"Exactly." Baedrix glanced at her. Emrillian thought his smile had a wry touch. "Lord Mrillis taught you well, Lady. Forgive me for being patronizing."
"Hardly patronizing, Lord Baedrix. I am an unknown quantity and you have been trained to take tender care of ladies, so they do not have to dirty their hands over anything strenuous, mind or body." She relaxed when a few chuckles escaped him.
"The rebellious lords will find more than a match in you, Lady."
"Perhaps. Have you given any other thought to ways of trapping them?"
"Many sleepless nights," he admitted. "There might be a way, but it will take time, perhaps years into your reign. If the traitors are not destroyed in the battle with Edrout and the Moertan invaders. Those who claim to be unable to come to welcome you or attend the coronation--both truth and lie--will be given a chance to pledge loyalty at the fall tournaments. Some false lords will take the oath then, having made enough of a stand against you by not being here at the first. Those who do not pledge, we will watch carefully, keeping record of all they do. At the first chance, we will have them."
"And for the others?"
"I admit, I have been waiting for Lord Mrillis' return, to ask his advice." He would not meet her eyes as he spoke.
"There is no need to be ashamed, Lord Baedrix. My father depended on my grandfather quite heavily. As I shall. As I already depend on you." Emrillian caught her breath as he turned back to her, relief and other unidentifiable emotions bright and strong in his eyes. Suddenly, he rode all too close to her.
* * * *
"Emmi..." Grego offered a crooked smile as he sat down by the fire where Emrillian and Karstis had been conferring over the next group of recruits they would try to bring over from Moerta.
When Meghianna and her students left them, their party had headed south and further east, going into territory that had been allowed to grow wild. In the years after the mass evacuation of Lygroes to Moerta and the raising of the dome, settlements had moved closer around Quenlaque and away from the Wayhauk Mountains. Wild animals roamed freely and plentifully among the ruins of villages and sizable towns and manor houses.
Their small party had made camp in the ruins of a sizable estate, with their cooking fire in a relatively clear area that had probably been the greensward between the stables and guard barracks, servants' quarters and the manor house. No one considered going into the vine-choked ruins. There was something chilling about the dark bulk of slumped buildings, an eeriness that made her feel as if something malevolent lay waiting, watching, preparing to leap out and swallow them all in one gulp. She knew it was only her imagination, because Pellen and Tarran had gone inside and checked for animals or people hiding in the warren of rooms. They chose to put the ruins behind them to guard their backs, and camp under the clear night sky.
"Is something wrong?" she said, pushing those niggling thoughts out of her mind again. Just the three of them were at the fire. Baedrix, and the others were busy with the horses and checking their supplies.
"I was just thinking, maybe it's time you put the armor on. Just in case. Since there aren't that many of us. How hard would it be for Edrout to realize you're you, that you're grown up and not a little girl?" Grego said, looking into the fire rather than at her.
For a moment, she almost said 'what armor?' and then realized he meant her star-metal armor. Her face heated and she almost laughed at her obliviousness.
"She's wearing armor," Karstis said, looking back and forth between them.
"Regular armor."
"Not regular. Master Illis told me--" He grinned and shook his head. "It's going to take me a long time to get used to this. Mrillis told me there was star-metal woven through it. That has to give you an advantage. As if you don't have enough with Braenlicach."
"Possessing Braenlicach didn't help my father in that last battle," she said, and felt her shoulders hunching as a small churning started in her middle.
"She has an entire suit of armor made of star-metal," Grego said. "I think--"
"An entire suit?" Baedrix said, stepping into the firelight. He stared at Emrillian as he came around the other two men and settled on one of the crumbling benches they had pulled out of the ruins. "Made of star-metal?" He visibly shuddered.
"I felt the same way, when she first proposed making it," Grego said. "It's bound to her, as its maker and its owner. It feeds and shields her, and probably will burn anyone who tries to steal it." He grasped her wrist, emphasizing his words. "What good will it do you if you don't wear it? How much time do you think you'll have to put it on, next time Edrout attacks?"
"You're right." Emrillian folded up the sheet of parchment she and Karstis had been writing on. She wished for the thousandth time she had a datapad to record everything instead of fussing with a dozen pieces of parchment or wax tablets, and braced herself to stand and go for her armor. Her legs and bottom ached more than she liked to admit, after such a long day in the saddle, and it hurt to stand.
"Why don't we sense that much star-metal, if you have an entire suit of the armor?" Baedrix offered her his hand with a smile. She suspected he knew how much she ached, how stiff she had grown after sitting for only an hour.
"That was one of the first guarding spells Grandfather taught me. It collects all that concentrated magical energy, hiding it and feeding my imbrose at the same time." She muffled a groan and stood up straight.
"You're a great friend," Karstis said, thumping Grego in the shoulder. "Making the poor girl move when she'd rather just lie down and die until morning."
"Why aren't you sore, too?" she shot back, and gladly leaned on Baedrix's arm. At least he wasn't laughing at her.
"I spend almost every rest-day in the saddle, when I'm not at tournaments." Karstis hooked a thumb over at their pile of gear, neatly stacked in the shadows between them and their horses. "Which bag is it in? I'll get if for you."
"The long, dark green duffle."
"That thing isn't big enough for a whole suit of armor." He stepped out of the firelight.
"It's star-metal and chain mail. It doesn't have to be thick and heavy to work." She reluctantly let go of Baedrix's arm. "Thank you."
"You're not the first to suffer from the saddle, Lady," Baedrix responded, with a bow. "I have a marvelously effective horse liniment--"
"I can tend myself with magic, thank you."
He laughed and backed away. She turned to watch Karstis pick up her duffle, and the night turned blinding bright.
Stupid! she screamed at herself, as she reached for Braenlicach--fortunately, still hanging at her hip. That uneasiness nibbling at her didn't come from the eerie surroundings, the monsters-hiding-under-the-bed prickly feeling of being watched.
Braenlicach exploded into brilliance as she drew it, and beat away the enemy's light, turning it purplish black in contrast. Her companions staggered in all directions, reaching for their weapons or trying to calm the horses. Karstis went down, the duffle flying from his hands. Grego flung himself on the duffle and slid across the ground.
She raced to intercept him almost before she realized what was really happening. A streamer of black light pulled on the duffle, dragging it toward the ruined manor house. Grego still held onto it, and--wonder of wonders--flares of blue and green magic spurted up from his hands and his feet as he resisted.
Then Emrillian snatched at the duffle.
Red light filled her eyes as another explosion flung her across the camp, over the fire. Somehow she held onto Braenlicach. Later, she thought perhaps the sword had held onto her.
Harsh cries rang across the clearing in front of the ruins. Horses screamed, metal clanged. Emrillian struggled to her feet, not quite sure what was up and what was down. Her entire body tingled and felt scorched and she couldn't see for a handful of precious seconds. When she blinked the red haze from her eyes, her companions battled against a force of dark-clad warriors that outnumbered them five to one. Pellen went down, clubbed from behind while he fended off two dark
warriors, one battering at him with a longsword while the other tried to stab him with a long spear dripping poisonous green light.
Her eyes cleared more, and she realized those men weren't dressed in dark clothes, but were wrapped in a black haze.
"Estall help us," she growled, and launched herself at the knot of men around Grego, kicking him and trying to wrest the armor-filled duffle from him.
Emrillian remembered too clearly Mrillis' stories of how the Nameless One animated dead bodies in his service. How much damage could the dead take before they stopped fighting? She pushed that thought away and slashed at the first man. His head came off like his neck was wax. She stabbed and hacked and kicked. Braenlicach shot out coronas of blue-white light that shoved away the enemy warriors just as effectively as repulsor fields on Moerta subdued riot crowds.
Grego got back to his feet with the duffle slung over his shoulder, and finally loosed his own sword to join the battle. They stood back-to-back, just like in the innocent days of Archaics tournaments and battle games. Emrillian had a moment of breathing room when Braenlicach drove away the enemy warriors for a good five meters around them. She released the shield around her armor and directed a Thread full of power to Grego.
"Shield us!" she shouted, when he staggered at the surge of energy.
"You've got a lot of faith in me," he snapped, his voice ending with cracked laughter.
Through the pale blue light that surrounded them, expanding to push the enemy away, Emrillian saw their companions still battling. She wished a moment later she hadn't looked, when she saw Darian lay sprawled on his back, gurgling and convulsing as his life spilled away through the gaping hole in his chest. Pellen was a still heap on the ground that the enemy soldiers tripped over as they battled Baedrix and Karstis, who had also managed to position themselves back-to-back.
"Baedrix, duck!" she shrieked, as a red, black-streaked lance of light shot through the air from inside the ruins.
He turned to look at her, and she realized too late that was the worst thing she could have done. The light burst between him and Karstis, knocking them both forward, away from each other and onto their knees. A surge of death-walking soldiers overwhelmed them, crushing them to the ground in two writhing, kicking, unnaturally silent heaps.
"Yield!" A sour tenor voice rang through the ravaged camp.
"Don't tell me," Grego said. "Please tell me that's not him."
"I wish it wasn't." Emrillian nudged him with her left elbow and turned to the left so she could see the manor house. They had used the same maneuver in Archaics battle games enough times, he turned to the left as well, without hesitating, keeping their backs to each other.
Around them, the enemy soldiers fell back, snatching at the arms and legs of the men who still lived. Emrillian took some hope from the fact they dragged Pellen into the circle of prisoners, as well as Taran, meaning only Darian was dead.
"Well, well, well, little sister, you have indeed grown up," Edrout said as he appeared from the ruins, surrounded by a nimbus of writhing purple and poison green light. He wore the same rich clothes she had seen him wearing at the tunnel leading to the Stronghold. Was it only a day ago? Two days ago? He walked up to the edge of Grego's shield, now four meters in radius. Smirking, he tapped at it. Red sparks snapped at his fingers and he staggered back, scowling, and shook his hand.
"Good job," Emrillian whispered. She knew better than to laugh.
"An entire suit of star-metal armor. How inventive. Did you spend your entire life on Moerta creating it?" Edrout clasped his hands behind his back. He lost the image he must have been trying to portray, when his cloak got in the way. "It's bonded only to you. Clever, to make sure it can't be worn by anyone else, even if you were rather foolish to leave it lying about instead of wearing it. Not that a suit of star-metal armor would have done you any good now." He gestured at the prisoners, who all knelt in a row now, swords at their throats, held tight by enemy hands on their arms, enemy boots resting on their ankles, enemy spears at their backs.
"I can probably get your helmet out and on your head, if you keep him busy," Grego whispered. "Will that help?"
"It can't help me with battle strategy. Thanks." Emrillian blinked away a few tears of appreciation for her good friend. She prayed she hadn't brought Grego and Karstis and all the others here to die so soon, so wastefully, because she hadn't had the brains to actually wear the armor she had spent so long making.
"Maybe I should have you make me my own armor." Edrout paced around the edge of the shield. He didn't tap at it again. Emrillian dared to hope Grego was indeed keeping him away from them.
Or was he only playing with them, and any moment he would shatter the shield like a soap bubble and attack? She knew Edrout would go for Grego, first, just to hurt her.
"I'm too busy to take orders now, thanks." She nudged Grego to have him turn, so she could keep facing Edrout. He would have to go through her to hurt Grego. She wished she could do something to protect the others.
"You will take orders from me when we are married." Edrout paused, visibly waiting for a response from her.
Some of the prisoners let out curses, and were slapped across their faces by mail-clad hands. Bloody noses and cut lips and cheeks didn't cool their fury and made them look even more defiant. Baedrix was stonily silent, but even through the dark haze of the soldiers that seeped through the air to partially cloud the prisoners, the icy fury on his face spoke volumes.
"Legends tell of minor kings who offered their daughters in marriage to the heroes who saved their kingdoms or retrieved magical swords or shields for them. What will Athrar give me when I hold Braenlicach?" Edrout continued, his voice rising a few notes, his expression tightening. "A bargain, little sister."
"I am the daughter of Athrar. You are the son of the Nameless One, spawned on his great-granddaughter, Megassa the traitor."
"I will be whoever I want to be. And you will be whatever I say you will be. He who holds Braenlicach rules the world."
"Queen Emrillian Warhawk holds Braenlicach," Grego spat. "Or haven't you taken a good look lately?"
"She will give me the sword."
"Never," Emrillian said, and wished she didn't sound so hopelessly melodramatic. "My father will finish you--"
"Your father? Athrar sleeps. He won't wake without Braenlicach. Don't waste your strength, calling for help. No one can hear you. I made sure of that." He chuckled and held out his hand, almost touching the edge of the shield. "I know your weakness. All of you are so weak. Shall I threaten the life of one of your companions here?" He gestured at the prisoners. "Or all of them? Will you really sacrifice all their lives to hold onto that sword?"
"Now you're going to offer to let me sit on the throne next to you if I give you Braenlicach. And help you kill my father. And defeat the Moertans who are even now surrounding our shores with machines that will drain all the power from the Threads," Emrillian said, making her voice as bored as she could. It was hard, when a mental tap against the nearest Threads revealed he spoke the truth--she couldn't call out to anyone. "You are so behind the times, Edrout. Villains like you went out of style more than a century ago."
"Do not mock me!" Poison green bursts of light flared up from him.
Emrillian blinked, stunned, when the dark soldiers wobbled for a moment.
Like puppets when the puppet master fumbled the controls that guided their strings. Edrout's power, obviously, was strained nearly to its limits. If she pushed him hard enough, fought him hard enough, would his power break? Could she break through his shield that kept her from reaching through the Threads? If he lost control of his death-walkers, her companions would be safe. What would it take to drain Edrout completely?
"I don't need to kill Athrar. I'll simply leave him to sleep forever in the Vale of Lanteer." Edrout regained his poise and his smirk when Emrillian flinched at that threat. "He won't hear you when you call for help, no matter how loud you scream. Poor little princess, abandoned by your par
ents, turned into a slave, all because of a few useless prophecies. No one will help you. Do you want your friends to die? Give me the sword, and all of you will live."
"No, he won't hear me, will he?" she whispered, as an image filled her mind, terrifying and dangerous. But maybe the only chance she had.
Emrillian had grown up on the tales of the last battles with the Nameless One and Edrout, and of the weaving of the Threads into the dome that protected their world and held Athrar in his healing sleep. Her father wouldn't hear her until he awoke. But she could wake him. Perhaps.
What if it wouldn't take the Zygradon to heal and awaken her father? What if all he needed was Braenlicach? But first, she needed to push Edrout until his control and power snapped.
"Papa!" she shouted, with her voice and her mind, and reached with all the power of the armor hanging from Grego's back, as well as the strength Braenlicach gave her. She felt the reverberations and the peculiar resonance of the magic that enclosed the Vale of Lanteer, and marked the pathway through the Threads.
"Poor little girl," Edrout said, standing back and resting his hands on his hips. "Call as long as you want, as loud as you want. You won't wake him up. Nothing can wake him up except the Zygradon. Isn't that what you've been telling all your friends?"
"Aren't the Zygradon and Braenlicach linked?" Grego whispered.
"They are, man from the future," he retorted, his voice strained as if he would giggle in a moment. "But I will hold Braenlicach, and without the key, who will find the Zygradon?"
"Papa! Mama! Hear me!" Emrillian called again, reaching deeper inside herself, calling up all the power from all the Threads around her. The deadness of blocked communication rippled like scum on a stagnant, half-frozen pond. At the back of her mind, she heard a deep chiming of multiple chords, coming from the ground underneath her, from the air, from the dome overhead.
The Rift War Page 17
