The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  “I told Her I would fight for Her.”

  “And so you will. ”

  “And so I will. I swear it.”

  Taking a deep breath, he peered out at the western fields.

  The Yuruk were in sight now, a dark; swirling mass of horses and riders fanning out across the newly planted fields, racing the morning wind. A hail of arrow fire fell short and he heard Badahir shouting for the militia to hold their own fire and not waste their shafts. As a dozen Yuruk peeled off toward the paddocks, a company of mounted villagers leaped over the God-Wall to defend them, and for the first time in his life Brax wished he could ride as the pounding of hooves sounded overloud in his ears. This close to real combat, the God’s lien rose up inside him, and he suddenly felt himself standing on the fields of Yildiz-Koy, lines of infantry and cavalry facing the enemy to either side of him. As they closed, he felt rather than heard the seers’ invocation to Estavia.

  “God of Battles, I pledge you my strength!”

  With the rest of Her people, he felt Her response begin as a growing sense of bloodlust in his veins and a tingling in his hands.

  “God of Battles, I pledge you my blood!”

  The tingling became an overpowering itch and he clutched at his sword, feeling the far-off ranks prepare to move forward toward the Yuruk.

  “God of Battles, I pledge you my worship, my will, my service, and my life!”

  Eyes half closed, he felt the God’s power compel him forward and he gave himself up to it, leaving the safety of the tower’s bulk to stand facing the enemy, sword raised defiantly toward them, the God-Wall’s power crackling all around him like lightning.

  “God of Battles, come into this world and use me as you will!”

  As the need to do battle in Her name swept through his body, he felt Estavia burst into being above Her warriors at Yildiz-Koy just as he realized that he’d forgotten his shield.

  13

  Battle

  AS THE SUN ROSE above the eastern peaks of the Degisken-Dag Mountains, the battle for Yildiz-Koy raged across the pasture fields. Filled with the power of Her followers, the God of Battles towered a hundred meters above the village, her twin swords spinning above Her head like wreaths of crackling fire. At Her feet, Kaptin Liel screamed out Her invocation in a voice gone harsh and ragged while the rest of Sable Company directed the power of their kaptin’s words up into the waiting arms of their God. As swarms of spirits hurled themselves upon Her like so many tiny leaches, Estavia sucked up a huge mouthful, then spat the transformed energy at the rest in a great gout of flame. It tore through their midst like a brand, scattering as many as it destroyed and opening a path for Bronze Company who thundered forward to drive the attacking Yuruk toward the first line of waiting infantry. Spears planted in the ground, the rear ranks began to chant Estavia’s name as the enemy met Azure Company with a crash of steel on steel. A hail of arrow fire streaked toward the militia entrenched behind the God-Wall, but with a howl of laughter that bounced off the distant hills, the Battle God reached out to scoop them out of the air in one sweeping motion, crushing them into powder, before hurling them back at the line of Yuruk leaders standing on the crest of the hills.

  On the rise, Danjel sent her own defiant scream back at the Battle God as she called up a new swarm of spirits to throw themselves at Her while beside her, Ayami’s high-pitched whistle sent a new wave of Yuruk streaking down the hillsides. They surged forward then split into a dozen lines which streamed around the Battle God like water. Another whistle and those lines split again, some making for walled paddocks, others for the storage sheds, and still more to lure the more heavily armored cavalry away from the supporting infantry. Behind her, Danjel called up another swarm of spirits to obscure their movements and, as Estavia left the village proper to give chase in greedy anticipation, she sent a triumphant thread of power flying toward her fellow wyrdin-kazak on the hills above Serin-Koy

  From his vantage point above the village, Graize accepted Danjel’s message with a laugh and, lips drawn back from his teeth in a savage grin, threw a great swarm of his own spirits forward. With no God to stop them, the very first wave had already reached the Wall, hitting it like a storm, but slamming back again just as quickly. They’d begun to batter at it with frantic intensity as more and more of their numbers streamed forward on a tide of rage and need, but as always the Wall held firm. Above him, Graize could feel the Godling growing impatient.

  “Soon, very soon,” he promised. “Let the spirits weaken it a little first, then it’ll be your time. And mine.”

  Turning, he watched as Kursk brought a fresh wave of Rus and Wes-Yuruk together for another assault against the militia guarding the storage sheds. He could almost feel the defenders bracing to take the hit and he sneered down at them contemptuously. They were so thinly strung out along the God-Wall that they would be vulnerable to any concentrated attack, but with so few fighters remaining in Serin-Koy, they could do little else; pool their defenses in one spot and the Yuruk would simply attack elsewhere; all they could do was dig in and hope that their numbers would hold out longer than their enemies’ numbers. It was the traditional defense against the Yuruk’s traditional wide-sweeping hit-and-run attack, and it usually worked. But not today.

  With a snicker, Graize sent another swarm of spirits streaking out before Kursk’s lead banner. Today the Yuruk had numbers to spare and, as soon as the village militia was weakened enough, they would form up into one highly untraditional wedge and smash their way through the defenders at the walled paddocks like a rock slide over a flower garden and one single defender would get the final shock of his very short life. Then he would no longer hover above Graize’s dreams and plans like some dark-eyed storm cloud. Stroking his fingers along his bowstring, the Yuruk’s new wyrdin-kazak gave a mocking salute in Brax’s direction, before gathering up yet another swarm of spirits to throw at Serin-Koy.

  Unaware of his old enemy’s presence, Brax set an arrow to his bow and drew it back, trying to remember not to let the string hit his forearm when he released it. With only a few weeks of training he doubted he’d hit anything else that morning, but it hadn’t mattered; the God’s lien sang in his veins so loudly that he could hardly focus enough to aim the weapon anyway. As a new wave of Yuruk charged forward, he fired up and over the paddock wall, then caught up another arrow as they passed. The deadly whistle of returning fire dropped him almost instinctively, but not before a feathered shaft hit the wall above his head with a shower of dust and stone. Eyes narrowed, he snatched it off the ground and, fitting it to his bowstring, rose and fired it back. The sound of a muffled scream made him bare his teeth in derision, and drawn by his aggression, the God’s lien began to rise even higher as, beside him all along the wall, Serin-Koy’s battle-seers began a fresh Invocation to Estavia; calling on the God of Battles to bring them strength as they had since the attack had begun. Brax had no idea how She could manage to support both Yildiz and Serin-Koy, but he was grateful for the responding spike of energy that shot through his body every time they started singing. Early on, the force of Her lien had driven him into the line of entrenched militia, and he could feel a growing fatigue begin to eat away at his reserves; the only thing holding it at bay was Her will. As yet another wave of Yuruk thundered forward, he fitted a new arrow to his bowstring and, as the battle-seers began to scream Estavia’s name once more, he allowed the now familiar surge of energy to lift him to his feet again.

  The fighting continued throughout the day. Wave after wave of Yuruk riders charged the village of Serin-Koy and, by noon, hand-to-hand fighting had broken out all along the God-Wall. Despite the battle-seers’ efforts, gaps began to appear in the lines as, hopelessly outnumbered, the defenders began to crumble. As the sun dipped toward the western mountains, the Yuruk finally broke the line at the storage sheds. Villagers scattered before a full banner of torch-carrying riders that surged over the wall, cutting down anyone who stood against them. Exhausted militia hurried to close the br
each, but it was too late; one by one, the buildings went up in flames.

  On the rise, Graize gave the signal and standing in the saddle, Rayne swept her yak’s tail standard up in a great arc, calling the banners of the Khes-Yuruk waiting in reserve forward into battle. As they thundered over the hills, whistles sounded across the field, and the engaged kazakin of the Rus, Wes, and Irmak-Yuruk now flowed together to form one solid wedge that drove itself toward the paddocks and the thin line of militia guarding the herds of frightened livestock. The heavy wooden gates held for less then a moment, then splintered inward and the kazakin surged inside, some making straight for the defenders, while others began to drive the flocks and herds out into the fields.

  Long out of arrows, Brax hurled a fist-sized rock at the head of the rider barreling down on him, then snatched up his sword and vaulted onto the wall. The man swung a huge, curved blade toward him and Brax ducked instinctively, nearly toppling over backward as the weapon whistled over his head. He struck back and missed and then the enemy’s blade was streaking toward him again, moving unbelievably fast. He barely got his own sword, two-handed, up in time. As the weapons connected with a clash of steel, he felt the God-strength within his arms hold fast and then the man gave a wrenching twist and Brax’s left elbow twisted with it. He heard a crack, felt a shock of pain shoot up his arm, then, as his sword went spinning off, he fell, hitting the ground beyond the wall so hard it knocked the air out of his lungs.

  Graize saw him fall and, standing in the saddle, he sent a scream of triumph into the air. His enemy was down and the Gods’ ancient defense lay writhing and shrieking in his newly awakened sight like a mortally wounded snake. It was time to chop both their heads off. Now. Raising his arms, he summoned the Godling to him.

  It streaked from the clouds above with all the speed and power of a blazing comet, trailing a legion of spirits behind it in a trail of silvery fire. Graize allowed It to flow around him and through him, filling him with an icy cold power that nearly froze his breath in his body, then Godling and wyrdin together raced toward Yildiz-Koy. When they reached the pasture fields, they kept going, scattering the remaining defenses as they went, aiming for the single figure staggering to his feet before the wall.

  On the battlements of Orzin-Hisar, the smell of burning wood and wool drew Spar to his feet. Holding the wall like a vise, he watched Brax’s death hurtle toward him. He felt numb and heavy, unable to think or even feel. The tower voice had done its damage and gone, leaving him wide open to a constant barrage of images that battered against his mind like a whirlwind.

  Brax standing in the center of a broiling sea of blood-flecked mist.

  A hundred sharp-clawed creatures of power and need.

  A rolling tide of mist and death.

  Burning.

  And something flickering past the lamps.

  Something.

  Above him, the sky darkened perceptibly as a new power streaked from the clouds toward Orzin-Hisar. It filled his mind with a screaming howl of hunger and his legs gave out from under him as blood began to trickle from his nose and ears. He fell against the battlements to lie, staring upward, unable to look away, as the vision played out in front of his eyes gone a pale, misty white.

  The power enveloped Brax in a swirling mass of silvery teeth and claws. In its midst, Spar saw Graize ready his bow; as he fired, a legion of spirits swarmed in to catch the spray of blood that shot out to cover the setting sun in a veil of golden fire. The power caught Brax in an icy embrace, newly formed teeth tearing frantically at Estavia’s protections. Screaming in fury, pain forgotten, Brax fought them both with all the strength and rage his fourteen years on the streets of Anavatan could summon, but as his body weakened, the juvenile wards on his arms and chest faded.

  And Spar began to cry, knowing that this time he couldn’t save the older boy, feeling as if everything since Cindar’s death had been leading up to this one final moment when he would be left all alone. Deep within his blistered mind, he felt the tower voice rise up again and, with a gesture of almost gentle triumph, draw back a curtain of darkness to reveal a fine, silver light that undulated in the distance.

  No longer caring what it wanted in return, Spar closed his eyes, and reached for it.

  And paused as a hand touched his. Opening his eyes, he stared up at a blank-faced man sitting propped up against the battlements, iron-braced legs splayed out before him, a heavyset youth with Bayard’s features lending him a shoulder for support. He seemed somehow familiar and Spar frowned as Kemal’s words filtered down to him from far away.

  “... served as Serin-Koy’s leading battle-seer and priest of Estavia until he took a head wound in a Yuruk attack two seasons ago.”

  A blank-faced man sending Spar’s mind flying toward the shining net of Elif’s prophetic Sight ...

  The name came slowly.

  “Chian?”

  The corners of the man’s dull eyes crinkled in response. With a featherlight touch, his mind reached out to still the flood of images, then brought one single vision forward.

  As the creatures closed over Brax’s head, he managed one choked-off cry for help. His call shot through the mist like a blazing arrow and, drawn by the violence of his desperation, ESTAVIA LEAPED FORWARD.

  Recognizing his purpose, Spar shook his head, jerking up the rest of the vision and almost throwing it at him.

  Only to have him disappear before She could reach him.

  With a dismissive mental shrug, Chian played the final unseen image out before them like a skein of wool.

  Estavia reaching out into darkness for the one man able to save the future: Kemal.

  And Spar’s clouded eyes suddenly brightened with hope as their abayos’ words echoed in his mind.

  “I took some injuries last night conducting a ritual to manifest the God of Battles.”

  A surge of new energy drew him to his feet and he nodded excitedly. Kemal had called up Estavia that night to save them from the spirits on Liman Caddesi.

  “She favors the combative ones.”

  Kemal could get Her here to Serin-Koy and, once here, She would save Brax.

  Below him, Graize swept his sword down again, the image of the streets of Anavatan shimmered into being, Brax cried out, his call shooting through the mist like a blazing arrow as it had that very first night, and Spar and Chian joined their minds together to hurl their co-joined abilities out with all their strength to amplify his past and present desperation.

  “Save us, God of Battles, and I will pledge you my life, my worship AND MY LAST DROP OF BLOOD, FOREVER!”

  The pure force of his belief hurtled along the streams of possibility, slamming into Kemal’s mind with all the power of a hurricane. It ricocheted off the Battle God’s lien within him, then, sucking up enough energy from every warrior on the field to stagger them, it blazed across the sky.

  Estavia froze in mid-strike, Her feral visage snapping to the south as She saw what it revealed: the village of Serin-Koy on fire, its militia dead or overrun, and Brax, Her Champion, unarmored and unprotected, fighting a savage creature of power and need that hammered against Her wards.

  Against Her wards.

  With a scream of rage that deafened every person on the field, the Battle God exploded out of being, the shock wave flattening half the fishing huts on the western shores of Gol-Beyaz.

  Her appearance at Serin-Koy was no less violent. One moment Brax was striking out, one-handed, at a spirit a thousand times more powerful than those he’d faced on Liman-Caddesi; the next It was swept away and he was catapulted into the air, every limb outlined in fire, as Estavia’s presence slammed into him, stripping away all his pain and fatigue in a single blow. Brax gave himself up to it as the now-familiar figure of Kaptin Haldin rose up to encase him in golden light, the gem-encrusted weapon from his dream appeared in his hand, and once again he stood on a flat, featureless plain surrounded by creatures of mist and claws. Once again, he fought them with the same ferocity and unwavering b
elief in his own invincibility and Hers, and once again they shredded before the power of a God.

  And then he saw Graize.

  The other boy appeared out of the mist like a wraith, his eyes gone white and wild, a legion of fresh creatures swarming about his head. He spat a curse at Brax so powerful it smacked against Estavia’s protections, and then he was galloping toward him, a curved Yuruk saber in his hand. Brax raised his own weapon and when they met, there was an explosion of energy that sent them both flying. Brax was the first to rise, the power of Estavia driving him to his feet; Graize lay stunned for half a heartbeat longer and then he, too, was up and hurtling toward his enemy.