by Tom Deitz
And by the time they’d regrouped, and Lykkon had vaulted atop a riderless horse that happened by, and they’d got Myx on one to stay, they were once more spurring forward.
Merryn had managed to get Avall roughly a quarter of the way back to the camp. It wasn’t the shortest route, but it was the only one she dared, because of the precipitous terrain. That it also permitted a constant view of the battlefield was not lost on her, either. Not that it helped to look that way. It was a disaster. Gynn should’ve made them come to him on the heights, where he’d have had the advantage.
But that would’ve ceded South Gorge to Ixti, and he wasn’t prepared to do that. She wondered idly if the fact that Argen-el had more holdings here than either of the other septs had anything to do with it. Probably not; Gynn could be coldly logical at need. But still she wondered.
At least he was alive, and as best she could tell so were Rann and the rest. It was hard to see, because of the distance. And because the added exertion of lugging her brother along made her sweat, which, in spite of her padded coif, ran into her eyes.
She paused to wipe them, leaving Avall propped against a convenient oak. This was a particularly good vantage point and she risked a moment with the distance lenses. Right to left—and there was the King—and—
She sensed movement as much as saw it: something from the corner of her eye. There to the left, beyond the main field of battle. Over by the gorge, in fact.
She swung the lenses that way, fighting with the recalcitrant focusing gear. A project for Smith for sure, if they ever survived this. For Argen-el, in fact. Maybe for Gynn, if this cost him his throne.
She had it now—and wished she hadn’t. Swearing vividly, she looked up, as though her naked eyes would deny what augmented senses swore was true.
Men were pouring out of South Gorge. More to the point, they were pouring out of it on the north side—Eron’s side. Nor did she need more than an instant’s pause to determine that these were not allies come to give aid. Not with those gold-washed helms and sylken banners.
But how—?
And then she managed a closer look at the style of dress and armor those in the forefront sported.
And knew.
Sailors’ garb.
Which suggested two possible options. One was that Barrax had launched a fleet in midwinter, to sail around the Finger of Rhynn and meet with him today. Which was an all-but-impossible feat of coordination—especially since she had a hunch that Barrax hadn’t made his decision to attack until it was too late to send a fleet anywhere.
But Eron had a fair-sized fleet in Half Gorge, both a fishing fleet and a few warships. And Half Gorge had fallen. It wouldn’t have been difficult for any sailors among Barrax’s troops to sail down to the sea, which was clear this far south this time of year, and then back up the coast to where the Ri-Ormill flowed out of South Gorge at Tir-Vonees. Maybe they’d have taken the city, but there’d probably have been word of such a thing, or at least a telltale smudge of smoke on the horizon. But they could’ve slipped by in the night—especially in Eronese ships. Or they could’ve landed up the coast from the Ri, and marched overland the whole length of the gorge. It would’ve been difficult, but it could’ve been done in the amount of time they’d had.
In any event, they were here.
A second force, moving to flank Gynn’s already outnumbered and dispirited army.
And thanks to the screen of smoke, she doubted anyone had seen them. Probably not even Strynn.
She had to get word to Gynn now.
But how?
“Avall,” she snapped, for all that he was a span away, still leaning groggily against a tree. Eyes open, and breathing, but not functioning much beyond that. “Avall—if you’ve never done anything in your life you have to do this one thing. You have to warn them.”
“Warn them …?” he mumbled, looking up at her as though that effort took all the strength he possessed. She shivered, and not from the cold that still ravaged her.
She grabbed him savagely, heaved him up, slipped behind him, and took his face roughly in her hands, peering over his shoulder, her head close beside him. “Do you see that? That’s Barrax’s army. A whole second force we didn’t know existed. And it’s going to cut Gynn off in about a finger. Do you think you might be able to do one more thing, even if it kills you? Do you think you might be able to alert Rann?”
“Rann …?” His eyes cleared, then glazed again. “Too tired. Too tired …”
He sagged earthward in a way that alarmed her, but she dragged him up again, ruthlessly. And as she did, her finger brushed the gem, which had become fouled in a fold of his surcoat. She flinched from it reflexively, before she realized it had … responded to that contact. It scared her, given what the thing could do—but she knew she had no choice.
Slumping to the ground with her brother still before her, she set her back against the tree, clamped the gem in her fist, felt a shock of pain as the barb stabbed into her flesh—and braced herself for whatever occurred.
She didn’t know much about the gems at all. But one thing she did know was that they responded to will. And she had that to spare—especially now, when she wanted two things in the world: to alert the King, and then get down there and fight. Avall … could take care of himself. And if he couldn’t, the gem would.
And then it didn’t matter, because reality was shifting and she felt everything with heightened clarity. Avall weighed as much as ten men, yet was weightless, and the simple fact of that weight was a wonder and a glory. It was not unlike an imphor high, but with more control.
Almost she lost herself in wonder. Fortunately, her eyes had gone right on observing, though she seemed to see much better now. And so she shut her lids, took a deep breath, and simply wanted. Wanted Rann to hear her—or Gynn—or whoever might happen to heed her.
For the briefest instant she was nowhere—the same nowhere in which she’d almost died—and that terrified her. But she also knew it could be survived, and that on the other side, and not far away at all, lay Strynn. Strynn would help her. Strynn knew what to do, how to master all this impossible mental complexity—
Strynn …
Merryn …?
Strynn?
Where’s Avall?
Alive. That last foolish effort cost him. But … Strynn, I’ve no time for this. Tell Rann to warn the King that his east flank is under attack. Tell him they’ve come up the gorge in secret. Tell him—
Strynn’s answering surge of panic all but broke their link, as she, along with her bond-sister, gazed to the west. She saw nothing, but she trusted Merryn—Merryn felt that trust so strongly it was almost as though she had lost herself.
Tell the King to sound retreat now!
You already have, came another contact altogether. It took her a moment to recognize, but she’d somehow reached the High King himself. He seemed confused by that communication—at the force of it, apparently. But he also showed no inclination to hesitate. Signaling his trumpeter, he bellowed that awful word.
“Retreat.”
Merryn heard it with Strynn’s ears, and then with her own as it reached her. And with her mission accomplished, she rode that sound back to her body.
And had another shock.
Avall had passed out in her arms.
A chill shook her, but she shrugged it off and stood. And this time, she managed to sling her brother across her shoulders. It was a long walk back to camp thus encumbered, and her legs were already protesting. But she could do anything if she knew how long she’d have to do it.
Besides, even if she gave her life, she doubted Eron would ever forgive her for what she’d done already.
What she’d told the foe.
What had cost them War-Hold.
And maybe the rest of Eron.
CHAPTER XXX:
OPPORTUNITIES
(ERON: THE CLOISTER OF THE WINDS-SUNBIRTH: DAY VIII–NEAR MIDNIGHT)
A completely unnatural quiet had settled upon the cloister. Not the
true quiet of death—or the soft quiet of snow falling on more snow, with no wind. But certainly an unnatural silence for what had, until shortly before sunrise, been an armed camp. Maybe it still was, but Eddyn could see nothing through the tiny barred opening in his door save the empty cloister yard, and that but dimly, for it was approaching midnight.
All he knew was that something had changed. The casual energy that usually pulsed out there, even this late, in the form of impromptu weapons drills and other interchanges, had vanished. Maybe there were still guards about, he didn’t know. Eight, maybe the whole army had departed the previous night and he’d been left here to die of slow starvation with the other prisoners, whose number he didn’t know, save that somewhere in this complex of courtyards and buildings Elvix, Olrix, and Tozri still survived. And Merryn—he hoped. And, by report, the king’s son himself, under some kind of sentence of treason he’d been unable, after all this time, to understand.
It was nice, though, in a way. The weather had turned warm and dry, after the cold damp of the winter, and he’d overheard enough from his various guards to know that Barrax had been waiting for something to happen before launching his attack.
Probably for the vale above South Gorge to be a vale again, instead of a springtime lake. He bet Barrax hadn’t thought of that. In fact, the floods were not a regular occurrence, but depended on how much snow fell where, melted when, and how fast.
Why, this might even be the silence of defeat—for Ixti. Maybe Gynn’s forces had massacred Barrax’s so utterly there was no one left to tell the tale of prisoners.
Eddyn snorted disgust at his own fancy and slumped back against the single pillow they’d allowed him, at the head of his narrow cot. He poured himself a mug of water from the jug they’d brought last night, but it was tepid and flat-tasting. And if things went as they might, he’d probably be wise to ration it anyway.
Perhaps he dozed, relishing the late-night silence.
He awoke to the slap of footsteps echoing down the arcade, someone in a hurry, but not quite running. Someone still armored, to judge by the creak of leather and the rustling jingle of mail.
Someone angry, too—because Eddyn had himself been angry often enough to know how angry footsteps sounded.
He wondered who the recipient of all that rage would be.
But was still sufficiently groggy to be surprised when a key rattled in the lock and an armed man strode into his cell.
Eddyn blinked in startled confusion, but by then the man had grabbed him and flung him to the floor. A foot slammed down on his chest, driving the air from his lungs. A sword sliced the gloom to lodge at his throat. Torchlight in the arcade outside lit the man from the back, obscuring his features. But the gold on his armor and the insignia on his surcoat were unmistakable.
“You will tell me how he did it, and you will tell me now!” Barrax of Ixti roared. The sword dug into Eddyn’s flesh just above his sternum. A flick of Barrax’s wrist, and any number of unpleasant things could happen.
“How who did what?” Eddyn choked, as panic burned away lethargy. He thought briefly of fighting back, on the theory that, while he would surely die, he might at least harm Barrax in the process. But then Barrax barked something in Ixtian, and four more men strode into the room. One promptly grabbed Eddyn’s feet, while two others neatly prisoned his arms, giving the king a chance to back away. But Barrax was still furious.
“You will tell me,” Barrax raged, wrenching off his helm, “how someone in Eron managed to call down lightning on my army!”
Eddyn’s heart leapt. Maybe Eron had won. But then what was Barrax doing here? And what was this business about lightning? He knew nothing about such things.
“It was one of those gems, wasn’t it?” Barrax snapped. “It had to be. I knew there was more to them than communication. How many of those things does your King have, anyway? Does he have a mine full of them? Does he—?”
“He had lookouts posted,” a calmer voice inserted. “They gave the word about the flanking—”
“Silence, or I’ll have your tongue!” Barrax flared, rounding on the speaker. “I know something alerted them sooner than I’d hoped. But that isn’t the issue here.” He turned back to Eddyn, eyes glittering in the torchlight. Mad eyes, Eddyn thought. Not the eyes of a rational man. This man would do anything. From anger or from fear, he couldn’t say.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eddyn managed. “Give me imphor if you don’t believe me. What you saw—I don’t know what it was, or how it was done. None of my kinsmen can call down lightning.” Which was probably a foolish thing to tell a frightened man. But Eddyn was frightened, too, and had no mind for lying.
“It wasn’t exactly lightning,” one of the others dared. “There were no clouds, and it … it was like a flare of fire in the air. It knocked men down beneath it. Some died of—”
“I know how they died!” Barrax shouted. “What I want to know is how I can do that in turn. Or how to defend against it. This man here—!”
“I know nothing!”
“You know something! You have to! You and your scholars and your artists. There’s no way you could not know.”
Eddyn had no reply.
“Bring imphor,” Barrax spat. Then paused. “No, wait. Imphor brings pleasure, too. This man is better broken by pain.”
Eddyn felt that awful twitch in his groin that spoke of fear unalloyed.
“Cut off something,” Barrax rasped. “I don’t care what. But something he can see. Something small, but painful. I don’t want him bleeding to death, but I don’t want him treated.”
“A finger? A toe? A … testicle? His manhood. Or maybe just part of it?”
“From what I’ve heard, he deserves to lose it,” Barrax laughed. “But no, make it … a finger. A joint of a finger. For my son. He’s a craftsman; that will pain him more than anything else he can lose.”
Another chill. And then somewhere Eddyn couldn’t see, the man who held his left hand against the floor began to fumble at his fingers.
“I’ll do it,” the king snapped. Eddyn closed his eyes, but he heard the rasp of the king’s geen-claw dagger clearing its sheath. And he felt the touch of the blade.
The pain washed all that away—that and a hatred that transcended hate.
Eddyn saw the finger, held dripping in Barrax’s hands, but he didn’t bother to notice whether the king had it with him when he departed. Probably because he’d heard his last words to the guards upon leaving. “I don’t care if you’ve had a man before or not. I want every one of you to rape him. Over and over. Until you’re all dry of seed.”
“I don’t know what you want!” Eddyn screamed, to the no-longer-silent night. And then someone dragged a gag across his mouth, and tied his arms to the bedposts. And that single strip of fabric drank up an entirely different kind of screaming.
The agony in his finger was a distraction he found he needed.
If drugs wouldn’t succeed in breaking the Eronese lad’s infernal silence, and if pain didn’t produce prompt results, either, perhaps humiliation might do the trick, Barrax concluded, as he strode away from the prison and toward his quarters. He had the victory—the plain above South Gorge, anyway, with the Gorge itself, and Tir-Vonees to collect at leisure. His forces were ranged just below the heights of Eron’s Belt—those that had constituted his main strength, anyway. The rest … Gynn would not be sleeping well tonight, because Barrax had made sure that word got out that the ships that had sailed up the Ri-Ormill weren’t the only ones he’d captured at Half Gorge, that another fleet even now sailed for the Ri-Eron. It wasn’t true, but Gynn didn’t need to know that. A man fighting imaginary foes was a man with an unquiet mind.
Meanwhile, he had other things to do.
Like master that infernal gem. He’d had enough of caution. Enough of trying to learn how to use it the scholar’s way. He was a warrior—as he was beginning to discover—and by the Gods, he would master it as a warrior should—by force!
Not only that, he’d do it tonight, while his army celebrated their victory across a hundred shots of Eron. Sure, they’d miss him for a while, or his commanders would, but the double ration of ale he’d granted the former would take care of them, and the latter were accustomed to his caprices. He was king after all. It was their duty to wait for him. When he appeared, he would be the gem’s master.
He’d reached his headquarters by then—a tent, though he could’ve stayed in the much more spacious, substantial, and potentially luxurious quarters that had belonged to the cloister warden before this place had been abandoned. Two guards stood sentry outside, trying not to look as though they’d be happier reveling with their brothers a hundred shots to the north. He wasn’t the only one here, however; Lynnz’s adjoining tent likewise blazed with light. Perhaps his brother-in-law felt the same anxiety he did—that today was not a victory but bait for a trap. This invasion had all been too easy.
Even the fall of War-Hold.
And curse the woman, Merryn, for her escape. He’d have Eddyn raped for that, too—just in case.
By the time he’d reached the middle chamber, he’d doffed his helm and gauntlets. The surcoat followed, with the mail hauberk. But then he could wait no longer. Reaching for the pouch inside his tunic where the gem always resided, he drew it out, and rolled the stone onto a table.
“I will master you,” he growled. And snatched it up.
He almost dropped it again, so fierce was the dislike that pulsed from it, like a small animal caught, and fighting for escape. But this small animal had teeth—maybe even poison. He closed his eyes, trying to fight it in his mind—he could feel his will pushing at something, which scared him beyond reason. Minds weren’t meant to do such things. Man had mind, a body, a soul—and that was it. But the mind controlled the body; it was not a thing apart, to do battle on its own.
Yet he was doing that.
Which gave him hope, for how did one master something? By force of body, or of will. And so he wished at the gem. Wished very hard, wished that it would answer him, that it would do what he desired. And while he did that wishing, another part of his mind was haunted by what he’d seen today: a blossom of fire taking form in the sky and smashing down like an invisible hand, flattening men where they stood for a dozen paces around. Killing those in the center. Pounding their bones to pulp.
