by Bruce Blake
Athryn closed his eyes, his lips moving ever so slightly as he whispered a protection spell, sending it out into the forest to find his friend and keep him safe, to seek out the boy and find him alive, help keep him that way.
One last death to use.
After a minute, his energy waned and his lips ceased moving.
The magician felt himself drawn up off the ground. Air moved around him, swirling and lifting him. He imagined himself being lifted out of the forest, soaring high above the tops of the trees, and he thought this must have been the way Shyn felt in his falcon form. How free. How liberating.
Athryn relaxed and let the mist carry him off to the fields of the dead.
Chapter Twenty-One
The beat of hooves filled Sir Alton Sienhin’s ears, bounced and multiplied inside his head. The rhythm normally soothed him, brought him a calmness rarely felt at other times in his life, for the sound represented freedom to him as he became one with the horse and it carried him across the land faster than a man had any hope of traveling. Not now, though, because he knew he was pushing the horse too hard. Forced by circumstance, he had no choice. Flecks of foam flew from the animal's lips, carried away on the wind as they thundered toward the capital.
In the distance, Achtindel’s walls and spires rose against the dawn sky. With it in view, the general dared to push the horse even harder. He urged his steed on, a feeling of remorse gnawing at the pit of his gut because he knew when he arrived at the city, this valiant animal that had given its all would be left spent and useless. He leaned forward as far as he dared, stroked the horses neck in appreciation.
“It happens to all of us eventually,” he said, his words stolen by the wind.
The horse misstepped and Sir Alton heard the crack of its front leg snapping in the fraction of a second before the horse pitched forward. Unsteady in his seat, the horse’s fall separated the general from the saddle and flung him through the air. For a second, he saw Achtindel, tantalizingly close yet so far away, then he tucked his head and his shoulder hit the ground with a crunch that made his stomach turn.
Pain exploded through his body as he plowed through dirt and scrub grass until his forward momentum ceased. He came to rest with his cheek and chest pressed against the ground, the heavy breaths he drew through his mouth stirring the hair of his long mustache and disturbing the dirt. At his back, the heavy gasps of the dying war horse overpowered the sound of his own breathing. Wincing with pain, Sienhin moved his head enough to see what state the horse was in.
The brave steed lay on its side, head resting in the dirt and its right front leg twisted at an angle it was never intended to bend. Through his own pain, Sienhin felt a pang of regret; he’d caused this animal’s death as surely as if he drew his sword across its throat.
“I’m sorry, boy,” he said, the effort shooting pain from his shoulder down his arm and side.
He cringed, clamped his teeth together in an attempt to suppress it, but it burned through his muscles, clamped onto his bones.
“Gods,” he groaned aloud. “This hurts more than being stabbed.”
Rather than fight the pain, he let it flow through him. His experience of being wounded in battle told him that, in a matter of time, he would become more accustomed to it, have a better chance of controlling it. He lay his head on the ground and relaxed to the extent the pain allowed. The agony in his shoulder pulsed with each beat of his heart, disguising any other pain, any other injuries he might have sustained. Each torturous breath was a torment rippling through his body, shaking his soul, and he fought against crying out, instead concentrating on his breath, focusing on the task ahead of him.
For the sake of the kingdom, I need to get up.
Minutes passed, then more. The pain made his head feel light and the general lost track of time’s passage.
For the sake of the kingdom. For the sake of the kingdom. For the sake of the kingdom.
The words became his unspoken mantra, distracting him from the pain as well as from the other thoughts that did their best to claw their way into his mind. Each time a thought of Therrador’s betrayal, or Hahn Perdaro’s treachery, of dead men fighting as though they lived, or of his long dead son tried to worm their way through his guard, he repeated the phrase again.
For the sake of the kingdom. For the sake of the kingdom.
Finally, a welcome thought found him, and he remembered Braymon sitting astride his steed, sun glinting on his polished plate and a satisfied smile on his face as he brandished his sword. Beside him, Sienhin sat ahorse as well, his bushy mustache hiding the victory smile tilting his lips. It was the day Braymon claimed the throne: a great day for Erechania.
“For the sake of the kingdom.”
Sienhin gritted his teeth and rolled onto his back as gently as he could. He still felt mind-numbing pain, but it was not so terrible as it had been. He lay on the ground facing the winter sky for a few moments, breathing deep through his nose and smelling the crispness of the day and the sweet odor of the dead horse’s dung. Above him, the sun had risen higher in the sky than he’d expected.
“The kingdom,” he said between clamped teeth and pushed himself to a sitting position.
His shoulder screamed with pain and he felt it grate against itself beneath his skin, but he got himself up. He was facing the city and, through the haze the torturous pain cast upon his vision, he saw spirals of smoke rising from bakeries and smithies, cook fires and fires for warmth. Merchant tents sprawled across the plains leading up to the city’s walls, and he’d come far enough to see the different colors of their canvas.
“If I can see them,” he said, “I can walk to them.”
He filled his lungs, grunted, and braced himself with his good arm. In an awkward movement, he gathered his legs beneath him, then rested again for a minute before attempting to stand. As he put his weight on his left foot, he found he had also twisted his ankle as it came out of its stirrup, and he toppled back to the ground in a dusty heap emphasized by a pained growl.
“Damn it.”
He reset himself, clamping his teeth together against the coming pain, when he remembered the staff he’d taken from Perdaro. Grunting, he looked over his shoulder at the dead horse and the staff tied to the saddle.
Sienhin dragged himself around, leaned on his good arm, and began inching along the path his shoulder had dug in the ground. Each time he moved forward, pain pounded in his shoulder. Sweat formed on his brow despite the chill in the air; beads of it rolled down his temple and caught in his mustache.
It seemed to the general that the sun likely crept across the sky at a faster pace than he crossed the ground to his mount. After two pauses to rest and more pained cries than he would have admitted, he made it to the fallen horse, but hesitated before reaching for the staff.
In the daylight, the green glow that had illuminated the drainage tunnel couldn’t be seen, though he knew it was still there. His fingers hovered over the nobbed end of the staff, testing the air around it and finding nothing unusual: no heat, no pain, no magical pulse.
“Curse this magical superstition.”
He grasped the end and tugged hard, expecting difficulty in freeing it from its ties, but the stick slipped out without hindrance.
“Finally,” he grumbled aloud, “something goes right.”
He held the staff with his left hand and repositioned himself, fighting through the pain as he put his weight on his right foot, hoping that it came out of the stirrup more easily than his left when he took his fall. He rocked forward, testing its strength. It held his bulk without pain.
“All right then. Here we go.”
The general pulled hard on the staff and heaved himself to standing on his good leg. His left foot touched the ground gingerly for balance and he suddenly felt that, if he fell again, he wouldn’t be able to get back up and might die within sight of his goal.
It took a minute for him to feel comfortable in this upright position but once he did, Sienhin orie
nted himself toward the capital and took his first step. It jostled his shoulder, sending more pain down his arm and through his chest. He gritted his teeth, accepting and absorbing the hurt.
“Hmm,” he grunted and allowed himself a half-smile, then took the next step, this time necessarily putting weight on his injured ankle.
It threatened to give out and he stumbled but caught himself with the staff. The pain made his head spin and he closed his eyes tight to keep vertigo from throwing him to the ground. He sighed deeply, opened his eyes and stared toward Achtindel.
“For the kingdom,” he said and took another step.
***
Emeline felt the rumble of many hooves before she heard them. She raised her head from feeding Iana and looked first at the door, then across the room at her husband. Lehgan sat on the floor staring down, lost in his own thoughts as he had been for days. She shook her head slightly; she didn’t understand why, after what happened, it seemed like he was the one who was angry.
“What is that?” she asked.
Lehgan raised his eyes from the floor and opened his mouth to speak but instead stopped and listened.
“Horses,” he said—the first time he’d spoken to her in three days. “Lots of them.”
He climbed to his feet and moved to the door where he poked his head around the corner to peer down the avenue. After a minute, he stepped fully into the doorway.
“Do you see anything?”
“No.” He crossed the threshold.
Emeline stood, coaxed her nipple out of the sleeping baby’s mouth, and pulled her dress up to cover her breast before crossing to stand behind her husband. This was the closest they’d been to each other in days, and she immediately felt the heat radiating off him. She wanted to reach out and touch his back, stroke his hair, but stopped herself from doing so.
“I’m going to see what’s going on,” he said and strode out into the avenue.
“Wait, I’ll come with you.”
Emeline wet back to the bed and retrieved the blanket to keep Iana warm.
“No, stay here. It might not be safe.”
Before she opened her mouth to protest, Lehgan disappeared down the street toward the courtyard.
“Lehgan,” she called after him as she hurried to the door. “Lehgan!”
He didn’t stop, though she felt sure he heard her. Her lips pressed together in anger. After what they’d been through, hadn’t she proven herself more than a helpless farm wench? She brooded for only a moment before hurriedly wrapping Iana in the blanket and starting down the street, keeping her distance behind her husband lest he know she followed him.
He’s trying to reclaim his manhood by lording over me.
The thought made her more angry at first, but other thoughts followed it closely.
He wants to take care of me. He wants to make up for letting me down. He’s talking to me again.
She loved him—of that she was sure—so as a good wife, she should allow him to do those things, to do whatever he felt necessary to win back her trust and respect. She should be happy he wanted to do so.
But it doesn’t mean I have to sit and wait for him.
Ahead, the avenue opened onto the courtyard and Emeline saw a crowd of people already gathered to see the horses and riders. Lehgan reached them and pushed his way between an old woman straining to see over the taller people standing in front of her and a man so tall, he easily saw over everyone. After a few seconds, the crowd shifted, closing in behind him, and hiding her husband from her.
When Emeline reached the end of the avenue, she went to the left, away from where Lehgan stood, and weaved her way through the throng of people. The smell of unwashed bodies pressed together was overpowering and she held her hand over her nose to keep from breathing in the stench.
The sound of many horses came from the gate that opened on the salt flats, and she saw the dust cloud raised by their hooves. The people standing in front of her prevented her from seeing more, so she endeavored to make her way between them to the front of the crowd.
Perhaps it will smell better, too.
One man shot her an angry look as she squeezed past him, but then he relented when he saw Iana in Emeline’s arms and offered her his spot.
“Thank you,” Emeline said and took his place at the front of the crowd.
The gate was large enough to allow eight horses across its width, and the Kanosee riders took advantage of every inch. The column of mounted soldiers moved forward at a slow walk, the sound of armor and weapons clattering adding to the din of hoof beats pounding the ground. One rider sat apart from the others at the head of the procession—a woman.
She sat tall in the saddle, her yellow-blond hair loose and cascading over the black cloak covering her shoulders. She wore a purple chemise with wide sleeves and black riding pants, but no armor beneath her cape, though all the soldiers following her did. Emeline looked from the woman to the men behind her.
The first row of warriors immediately behind her were monsters. They wore black armor splashed with red, and their faces were the faces of the dead. Emeline had heard rumors around the fortress of these dead men brought back to life to fight for the Kanosee, though she’d not seen one until now. She hugged Iana close and wished she hadn’t seen one at all.
The crowd watched mostly in silence, only occasional gasps as someone caught sight of one of the monstrosities for the first time disturbing it. Emeline looked away from the hideous faces and back at the woman. As appalling as the soldiers were, the woman’s beauty surpassed them in attracting attention. Her hair bounced gently with the horse’s gait; a lop-sided smile made her face looked relaxed and unworried.
With fewer than ten horse lengths between them, the woman’s gaze found Emeline’s. The horses approached and she found herself unable to look away from the woman, mesmerized by her hair, her smile, the paleness of her skin, the darkness in her eyes. As her horse drew even with the spot where Emeline stood, the Archon raised her hand, stopping the procession, and reined her own horse to a halt.
Half a minute passed as the two women looked at each other. No thoughts entered Emeline’s mind as she gazed upon the woman. She didn’t wonder who she was, or why she stopped where she did; Emeline only admired her beauty and found herself unable to think of anything else until the woman spoke.
“Who are you?”
The words startled her, but Emeline did not reply. The woman leaned forward in her saddle.
“I said: who are you?”
This time, the words broke the spell mesmerizing her and Emeline blinked rapidly a few times, then looked over her shoulder.
“You,” the woman insisted.
Emeline faced her again, fighting an uncomfortable feeling in her chest as she did. She pulled the blanket tighter around Iana.
I shouldn’t have come. I should have listened to Lehgan.
“I’m no one,” she answered finally.
“I see that.” The woman settled back in her seat. “But why are you here? I saw some of my soldiers bring you in.”
She raised her hand and gestured. A horse whinnied and Emeline heard the sound of hooves on stone, but she didn’t turn to look.
“They found us on the road. They--” She looked away as the rider the woman called reined up beside her. He smiled, showing the gap where one of his teeth was missing and Emeline’s words caught in her throat.
“But why were you on the road? Did you not know a war is being fought?”
Emeline tore her gaze away from the man who’d raped her and hesitated, unsure how to best answer the woman’s question and extricate herself from this awkward interrogation. After a second, she shook her head feebly.
“Ha!” The woman’s laugh might have been the bark of a wild dog. “You did not know there is a war. Do you know now?”
Emeline nodded, her eyes flickering to Hektor still smiling at the Archon’s side. The woman leaned toward her with such suddenness, Emeline thought she might dismount. Instead, she s
tared at her through narrowed eyes as Emeline’s heart leaped into her throat. The woman’s lips pressed together hard enough to turn them whiter than her pale complexion.
“Who are you?”
“She’s my wife.”
The woman looked away from Emeline and down the ranks of people lining the courtyard; Emeline followed her gaze, disbelieving what she knew she would see. Lehgan stepped out of the crowd and into the courtyard, the fear on his face outweighed by stern determination.
“Our farm was not producing this season and we feared that, with our new child, we might not make it through the winter. We left for Achtindel to find food and work when your men took us. That man.”
His voice cracked on the last words, but he stood his ground doing his best to appear brave and defiant. Emeline watched, part of her wanting to run to him, hug him, tell him how brave he was and how she loved him. Another part wanted to tell him to run, get away before the soldier or the woman hurt him. She did neither. Above all else, she felt the need to keep Iana safe.
Emeline looked back to the woman and found she was no longer looking at Lehgan but at her, and fear jumped into her muscles, making them feel soft and inadequate, barely able to keep her standing.
“Do you know who I am?” the woman asked her.
Emeline nodded.
“Say it.”
“You’re the...the Archon.”
“And I know who you are.” The woman’s expression softened, turned to satisfaction. “You would be lucky if Archon was all I was. I feel you and I may meet again.”
Emeline’s breath caught in her chest as she waited for the woman to say more, or to ask her about the ghost woman, or Khirro, but she didn’t. Instead, she put her heels to her horse’s side and prompted him on as if nothing happened. Before following, Hektor leaned toward her.
“Sorry I didn’t visit, love. I’ll come see you when we’ve put down your army.”
He urged his horse forward and the rest of the column followed. Emeline shivered and looked back down the lane to see Lehgan step back to the edge of the crowd, disappearing out of her sight. She waited for a row of undead soldiers to ride past, then leaned out to see if Lehgan was all right.
