by J. F. Lewis
“Whoa,” said its rider, a stout human clad in armor made from hardened plates of boiled leather.
“That’s,” Rae’en said, looking down at the horse’s hooves, “a well-trained horse.” They were on the bridge, but only half of the horse was. On her right another horseman sat astride his mount, eyeing her with a mixture of suspicion and amusement.
“You need to back off of the bridge.” Her father’s words rang out in her mind. “Set foot” was the phrase he’d used. Technically the Khalvadians hadn’t set foot on the bridge; their horses had hooves, and a horse could not oathbreak . . .
“Back up off the bridge and make camp like Kholster ordered and we won’t have to arvash you.”
Looking back over his shoulder, the man saw the approaching ring of Aern and smiled. “There may be thirty of you, but you’re children. You have no weapons—”
“Tools,” she corrected.
“Excuse me?”
“We have no tools,” Rae’en said, gasping for breath. “We are weapons. Plus, you brought tools. If we need them, we will take them from you.”
“You’re a brave girl,” the man said. “I’ll give you that.”
Rae’en squinted up at him but could barely make out his face. Her vision dimmed, and she bit the inside of her cheek, drawing blood. Her world had narrowed to two choices: she was going to pass out if she didn’t let the Arvash’ae roll back over her and have its way.
“Make camp and remain on the Khalvadian side of the bridge,” Rae’en mumbled. To her Overwatches, she thought: If we have to fight, yell for the non-combatants to throw down their weapons and kneel in the grass with their hands at the back of their heads so we don’t kill any who aren’t Khalvadian.
She sagged to one knee, and the human dismounted quickly as though to catch her.
His foot hit the wooden slats of Bridge 43, and Rae’en, by Kholster out of Helg, kholster of the Elevens, roared like an irkanth. If the soldier, whose name she would never know, had time to be surprised before she’d ripped out his throat with her teeth, she would never know that either. All she knew was the whinnying of the horse and the screams of the men, the howls of her fellow Aern, and the warmth of a belly full of meat.
When Rae’en came back to herself, it was to the dull pounding of her still-aching head and to the panicked babble of the surviving humans, sounds of nervous animals, and the smiles of her fellow warriors. They had all taken the next step on their paths to adulthood and full warrior status to ranks other than age.
Good job, she thought to Kazan.
Everyone acquitted themselves well, kholster Rae’en, he thought back. With which tool will you choose to train?
Whose scars are on my back, Kazan?
A warpick, then, Kazan thought back. Traditional. I should have known. Can you believe it? Ten years to train with the tools of war, then we’ll build our own and bond with it.
And then, Rae’en thought back, we’ll be true Aernese warriors . . .
With the return of conscious thought came rough memories of what had happened while she’d been in the throes of the Arvash’ae.
The whole fight sank in and she smiled. The two soldiers at the bridge she had taken down on her own, killing the first with her teeth and the second with the first man’s utilitarian blade. Nine of the fifteen guards lay dead, two of the merchants, and only one of the hired hands. She kissed her soul token, leaving a bloody smear. She couldn’t wait to show Kholster her memories of the battle and see what he thought.
All at once, she remembered the surviving merchants and guardsmen. The caravan had scattered and lost formation, but the cattle and sheep were still on their carts. The horses of the dead guards and a few of the live ones were long gone. Blood soaked the grass. Near the lake, Joose still gnawed at the arm of a human he’d slain. Several of the other Aern looked on longingly at the meat. Rae’en smiled.
Kazan, she thought, have those who have not yet eaten their fill gather up the meat and collect it on our side of the bridge. I think the humans might be a little more comfortable if they didn’t have to watch their comrades be eaten quite so up close and personal.
Done, he thought back.
Twelve Aern moved off from their positions standing over the vomit- and excrement-fouled survivors. Not all of them were conscious. Rae’en approached the most resolute of the survivors: a steely-eyed human, lips pressed together into a thin line of some emotion Rae’en couldn’t quite put her finger on. He wore the embroidered sash and poncho of a Hulsite, and three precise triangular notches were cut into his right ear.
“Hulsite militia?” Rae’en asked.
“Captain Marcus Conwrath,” he said in a harsh, grating voice. “Retired. Those Kilke-cursed buffoons didn’t tell me they’d gotten a Grudgebearer’s words on them, or I’d have made certain we had the whole words of the oath.”
Rae’en smiled at being called a Grudgebearer. It was a name the Dwarves had started using, an affectionate term for the only people the Dwarves had ever encountered who could hold a grudge longer than Dwarves themselves.
“You’re free to stand, Captain.” Rae’en offered the man her hand, and his knees popped as she pulled him to his feet. He stood a full four hands taller than Rae’en, and she watched as he rolled a kink out of his neck, then rubbed at his right knee.
“Are you allowed to let us go?” he asked after a moment or two. “Without breaking some oath?”
“We are now oath-bound to kill all the Khalvadians here. The others may live as long as they don’t set foot on the bridge.” She saw the lines of his mouth soften, and she realized he’d been gritting his teeth, fearing the worst.
“You can camp on the Khalvadian side of the bridge,” she said, thinking, absentmindedly licking the drying blood from her fingers. “Or you can head back the way you came. If you want to stay, give my Aern time to wash in the lake and then we’ll help you make camp, and I’ll send a runner to let Kholster know you are here.”
She wiped at a warm trickle at her chin and sniffed. “How does that sound?”
“We’ll be safe here?” a short brown-haired man who smelled of cattle asked.
“Are you Khalvadian?”
“Hulsite, like Captain Conwrath. You got all of the Khalvadians except for . . .” He blanched and stopped talking.
Rae’en looked questioningly at Captain Conwrath.
“He means the boy child hiding in the wagon,” Conwrath said. “If your words will allow it, one of mine will adopt him and make him a Hulsite.”
Rae’en nodded.
“So we’re safe?” the short man who’d spoken before asked.
“Safe from us . . . unless you do something stupid,” Rae’en said.
“It sounds good to me and mine,” Captain Conwrath answered. “Get up, you idiots,” Conwrath barked at his men. “We’re getting triple pay now, thanks to the contract you laughed at me for making the magistrate sign. I want every spare hand to start trying to round up the missing horses.”
He turned to Rae’en. “Can we clean up in the lake?”
“Just don’t cross it and stay off the bridge.”
“You heard the lady. If you fouled yourself, then get that taken care of, but for Shidarva’s sake keep away from the Grudgebearers’ bridge or I’ll throttle you myself if they don’t beat me to it. And for Aldo’s sake, please tell me one of you has a wife who wants to adopt a child. I’m too old to go through all that again.”
Rae’en gave a curt nod and walked back to the bridge where she’d made her kills. One of them, the first one, had already been dragged across the bridge. Rae’en seized the other corpse by its boots and began towing him to the other side of the bridge, too.
Someone had the beginning of a small fire pit dug, and two other Aern were busy stripping the clothes and equipment off of the bodies.
“You’re going to cook some of it?” Rae’en asked.
“Not everyone really likes it raw outside of the Arvash’ae, ma’am,” Arbokk answer
ed. “It is all right, isn’t it?”
“As long as the Aern who earned the meat has no objections,” Rae’en said with a chuckle. Cooked meat, she thought to herself, as she walked down to the lakeside to wash. What a waste. On second thought, she looked back at the soldier she’d dragged across, at the gaping opening in his belly, the flesh stripped from cheek and arms. “My meat is fair game, too,” she called back, “but I might want to try some of what you cook.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Arbokk grinned.
Rae’en waved absently at him as she stripped down and began to wash the blood and sweat from her body, her bronze-colored skin coming clean. Across the river, one of the survivors watched her bathe in wonder. Whether the man had never seen a naked girl before or was simply astonished to find that Aern were flesh-and-blood creatures, not steam-driven Dwarven constructs as some humans seemed to believe, she couldn’t know. Farther over, another human burst into tears.
Rae’en wondered why. The fighting was already over, after all.
CHAPTER 4
THE LAUNDRY COUNCIL
Kholster and the One Hundred stood in the main laundry, clad only in their smallclothes amidst hissing steampipes, clicking gears, and whirring machinery. They’d been at it for hours, but Kholster still worked a crank at the master gear, which drove the main agitators, by hand. Every now and again a Dwarf would, with attempted nonchalance, check the valves and seals around the side of each machine and the gear box with its runic “Main Laundry Control” nameplate, each Dwarf pausing to grimace at the agitator steam release where Kholster had disengaged the mechanism.
“You know,” said the most recent Dwarven inspector, “the mechanism has been substantially improved, since—”
“Yes, friend,” Kholster agreed, sparing the Dwarf a wolfish grin, “I know.”
Not that the steam washer had ever been inefficient, but the Aern preferred a more hands-on approach. Or they had since the fully steam-driven version had torn three of Kholster’s favorite shirts.
Smiling as he worked the agitator, Kholster looked away from the nearby Dwarf trundling exasperatedly down the brass steps of the drive platform, past the geothermal linkage which channeled excess heat from the lava flow deep below, and out onto the catwalks and ledges lined with hooting Dwarves. Most of the onlookers were female, but a few grumbling males were scattered in amongst them to, Kholster assumed, keep an eye on things and take turns attempting to tell him all about the improvements which had been made since the “incident of the ripped shirts.”
Down below, on the work floor, his brother and sister Aern went about their tasks with quiet efficiency. Some moved around the multiple squat brass chambers which held whirling soap, water, and articles of clothing. Others handled the transfer of clean, cold water via hoses and pumps which were also intended to be steam driven. Along the back, closest to the geothermal linkage, Vander led a crew manning steam presses to iron out wrinkles while Bayltir and his team inspected the laundry, mending or patching articles as necessary before passing them on to Feenal’s crew for folding, hanging, and redistribution.
The Aern worked soundlessly, the light from the glowing runes of the fire stones in the drying area lending them the look of smoothed-skinned statues worked in bronze, brought to life by Dwarven rune magic instead of the flesh-and-blood and bone-steel creatures they actually were. The intricate scar patterns on their backs glistened with perspiration. In an average gathering of Aern, scar patterns would have been repeated, appearing on the backs of multiple Aern to delineate the scarlines of Aern descending from each of the first One Hundred: the patrimonial scars of full-grown Aern.
Wylant, Vander thought at him.
I know. Kholster closed his eyes, relying on the feeling of the crank and the rhythm of the work to guide him, and looked through Bloodmane’s eyes as Wylant walked into the display area. And another prince . . . reinforcements?
Is that the same prince from the last Conjunction? Vander thought.
Rivvek, Kholster thought back. Though he didn’t have those scars the last time I saw him.
I always assume you are the cause of unexpected scars on Oathbreakers.
Not all of them, Kholster sent back, his thoughts tinged with amusement, Rivvek isn’t all that bad for an Oathbreaker. I almost don’t want to tear his face off with my teeth.
I’m certain he’d be flattered by such sentiment, Vander thought.
Kholster studied Rivvek. The elder prince and his younger brother could have once been mistaken for each other. As the raven-haired elf drew even with his brother, Rivvek came out the clear winner in height, standing almost a hand taller than his younger brother, but the scars wrapping around the left side of his head, cutting across and deforming the ear and leaving bare patches of scalp, left Kholster wondering what had happened.
It looks like Ghaiattri work, Bloodmane’s echoing voice rang in Kholster’s mind. Demon fire could make a mark like that, one Eldrennai healing could not erase. A Ghaiattri’s fire had even been known to burn an Aern through the connection he shared with his armor.
They must have tried to open a Port Gate, Kholster thought. Why would they do that?
They are Oathbreakers, several Aern thought at him at once, as if that were all the explanation needed to explain any rash action committed by an Eldrennai.
True, Kholster thought back grimly, but even Oathbreakers tend to have their reasons . . . wrong-headed though they may be.
Kholster and the other Aern looked on as humans set their warsuits in displays chalked out by the stump-eared princes. A larger display stood empty in the center of the chamber. He and the other Armored were full of speculation about what might be intended to go there.
Wylant stood off to the side, slightly out of step with and behind Rivvek. Dolvek did not seem at all pleased to see her. While the princes both wore multilayered robes with gilt embroidery, Wylant dressed in a black leather doublet with matching pants and boots. Her rank insignia, a golden crown with two golden bars beneath it, adorned her left shoulder, the only bright touch of color on her uniform Kholster could see through Bloodmane’s eyes. A blade hung from a belted scabbard at her waist, its hilt wrapped in a dark-blue material that could have been dyed leather, though Kholster couldn’t tell based on visual evidence alone.
Why did she cut her hair? Bloodmane asked.
I do not know, Kholster answered. Wylant stood bare-headed and bald in the magic illumination, her blue eyes staring daggers at Dolvek. Her eyes.
With a thought, Kholster had Bloodmane increase the magnification of his vision, focusing on Wylant’s face. He studied her eyes for a long moment, ignoring what the two princes said to one another. The veins in Wylant’s eyes were partially enlarged and the skin around them puffy, mildly irritated.
Zaur? he asked Bloodmane.
I think so, Maker. Bloodmane answered. They are the only things to which she is allergic . . . as far as I know.
Show me where you are exactly . . . based on the old barracks.
A map unfurled in the mind’s eye of the Aernese leader. As best he could tell, the humans had carried the warsuits to the Royal Museum. There had once been stuffed and mounted Zaur on exhibit there, but those displays had long since been burned, buried, or otherwise disposed of both to accommodate General Wylant’s legendary allergy to the reptilian menace, but also because enlightened Oathbreakers had, over time, come to object to the idea of having the corpses of sentient beings stuffed, mounted, and put on display.
There are Zaur somewhere, he thought to Vander.
What? Where?
I don’t know, could be miles away. Probably just scouts.
Hunh, Vander thought noncommittally. Are you listening to this?
Kholster redirected his attention to the Oathbreaker princes.
“I was at the last Conjunction, brother,” Rivvek was saying. “I met the Aern and I’m telling you now, that after spending three nights out at that cursed monument under the statues of the gods with
no one but Kholster and one of the Vaelsilyn—”
“Vael,” Wylant corrected. Both princes glared at her, but she didn’t seem to mind or care. “They are called Vael now. Assuming Dolvek hasn’t gotten us all killed with his foolishness, it’s only a handful of years to the next Grand Conjunction. Dolvek must learn to call them by their proper names, or he’ll have more trouble with my ex-husband than he’s already likely to have.”
“Ex-husband?” Kholster asked himself quietly, his words lost in the sounds of grinding gears, sloshing water, and steam.
“Like it matters,” Dolvek put in, gesturing agitatedly with his hands. “He’s just one man. You two act as if he is a specter of death looming in the shadows and waiting to destroy us all if we say the wrong words behind his back.”
He’s tracking you there, Vander teased.
“Brother,” Rivvek entreated, “I know it is difficult for you to comprehend, but the Aern, Kholster in particular—”
“He is not one Aern, Prince Dolvek,” Wylant interrupted. “He is, at the last count, approximately three hundred thousand Aern, assuming that the Aernese birthrate is as low as our informants claim. They will march where he tells him to march and kill who he tells them to kill. Every last one of them. They will die for him, those who are capable of dying, without hesitation.”
Wylant’s voice grew in volume. As she stepped closer to the prince, Kholster’s breath caught in his throat at the design embroidered on the back of her doublet. “They will not argue. If they discuss it in committee, it will only be because he decides he wants other opinions.”
“I do understand that your former . . . lover . . . is a dictator, General,” Dolvek began.
“Then you are mistaken,” Wylant sighed. “In a common dictatorship, there are dissenters. There are none among the Aern. Not,” she held up a single finger, “one Aern questions his decisions once they are made. If he says, ‘The Oathbreakers must die. We march tomorrow, every male, female, and infant,’ then within a week, news will start spreading of three hundred thousand Aern moving en masse toward Barrony then across the Junland Bridge and then for Castleguard and on through to the Great Forests, where The Parliament of Ages and Queen Kari of the Vael would welcome them with open arms.”
