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

by J. Wesley Bush

  Every lyric faded from his mind. All that came were dirty rhymes, none set to music.

  “Sing!”

  He croaked a few notes, hoping something would come. It sounded like rusty hinges. Then he thought of Lady Alethea pacing upstairs and a song came to him.

  The Widow of Tethmere

  Alone in her tower

  Watched the horizon

  Through long, lonely hours

  Targe carried him toward the breach and the terrifying awl-pikes. “Louder!” Timble tried to explain it would be easier if the dweorg wasn’t squeezing so tightly but earned only a shake in response. “Louder!”

  She prayed for salvation

  She sought for a knight

  But Tethmere had fallen

  And gone was its light

  Her sweet husband long dead

  By treacherous hands

  As false vassals the Swans

  Devoured her lands

  Targe’s grip trembled. Glancing down into the craggy face, Timble saw pain etched in the eyes. At last he understood. Targe had betrayed a secret of the dweorg race. He sucked in a deep breath and plunged back into The Widow of Tethmere. The dweorgs faltered. They did not run and break, nor crumble to dust as he had fancifully hoped, but the music slowed them. It bought time. Time for what, Timble wasn’t certain. But if he was going to die, at least it was with a song on his lips.

  CHAPTER 57

  S elwyn and his men sheltered behind crates of Sargoshi flame as oarsmen drove the Amber Stag toward the dam. He knew arrows wouldn’t set the deadly liquid alight, but still flinched each time one slammed into the wooden crates. He heard a hiss and then water fountained off the port side of the galley. The same sound came again and he watched a massive stone fly overhead, just missing the aftcastle.

  The dweorgs had turned their siege engines against him.

  Lord Hewland bellowed commands to the coxswain, most of which meant nothing to Selwyn. The ship slowed and began to turn. It drifted sidelong into the dam, with its aftcastle blocking the view of those onshore, giving some protection from bowmen. Likewise, the dam was high enough that it provided the galley with a bit of cover from the siege engines.

  “Let’s offload these crates and get the Abyss away from here!” Reyhan shouted.

  Too tired to cheer, the men began hefting crates on to the gunnels, while others climbed on top of the dam. Up close, Selwyn was amazed at the dweorg craftsmanship. The wood and rock looked somehow fused, with the individual planks and stones melding together seamlessly.

  A boulder struck the aftcastle, crashing through one side and out the other. Selwyn’s stomach rolled as the Golden Stag lurched to the side and then righted itself. Several precious crates tumbled into the river.

  “Knights on the dam!” Selwyn called, already mounting the gunnel. They had the best armor, so it was their duty to stand in the open.

  Under a rain of arrows from shore and several near misses from the dweorgs, Selwyn and the other knights mounted the dam, and began dragging up the crates, as others pushed from below. Sweat poured in his eyes and tired arms begged for a rest after his long bout of fighting. He and Reyhan were each pulling up a final crate, while nearby Sir Kadri did the same.

  Without warning, a gray blur flashed by and Sir Kadri was simply gone. Only a helmet and scattered bits of flesh and bone remained.

  The sight turned Selwyn’s heart to water. Death was one thing, but the effects of the dweorg weapons were ghastly. He clutched the crate, struggling to breathe, his head muzzy with pain and fear.

  Hands gripped him by the shoulders and spun him about, his wobbly legs almost collapsing. “Move! We have to move!”

  Selwyn nodded vaguely to Reyhan, and slid down to the waiting galley, his men pulling him back aboard. He watched as Reyhan prised open the crate, pulled out a clay jar, and scraped a waxy seal from the top. A projectile battered the dam, nearly taking Reyhan along as it caromed into the air and splashed down hundreds of yards upstream.

  The mad hearthguard made a foul gesture toward the dweorgs and began crabwalking along the dam, emptying a rusty brown, jellied substance over the other crates as he went.

  Even down on the boat, the fumes made Selwyn’s head swirl. It felt ready to split in twain. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It would do no good to wallow in shame at his moment of weakness. He must be manful.

  Reyhan leapt back to the deck, landing clumsily. It’s time to go. Selwyn smacked his own helmet a few times. Focus. Swiftness is everything. “Hewland! Back us out!”

  “Aye, Your Grace!”

  “The rest of you take shelter as you can. Reyhan and I will join you once the dam is alight.”

  Reyhan had already unwrapped the oilcloths and was pulling out the quiver of fire arrows. Selwyn joined him and began stringing the longbow. Reyhan found the jasper and steel and Selwyn held out an arrow, its head wrapped in cotton reeking of sulfur and rotten sheep fat.

  A wolfish grin creased Reyhan’s face as he struck the jasper. After several tries, the arrow caught fire. “Drown those sons of whores.”

  Selwyn nocked the arrow, estimated the wind and distance, and let it fly. It traveled in a perfect, glowing arc and landed with a rushing fwoom as it called the Sargoshi flame to life. In an instant, the center of the dam was ablaze with blue-white fire. Soon it spread to the other crates, the flames building into an incandescent vortex almost too bright for Selwyn to bear.

  Oblivious to the pain in his head, and dead friends lying about, even to the arrow that ricocheted from his shoulder plate, Selwyn laughed with the first real joy he’d felt since Father died.

  Reyhan struck him forcefully on the back. “We did it, you lovely bastard! That is, Your Grace.”

  Intending to watch for another moment before taking cover, Selwyn noticed something wrong. The intensity of the blaze made it hard to see, but it looked almost as if the fire was floating, suspended above the dam at a hand span or more. “Does it look like—”

  “Aye. The flame isn’t reaching the dam.” Reyhan let go a string of oaths, with at least two of the curses new to Selwyn.

  “It must be a pact,” Selwyn said, wringing the longbow in frustration. “Leax is cleverer than we thought.” If the dam wasn’t going down, their only hope was to disembark and try to disappear into the grasslands. He ran to the hatch. “Hewland! Take us to the far shore. We need to get off this galley before the dweorgs get our range.”

  Almost as if summoned, a dweorg boulder sailed over the Stag and sheared off most of the forecastle. He heard the oarsmen strain as they fought to get more speed. Another boulder struck the water ten paces away. “Reyhan, let’s see if the gig boat survived. We may need it.” The oarsman were all swimmers and bore no armor, but the rest of them would need a boat. They headed for the stern of the galley, stepping carefully through the splintered remains of the aftcastle. Mercifully, the gig boat still hung by thick ropes on pulleys. They set to untying it.

  It was a lucky thing they were holding fast to ropes, for when the next boulder came, it struck just above the waterline, near the stern, shattering the freeboard and nearly capsizing the galley. Selwyn gripped tightly as the world shook and rolled. The Stag righted itself, but the damage was done. He could hear water pouring into the hull. Terrified shouts came from below.

  “Flee the ship! Men-at-arms to the gig boat!” he shouted, working the stiff pulleys. They finally gave and the boat dropped to the river with a splash. Reyhan tossed the rope ladder over the side. In moments, the galley began to list. Men piled out through the hatch, oarsmen running pell-mell for the sides and diving in. Selwyn called again, “Knights and serjeants to the gig boat! Bring any wounded you find!” The gig was sized for Leax and his retinue, so there was plenty of room, thank God.

  Reyhan climbed down and stabilized the gig, while Selwyn and others gathered the wounded and assisted them down the ladder. Most of his men had boarded the gig when the next dweorg volley struck. With the galley immobile an
d now away from the dam, it must have been easy for them, for one hit solidly amidship and the other arced high overhead before plunging directly into its heart. Selwyn barely had time to register the impacts before the center of the galley collapsed inward. The stern reared into the air and he tumbled through the wreckage of the aftcastle, slid down the bloody deck grasping vainly for any handhold, and plunged into the dark water.

  Shattered planks and timbers churned in the water as the ship broke apart. Water poured in through his visor. He blindly grasped at what he could, hoping it might bring him to the surface, but the plate armor dragged him straight to the bottom. In moments, his boots sank deep into the river clay. The remains of the Amber Stag landed nearby, a black hulk groaning like a dying beast as it settled, the horrific sound pervading the water.

  Fighting down panic, Selwyn lifted his visor and looked up. He could just see sunlight from up above, and perhaps the glow of the Sargoshi flame at a distance. No one could possibly spot him through the murk, even if the gig had survived the galley’s undertow.

  Could I walk to shore? A forlorn hope arose in his chest and he took a trudging step toward the bank. The feeling dissolved in an instant. He was encased in steel and mired in thick mud. Already his lungs begged for air.

  A sinuous form cut through the water, circling him. The river drake. He slammed shut the visor. At least the armor would protect him until he drowned. Bowing his head, he tried to pray, for it was best to die with a pure conscience, but the sting of shame wouldn’t let him. He had failed again. Failed to rescue his people. Failed to avenge his father. And failed to carry on Father’s line. The Harlowes would die with him.

  His head ached and a terrible pressure built in his chest. He felt an urge to breathe in, no matter the consequences.

  The water stirred, and he felt a presence loom just in front of him. Something brushed his helmet and lifted the visor. Sick at heart, he forced open his eyes.

  Instead of a river drake, he saw a radiant, green woman. He thought it must be lack of air, but she cupped his face and pressed lips to his. Don’t resist me.

  Pain sliced on either side of his throat like a white-hot razor. Thought dissolved into panic. He was dying.

  Breathe. Just breathe. You must trust me.

  Whether from her urging or the violent need to fill his lungs, Selwyn sucked in the musty water. It filled his lungs, but he felt some of it escape through the cuts in his throat. Whatever magic the Green Lady had worked, the clawing hunger for air ceased. He could think again.

  Is that better? Simply think and I will hear you.

  He focused on his rescuer for the first time, a great faie that Trosketh had believed dead for centuries. She had the torso of a woman, but this flowed into a powerful, snakelike tail lined with gossamer, purple fins. Kelp-like hair fanned around a face of such eldritch beauty it inspired love, lust, and fear all at once. My Lady, thank you for saving me.

  I have not decided. You attacked that blasphemy, the stone wound.

  The dam. We tried to destroy it with unquenchable fire.

  That is why I saved you. For now. Only my kind can unmake a strong working of the First Ones. Why do you want it broken?

  Selwyn allowed himself a pale glimmer of hope. How long had it been? Sargoshi flame burned long. It might still be aflame and Nineacre could yet survive. It’s the only way to save my people. I am the protector of all who live here.

  Thoughts of men are sometimes open — I know you are the god of this land.

  Selwyn tried to follow the flow of her words. I am its lord.

  She swam back and forth, lovely face taut with worry.

  You’re afraid.

  If I strip magic from this… dam, men will know I live. They can seek me as sacrifice.

  It was hard to think, the pressure in his chest becoming unbearable. I’ll protect you. No harm will come to you so long as I or my descendants live.

  The beautiful faie returned with the darting quickness of a marlin. You must die if I unmake this working. Her voiceless words carried sadness. It needs powerful sacrifice.

  Selwyn clenched his jaw, not wanting to show weakness in front of a woman – or a predator – but sadness welled in him. Just rescued from death, and now he was going to die.

  The Harlowe line would end. A memory of his last conversation with Father, in the castle godhall, came back to him. He remembered the man’s bitter, broken-hearted disappointment. Father awaited him in the halls of the High King of Heaven. If he forsook the family now, he would face his father’s contempt for all eternity.

  Perhaps she would take him to shore. He could live and continue the Harlowe line, not fail his father utterly and forever.

  Then he thought of those struggling to hold the castle. The red flag meant Mother was safe, but the men would all hang. They were sworn to him, and they to him. Could he betray their trust, forsake his oath of protection?

  No matter his choice, he would fail someone.

  Death frightened him. In his heart, he wanted to live, to atone to Father, but Wicke’s words came back to him – Duty before Desire. A noble house did not deserve survival if it abandoned its people. They were his first duty.

  I will do it. Selwyn tried to keep the fear from his thought-voice. Will it hurt?

  Are you certain of your choice? Her face hovered just in front of his, their eyes locked. The irises were a lovely, textured violet, but the slitlike pupils were black keyholes through which he could see death.

  Before fear could melt his courage, he nodded. Yes, my Lady. Just do it quickly.

  The Green Lady smiled so radiantly, he almost welcomed what was to come. Duty before Desire. Your thoughts are honorable. Then she suddenly pivoted and swam off with tail strokes so powerful they buffeted his armor. A few minutes later, she returned just as suddenly. The fire still burns. I was not honest. You need not die, for I can unmake the working alone.

  Why did you lie, my Lady?

  A testing. I need no sacrifice, but must have three oaths. First, if anyone seeks harm to me, you war with him. Second, you teach this to your children, and their children, so long as Harlowes live. She paused an agonizingly long while.

  What is the third oath? I will swear it!

  I am last of the great river faie. Fear has kept me from your kind for seasons beyond count. You must save my line, as I save yours.

  Selwyn shivered. His eyes took in graceful arms, full, swelling breasts, an iridescent shimmer of fins, and the sharp points of her teeth. Lust and revulsion swirled in his stomach and down to his loins. He had counted this part of life dead to him when going to the Knights-Scholastic. This was a grotesque way to revive it. He wanted to reason with her, but knew it was futile. From everything he had ever read, the great faie cared only for their own survival and thought humans of no more consequence than mayflies. Yes! Yes, I swear it. Only save my people.

  I will unmake the working. Gentle fingers brushed over his face. Sleep now. I will awake you when it is time to mate.

  Selwyn fought against slumber, wanting to hear the dam give way, but the darkness overtook him.

  CHAPTER 58

  M irko’s tithe huddled close, like sheep seeking the comfort of a flock. The Jandari army sat just out of bow range, motionless except for an occasional horse impatiently pawing the ground. The unnatural silence frightened him almost as much as the Bone Riders in the enemy vanguard.

  “Why are they just sitting there?” Dusek asked, though no one had an answer.

  Suddenly, a roar sounded from behind. Mirko turned, but taller men crowded out his vision. “What is it?”

  “The dam caught fire,” Yosip the Woodsman said. “Blue flame, like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

  Murmurs went through the crowd and some made warding signs against evil. A few hill tribesmen muttered about omens in their strange accent. Then a warning shout drew their attention to the sky as arrows dropped down among them. Returning his attention to the enemy horsemen, Mirko saw they had taken advan
tage of the distraction to advance.

  He was close enough to the front to see the three central columns wind into circles, while those on the sides rode out to flank the Belgorshans. A whirlwind of red dust obscured each galloping spiral until all Mirko could see was glimpses of a rider here, or a charger there. The spirals were like mythical terrors come to life, shrouded monsters that spoke with horn blasts and spat death.

  Leax still had countless archers, and answering bolts raced overhead, but it was impossible to see their effect. Peasants died in droves. The punishment went on and on. Men held the fallen up as shields, sobbing as they cowered behind dead friends. Mirko shouted in fear along with the others, but inside he felt a rising sense of anticipation. The time was coming.

  A noise like a thousand thousand cracking eggs sounded through the tumult of battle. Yosip looked back and cried out fearfully, “I think the dam is giving way!”

  It was time. Mirko cupped his hands and shouted, “The dam is breaking! Leax led us to our deaths! I’m not going to die for this goat-lover!”

  Despairing cries echoed his shouts. The dam is breaking! Panic spread like fire through a granary. I don’t want to die here! We’re lost!

  Rotamir shoved his way through the century toward Mirko and his tithe. “Who shouted that? You know the law. Deliver me this man or you all die!” Rotamir stopped before Cousin Stepan and backhanded him. “Who was it, slave? I know the sound came from here.”

  Stepan wiped blood from his lip and shook his head. “I didn’t see, my lord. I swear by the holy Emperor. They were behind me.” Mirko eased the corded rope from his waist pouch. Rotamir wore only a skull helmet with a bar covering the nose. Nothing protected his throat. Just as the hateful lord raised another fist to Stepan, Mirko stepped behind him, looped the corded rope around his throat, and pulled it taut. He strained with all his strength, rejoicing as he felt the rope burrow deeply into Rotamir’s gullet. With a yank, he dragged the lord to the ground, his vision narrowing to nothing but Rotamir’s kicking, twisting, flailing body.

  Distantly he recognized the voices of the serjeants screaming at him, but they were too late. Rotamir would die choking on a crushed windpipe. Around him he felt a surge of bodies and a fearsome howling. Had the Jandari charged? Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away from Rotamir’s final spasms.