“I’ll apologize for the notches if we get out of here alive,” Zalas muttered.
Their swords were wrapped in rough blankets next to two heavy bags of coins. Zalas ignored the money and slung Nephali over his shoulder. He froze as his hand reached for Doulos’s sword, staring wide-eyed at the hilt. He shook his wonder away and grabbed it, passing it on to Tenna who gave him a knowing look.
Onahim came running up behind them. “We’ve got to move,” he bellowed. “I think the whole structure is failing.”
Doulos appeared behind the dwarf, breathing hard. “The Bastion’s strength is not what it once was. The whole structure won’t collapse, but we have no way of knowing if sections will cave in on us.”
The company scrambled into their clothes and gathered their equipment. Doulos never asked Tenna for his sword, and seemed too frail to carry its weight. Cedsul worked to restring his bow while Onahim checked the edges on his axe.
“The fools notched my axe!” he roared. “I hope the place falls on their heads.”
Zalas shot Tenna a guilty look. “It’ll be our heads if we don’t get moving.”
Doulos stumbled away, leading the company toward the escape tunnel. Onahim brought up the rear, muttering acidly over the state of his axe. Fresh corpses lay along their path, both escaped prisoners and imperial soldiers. The blood stained the floor, making cold terror creep up Tenna back. Lives so full of hope moments before had been brought to sudden and senseless ends.
The walls groaned under the stress of the collapse. Then Tenna lost her footing as the floor buckled underfoot as giant blocks of stone fell from the ceiling behind them. Cedsul helped her to her feet and they ran on.
Zalas fell with a sharp cry, an arrow sprouting from his left shoulder. Jacque grabbed him up and all but carried him down the corridor. Tenna glanced back to see a cadre of soldiers struggling toward them, blindly firing arrows as they came. Most of them could hardly keep to their feet.
They finally won through to the escape tunnel’s opening. Doulos hurried the companions through. Zalas stumbled through first, taking a torch from the wall as he plunged into the darkness. Jacque followed close on his heels alongside Tenna.
She paused just inside the tunnel, turning back to see Cedsul waiting for the dwarf. Onahim had slowed, running a zig-zagging pattern in an attempt to avoid imperial arrows.
Cedsul steadied himself against the tunnel wall and began firing arrows back toward the guards. Though the floor shifted beneath them, he managed to put down half of the soldiers in short order.
Just as Onahim reached the safety of the tunnel, one of Cedsul’s victims lifted a crossbow from the ground. He fired a blind bolt toward the fugitives.
Cedsul went down in a heap.
“No!” Onahim cried and rushed to his friend. He turned Cedsul over, finding him wheezing hard with a shaft jutting from his chest near his heart.
Doulos looked on, his eyes welling with tears. He raised a hand and pushed at the empty air with his palm. An unseen wave of force sent the imperial soldiers tumbling back down the corridor. Fatigue swept the old man then, and he would have fallen to the floor had Tenna not held him up.
Onahim lifted the elf, cradling him against his chest like a small child as he fled down the tunnel. Cedsul’s life blood left an unseen trail in the darkness. Tenna pulled the old mage along, her grief drowned out for the moment by fear.
The company ran from the crumbling fortress. Tenna worked to keep her eyes on the torch her father carried as they passed more bodies littering the ancient passage. They ran for several miles until they finally emerged into the foothills east of the Bastion.
A massive cloud of dust and smoke rose from valley behind them, obscuring much of the damage but revealing enough to show the devastation was catastrophic. The once unassailable Bastion was gone, pulled down upon itself by the actions of single man.
Tenna privately wondered if everywhere their paths took them would suffer the same fate as Madhebah and the Bastion.
They paused long enough to attend to Cedsul and Zalas. The arrow in Zalas’s shoulder was not very deep and could be cut out, but there was nothing to be done for Cedsul. The elf’s life had left him some time during their flight through the tunnel.
The company thought to bury him there on the edge of the valley but Onahim protested, insisting he would carry his friend home and see him buried beneath the protection of the trees in the Barrhas Wood.
They fled through the remainder of the day and long into the night until they left the foothills far behind and entered the edge of the Barrhas Wood. Only then did they allow themselves to rest and grieve for their fallen companion as they laid him to rest.
The eyes of the forest saw them long before they entered, and runners were in motion before the first member of the company stepped beneath the trees.
27
Waterdown
The population of Waterdown swelled as refugees poured through its gates. Tander guessed the number of people within her walls had doubled as he looked down on the controlled pandemonium. Sidero said they would likely be forced to close the gates before the bulk of the refugees arrived.
People lined the streets, seeking shelter wherever they might find it because every building was already full to overflowing. The added souls would make rationing for a long siege more difficult, all the more reason for Sidero to mobilize his forces without delay.
Sidero flew past the packed city and made for the sparse woodlands south of the walls. He brought them down in a clearing, and Tander scrambled down so the dragon could get free of the harness. He walked in stiff circles, rubbing the back of his legs as the dragon disentangled himself.
“I love flying,” Tander said, “but it’s good to be on the ground again. I need some time to recover.”
“Then you must recovery swiftly, manling,” a melodious voice rang from the trees.
Startled, Tander’s hand flew to the hilt of his knife. He turned to see the lithe figure of an elf jump from a nearby birch. The elf was tall and armored in bright golden chain mail, and Tander assumed he was an elf-lord of some kind. The boy searched through all the lore he had stored in his mind in an attempt to discern what tribe the elf belonged to, but then he discovered a tell-tale sign.
The elf’s golden pupils swirled like a maelstrom—the mark of a dragon.
“Chrysafi,” Sidero greeted his brother.
“You’ve always moved too slow, little brother,” Chrysafi said. “Events are moving and we must stay ahead.”
Sidero shrunk to his humanoid form and clasped arms with his brother. “Which is why you must carry young Tander on ahead. I’ll do my part to slow Sane’s army.”
“Asimi has gone north,” Chrysafi said. “She’ll try to slow them down until your army arrives.”
“Who’s Asimi?” Tander asked.
“Our sister and Chrysafi’s mate.” answered Sidero.
Tander laughed. “Is your whole family going to show up?”
“We’ll all be involved ere long,” Chrysafi said. “Gather your things, manling, time escapes us.”
Chrysafi walked into the center of the clearing and began veering into his dragon form. Tander had witnessed Sidero’s transformation several times, but he was unprepared for the results of Chrysafi’s metamorphosis. He’d grown used to his friend’s size and strength, though he’d once been in awe. Now he stood dumbstruck as the golden dragon revealed his full glory.
More than twice Sidero’s size, Chrysafi all but filled the clearing. His scales glittered, reflecting and magnifying the morning sunlight with such ferocity Tander was forced to avert his eyes.
Sidero stood nearby chuckling. “If you think he’s impressive, you should see our father.”
Chrysafi’s size forced them to lengthen the straps of the harness to their limit. This done, Tander hugged Sidero and began to cry.
“Farewell for the moment, Tander,” Sidero said. “Keep your Blade sharp and look to Onúl to guide your steps
. His wings are far mightier than ours.”
The boy could barely see the dragon through his tears. “Thank you for saving me, Sidero.” He meant to say more, wanted to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. He broke the hug and scrambled up the golden dragon’s side.
“Beware, brother,” Chrysafi said. “Dar rides the winds from the north, and she comes bearing your doom.”
Sidero nodded.
Chrysafi rose up on his hind legs and unfurled his wings. “Hold tight, manling,” he cried, then launched himself into the blue.
28
The Barrhas Wood
The company’s mood was somber as they buried Cedsul in a grove of slender yanna trees. Soft light filtered through the leaves as the sun set, bathing the grove in a wash of red light. Red like the blood staining Onahim’s clothes.
They buried their friend in the elven manner in the center of the grove. Now as the sun waned and the darkness grew they finished preparing a makeshift camp for the night. Everyone but Onahim busied themselves in an attempt to dull the pain they felt. The dwarf sat alone on a log near his friend’s grave and refused to respond to anyone. Doulos suggested they leave him in peace, for dwarves were as thoughtful and unhurried in their grief as they were in all things.
Zalas and Jacque sorted through their remaining supplies after a meagre supper of food scrounged from the Bastion’s guardroom. Her father had concocted a poultice from forest herbs and seemed well on his way to recovery. At least he was doing something besides fawning over Nephali.
Tenna sat in convivial silence with Doulos as he lay on his side in the soft underbrush. She watched with concern as pain and relief took their turns on his face. She’d witnessed the old man’s suffering before, but never with such intensity. The escape from their prison had taken its toll.
“Why does magic cause you such pain?” Tenna asked. “Sometimes it seems as if it makes you older, but then you get better after some rest.”
Doulos shifted his weight to look at Tenna. “Magic was never meant for a mortal body,” he whispered. He seemed to want to leave the explanation there but Tenna pressed on.
“What do you mean?”
Doulos sighed and pulled himself up to lean against a nearby tree. “There is always a price when a mortal harnesses the forces we call magic. Often the price is health or pain or both.”
Tenna considered his answer, weighing it in her mind. “Why do things have to be that way?”
Doulos turned his piecing gaze on her. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight and he seemed to be filled with a sudden strength of purpose.
“Consider this,” he said. “Our world was never meant to be this way. Everything became skewed after the races rebelled against Onúl. No, not skewed, twisted. That’s a better word.”
“Why twisted?” Tenna leaned forward.
“The world is not how Onúl intended it to be, a mere shadow of the glory he desired. The wickedness of the races perverted his creation. Let me explain it like this: if I were to take a sword and twist the blade, would it remain usable?”
“No,” she said, “it would be ruined.”
“Spoken like the daughter of an arms dealer,” the old man smirked. “Are you sure?”
Tenna’s brows knit as she turned the question over in her mind, visualizing the concept. Doulos wouldn’t have pressed if the answer were obvious. His smile grew as he watched her face light up in response.
“I can see a few uses,” she said. “One might still use the blade but not to the same effect. It might become ensnared with an opponent’s sword, and weakened by the twisting it might easily snap.”
“Yes,” Doulos nodded and smiled, “and the same is true about our world. Our home is still usable, after a fashion, but not as its designer intended. People are themselves twisted and easily snared as a result.”
Tenna stared at the leaf-covered forest floor as she contemplated this new view of the world, an outlook that provided answers for some of the ills and injustices she’d witnessed in recent days. Some, but not all.
“What does all that have to do with magic?” she asked finally.
“Remember when I taught you about the sources of magic?”
“Yes,” she said, “that true magic is granted by the higher powers.”
“That’s right,” Doulos said. “The Azur are immortal beings who possess eternal frames. Magic was never meant for mortal bodies, but since the twisting of Awia, the natural order has been set aside in some instances.”
“You mean like how some people can wield magic, but not all.”
Doulos nodded. “Now what would happen if a sword’s blade was twisted perpetually?”
Tenna gnawed her bottom lip. “It would be weakened with each twist, continually growing more fragile. The blade would also be turned back upon itself until the edges touched.”
Doulos could hardly contain his pleasure. “Would the edges come into complete contact?”
“Only if equal pressure were applied down the entire length of the blade. If some portions were under more stress than others then some edges would come into contact more quickly than those under less.”
The old man’s fatigue was all but gone. He was sitting up straight and leaning forward.
“Now imagine this,” he said. “Imagine a perfect blade, the most flawless piece of steel ever crafted, is suddenly wrenched so violently that some of its edges are made to touch in an instant while other segments remain as far apart as before. Then imagine this twisting continuing unabated, but almost imperceptibly. Those edges already touching begin to grind against one another, weakening the now fragile blade all the more. The portions that do not yet touch are slowly being brought closer together. Still other portions haven’t been contorted and look pristine, but they’re damaged as well, weakened by their connection to the whole.”
“Until the blade breaks under the stress,” Tenna whispered.
“And so you come upon an understanding of the state of our world, a world weakened and fragile. Awia is a world in which the natural order has been upended, where elements never meant to touch—magic and mortality—are able to do so because of that distortion. A world where much beauty remains, but tainted by darkness and shadow.”
“Two sides of the blade, magic and mortality.”
“Aye,” Doulos said. “Swords are not only instruments of death, but can also defend life. Death is inherent in mortality.” He cast a glance over at Onahim keeping watch over Cedsul’s grave. “Without death, all would be immortal. Magic borrows from the essence of life, the energy of creation itself. In the hands of a mortal, even in the hands of someone who seeks to preserve life, magic always brings death.”
29
The Celadine Mountains
Katalas stood on a ridge overlooking the forest as the sun began its descent over the wooded horizon. His stomach churned as the yrch below lit their campfires again, afraid the beasts would burn the forest down by accident before the battles had even begun. He frowned as the taste of his cider turned bitter in his mouth and he poured it out on the stony ground.
The latest reports confirmed his fears. The mountain wards were continuing to weaken and the mages couldn’t find the cause. Inoun told him the mages had given up their efforts at strengthening the wards and said their only hope was direct intervention by the Azur. So far, every appeal to the higher powers had gone unanswered.
It was only a matter of days until they would be forced to retreat into the mountain and seal themselves away from the world. Katalas spoke against the tactic, fearing they would cut off any aid they might render the Bearers. His scouts returned at regular intervals with new bits of information, keeping a watchful eye on the borders of the forest in the hopes the awaited ones would appear.
A chill wind blew off the mountain peaks and made him tighten his collar. Autumn was settling in and the early snow was already thickening in the higher elevations. Freezing temperatures would give the yrch the advantage. Once spurred to action nothing coul
d deter the beasts. Their desire for blood drove them onward regardless of condition or circumstance.
Katalas admitted he had offered up a few prayers of his own, imploring Onúl to bid Giyl to answer their pleas. He doubted Onúl would listen to his prayers when the appeals of several hundred clerics had gone unanswered. Though it had been centuries since the elves had called on their patron Azur she had never failed to answer before.
A scout approached, and Katalas was surprised to see it was not one of those he’d assigned to keep watch on the enemy. By his garb he was a deep ranger, one of those who guarded the borders of the Barrhas Wood from threats the wards were not meant to repel. It was cleare from his sweat soaked clothes that he’d been on the run for hours.
“I’ve come from the western border, sir,” the man panted. “A small party of mixed race entered the wood last night, fleeing from the direction of the Bastion. I’m also bade to inform you of the Bastion’s destruction. It’s unknown if the strangers are connected, but our captain believes it likely.”
Katalas rocked back on his heels in alarm. “The Bastion destroyed?” He pondered the impossibility for a few moments, then shook his head to regain focus. “The strangers, you said are a company of mixed race.”
“Four humans, a dwarf, and an elf,” replied the ranger. “The elf was mortally wounded and died some time before they reached the wood. They buried him elven fashion in a grove of yanna trees.”
“Did you see any distinctive clothing or weapons?”
“They’re fully armed and have some provision, but their condition is ragged. Two of the humans carry swords with matching pommels, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara) Page 15
