“Skipping my second battle.” Mostin smiled. “I’ll be on the first tier, cheering you on.”
On his way down, Gannon spotted Tiler at the fifth-tier rail. He strode over for a view of the previously charred fields. Sprawling patches turned emerald with replanted crops, and the lazy fragrance of Summertide flowers lolled in the air. Two thousand looked about right, the throng of enemy bodies bulked up in the northwest and spreading in both directions.
“Founders’ balls,” Tiler muttered.
“Any sign of them in the south?” Gannon asked.
“Not that anyone’s told me.”
Gannon peered over the edge. Sixty archers lined the rim of the first and second tiers, a sorry number, but an improvement over zero. Below, lined up on ground level, Bes-Strea’s defenders amassed, men and women of the tiers mingling with those of the warrens. They’d shed their finery and tied Lelaine’s blue armbands around waists or arms. Some wore them slung in azure sashes. They stuffed spares in their pockets and belts and hung them from their trousers.
Four riders on tall terran horses galloped from south of the city toward the enemy, blue strips of cloth whipping in the wind. The horses’ hooves tore up the soil. “What are they doing?” Gannon asked and laughed as the riders flung armfuls of azure ribbons to the field. They arced and charged back as the enemies’ bolts flew.
“Parrie’s a nut-slapper,” Tiler said, in what Gannon assumed was pure admiration.
“Let’s get down there.” Gannon took the stairs two at a time, Tiler’s bulk bounding beside him like a beast. Gannon veered off at the second tier to join Mostin. “Who are our best six archers with the long shot? Get them up here.”
Mostin scanned the ranks and shouted names. Six men jogged up the stairs, four with southern longbows and two with handsome recurves.
With the men gathered, Gannon pointed out the target. “See those four men on horses. They’re all wearing scarlet. One might be High Ward Jullien-Nor, the other three are probably Cull Tarr. There’s a woman to their right. See her? My guess is she’s an influencer.” He gripped the rail. “They are your targets, especially her.”
“She may not have a choice,” a man said.
“We all have choices,” Gannon replied.
The Cull Tarr army advanced, a ragged throng of humanity without order or discipline. Parrie didn’t want them too near the tiers and shouted the order for an attack. A horn blasted, and the Bes-Strea force responded with a roar, charging to meet the enemy. Blue strips of cloth fluttered on the field between them like birds with broken wings. Immediately, parts of the Nor-Bis army splintered, men running for the symbols of freedom. Bolts slammed into them and past them, dropping many in Bes-Strea’s front line.
Gannon held his breath, knuckles white as the forces met. The Cull Tarr horses neared, wading into their rear ranks. Men switched sides, but the chaos made it hard to perceive any difference. Then the influencer struck.
An invisible wave rolled across the field, leveling men and women of both sides. They fell, holding their heads. A keening wail rose from a single voice to a strident frenzy of sound.
Only the Cull Tarr remained standing, at least five hundred strong. They marched forward, unchallenged, spearing anyone sporting blue. In one breath, five hundred dead. “Shoot her!” Gannon shouted.
“Out of range!” a panicked archer yelled.
“Then get closer!” The first tier archers peeled off, sprinting for the stairs. Gannon watched in horror as another five hundred died. “Shoot her! Shoot her.”
Arrows flew, landing among the howling masses. “It’s too far!” the archer yelled, despair raw in his voice.
Then the influence stopped. The woman on the horse fled, galloping through the desecrated field away from the war. Cull Tarr archers aimed and triggered their crossbows. Bolts tore into her back, and she tumbled from the saddle.
The killing field fell quiet. For a breath, no one moved. Then the Cull Tarr turned to run. Those lying in the field rose with a thunderous roar, every one of them charging after the fleeing invaders. The flickers of blue hardly mattered as Ellegeans coalesced into one army, tearing down the enemy without mercy.
The men on horses wheeled around and beat their steeds into a retreat. Jacks sprinted on their heels, Ellegeans in rabid pursuit. As they raced to the field’s far end, the cost revealed itself, over fifteen hundred dead, most of them Gannon’s countrymen.
He covered his face with a hand, trying to wipe away the vision. In the distance, the influencer’s body lay alone in a smear of green, a solitary woman’s power, the destruction and salvation of his war.
***
Gannon rode at the front of his motley army. The battle with the Cull Tarr in Bes-Strea had started and ended in a matter of heartbeats, the time required to dress in the morning or peel and savor a lissom or tell a story to a child. All ordinary events taken for granted.
Emotion gripped the survivors in a stranglehold. Among the Bes-Streans, disbelief and despair mingled with murderous rage. Those from Nor-Bis who’d taken up blue armbands and switched sides felt explosive, shamed, terrified, and desperate to reclaim their city and save the loved ones left behind. No influencer could stir such a stew of intensity. The tier city steamed, on the brink of boiling over.
Gannon had channeled it, all the roiling emotion into mass graves for the dead, care for the wounded, provisioning an army with food and weapons. In four days’ time, twenty-five hundred Ellegeans marched for Nor-Bis, a city of women and children held hostage, the men’s initial motivation to fight.
Reining in his horse, he waited for Parrie to catch up. He’d left Mostin minding his city and Tiler on the Fargrove, prepared to float supplies downriver. “How big a fire in Nor-Bis?” he asked when the captain rode alongside. “Take a guess.”
“A monster.” The man stared ahead. “The whole city before they’re done.”
Still a day’s march from the seaside tiers, Gannon’s army had fractured into three segments: those running ahead fueled by desperation or revenge, those lagging behind due to a lack of strength or a burden of grief, and those following orders.
Black smoke, a wistful plume in the morning, now glowered in the sky like a thunderhead. The Founder-made tiers wouldn’t burn, but everything inside them would. The docks and piers, the markets, the wood-built outer city that extended toward the river and sea with homes and shops and shipbuilding. All would burn.
“They expected us,” Parrie said. “They’re razing the city before abandoning it. We lose either way.”
Gannon’s next question stayed between his teeth, the answer nothing he wished to hear. The same dread likely weighed on every man and woman watching the black sky billow. Every one of them could only speculate on the fate of those left behind, but they’d learn the truth soon enough.
Glancing behind him, Parrie rubbed the scar over his eyebrow. “I’m going to send the stragglers back. We don’t need them, and they’re going to mire us. Then what do you say we catch up with our overzealous vanguard?”
The same thoughts nagged in Gannon’s ear. “It’s not going to be good news, is it?”
Parrie puffed out a breath and rode back to find a messenger. When he returned, Gannon heeled his horse, and they pushed ahead at a steady pace. They caught up with the forward contingent at dusk and pushed the journey’s final leg in the pale platinum of a smoky dawn.
The sun peeked in the east, the sea a satin sheet of rumbling luminescence. A light offshore breeze blew at Gannon’s back, the white haze of smoke bending as he stood on the ridge among the blackened trees. As he expected, the Cull Tarr had incinerated the city, yet they hadn’t stopped there. The crops and pastures and forests smoldered, a legacy of soot.
Except for a frosting of ash, the tiers looked pristine. Had they sagged and reformed? What a strange sight… if anyone had seen it. He chewed on a nail, his hand shaking. The leaden sky rested silently on the tiers, too silent, so silent he heard the crows as they fluttered
their wings and alit on the promenade rails.
Men had begun searching the tiers and outer-city rubble at the bleak sunrise. At the bottom of the ridge, Parrie beckoned him with a wave. Gannon ambled down, unsure of his feet. The land smoldered, unbearably hot, red embers glowing in the crannies beneath downed trees. Enough smoke wafted through the air to hurt his lungs, and he coughed.
When Parrie finished with the last sooty man to offer a report, Gannon faced him. “Just tell me.”
The captain spat a wad of blackened phlegm and cleared his throat. “We located a score or two of survivors, maybe double the number in bodies. The rest of them are gone.”
Tragedy gathered on Gannon’s brow. “What do you mean ‘gone’? There were mostly women and children here.”
“All of them, Gannon. They’re gone.”
***
When Tiler showed up in Nor-Bis with his trifling fleet of supplies, Gannon hoofed it down to the riverbank. Guards directed the river captains where to tie up since the piers that hadn’t drifted out to sea littered the river bottom.
“Holy hole-sniffers, Gan.” Tiler frowned at the destruction. “Thought I’d get a chance to spank a few nutwits.”
“The nutwits burned the place down and left.” Gannon planted his hands on his hips. “Get these supplies unloaded, will you? We have some wounded and a few who can’t make the trek. Load them first and then fill up with the rest. I’m resupplying anyone who can walk and sending them back to Bes-Strea.”
“We’ll start with the pups.” Tiler scratched his ear.
“There are no pups. The Cull Tarr stole them all. There’s almost no one here who didn’t walk here with us.”
Tiler’s frown hardened into a cast of malevolence Gannon had only witnessed on the big man’s face once or twice in all his years. “So, what are we doing about it?”
“We’re not doing anything.” Gannon expected a brawl and met his friend’s eyes. “You’re taking the survivors upriver. I’m hiring a boat and going after them.”
Tiler jumped to shore, strode up the bank, and gripped the front of Gannon’s shirt. “Like Founders’ balls, you are. Not without me, you’re not. No way, Gan. I got as much right as you to poke a shiny plank in their tight little assholes.”
“You don’t even know the plan.” Gannon wrenched his shirt free and backed up a pace.
“So tell me.” Tiler took a step forward. “Then I’ll know it.”
“I’m having a talk with Her Shiplord, Emer Tilkon.”
Tiler’s face twisted, a combination of brow, eye, and lip positions that communicated shock, skepticism, alarm, and amusement, all at the same time. “This I gotta see.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The barge coasted down the Slipsilver from Ava-Grea toward Elan-Sia, one of a flotilla of vessels clogging the river, several hastily commandeered from their Cull Tarr owners. Catling lingered in the unadorned room serving as the barge’s salon, her breath fogging the window. Outside, clouds obliterated the sun and a heavy haze brooded upon the air. Raindrops big as silver coins tapped against the pane and drew rings on the water. If she stared long enough, the downpour blurred into a veil of silver.
Had it always or had she simply never paused to look?
Whitt joined Jagur and his officers in the wheelhouse, planning their strategy for conquering Elan-Sia. The gift he’d acquired with his scars rendered him a valuable instrument in a land ribboned with waterways.
A cup of steaming greenleaf in his hands, Kadan sat across from her. She picked up her cup and sipped the tea he’d kindly brewed. “Do you miss Minessa and Brodie?”
His smile brimmed with what must have been a tide of memories as he gazed into his tea. “All the time. I can hardly wait for the day when this is done, Catling. Mostly the war but also the guild. We’ve worn out our usefulness.”
“It started with me, didn’t it?”
Always thoughtful, his answer hummed around his head a few moments. “I think there must have been years of contention, ethical questions, personal agendas. You gave Lelaine the gift of her own feelings. I can’t see how that was faulty or how it can be blamed for all this tragedy.”
“So many people have died, and it isn’t over. I’ve killed innocent people.”
“So have I,” he admitted, and she raised her eyes to him. “Many times, Catling. I served as Algar’s influencer.”
“I suppose we’re all monsters,” she whispered.
“Not all.” He smiled. “Not Minessa, not Rose. And you like Sanson.”
“That’s a tragic number of exceptions.” She turned again to the rain. “Do the others know about Markim?”
“No, and I won’t tell them until it’s necessary. Certainly not until this war is won. They didn’t want to come along with us, and if they weren’t vital as healers, Jagur wouldn’t have compelled them. They were all eager for rebellion until Ava-Grea became theirs again.” He chuckled. “You’re right; we are monsters.”
She smiled into the window. “They’re frightened, Kadan. It’s understandable.”
“Just be careful of placing any trust in them.” He finished his tea. “Olivan might be dead, but the rest of them don’t like these changes either, and they’re leery of you. Power and fear find a way of perverting even the most righteous among us. I don’t believe Dalcoran ever viewed himself as corrupted, yet I’m certain he betrayed you to the Cull Tarr. He told them where to find Rose. He thought he possessed the insight and prudence to rule, Catling, and the rest of them still do.”
***
Whitt stood in the wheelhouse as the barge spilled into the upper delta. The surrounding marsh spread into wetlands, the Slipsilver widening, branching, and flowing ultimately to the sea. The Founders had planted Elan-Sia in the midst of the mighty river’s main channel ensuring uninterrupted shipping. The balance of the delta was an intertangled knot of luminescent streamlets that changed shape with the tides.
The rain had stopped, but a torn and tumultuous dawn hung low over the tier city, and the mist rolled in from the sea, coating the world in shades of white wool. Even anchored at a distance, even through the milky fog, it was clear the Cull Tarr expected them. Whitt spotted the grander ships of the enemy fleet, the dragnets and skudders and few ponderous galleasses, moored in the deeper waters, forming a blockade. Nimbler vessels idled at the piers or drifted on long leashes from their larger cousins. The behemoth, The Sea God, swayed in the deepest water nearer the sea.
On the cusp of Balance, when all three moons shone in quarters, the tides rose and fell in mellow waves—serene when compared to the surges of the full and new moons. Balance was auspicious or ill-omened depending on one’s mood or objective and which side they fought for.
“Thoughts?” Jagur stood beside him, puffing a cloud of smoke to rival the weather.
Nordin leaned a hand on the sill by the front window. “We’re outnumbered, but other than the skudders, they can’t move those monsters easily, especially not in a river. They can’t intercept us all.”
“The bigger ships carry catapults,” Jagur reminded him. “Let’s find a way to survive this.”
The barge’s captain paled, his cheeks white as the sky. He licked his lips. “Harness us some waterdragons and turn around, that’s my suggestion.”
The commander ignored the man. “Whitt, any ideas?”
“It’s not entirely up to me, Commander. Even if it was, the tricks that saved us before wouldn’t work.” They weren’t fleeing through the shallows, and a wave of any size would capsize the Guardian fleet as well. “You and I ought to talk to Raker.”
Jagur frowned. “I trust you can handle it.”
A smog of pipe smoke blew in Whitt’s face, and he coughed. He tried to think of a way to explain the situation without raising eyebrows. “I think we’re going to need a treaty, Sir.”
The commander grunted and jabbed his pipe stem within a finger’s width of Whitt’s nose. “You tell Raker this isn’t the time or place. And if he insis
ts, tell him I’d just as soon hang him.”
“That’s not who we need to negotiate with.” Whitt gazed down at the scars crisscrossing his arms and the patch of rough skin where Guardian’s dagger once defined him. “We need to come to an agreement with… the planet.”
Jagur nearly dropped his pipe, eyes wedged into slits, a host of reprimands forming behind his teeth. Nordin’s left eyebrow hovered under his hairline, and the ship’s captain chewed a lip as if marooned with a man who’d lost his bearings.
Whitt sighed. “He… well… she, speaking through Raker, said, last time in Ava-Grea, that she sought balance, which, he said, well, she said I knew what she meant. I think it’s probably what the Farlanders wanted.”
“You expect me to negotiate with the planet?” Jagur’s frown assumed a permanent cast.
“I’d suggest,” Nordin interrupted, “that we do whatever requires doing before the Cull Tarr decide they’re tired of waiting for us.”
Jagur grunted and pointed toward the door.
***
Raker sat at the bow, whittling a ship as long as his hand. A single-masted skudder, it sported sleek lines and a narrow hull, a deep keel and pointed bow. He carved the striations of the planking with long steady strokes.
He’d spent most of the journey on deck, regardless of the weather. He didn’t care for the cramped quarters, the walls, the bodies, or conversation. A half-blood, his very existence defied the Ellegean assertion that the natives weren’t human. That opinion slowly changed, but too late for him.
The goddess lolled, keeping him company through the days of opaque rain. She leaned over the rail, her long hair streaming in the ripples along the cutwater. Her gown flowed from her hips across the deck in sinuous curls, eddying in the coiled rope and running gear.
“Have you noticed the luminescence glimmering in each of Whitt’s cuts?” she asked. “It’s the same you see in the rose rimming Catling’s eye.”
Raker peered at her. Long ago, he’d put the magic in the child’s injured eye. That was before the goddess appeared to him, when the wraith had been a whispered breath in his ear. He’d pushed the girl underwater, taken a knife for it, and both had walked away with visions, servants of the goddess.
Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4) Page 21
