by J. F. Lewis
“They’re awful spread out, like the Grudgers do, but I’d say four or five. The two I’ve spotted wear skull helms.”
“Bone Finders.” Conwrath frowned at Kholster’s back. “Then there are probably at least six. I thought these were all of the first One Hundred. Each of the Hundred gets his own Bone Finder.”
“Guardin’ the bones of the Hundert then. Fair enough.” Conwrath grinned at the way Japesh said “hundred” but covered it up quickly by wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
Kholster walked far ahead of the group of humans and their cart, laden with the polished bones of their dead comrades now, rather than the goods and livestock they’d had with them before. Vander, the Aern with the bucket, walked at the back of the group, his bald head shaded by a broad-brimmed hat in which he’d cut holes for his ears like some of the carriage drivers did for their horses in the city. The other four adult Aern had ranged out like the four corners of a square.
Rae’en rode on the cart next to one of the hired hands, Sandis, asking endless questions about cattle and farming. Conwrath wondered if the young Grudger knew that the young man to whom she was chatting so casually was a new dad thanks to her fight at the bridge ten days back. Sandis had agreed to adopt the boy child, thus sparing his life. Conwrath smirked. If they told the Grudger, she likely would have said, “Congratulations.” Grudgers had few children and prized them all. No Grudger child was ever a burden. Not that Conwrath’s adopted son Randall Tyree was a burden, exactly, he just didn’t need a brother at the moment.
Conwrath shook his head, reminded of his cousin, the new magistrate. Breemson had been so pleased with himself to have finally risen through the ranks and become top man: not only a fully tattooed God Speaker, but magistrate, too. If he’d simply listened and put Conwrath in charge of the caravan or deigned to consult Shidarva. . . . Conwrath used water from his Dwarven canteen to dampen his fingers, rubbing at his eyes and wetting his cheeks and the back of his neck.
“No sense worry’n,” Japesh said, his eyes staring behind them as if he saw death or salvation in the distance and couldn’t make up his mind which. “They’ll listen or they won’t. I’m betting if they won’t, you’ll be the man has to be the new magistrate.”
Conwrath raised an eyebrow.
“The Aern like you, Marcus.” Japesh spit. “With a few of them Hunderts at the gates, who else you think they’ll be worried about pleas’n? Won’t be me. My bones is too brittle.”
“And your ears aren’t long enough,” one of the Aern—Conwrath thought his name was Vander—put in with a smile that revealed the doubled upper and lower canines of his people. The smile killed Conwrath’s humor. The remark had been funny enough, but Marcus Conwrath had never been able to look at those teeth without picturing blood staining them a bright crimson. Blood was never funny.
“We’ll make it to the city by nightfall,” Japesh said, covering the awkward moment. He pointed out over the plain at the twin watch stations. The brick towers rose up from the hard-packed ground like larger versions of the termite mounds Conwrath had seen in the wilds of Gromm. Squinting, he thought he could just make out the light of an active transmission crystal. With his slight sense of long sight, the echoes of long speech just touched the edge of his senses as the Long Speakers and Long Seers sent word of their arrival ahead to the city of Darvan.
They wouldn’t be sending word of the approaching Grudgers though. They’d turned the proverbial Blind Eye to Grudgers ever since the battles during the Grand Migration (or Exile, if you took the Grudgers’ name for it). He’d seen tapestries in Castleguard depicting the assault on the Grand Academy; images of men and women gifted with the use of Long Fist, Long Fire, and other, rarer gifts defending the High Long Speaker himself.
“The eye that spies on me, I shall put out,” he recalled the words at the bottom of the tapestry. “The voice that whispers my secrets, I shall silence.” He wondered momentarily how the Aern kept up with all these centuries of oaths. How did they manage to keep them all?
Peering back at Kholster, Conwrath caught himself wondering how many tapestries showed the Aern and these same others riding with him. Did it seem at all strange to Kholster that he appeared on one tapestry slaughtering the Grand Academy’s protectors only to be shown in others alongside it defending the place and pledging one hundred warriors to stand in defense of each new High Academy?
Later still, as they passed the watch towers and a bald Long Speaker in his white robes met their party on the road, Conwrath laughed at the Long Speaker’s question: “Shall I be sending word of your imminent arrival ahead to the city?”
When Kholster answered, “No,” Conwrath stopped laughing.
In the distance, backlit by the sunset, the captain surveyed the widening grand road leading down the slope of the basin then up again toward the center of Darvan and the magisterial arena. The city itself rose up in a mound of brick over the flood basin, the grass at its base green and lush, home to grazing cattle and the city’s communal farmland. As Darvan boasted only one main road, each building melded into the next, sharing walls, ladders dotting roofs as neighbors scrambled over one another’s houses or businesses. “Like bees in a hive,” he muttered. “Here comes a bear to stir you up.”
CHAPTER 7
VAEL NOT VAELSILYN
The humans of Porthost glared at Wylant as she passed. Their stares differed from the usual looks of dismay she got from humans working in and around the capital city. Those humans knew her as a person, but here all they saw was an Eldrennai. The difference was to be expected. Porthost was a border town, officially the closest any Eldrennai was allowed to travel to The Parliament of Ages, the territory designated to serve as the homeland of the Vael once they were freed from their servitude to her people. One more dividend paying year after year as a result of the inheritance bequeathed to all Eldrennai by Uled’s experimentation with the creation of species.
Briefly, Wylant regretted leaving The Sidearms, her cadre of knights, behind at Port Ammond, but given that they couldn’t have travelled with her to speak with Queen Kari, she pushed the thought away. She alone was Aiannai. The stares she was forced to endure were nothing compared to what they’d have been expected to tolerate. Their elemental foci drew enough looks back home among the people they protected. Wylant could only imagine how these humans would react. The old guilt rose up, and she crushed it down. She’d done what she’d done to protect her people, and she still didn’t see any other way she could have defeated the Aern.
Wylant heard the clearing of a human throat as she passed and reached out to the elemental plane of ice, creating an invisible wall of cold between herself and the flying wad of mucus as it arced her way. Frozen into a lump, the icy projectile bounced off her neck and landed in the street.
“Wha—?”
Wylant spun on the surprised human. It was hard for Wylant to tell humans’ ages unless they were truly young and still growing or so old they were preparing for Torgrimm to come and collect their souls, but she guessed he was nearer the former than the latter.
“I am Wylant,” she said loudly, augmenting her voice by tapping into the elemental plane of air, the extra wind volume stinging her throat as the words left her lips. “I wear Kholster’s scars on my back as a sign to all that I am Aiannai, an Oathkeeper, not Oathbreaker.” Don’t turn this into a fight, her expression seemed to add silently, you’ll lose.
The marketplace of the border town went quiet and still. Transactions froze in mid-exchange as the crowd of humans watched to see what would happen next. She drew Vax with one swift motion, the mottled blue of the sword blade angled at the human with the guilty eyes, the one who’d almost spoken.
“Do not,” she said as the sword blade extended, growing longer and thinner until the point of the blade touched the man’s throat, “tempt me to wrath. I understand your anger toward the Eldrennai, even toward me, but I will not tolerate your disrespect.” She leaned closer, smelling the sour taint of ol
d bread and sweat on the overweight man before her. His clothes needed washing, his beard trimming, and . . . and who was she to judge? How many had he slain in his lifetime? None? One? Yet her hands held the blood of millions. Ah, the pride of the Eldrennai, always so close to the surface, she told herself, even in me. No wonder they hate us.
“Just leave me be, yes?” Wylant finished calmly.
“Yes, ma’am,” the human stammered.
“Kindly put your sword away, Madame General,” called an unpleasant voice, “these people have done nothing to harm you.”
The speaker, a stern-faced man with bright eyes and glossy black hair, watched her from the rough terrace of the town’s only inn. He had a wet bandage tied around one leg, but what got Wylant’s attention were the four bowmen next to him, arrows nocked, ready to fire. Two other archers looked her way from opposite ends of the market, one huffing and puffing, evidence he’d had to scramble to get into position.
“Who are you?” Wylant said as she lowered Vax.
“Name’s Jorum, owner of the Briar and Bramble.” he called. “You may have noticed a distinct lack of welcome hereabouts. You aren’t wanted here, fancy jacket or—”
Wylant felt the pulse of another Elementalist touching the plane of air like a shift in an unseen breeze on her cheeks and swore under her breath. The Sidearms had followed her after all. Of course they had. Why could things never be simple?
“You will not threaten the General.” Mazik’s voice, with its familiar gear-driven cadence and tick-tock precision, cut Jorum off mid-sentence. “You will lower your weapons by the time I count three or the threat you pose shall be forcibly resolved.”
“I’m fine, Mazik,” Wylant hissed as the chief Aeromancer of her knights decloaked, spooking the humans standing near him. Wylant couldn’t blame them for that. It wasn’t every day that a dark-haired Eldrennai in chain shirt, leather trousers, and cavalry boots materialized next to them. His red cloak billowed about him, a sure sign his magic was active. The skewed placement of the bandanna he usually wore to conceal the damage done to his throat and lower jaw by the unfortunate placement of his elemental focus gave the humans all too much to see.
More guilt. Would she ever not feel guilt when she looked at him? Such had been the cost, one of the many costs, of saving her people.
After the breaking of the Life Forge, Eldrennai magic had twisted, leaving many Eldrennai with the choice to abandon the elements for all but the mildest of magicks or risk permanent damage to the portions of their bodies used to channel the primal forces of the world. Mazik, a Thunder Speaker like Wylant, had focused the elements through his voice, literally breathing fire when a flame spell was required. The Artificers had done what they could to reinforce his throat, but the adaptive implant grew as the damage did.
Six hundred years ago, the implant had been little more than a brass oval and a band of metal ringing his neck. Now, the once-handsome Eldrennai sported a throat and lower jaw of gleaming brass; his once-rich baritone had become a harsh metallic rasp.
“ONE.” Enhanced by elemental air, Mazik’s voice cracked like thunder as he amplified his voice, causing villagers to flinch and the children in the market to wail.
“We won’t be threatened in our own town, magic spitter! Not when there are only two of you.”
Oh, Wylant thought acidly, there are more than two.
If Mazik had come, that meant they’d all come. Why did I ever let Kholster convince me to have them swear to protect me personally? And why did Grivek’s father ever agree to allow it in the first place? Another sin of pride?
“There are more than TWO,” the “two” resounded cacophonously, letting all know it was part of the count, “of us. Lower your weapons.”
Wylant opened her mouth to tell Mazik to stand down as Jorum and his crew loosed their arrows. Arrows which plummeted down at near ninety-degree arcs, the effective weight of their arrowhead multiplied many times over by geomancy.
Roc, thought Wylant. The curly-headed Geomancer appeared next to a vegetable stand. His hands were curled into tight fists at his side, his modified boots allowing the brass feet which were his own elemental foci access to the ground. “Got the arrows, Maz.”
Jorum’s men dropped their weapons, and for a moment Wylant thought they might all escape without an injury to anything but their pride until Jorum himself spat a curse, drew a sword, and leapt from the terrace toward Mazik and Wylant.
“THREE.”
Nine more Eldrennai in chain shirts and matching cloaks appeared. Griv, Ponnod, and Tomas were suspended by their Aeromancy just above the roof-line on the south side of the street, Bakt, Kam, and Hira on the north, with the twins Frip and Frindo taking the east and west ends of the street, respectively. Each of the twins stood with opposite hands outstretched; Frip’s steel left hand encased in ice, Frindo’s steel right hand engulfed in flames. Some had chosen steel, others brass, but each of The Sidearms sported a focus implant except for Wylant and Kam.
Wylant had been spared completely, having stood at the epicenter of the blast when the Life Forge had been sundered; her magic was untwisted by the destructive forces she’d unleashed. Kam was young, part of a new breed of Elementalists who’d chosen to shape a single element to the exclusion of all others, using an elemental familiar as the focus for his mystic abilities.
When she’d chosen Kam as replacement for the deceased Perrin, his brother Sidearms had overseen his oath to protect Wylant personally. Kam’s familiar, a small bat-winged creature composed mostly of a living storm cloud, rode on the young Eldrennai’s shoulder, its ambient wind tussling the boy’s long black hair. Not that Kam’s type of magic didn’t have its own dangers.
Wylant winced when the ground shifted beneath Jorum’s feet as he landed, a patch of earth no more than a square foot in diameter buckling forward, then back. Out of the corner of her eye, Wylant saw Roc wince as the human’s left knee, the bandaged one, wrenched, bending in the wrong direction, the snap audible even above the whirling of air and the crushing echo of Mazik’s magic-enhanced voice.
“By Aldo, Roc,” Hira swore, “you were supposed to knock the man down, not cripple him.”
“What kind of idiot locks his knees when he jumps off a terrace, Hira?”
Cursing under her breath, Wylant stepped over to the writhing man and kicked his sword away before kneeling to render aid. “Let me take a look at that.”
“Don’t touch me,” Jorum spat in her face. “Just leave.”
“I have a bone-knitter and some laughing salve,” Wylant insisted.
“I’d rather lose the leg than let one of you stump-eared—”
“Fine.” Wylant stood and turned in one smooth motion. “You have until I’m out of earshot to change your mind. May Aldo grace you with his wisdom and if not, may Gromma take pity on you and heal that knee.”
She locked eyes with Hira. “Horses?”
“We flew,” he answered with a shrug. “Dodan is looking after the horses back at Port Ammond. Couldn’t take owned horses into The Parliament of Ages, could we, ma’am?”
“By treaty, you aren’t even allowed to take yourselves into The Parliament of Ages,” she growled back, “without permission from the Vael, which you know you won’t get.”
“We’re your sworn Knights,” Mazik broke in. “We believe Kholster would be more angry if we left your side than if we followed you into Vael territory.”
“He is the one who had us swear to protect you,” Roc said. “And we’ll be quiet. He’ll never know we were there.”
Wordlessly, Wylant stalked along the trade road running through the village. She did not have to look back to see whether or not The Sidearms were following her. Of course they were. They’d followed her into Port Gates to fight the Ghaiattri on a different plane, into battle against her husband and his Armored, into tunnels to fight the reptilian Zaur. She only hoped they wouldn’t have to follow her straight into the Bone Queen’s clutches via Torgrimm’s loving Harvest. Sh
e wondered, not for the first time, if the Harvester could be persuaded to send her soul to join the Aern when she died. The thought of an afterlife populated by Eldrennai (her Sidearms notwithstanding) left her . . . less than enthusiastic.
Scowling, she continued on.
*
At the edge of the city, the rough cobbles gave way to what barely passed as a deer trail. Trees grew right up to the city wall, the limbs hanging over it gnarled and ancient. Eyeing the trees, Wylant could not make out any signs of the Vael, but she knew they had to be there.
“I am Wylant,” she said firmly. Not sure what level of volume would be required, she settled on the not-quite-a-shout she used when addressing a line of troops. “I come on foot with urgent need to address—”
“Why’d you cut your hair?” came a feminine voice. “My, but you’re loud.”
Wylant suppressed a smile. Leave it to the Vael to focus on the physical. Then again, considering how much shorter their life spans were than, say, her own people’s or the Aern’s, she guessed it was appropriate.
“Is it really because you hate the gods?” asked another. “She is quite loud, though. You’re quite right in that, Arri.”
“Or did you just go bald?” asked a third. “Both of you: don’t be rude about her religion, she’s His. You know that, Malli, even if Arri can’t be bothered to study history.”
“Some humans go bald,” said the first voice. Arri, Wylant recalled, repeating the name over and over in her head to try and attach it firmly to the voice in her mind.
“But mainly the boy-type persons,” said the second voice. Malli. Malli. Malli, Wylant thought.
“She’s definitely a girl-type person.” The fourth voice was masculine. Wylant saw him stepping free of the undergrowth with the same slight start of surprise one might have when a stick-bug started to move or a moth which had looked like nothing more than a piece of bark flew away. He smelled of oak leaves and a tart but pleasant musk which reminded her of Kholster. The male’s lined brown skin was rough and bark-like. Pointed ears almost as long as a donkey’s swept at an angle back over his shoulders, and his red hair, like strands of braided leaves, crackled softly as he moved.
