“Why don’t they attack?”
“It’s called a siege, only we haven’t got a castle. The Malstefne know we need to travel south, they also know they have an army coming from the west across the Gediswon. They wait us out, we either leave our defensible position and they slaughter us, or we sit tight and we’re flanked in a few days and get crushed.” But he didn’t believe his explanation no matter how much it made sense. The Tek were cobbling together a plan, but he couldn’t see enough pieces of the puzzle to link them together. The waiting game was the only thing his mind wrapped around thus far.
A horn blew, difficult to gauge its direction with the valley’s echoes, but he guessed it one of the scouts from on high. He jumped atop his rock and strained his eyes north. Nothing yet.
A single horseman riding fast. Parlay? Full armor on man and beast, he could see the glinting steel from here. “Blow the left horn.”
Leto’s call echoed through the valley and archers cast their arrows as soon as the rider came into range. Arrows stuck the dirt all around the charging man, several of the hardened-steel heads striking the armor, puncturing and waving with the speed of the run, but he didn’t fall. The armor was too much for the arrows.
“What the hells is this bastard doing?”
Sedut appeared in front of the rider and her energies flared. Ivin couldn’t put his finger on why but he screamed, “No! Blow the retreat damn it! Blow it!” But Leto fumbled for the right horn. “No.’
Another horn blew in the distance, and a second rider rounded the bend.
Sedut strode forward and the Silone warriors behind her cheered even as Leto sounded the retreat. Thirty strides, twenty, ten…
A ball of fire erupted, twenty strides high and wide; horse and rider were gone. Just gone, disintegrated in a blast of brilliant white fire which sent Sedut soaring toes over nose, splashing like a boneless doll in the river. The ground blazed all around.
Leto’s horn fell from his lips without a word.
“Son of a bitch, Wyvern’s Fire.” Ivin’s mind froze with his body. Staring. The second horseman sped down the trail. He turned and shook Leto. “No time for fear! Blow that horn!” But the boy stood still, and Ivin grabbed the horn, ripping it from the tether around his neck and blowing short blasts over and over. It was a waste of breath, but still he blew.
The rider hit the waters of the Tarmujon and slowed, but there was no stopping the inevitable. The shield-wall flamed into a ball of white death in the collision; bodies somersaulting through the air, arms and legs leaving trails of smoke. The Wyvern’s Fire spread like blazing oil dousing kindling, and men ran to the river ablaze.
Ivin didn’t need to look up to know what was coming next: Three hundred heavy horse.
He spun Leto and shook him by the shoulders. “Your horse! Now! Ride!”
The Ravinrin snapped from his stupor. “Ride.”
Ivin, Leto, and their dozen guards raced to their horses and swung into the saddles. Ivin looked to the river. Survivors did their best to help others to the horses, but so many failed, or moved too slow. Ivin blew the horn, calling retreat again, and he could feel the anguish of men leaving others to die, felt the horrifying tingle in his chest that numbed his fingers with terrible decisions that needed made.
They switch-backed down the rocky hill, faster than safe, and when they reached bottom, they spurred into the flow of routed Silone without knowing who was dead and who was alive. He didn’t see Roplin nor Polus, and all he could do was cling to the back of his horse and pray for everybody’s lives, and if not, then for their souls.
Meliu rode north across the Gediswon to oversee the people’s crossing. Fording this final river was downright pleasurable compared to everything that’d come before, but folks weren’t taking it easy. The clanblood didn’t allow it.
Tedeu Ravinrin and her people sat on the southern bank making sure people moved south, creating space for others to cross instead of lazing about, complacent to have made it this far.
She found Eredin Choerkin astride his horse, the man watching over the tail of the caravan as they approached the currents. She hadn’t gotten to know him well, despite their original encounter on Kaludor, but he was one clanblood who didn’t look down on her. “Any word from up north?”
Eredin pounded above his heart. “A rider said they’d beaten back the first attack, and folks claim to have seen Tek bodies floating down the Destil.”
“Maybe they’re just shit-poor swimmers.”
He laughed. “Ivin’s mother would’ve hated your tongue, but Kotin would’ve given his blessing.”
She giggled. “Better one than none, but I can talk all sweet when needs be.”
He winked. “I bet you can.”
Wailing horns interrupted their banter and Eredin spurred to the ford. “Shield wall! Archers! Shield Wall! Get your asses across that river.”
Meliu turned north, nothing in sight even with prayer. And Eredin returned to her side. “We got cocky, godsdamnit, we should be across… the shields should be up…”
Meliu nodded. “We’ve time, whatever’s a comin’, we got time.” Too much. Sweating beneath the southern sun was bad enough, when waiting for ill tidings it tore at her.
Dust rose in the east and with prayer she made out Silone riders. Eredin grabbed her shoulder before she could dig her heels into her mount.
“Behind the shield wall and wait.”
She exhaled and glared. “You Choerkin are gonna start pissin’ me off one day.”
“Pissed is alive, I’ll take it.”
They crossed the river and waited, fidgeting and angry and scared. She wanted to punch Eredin in the nose.
A dozen riders hit the river, several horses stumbling in the current, one falling and throwing its rider. Warriors rushed to drag the man to his feet and get him across, snagging the horse’s reins and calming the beast.
Meliu trotted her horse to the side of a man leaning in his saddle to stroke his horse’s neck. “Ivin! Ivin Choerkin, where is he?”
“Last I saw… Last I saw in the back.”
Meliu wanted to scream. Of course he is. With that monstrous Malstefne warhorse of his, there was no need to be in back, but he would be. More horses trailed in and more rose over the horizon, then too many: Malstefne cavalry. If Ivin was behind them, he was dead.
Rider after rider reached the waters with no Ivin, no Polus, no Roplin… with a prayer for sight stronger than she’d achieved before she spotted Polus, the big bastard, and once she had him in sight, she found Ivin and the rest. She squinted and swore Ivin rode with someone on back of his horse… Leto Ravinrin.
And the Malstefne gained ground.
“Come on!”
Eredin sat his horse beside her. “Easy, take it easy. We can’t reach them.”
All she could do was sit and wait. Declun Bulubar’s horse went down, the man sprawling in the grasses, and she never saw him regain his feet as his horse lay flailing in the grass. Broken leg?
They were close, so damned close she didn’t need prayer to see their faces.
She closed her eyes. Heart beating. She could stand it no more. Her heels dug her mount’s ribs, and she leaned over the horse’s mane praying for Light to soothe her fears, and for Dark to turn those fears on others. Thundering hooves and she glanced behind her to see Eredin and a dozen riders.
Ivin was a hundred strides from the river, but the Malstefne weren’t far behind. Arrows arched over her head and falling into the Tek cavalry, but Ivin leaned in his saddle and he tumbled from his horse, taking Leto with him.
“No!” Her horse slid to a stop by his side and she leaped from the saddle. An arrow stuck from his right shoulder, but didn’t look too deep through the armor. The bastard even smiled at her.
“Our archer’s need more practice.”
Leto crawled on all fours, alive but battered by the fall or worse. Ivin stood as Eredin and others arrived, but armored horses were about to trample them into the grass.
And the god answered with a power she’d dare not imagine. Dark surged in a wall in front of her, rising twenty feet high and gods knew how deep. Horses squealed and men screamed. She was power undeniable, a messenger of terror.
A tumbling horse crushed into her from out of the dark, slamming her to the dirt and rolling onto her legs, three hundred bricks of horse flesh and steel driving her into the soft turf. Dark and her breath left her with a vacuum in her body and soul. The horse kicked, flailed, and got off of her. She rolled to hands and knees, wheezing, and a horseman came with lance leveled for her sternum.
A flash of glass severed the horse’s legs, man and beast tumbled over her. Eredin planted both feet in front of her awaiting the next rider, and Ivin reached an arm beneath her to lift.
He cried out, “Eredin! Let’s go!”
Meliu staggered next to Ivin. A dozen Malstefne bore down on them. They were going to die here.
Another rider appeared behind the Tek. Her black hair streaming before horse and rider became indistinct in a blur of blades. Then blood and screams. In an instant, an impossible battle turned possible
Eredin’s Latcu blade hewed a rider from its saddle, but his body lifted. Surreal, she wasn’t sure of what she watched until the tip of the spear burst from his back. His blade hit the ground and Polus Broldun grabbed it from the turf with a roar, prepared to cleave the Malstefne in two as he hit the ground, but the man was dead already.
Tudwan wheeled his exhausted mount to pick up Leto, and damned if Nameless didn’t come back to Ivin. She’d smile, but two dozen more horsemen bore down on them.
Ivin hefted her onto Nameless and swung his leg three times before making the seat himself, the arrow in his chest slapping her shoulder.
The Broldun lifted Eredin with the man’s arm over his shoulder. “Ride! Ride! I’ll get him back!”
A blackened and burned face and scorched robes marked Sedut, but her voice was still a tempest. “Ride, by the Seven Heavens! I’ll see to these two.”
Ivin spurred his horse, the others followed, crossing the river and turning to watch. There wasn’t a damned thing they could do but watch as arrows soared over their heads and rained into the oncoming horsemen, and the gods favored their flights, dropping three men from their chargers. And the remaining cavalry wheeled and rode north.
Polus drug Eredin into the currents and Sedut leaned on her horse’s neck as it walked into the waters and stopped. She leaned and rolled into the river, and priests rushed to her aid. Ivin slid from the saddle and stumbled into the river to give Polus a hand with Eredin despite the arrow sticking from his shoulder. They rested him on the southern bank of the Gediswon, but even from here she could see the man’s stare, and she knew another Choerkin walked the Road of Living Stars.
And this one earned the journey saving her life. A sob wracked her body; broken ribs and who the hells knew what other broken bones as she closed her eyes, tears sneaking through to wet Nameless’ mane.
63
Kingdom for Storms
The worm’s web, its thread,
taut, smooth and soft,
hushing words and breath.
The verdict waits.
Guilt the ears’ll never hear, gentle silks choking an end.
Innocence!
the voice returned may proclaim, gentle silks unleashing air to breathe.
The executioner’s knot, loosed,
turned kind, unwind.
—Tomes of the Touched
Thunder rumbled the sky in the middle of the second night, and Solineus fought to keep his eyes closed. Flickers later rains fell. The first drops splattered his face, forcing a conciliatory grunt, a surrender to wakefulness.
The storm had rolled in faster than Tek Cavalry and with less warning, the drops big as a thumbnail and falling straight from a bank of clouds lit with a wild dance of forked lightning.
Then came the winds.
Everyone scrambled for gear, eyes on the horses to be sure they didn’t bolt, but the beasts just turned their rumps to the wind and lowered their heads. Smart animals. With his pack in hand, Solineus followed suit, wishing he had four legs to brace against the storm. The ordinary rain turned into a downpour in flickers, a sheet of water washing from his bangs to pass his ducked eyes.
Mirkel trudged close, yelled to make himself heard over wind and thunder. “Damned Kingdomer wasn’t yanking our chin hairs.”
Solineus nodded as he caught the glances of everyone as they drew close.
Not even Rinold’s face carried his typical mirth. “Didn’t feel this one comin’, not at all.”
Puxele said, “Mountain storms blow in and out fast, hold tight and this’ll whip away.”
They huddled, bracing each other against the gale and its drench. Solineus was about to agree with Little Sister’s sentiment when he noticed the horses fidgeting, stomping the ground. A gelding reared, straining against its tether.
His eyes scanned the lightning lit terrain: rocks, trees, and rain-swept grass, nothing from the ordinary.
Rinold stared at his feet, and when Solineus followed his gaze he noted a fist-deep current leaning the grasses.
The Squirrel shouted, “The ground’s aquiver… like an avalanche, almost.”
Solineus glanced east and west: They’d camped in a narrowing valley, without a clue of the terrain uphill. If the storm had hit the mountain heights first, how long had it been raining? He yelled, “Horses! High Ground!” The wind howled and helped blow him into a sprint to reach their tethered mounts. He untied their leads and handed ropes to the others as they arrived, and they scrambled up rain-slicked slopes, the horses struggling once they reached rockier ground. Hooves clattered as they pounded and slid on wet stone and Solineus was drug to his knees by the struggling animal. He rolled to a hip and drove his feet against a jut of rock, straining the horse’s lead. “Come on, you tip-toeing bastard!”
He had no idea how high a ground they needed, but he knew for damned sure he wasn’t going to drag a horse up a slope. He clung to the rope and waited for the animal to gain its own footing. Flickers later he fell backward as the horses skipped by him on crazy legs, a hoof a finger from clipping his forehead, another pounding stone straight between his legs.
Solineus clambered to the top of the rise, struggling to keep pace with the horse. Everyone was up top except Rinold. He handed his reins to Puxele before hopping and sliding back downhill. Rinold’s horse stood splay-legged and fighting its lead after slipping downhill.
There was a roar in the air which wasn’t thunder, and when he looked to the mountains a flash of lightning lit a wall of water. “Holy hells!” He whipped the Twins from his back and smacked the horse’s rump with a leather strap. The animal straightened and found its footing, but didn’t budge.
Solineus planted his feet and put his shoulder into the beast’s thigh and a hand to its flank. A guttural roar ripped his throat, his free hand smacking the animal with the strap, and it drove itself uphill, knocking Rinold over and leaving Solineus slipped to hands and knees.
The water was coming, no need to waste time looking. He grabbed the Squirrel’s offered hand, and the men lunged uphill as a surge of water rushed past their feet, transforming their valley into a small river.
Both men collapsed to their backs and laughed as they eyed one another.
Puxele glared as she snagged Rinold by the collar and drug him uphill. “Two dumb sons of bitches, risking your lives for a horse.”
Solineus said, “We don’t have no extras, you reckoning we could ride a Kingdomer goat?”
Puxele shook her head with a disgusted frown. “Two dumb sons of bitches.”
The party made their way to a stand of skinny trees and tied off their horses. Within half a candle the river that’d th
reatened to wash them away was nothing more than a stream, and a candle later than that the storm was nothing more than a flickering display on the western horizon.
Morning came with a bright sun, and they stretched a rope between trees to hang gear out to dry. Soggy socks and boots did little for Solineus’ mood, nor did a breakfast of salted pork hard enough to make his jaws ache. What little dry kindling they had, they kept stowed.
Everyone’s mood improved when Rinold pointed to a mountain slope. Seven Kingdomers strode their way, but what was unusual was how far apart they walked from each other. Still a thousand strides away, six of them stopped, removed their packs, and set them on the ground as if they were eggs. They vanished into the crags moments after, leaving only Morik striding their way.
He raised both arms in greeting. “It is good you were wise enough to take high ground.”
Solineus chuckled. “We weren’t expecting an avalanche of water, I assure you.”
Morik corrected his Kingdomer words. “A flood.”
Solineus smirked and gave a nod. “Your friends departed in a hurry.”
“As well they should.” He turned and pointed to the mountainside. “Each of those packs holds a fist of fingers, more than enough stonebreakers to bring that bridge down.”
“How many do you think it‘ll take?”
Morik clucked and shook his head. “Don’t you save none thinking to use them later, unless you got someone you don’t like to carry them.”
Solineus caught Rinold glancing at Mirkel with a smile and cuffed his shoulder. “If they’re so dangerous, why’d you carry one?”
Morik removed his pack with a laugh. “This is a box of dummies, for training miners.” He pulled out a hinged box and opened it to reveal a pile of wood shavings. He brushed the packing aside; five round sticks sat bundled together, about a foot in length, and he held it out for them to see. “So long as they’re packed, you can shake them, bounce them in your pack, and nothing happens. Now, you take the box and drop it, give it a good kick, jump up and down on it? Say your blessings to whichever ancestors you hold dear. But, packed tight, and you don’t do nothing stupid, you’re safe. Until a fireling, what the Edan call te-xe, comes along and smokes you into a blot on the world. Some call them thundersticks for the sound, but if it blows, you’d better odds of living through a lightning strike.”
Trail of Pyres Page 62
