, cloak-swathed man glared up at Akabe, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight, revealing all the hatred of a man within arm’s reach of an unattainable enemy. Aware of Kien lurking to his left, his Azurnite blade readied, Akabe smiled. “I wish we could talk under more agreeable conditions.”
“Conditions will be agreeable only when you’re dead!” The Atean worked his mouth as if preparing to spit. Kien swung the flat of his glistening blue weapon against the man’s lips so swiftly that Fightmaster Lorteus would have gloated. Though Kien stopped short of actually striking, the startled man flinched.
Akabe leaned forward and scowled, baring his teeth at the traitor. “Attempt a phlegm shot and I’ll stuff a live coal up your nostril! Trust me, I’m in a foul mood and will be only as merciful as you allow. Attack us in any way and I’ll reciprocate with the most savage methods your fellow Ateans used on my men in the Snake Mountains!”
As Kien lifted his sword, Akabe nodded at their now-hushed prisoner. “Better. Let’s keep this civil, shall we? How did you know I was here?”
“It’s become known that you’re the son of Aythan Garric.” With a smirk that made Akabe long to gut-kick him, the man added, “Most of us saw through your ploy.”
Akabe muted his reaction, praying the other Ateans were defeated or lost in the DaromKhor Hills. To gather knowledge, he retorted, “But some of you were killed today!”
The prisoner’s expression darkened, betraying knowledge of Atean losses. Good. This man was a wellspring of information compared to previous assassins. Not a professional killer.
Kien shot Akabe a conspirator’s glance. He nudged the Atea
n with a booted toe. “Did you see all the skulls before the gate? They died this morning. Impressive isn’t it? Forty-two swords.” Kien nodded at the nearby cache of weapons. “We’re looking forward to adding more.”
Their prisoner paled visibly. Akabe scowled. “How many men accompanied you here?”
The Atean looked Akabe straight in the eyes, but his face tensed and his nostrils flared. “Twenty!”
“Liar!” Akabe studied the man, certain of his conclusion. “Only two of you made it this far after your confrontation with my men.” For tonight at least. “Otherwise your entire horde would have attacked us outright while we were in the yard.”
“So say you, fool!” the man taunted. “Yes, we suffered losses! But so did you! Others are coming. You’re dead—all three of you!” He laughed and refused to elaborate.
Enough. Akabe stuffed a dirty cloth into the Atean’s mouth, then nodded to Kien. “Grab him by the heels. We’ll toss him into the root cellar and let him rot.”
The instant the man was stashed away, writhing and howling muffled protests from beneath the cellar’s door, Akabe muttered, “Let’s make our plans. We can’t depend upon my men returning.” Were they all dead? Akabe nearly wept at the thought. Instead, he swallowed. “No doubt we’ve more assassins on the way and only the three of us to meet them. Four—including Scythe. The gate’s left side won’t take more than a few solid strikes to break it open. How are you with snares?”
“Not proficient. You’ll have to teach me.”
“Of course.” Though his thoughts spun plans for myriad traps, Akabe almost heard his own death dirge. Three men and one destroyer against a throng of attackers who were certainly on their way. . . . Hopeless! He and Kien weren’t prophets, able to call upon fire from the Infinite. They couldn’t possibly overcome a horde of Ateans. Yet he must be grateful.
Infinite? Thank You for removing Caitria and Ela from the coming attack. Help us—
Kien chuckled darkly, interrupting Akabe’s prayer. “Wait. If we’re outnumbered, then we’re going about this all wrong. Forget the snares for now. Lorteus won’t approve, but . . .”
