Feast of Chaos (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 3)
Page 75
In the days it took for Taroch to restore his vigor so that he could attempt his great sorcery again, the brother kings mobilized. They came in from the West with silver riders, and they came up from the South on black steeds armored in golden plate—mounts as strong and determined as their masters. Brutus and Magnus themselves led the forces, and fire and ice struck Taroch in a deadly pincher. The warlord’s entire force was exposed, and it was already confused and lethargic without his leadership. It’s said that the blood from this battle turned the stones of Ebon Vale, once the Vale Ban—the White Vale—black. Taroch was routed. More than half of his force was destroyed, and in the ensuing campaign, he was whittled down from would-be-Immortal to fallen rebel and outlaw. Proud to the end, Taroch didn’t allow himself to be caught. Instead, he hanged himself from the rafters of a nameless roadside tavern in Southreach.
Lowelia contemplated that history, which she’d chatted about with Rasputhane one evening, as she and Dorothy strolled upon the bastion aside the towering gates of Eod. In dusk’s shade, the lean keep seemed of darker stone than the ivory wall from which it extruded, though it stood nearly as tall. The building was connected to a second identical keep on the great door’s opposite side by an interior parapet walk, which edged slightly out of the wall and was lined with long windows. Dead center above the parapet, thrusting out from the wall like an enormous spherical sconce, was an airy dome supported by pillars. It looked as if it were a place for divine contemplation—though Lowelia knew it was a gatehouse, with levers and mechanisms that controlled the doors of Eod. Lowelia knew she had but a few sands to climb to that dome.
She assumed that the lookouts along the crenulations and walkways atop the wall had already been subdued by Brock’s crew—posing as stonemasons—as no alarm had been raised. The fire show in the Faire of Fates was scheduled to start any time now. Hurry, she thought, giving the soldiers standing along the wide steps and framed arch of the bastion a smile that disclosed none of her anxiety.
The watchmen didn’t smile back, but stopped the women, asked why they’d come, and quickly searched them. Were they to encounter any problems here, before hatching their assault, Leonitis and Rowena watched from somewhere in the marketplace behind them; they would send one of the esteemed soldiers forth to demand that the ladies be let inside. Likewise, an officer or two turned to the rebellion’s cause waited by the second bastion to intervene in a similar manner. No contingencies were necessary, though, after Lowelia had trotted out her name and explained her royal mission of charity. The watchmen seemed satisfied; they didn’t investigate her story or check the baskets beyond lifting the linen and salivating over the fragrant sweets beneath. Lowelia promised the gents that she’d leave one for them in the barracks; she didn’t want either man to slump over outside and cause panic too soon. She felt eerily calm, like a contented, prepared murderer, as they ushered her into the cool darkness of the bastion.
Within the great wall, the hubbub of the market was muted. A short hall expanded into a square chamber, which was crammed with stacked beds, tables, and bodies. As soon as she and Dorothy made an appearance with their wicker baskets of cheer, soldiers leaped from their cots and threw down cards, dice, swords—whatever they’d been playing at. Within specks, dozens of hungry men held twists of golden dough coated in powdered sugar, honey, and cinnamon.
“We’ve come as field feeders,” Lowelia said with a smile to one grizzled and suspicious watch captain. “Remember those, from the ancient wars? The lasses who’d flit around the trenches like spirits of nourishment, offering water and sustenance to tired men?”
“I don’t,” declared the captain.
Lowelia offered him one of the twists. “We’re here on official business; note my regal threads. We have no water, sadly, though there’s sure to be plenty around here. As for these, I made them myself! Straight from the White Hearth, and made with love, by order of the king.” And with a dash of blue arrowhead venom—enough that you should all be asleep in ten sands. She shook it again. These were old-world sweets, once a national pleasure taken with tea, and their allure couldn’t easily be resisted. Finally, he accepted, grumpily retreating to a bunk in the long chamber to chew the treat.
The field feeders continued their charitable work, giving unctuous smiles to the men relieved to be granted this moment of kindness. By the time they’d wandered to the end of the chamber and reached the stairs winding up into the gatehouse, only a few soldiers hadn’t partaken of their baked treats. Leonitis and Rowena would be along in a sand to take care of those who’d chosen not to inadvertently sedate themselves. Meanwhile, other rebels, dressed as watchmen, would be causing chaos in the marketplace; nothing fatal, she hoped, though guns would be fired, carts set ablaze, and citizens terrified into a riot. Such was the cost of revolution: the forecast of blood spoiled none of Lowe’s courage. The now friendly, stuffed, and happy captain barked his permission for them to pop into the gatehouse. The pair of watchmen standing before the staircase heeded his command and took treats from the field feeders as they passed.
Dorothy and Lowelia hustled up the square stairwell, counting sands, exchanging strained looks, each listening for sounds of a rebellion. Thus far, their timing had been perfect. They came to a long hallway flickering with lines of dusk, then raced down the abandoned path to another stairwell, this one circular, and emerged into a rotunda with curved pillars, artistic frescos of maidens, warriors, and monsters, and a floor of white tiles. Only two watchmen were posted here; usually, there’d be six. But Leonitis had provided them with valuable information, and the rebels had chosen to strike during the changing of the guard. The reinforcements due to come and take these watchmen’s places would, instead, soon be sleeping below. The second keep and its soldiers should now be under the care of another group of field-feeding rebels.
Aside from two watchmen, there was nothing in the grand cupola for the ladies to see save for two great cranks set into pedestals on either side. Ahead, two soldiers leaned on the balustrade and peered through the pillars down into the churning marketplace. Neither seemed alert or alarmed. Good. Still, one turned her head at the noise of the huffing invaders.
“Who are you?” she asked, warier than any of her male compatriots had been. She kept a hand on her glass-and-steel sword; as with all the watch’s weapons, it was both enchanted and sharp enough to hack off an arm in one sweep.
“Field feeders,” said Lowelia, holding up her basket of temptations as she walked toward the soldiers. She didn’t have far to go, and she saw a shuffling to her left as Dorothy no doubt fished for the pistol hidden under the napkin that lined the inside of her basket.
“You.” The soldier shook a gauntleted finger; her fellow guard turned now. “You’re the queen’s old handmaiden. The one that pretended to be her. Mater Lowelia of the Hearth. What are you doing here?”
“We’re here on official business.” Lowelia left her basket hanging in the crook of her elbow and raised her hands. “We’re here to bring refreshments to the weary.”
BANG! BOOM! HISS!
Just then, a shot rang out in the marketplace, followed by a powdery explosion and a thread of fire and smoke. The soldiers whipped around, but when they turned again—out of a prickle of battlefield premonition—they found that both women had dropped their baskets, spilling cinnamon twists everywhere, and now stood armed with sleek, black, flame-tipped pistols.
“Doesn’t seem as if you’ll be getting a twist,” said Lowe, no longer all smiles and charm. As she kept her gun trained on the edgy soldiers, Dorothy momentarily stowed her weapon, then struggled to lift and secure a heavy black-banded board over the staircase. She finished in a sweat, and pulled the rung a few times, determining it would take a small battering ram to open it again. Screams had begun to whirl in the smoky air outside. A few more explosions came, though they seemed muffled and distant from this height. Four tense combatants watched one another. Dorothy, again brandishing her weapon, rejoined her co-conspirator. Sh
e turned her head for a moment to whisper something to Lowe, and in that speck, the second soldier dropped to his knee, reached down to his boot—
Sharp as an eagle, Dorothy saw the movement, then shot him.
Earlier, she had lied when she’d spoken of archery lessons. She’d had training with firearms after a hate-hazed summer during which she’d debated hunting down Cassala’s husband. It felt cathartic to shoot someone. The flash, the powder, the ozone scorch—even the sound of hot metal tearing through metal, bone, and flesh—were elating rather than terrifying. She shot only the man’s leg, which was enough to knock him to his arse and send the knife he’d been reaching for clanging away. The soldier groaned and slid down the balustrade, leaving a bloody trail. He’d likely live, if he received medical attention soon.
“It’s time,” Dorothy said, and swept her gun toward the watchwoman. “Open the gate. Lowe, you’ll have to get the other one; I don’t think that fellow is having his best day.”
Lowe hurried to the crank and tucked away her gun, knowing it would take all of her strength to set the gears—even oiled in magik, as they were—in motion. She’d need assistance, too, but the watchwoman had planted her feet and was taking a moral stand.
“I won’t be party to an assault upon our city,” she said. “I won’t shame my husband by becoming a criminal.”
Shame my husband? wondered Lowe, and Dorothy’s face twitched and revealed an ugly anger. She worried that the watchwoman was about to be shot. Instead, Dorothy reprimanded her with her tongue, not a bullet.
“Husband?”
“Fiancé, actually, and he’s a soldier, too. None of you will get away with this, whatever chaos it is you’re sowing.”
Dorothy stepped forward, aiming at the woman’s face; the watchwoman stumbled back a bit, afraid. “We’re all noble, lass. But when it comes down to it, when push comes to shove, we value life over decency. A wedding or a funeral? Which do you want your beau to attend? Your choice. I’m giving you three specks to decide. One…Two…”
The watchwoman raced to the second pedestal, nodded to Lowelia, and started cranking. From below came a long, pained machine yawn—louder even than the growing brawl occurring in the garrison or the marketplace—that rumbled through the feet and groins of all nearby. The gates of Eod were rolling open. Up in the gatehouse, they felt the change mostly in their hearts, though. Lowelia, Dorothy, and even the watchwoman toiling on her crank paused for a speck, smelling spice, feeling a rush of angry passion in her veins that drove her further into her exercise: a sweat, a zeal, an enchantment. Dorothy grinned, for it was the smell of vengeance.
In the chambers below them, Leonitis and Rowena had also caught the scent, and were inspired by a sudden fury that filled their veins. They toppled tables and battered men—some quite sleepy and defenceless—twice as vigorously as they had before. They tore through the faltering lines of Silver watchmen like bulls through a glass kingdom. They used only their pommels and fists—their honor held them back from murder—but they would not feel sated without blood on their knuckles. In their hearts, they knew what had happened, what dark muse had inspired them.
The queen had arrived.
VI
A song blew in from the desert. At first no one really heard it. Carried on sandy notes, the cloud of music and myrrh arrived at Eod with a gusty vengeance. Tents in the Faire of Fates shuttered their counters and pinned down their tarps. Merchants pulled signs off the thoroughfare, and if they didn’t, the thin advertisement boards were tossed down the flagstones like cards. Eod hadn’t known such a storm since the Clash of the Kings.
Then the pandemonium began: a cart that burst into flames, horses slapped by mysterious strangers and sent into frenzies, firecaller incendiaries that blasted harmlessly but produced blinding smoke. Stands were kicked over. People tripped and toppled one another while scattering for cover. The Silver watchmen that were still around fired guns into the air and shouted at citizens, serving only to intensify the terror; sometimes, citizens even saw the Silver Watch fighting amongst themselves. The world had suddenly ceased making sense.
Most of the Faire was soon bare of folk, who now huddled behind safer walls of stone. Men, women, and even babes craned their necks to stare out their windows at the haunted marketplace, which was now dancing with flame, smoke, and sandy plumes. White wisps wandered through the orange obscurity—either watchmen, good or bad, or ghosts. Their city had become like a graveyard. What now threatened their peace?
But they did not stay in hiding for long, no. A music called to their minds, a beat stirred the people from their cowering comfort and made them want to brave the gritty maelstrom to find the source of this enchanted melody. Men and women threw on hats, scarves, and clothing generally worn in what passed for winter in Eod: a carefully controlled season with warm rains and a single snowfall on the winter solstice. Bundled up and shivering with sinister anticipation, people strode through the streets. Occasionally, they would meet another such sand walker near a burned heap, who seemed to be headed in the same direction, who’d say something about a pull, a call, and a scent that could not be defined.
Indeed, something was here, in the storm. Within a short time, the stragglers had formed a larger body, one that continued to grow. Soon, a throng had gathered in the whistling marketplace. They stood around empty shops. They filled the platforms that firecallers or other performers might use. Now a crowd of a thousand silent and shrouded shadows, they waited.
The song grew louder, and voices could be distinguished in the wind’s sibilation. In the distance loomed the tall, hazy arch of Eod’s Southern Gate, open to the desert, to friend or foe, for the first time since Eod’s creation. The Eodians held a patient vigil. Even sellswords and a few of the black-veiled Terotakian murderesses stood tranquilly about the Faire. These strangers, however mercenary, also wanted to know whence that beautiful song had come.
Women’s voices carved the sharpest pitch in the song, but there were harmonies of youth and deeper notes from men. It was sung in Arhadian, a language with which most were passingly familiar, though not many of the lyrics could be understood. For this was an ancient tune, conceived in an age when Eod had been young and queenless: a song about the red glory of life and sacrifice that was sung by women and wives, the true backbone of their tribes. Those who could understand the lyrics realized the words had been changed, inflections added, meanings revised. The Arhadian women mentioned in the song were no longer merely mothers and caretakers, but teachers and warriors themselves.
The crowd listened, enraptured, and inhaled the wind.
VII
Through a whirling storm, the queen’s army marched, singing. The three thousand newly born warrior women had learned the Mitra Ich Zenzeth—the Mother of Warriors—in their desert encampments. It was the ode they had sung while practicing, daily, the martial skills taught to them by the queen’s fearless bloodmate: the obsidian knight, who shouted and demanded from them absolute commitment.
The queen’s army didn’t mind taking orders from a man, for this one understood the concept of equality. He’d sacrificed his title, his life, and what he’d believed to be his honor to be with the queen. Such a cost should be repaid with respect. Aided by the enchanting spice, the inspiring power of the queen, these women of the Arhad had swiftly mastered the strikes, lunges, and drills of their obsidian commander. Within days, they had attained a finesse usually possessed only by battlefield veterans. From morning till night, drunk on the queen’s venom, they’d hurled their tireless bodies upon the living shield of her bloodmate. They’d showered him in a rain of spears that would have killed anyone else.
When the warriors weren’t fighting, they were singing; they practiced the taunting terror calls of battle and knew how to shriek and trill their enemies into submission. Today, however, they sang the Mitra Ich Zenzeth and were as calm as those who awaited them in Eod. Their day had come. The queen was to be restored to power, and all wrongs would be judged.
As soon as she’d known she would need mounts for her army, and that such a beast existed—praise the Mind in his omniscience—she’d summoned the albino outcast and the whole of its herd to her side with a wind of spice. There were fewer barriers to the exercising of her power than she had expected. Holding people in complete thrall fatigued her as would have any grand magik, but she no longer needed to bespell or beguile her army into obedience. The people behind her, the ones carrying her woven banners showing an amber snake wrapped around a hunk of black stone, were proud to hold her symbol aloft; they had not been coerced. A few had left once she’d relaxed her enchantment. They’d fled to other tribes or doomed themselves to wither in Kor’Khul. She had decided they were not worthy of marching with her. If a man was not ready to leave behind all that he had been, how could he become something new? Every snake must shed its skin, harden its scales, sharpen its venom and teeth in order to grow into a mature predator. Lila no longer hid her strange inner self, but reveled in her reptilian charms whenever the viper stirred in her. Even now, marching toward her destiny, she effused a light mist of gold into the air and bared her fangs whenever she smiled. This happened often now that she, Erik, and her tribe stood united.