Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1)

by J. Wesley Bush

  Things looked better in the center. The heavy crossbows worked murder among the Vyr and enemy bodies littered the vale. One horseman was pinned to his mount by a thick bolt, the stricken horse charging blindly at the Jandari. They brought it down with a shot to the chest.

  Then across the field, the enemy center parted, and bare-chested, painted shamans came to the fore. Loping behind came the gray shape of the haunt. Helaena had seen one in a painting, but nothing prepared her for the unearthly wrongness of the thing, its gibbous, yolky eyes riding atop a collection of mouths that seemed to form and dissolve at random. It dropped to all fours and the mouths yawned open. Inside was blackness deeper than Helaena had ever experienced. A keening sound erupted like a thousand mourning widows. In an instant, she was by Ardashir and Father’s graves again, sobbing brokenly as tradition had not allowed at their burial. It was a wail that drove out all the light in the world.

  Helaena jammed fingers into her ears, pressing the waxed cotton deeper. Once the initial wave of misery passed, she was able to function again. It must be so much worse for those in the center.

  Glancing toward the river, Helaena realized it would soon be worse for everyone. The sky had brightened enough to see a cloud of dust above the trees. The Green Leaper tribe was coming.

  She wheeled her horse toward Canoness Judit, to warn her of the danger, but at that moment the Vyr rolled into the valley, firing arrows as they came. The bowmaids volleyed in response, and the Jandari lancers spurred their horses into a charge. The Vyr tried to pull back in time, but the Jandari light cavalry struck them solidly. Lances speared through horses and riders. Hellish screams mingled with the wailing of the haunt.

  Vyr lancers joined the fray, and all order was quickly lost. Friend and foe slashed about with sabers and falchions while the bowmaids remained aloof, shooting into the melee as carefully as they could. A group of forty Vyr broke free, charging Helaena and her half-century. She slipped the bow into its sheath and drew her saber. Commands were impossible, so she charged, hoping the others would follow.

  The Vyr slammed into the bowmaids, locking weapons with them. Helaena slashed an enemy warrior across the ribs firmly enough to send him from the saddle. A sword slammed flatly into her head, knocking the chain mail coif into her eyes and momentarily stunning her. Then a second stroke cut her left arm, shooting pain down its length. She felt Buttermilk lunge forward and then kick to the rear, hooves connecting with a meaty thud. A hand grabbed at her sword arm and she lashed out blindly, cheered to hear an answering yelp. Pulling the coif from her eyes, she saw a Vyr horseman raise his blade for a strike. There was no time to counter.

  Saafi charged her mount between them and drove him off with a slashing blow.

  After a seeming eternity, others came to the Caracal’s relief. The handful of surviving Vyr galloped away, only to fall as Jandari arrows took them in the back.

  Raw strength had won over training in the melee and the Vyr had left tragedy in their wake. Willa lay on the bloody ground, head nearly severed from her shoulders. Little Maryse was also dead, though the blade must have struck her from behind. She looked as doll-like as ever.

  Numbly, Helaena wrapped Addison’s scarf around her bleeding arm and tied it off tight. The fight in the vale had broken apart, each side returning to its hill. Wounded from both sides writhed and shouted, their hands reaching imploringly to the sky. Wounded horses kicked anything nearby in their uncomprehending terror.

  By then, Helaena could see movement through the trees. The Green Leapers had almost reached the river. Desperately, she rode straight for Canoness Judit, pointing out the danger. Judit’s eyes widened, and she quickly flashed all ten fingers at Helaena five times, then swept her hand along the river. Helaena nodded, then began to gather her half-century. They would need to hold the Green Leapers for as long as possible. As they rode off, she saw Canoness Judit send a messenger to Lord Dexter.

  Helaena aligned her people along the river and did her best to survey the enemy. She had hunted the Shield Forest since childhood and knew how to see in the woods. One didn’t look at the forest, but through it. The enemy vanguard was just approaching the river and behind she could see the main body. It was said to be nearly two thousand strong – twice the strength of Lord Dexter’s army.

  At least the river would slow them. Helaena and the others fired on the vanguard, driving them back from the bank. A small force could hold them off, especially as the river was deep along this stretch.

  Then a cold thrill of fear ran through her as a band of shamans emerged, each dragging a captive. Emerald pigment covered their hair and upper bodies, and even their trousers were dyed a bright green. Leading them was a tall, angular man wearing a buglike mask that flashed iridescent green in the sun.

  Once near the riverside, the shamans pushed the captives to their knees. Loathsome chanting erupted from the onlooking tribe. Helaena knew what was coming, and loosed an arrow at the lead shaman, but it fell short. The masked leader ritualistically crept up behind each prisoner in turn, springing upon them and opening their throats with a blade. The riverbank shook and buckled. A muddy bridge of land rose from the water, covered in slimy rocks.

  Helaena glanced back to see Saafi returning, and then turned her attention back to the enemy. Hundreds of Vyr horsemen were riding hard for the land bridge. Just ahead of them she saw an emerald flash. In seconds, the green leaper was upon them, vaulting up to snatch a Ninth Tithe bowmaid from her saddle. The faie was long, with curving limbs like a giant mantis. Its head was the worst: powerful jaws and stalked, compound eyes protruding from an almost-human face.

  Normal weapons couldn’t kill an underfaie, but they could wound it. Helaena loosed an arrow at the thing. At the same moment, the leaper jerked sideways, pulling Gwyn from the saddle. The arrow sunk itself in a tree. Helaena urged Buttermilk closer, the pony quaking with fear. The leaper clawed Gwyn’s jack of plates to ribbons and then buried its face in her soft stomach. Blood and bowel splashed like a child frolicking in puddles. Helaena’s next arrow struck home, lodging between its shoulders. The monster barely paid notice.

  By then the Vyr were galloping across the land bridge in a tumultuous herd, a few horses losing their footing and plunging into the river. It was time to flee, but Helaena had no way to tell the others. Fortunately, they were wise enough to see for themselves. Almost as one, the bowmaids turned from the river and raced back toward the hill, loosing arrows over their shoulders.

  The Vyr responded in kind, with more of them in range every passing moment. Buttermilk bucked as an arrow creased her flank, leaving an angry red gash. The green leaper nearly stripped Canoness Judit from her saddle. Another girl fell to the ground, though the air was too dusty to see which poor soul it was.

  Helaena forced down the panic rising in her chest and searched frantically for Saafi, breathing a prayer of thanks as her battlemate escaped the havoc and galloped to her side.

  By then, the entire left wing of the Jandari force was pulling back, and Helaena’s survivors fell in among them. Abruptly, the riders in front of her began parting as something charged between them. Helaena and Saafi veered to the right.

  Sir Doran Hornebolt and a half-century of heavy cavalry streamed through the gap, heading straight for the two thousand warriors of the Green Leaper Tribe. He carried the lance tipped in sky-iron.

  The next few moments were a free-for-all. Lord Dexter and his adjutant signaled the retreat. Canoness Judit rallied the bowmaids and Elder Tagnik did the same with his lancers. They covered the surviving crossbowmen as they mounted their horses and fled the battlefield.

  Helaena started in surprise as a pony ran between her and Saafi, its hindquarters glowing red. It was quickly joined by nine others, each trying to escape the flaming torch bound to its tail. Dry grass ignited in their wake, turning the dry savanna into an inferno.

  Afterward, she remembered little of the long, heartbreaking retreat to Castle Dexter. The brushfire allowed the Jandari to br
eak off from the Vyr, but the fastest of the enemy was able to keep pace, harassing the survivors every mile of the way. The Jandari quickly ran low on arrows, while their Vyr pursuers had the luxury of retrieving them as they went. For two days they held the enemy at bay, at last limping brokenly to the Sanguine Cliffs and reaching Castle Dexter. The only consolation for the vanquished was that Sir Doran had wounded the green leaper.

  Once safely behind castle walls, Helaena and her tithe cared for their mounts. It gave them something to focus on apart from their losses. Only five of their stalls were occupied. Gwyn, Maryse and Willa were dead. Delia had gone missing in the smoke and madness of the fire. Helaena hoped she was dead. They had dragged Nerise home on a litter and now she lay in the infirmary, somewhere between living and dying. Only a handful of the knights had returned with Sir Doran. The deputy cannoness had died and Olha Lightfoot had taken her place, so it seemed likely Helaena would take over the Third Century.

  Helaena crouched in the hay outside Buttermilk’s stall, mixing a poultice of warm mud, yarrow, and slippery elm for her wounded mount. Berna’s sobs were the only sound in the stable. It was hard to lose a battlemate, but still worse not to know their fate. Helaena found herself crying as well. Half her tithe was dead or dying. What should she have done?

  A hand rested on her shoulder and she looked up to see Saafi. Her battlemate knelt down and they clutched tightly together, oblivious to the mud and the blood.

  CHAPTER 30

  L arissa hiked the grounds of Sir Gladwin’s manor, happy to be out of the city. He had invited her to take some air in the country while he saw to his family holdings, only the latest of his many kindnesses to her. Gladwin had called on the Fieldstone Tower often since she came to Chimkant; they would go for walks in the evening or pass time by the hearth. He listened patiently, helping her make sense of all the newness of Chimkant and the pacting world.

  He had been a relief from Magus’s constant tests and demands. Now with Magus in gaol, he came by nearly every day to check on her.

  That morning, Gladwin was busy with the man who cared for the manor when he was away, so she’d been free to explore the Shield Forest, something she had longed to do ever since coming to Chimkant. She knew the forest had always fascinated the Jandari. In old times, it was a barrier keeping savanna folk from plundering the fat lands of the East. Many songs told of warbands raiding into the woods, some emerging rich, others lost among giant, wide-leaf trees, falling prey to the axes and bows of the woodland dwellers.

  Scrambling up a moss-covered tree trunk, she was glad for the sturdy dress the magus provided. It clung wetly from her dip in a spring-fed pool, and was dark with blood from a skinned knee, but had survived branches, falls, and the other challenges of the forest. It felt so good not to worry about war, or the magus, or the scheming she could always sense in the people around her. Grabbing hold of a clinging vine, she clambered over to a wide branch and took a seat. The trees were so different, with soft, inviting leaves and no thorns at all. On the savanna, every living thing was at war, struggling to survive. The Shield Forest was peaceful. And it had monkeys, which turned out not to be scary at all, but the most delightful things she’d ever seen. They had red-gold fur and blue faces and followed her through the woods, chittering the whole time.

  The sun had just peaked in the sky when Gladwin called from the tree line. “Larissa, come join me! I have something to show you.”

  Grasping the vine, Larissa slid easily to the ground, smearing more slimy moss onto her dress. Laughing, she scraped bare, muddy feet on a tree root, grabbed her boots, and ran toward his voice. “Coming!”

  Gladwin looked strange out of his armor. Pale arms extended from the short-sleeves of his tunic, and his calves looked equally shy of the sun. “You seem to have enjoyed yourself.”

  “It’s like nowhere I’ve seen,” she said, falling into step beside him as he turned for the manor house. “What did you want to show me?”

  “My stables.”

  He led her past the house, beyond the kitchen and the baying of the hound pens, to the large, well-maintained stables beyond. They were quite a contrast to the house, which was plain, almost undecorated. The stables were done in fine woods, with knights and war horses graven into the lintel over the doors. The master of horse and the stableboys were all dressed in livery finer than the house staff. Larissa entered hesitantly. It still seemed odd to keep horses locked inside boxes, but everyone knew forest folk had strange ways.

  Gladwin led her to a white palfrey, drawing a few slices of dried apple from the pouch on his belt. She was the oldest horse Larissa had ever seen, back swaying like a hammock, bushy gray hairs sprouting all over her nose and one eye missing. Bits of apple dropped to the ground as her worn molars struggled to chew. “Her name is Shade Flower”

  “Shade flower,” Larissa said, reaching up to pat the old muzzle. “It’s a good name for her.”

  “It was my sister’s horse,” Gladwin said, a gentle sadness in his voice. “She rode her every day without fail.”

  “Marla died of bilious fever, just like my father,” Larissa said abruptly. “She was the last of your family.”

  Gladwin nodded slowly. “I’m surprised Tancred knew her name. She died before he came to Chimkant.”

  “Magus didn’t tell me.” Larissa frowned in thought. “Shite! No one ever told me. I just know it.”

  “Another part of your gift. It will grow stronger with time. Some faietouched can read people as I might read a scroll.”

  That startled Larissa, but she pushed it aside for the moment. “I’m sorry about your family. Are there really no other Ramseys?”

  “None. When I am gone, my king will have to find another family of protectors.” His hand brushed over Larissa’s hair with the same light touch he had used on the mare. “And he will have you to watch over him, as well.” Then he smiled and the only trace of sadness was in his eyes. “Come. I have one more animal to show you.”

  They walked to the end of the building, stopping before a lively Jandari pony. She was perfect, like one from the songs, with a strong neck, perfect conformation, and a coat as glossy as an ibis wing. “She’s beautiful,” Larissa said, tentatively reaching a hand to stroke her mane. “Our ponies back home look like her ugly aunties.”

  Gladwin’s smile widened. “Her bloodline stretches over two hundred years, back to when our people first gained writing. And she’s smart! The stablehands say she’s one of the quickest they’ve trained.”

  “You sound like a proud father.”

  “Hearthguards must find their children where they can,” he said, pulling some tack from the wall. “She’s yours, Larissa. That’s why I brought you here.”

  Larissa’s heart jumped and she stared uncomprehendingly at the knight. No one had given her aught since Father died.

  Gladwin laughed. “Look under the blanket over there. I had a saddle made for —”

  Larissa gripped his waist with wiry arms and squeezed tightly. Her nose was running for some reason, and she sniffed it back. She wanted to thank him, but had never been good with the word, so she squeezed him tighter instead. Finally, she let him go, rubbing at her eyes with muddy sleeves. “What’s her name?”

  “That is for you to decide once you’ve ridden her.”

  Good. It was bad luck to name a horse before riding it. A horse must be known. “Can I?”

  “Please! I have much to set in order here. It may be a long while before I return. The King’s Council meets tomorrow and I fear they will choose war.”

  “But it’s so stupid!” Larissa blurted. “Vyr are slaughtering our people and the king wants to fight his own duke?”

  Gladwin’s expression turned pained. “You must not insult the king when I am nearby,” he said quietly. “My duty is first to counsel, but then to support his decrees. Pray he chooses wisely.” He rubbed some dust from her forehead with a thumb and then turned for the manor. “Enjoy this day, Larissa. It may be our last peaceful o
ne.”

  The pony was clean and brushed, but Larissa went through the process all the same, speaking gently in the same voice she had used with baby Zsuzsi. The tickling feeling came to her nose again and Larissa hurried to saddle the pony. The mare was well-trained and stood patiently, once tilting her head to nuzzle Larissa curiously.

  Larissa led the pony out to the pasture, a rolling vale of soft grass. She mounted, giving the animal a gentle pat on the neck, then clicked her tongue to set the pony walking. They hastened into a canter down the hill. Gladwin was right, the pony was unusually smart, responding to her lightest direction, even when Larissa put her into a goat leap or had her jump a sickle bush.

  The afternoon sun was melting into the treetops when Gladwin finally came to get her. Larissa lay on the hillside, breathing in the earth and watching a stork soar overhead while the pony browsed in the short, juicy grass.

  “We need to set out, if we’re to make Chimkant before the gates are locked,” Gladwin said, offering a hand up. “Do you have a name for the pony?”

  Larissa stood with a lazy groan and nodded happily. “Kiyandla.” East Wind.

  “Those are lucky on the savanna, if I remember my lore.”

  “Because they bring rain. This is a lucky pony.”

  Gladwin turned for the manor, motioning her to follow. “Let’s hope so. We can all use a bit of luck right now.”

  In the Blue Chamber the next morning, Larissa glumly took her seat behind Magus’s empty chair. The table was covered with wines, cheeses and meats, and a wax pot heated by candle flame sat near the royal chair. Only Eldest Hoshaber took her side of the table, seeming sad and gray. Mackmain and Jasper sat across from them, flush with wine and the prospect of battle, while Lockridge was dignified and aloof, as always.

  The king swept jubilantly into the room, a message clutched in his hand and Sir Gladwin at his heels. “The Vyr continue to do our work,” he said, clambering up onto his chair. “Harlowe’s men were routed in the Battle of the Slipstone. As many as half his frontier troops rot in the grass.” He motioned to Gladwin, who poured him a cup of wine. “He’ll need to reinforce them, leaving fewer to face us when we invade.”