by Carol Berg
I sat next him and took the cool leather pouch. Only as I drank did I realize how thirsty I was. “It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “They can’t be sure we’ll go back to the mine. We’ve no reason to but to help the last twenty before they’re thrown on the pyre with the dead. But if not here and not at the mine, then where else could they be planning to hit us?”
“Gods of night, would they do that? Burn the living?” Blaise paused before taking another swig from the waterskin for himself.
“There is no evil one human will not work on another,” I said. And no betrayal. Who had told the Danatos that Aleksander was coming?
“Blaise!” Roche called from the sluice gate. “Pherro says he’s ready to open the sluice.”
Blaise glanced at me as he stood. “Have a care, Seyonne.” He dropped the waterskin in my lap, then slid his way down the steep embankment toward the gate and his men. “We’ve got to make sure Farrol has everyone out of the mine first,” I heard him tell Roche. “I’ll go find out. When the Aveddi starts down, he wants you and Pherro to stay behind ...” They walked off together, leaving me to solitude and worry.
Who was the traitor? Despite my suspicions, I could not accuse Gorrid just because he hated Aleksander. Everyone at Taíne Keddar bore some grievance against the Prince or his father. The matter of the slaves was the biggest stumbling block to pinning this villainy on one of Blaise’s people. No matter their feelings about Aleksander, none were callous enough to jeopardize the outcome of the raid for personal vengeance. This was not some angry outlaw running to the Danatos unthinking. Someone had conceived a plan. That eliminated Gorrid. He was not a complex thinker; he hated Aleksander, but he hated the Derzhi even more, and his loves and hates would always define his actions. So who was it? I could not leave this world until I knew, if I had to prick young Feyd to sleeplessness for three days.
The last vestiges of daylight faded from the sky, my friends and enemies left indistinguishable in the murky borderland of night. My senses were tuned with every scrap of power I could muster, listening for hoofbeats, for muffled voices, for harness bound with strips of leather to mute its telltale ring, for swords and knives being carefully unsheathed. The missing warriors were poised to cut our throats, but where? I riffled through the exchanges of the day. Through Feyd’s recitation of the plan. Through the meeting with Roche and Gorrid outside the mine. Through weeks of listening to the outlaws at Blaise’s fire at Taíne Keddar. In the fifth time over, I knew the answer.
“Roche!” I said, slithering down the embankment and calling to the quiet young Ezzarian as he helped a group of his men and women load up the sizable pile of confiscated Derzhi weapons by tying them to backs and belts and saddles. “Who scouted this raid?”
The dark-haired man buckled a fine leather sword belt atop three others around a Kuvai woman’s shoulder. “Admet,” he said. “After our bungling at Andassar, he said he wanted to check the terrain for himself, so he came out here three days ago to see to it.”
“And who was with him?”
“No one. Easier for one to keep hidden.”
“Alone? But he can’t travel the way you do.” Admet was human, not a joined Ezzarian.
Roche glanced about noting who was in earshot. “Did no one ever tell you the location of Taíne Keddar? That was the beauty of this plan. The valley is only a few hours’ ride—for anyone—from Syra.” He shook his head. “That’s why we thought we could get so many slaves away safely, because with Blaise, Gorrid, Brynna, Farrol, and me taking them through the ways, we could have had them in Taíne Keddar in half an hour.” The young Ezzarian pulled another sword belt from the pile, jerking on it impatiently when the long sheath caught in the tangle. “No, Admet came on his own to do the scouting, and he was right in every point. I suppose we fouled it up some other way this time.”
Admet. And Feyd had said that Admet was to lead the fighters to the sluice gate. “Have you seen Admet tonight?” I asked. “Maybe he can give me some idea as to whether the garrison was in place that day or if they’ve moved out since.” Or how the Danatos got wind of the Prince ...
Roche took a bundle of knives from a stocky youth who had rolled them in a dead man’s shirt, and he stuffed them into a saddle pack. “He brought us word of the extra guards at the sluice, but then Brynna took him back to Taíne Keddar to help make ready for the slaves. Admet can’t fight you know—not with his back the way it is. He was a slave himself as a child. The Derzhi broke him. Left him crippled.”
And so a great deal became clear. “So he guided the four fighters to the sluice ... and then he came to fetch Aleksander.”
“That’s right.” Roche called after me as I turned to walk back up the embankment. “It was good you were here, Seyonne. You saved us again.”
I just shook my head. Seven hundred dead.
Admet, the wily Suzaini strategist. A complex thinker. A man who might believe he could punish Aleksander while somehow managing to rescue the slaves. Gods ... that was it. He’d made a bargain with the Danatos. We’ll hand over the Kinslayer, but you’ll allow us into the mine ... leave it unguarded. We’ll trade one man for seven hundred. And you’ll get to keep the mine, for we’ll set the trade at the lake and leave before breaking the sluice gate. The Prince alone was to be taken. Not the other fighters.
But the Danatos had been wilier than Admet. We’ll take the Kinslayer, and we’ll leave the mine unguarded, but you’ll never take our property. We’ll kill them first. We’ll take the prize and leave you nothing ... nothing ...
“No!” As the pieces settled into position, I was appalled at the image I had built. Of Admet hating Derzhi so much that he believed them stupid and could not distinguish one from another. Of the Danatos first lord, denounced by his own mother for his continuing dishonor, swearing to abide by the agreement, while planning from the first how to twist it to his advantage. Of Admet riding home after his clever bargaining, smug in his success. And of some Danatos spy who followed the broken Suzaini on his human path ... all the way to Tame Keddar. First ensure the capture of the Kinslayer, and then wipe out the Yvor Lukash. Seven hundred slaves were nothing. For this, the Emperor would yield them half the Empire.
Mad with rage and terror, I shaped wings and shot into the sky, crying out for the others to abandon their useless tasks and follow me. I knew where the remaining Danatos had gone.
CHAPTER 34
Taíne Keddar was in flames. The houses and tents were already ash, the ancient olive trees but dark, twisted scars on a sky of garish orange and red. By the time Aleksander, Blaise, and the other riders crested the encircling ridge, I had surveyed the valley and found it devoid of life. Flames licked at a few dark forms lying here and there amid the burning fields and groves. Everyone else—the attackers, as well as those who lived in the valley—had disappeared.
“Where would they go?” I screamed at Blaise over the roar of the flames, knowing—terrified—what he would answer. Ash swirled lazily in the torrid air like enchanted leaves that vanished at a touch. A pine exploded into flame just behind me.
“Taíne Horet,” he said. His bony face was distraught, his serenity shattered as he pointed to the path that wound through a stand of burning trees and led deeper into the mountains toward the old kings’ stronghold. Aleksander slammed his heels into his horse’s heaving flanks before the word had left Blaise’s tongue. I was the only person ahead of him.
Whether it was Blaise or I who worked the enchantment to speed us through the rugged terrain, I never knew. The riders did not slow as they passed the hacked remains of the settlers’ rear guard, but thundered after me as they had since I told them of my terrible suspicion. No man or woman of the raiding party but had a child or lover, kinsman or friend among those in the valley. I could not think of Evan. Anger already ruled my arm, and I needed to keep some semblance of reason.
The Danatos had many hours’ head start on us, but when we hit their backs, they had only just collapsed the first ring of Taíne Ho
ret’s defense. Their rear guard was positioned in the rocks and trees at the base of the ridge. Halfway down the descending path, Aleksander silently motioned his meager troop into a wedge, set himself at the apex, and gave the signal to charge. I soared from the heights and flew in just ahead of him. My first victim was still wide-eyed and gaping as I shoved his warm body off my sword and smashed another man in the face with my bare foot. Two other warriors fell back at the sight of me, the light of my Madonai body coloring their pale faces sallow. Roche rode up and skewered one of them in the back, and I spun in the air and swept my blade, taking the head of the second man. Enchantments lay in my hand like a second sword that night, impossibility and distance and bone-deep weariness of no more import to me than gnats to a mountain.
The battle was a bloody one. Between the raiding party, the remaining Yvor Lukash from Taíne Keddar, and the people of Taíne Horet, we had superior numbers. But most of Blaise’s people were city-bred poor or peasants, strong, but untrained in combat, or freed slaves, trying to substitute vengeance and spirit for the weakness of their broken bodies, or old people, or children; there were a great number of children. And the others—the Manganar, Thrid, and Suzaini who dwelt in Taíne Horet—had hidden in these rocks for decades, hoping, waiting, planning, and training; but their enemies had been images from history, not superbly trained warriors wielding swords and spears with ferocious precision.
Indeed the Danatos fought as if possessed by the mad Gastai. They believed their prize very close—power next to the Emperor’s own—and they recovered quickly from our surprise assault. The outer ring of warriors, so easily penetrated by our initial attack, hardened into a wall of steel, threatening to close about our wedge. They held us at bay while their lines pressed forward, orderly, methodical, scouring the valley, pressing men, women, children, goats, donkeys, and horses before them, killing any person who resisted.
Aleksander, seeming to be everywhere at once, molded and shaped his sixteen fighters, teaching and encouraging them even as he threw himself against the Danatos lines. But the Derzhi ranks refused to break. Our riders were too few, and when the Danatos’ inner ring had captured or slaughtered those within their grasp, they would turn and crush our pitiful band like a lion’s great paw smashing an annoying dog.
I strove to protect both Aleksander and Feyd—I could not afford to have my dreamer slain—and I killed any Derzhi within reach of my blade. Always I kept my eye out for Admet. I had not told the others of my suspicion, but I had sworn to myself that he would go on trial before I left the human world. If he had done what I believed, he would die for it.
“We’ve got to get through,” Aleksander shouted up at me as I slashed at a warrior threatening his back. It was difficult to see in the dark, the only light the wavering glare of the fires the Derzhi set as they passed. “Can you find us a way?”
“Done,” I cried. “Roche, you’ve got the Prince’s back.”
I shot upward to look about, trying to make sense of things through the smoke and screams and flailing weapons. The three camps were in chaos, the sentries and guards who yet lived barely managing to hold their own as they retreated. The people of the valley hadn’t enough horses to mount their defense, and the mounted Derzhi swept through the slow-footed fighters like fire through dry grass. Fifteen or twenty defenders fell for every Derzhi. I flew the length of the Derzhi front, trying to find some small gap, some weak spot where the ranks of disciplined Derzhi might be breached, hoping to discover some firm center where Aleksander might rally the frantic people and take advantage of his numbers.
A force of some twenty to thirty Thrid charged out of the burning groves to attack the Derzhi left flank, only to see half their number cut down in the first engagement. I showered the Derzhi with sparks I gathered from the fires, enabling a tattooed woman to rally the Thrid fighters. Soon, more joined her, and she began to form up a small line of resistance. I flew on.
Several of the Yvor Lukash fighters were trying to make a stand near the Suzaini encampment. The Palatine Marouf—Feyd’s father—was off at the front of the battle. A small party of Derzhi had outflanked them and now threatened to wipe out their families. A Suzaini woman lay on the ground unmoving, bloody and exposed, and an old woman sat in the dirt wailing, trying to cover the pitiful remains with hands and skirts. Other women, responsible for their husbands’ wealth, were trying to retrieve their children and their hoards of silver before a similar fate befell them.
A fresh wave of Derzhi swept out of the darkness, driving the Yvor Lukash fighters and the panicked women away from the Suzaini tents. A blood-smeared youth leaped out from behind a bush and slashed wildly at a Derzhi rider who was bearing down on a woman carrying two small boys. The youth didn’t see a second Derzhi ride up behind him, sword raised.
“Mattei, behind you!” I dived into the fray, shoving my young friend to the ground and stabbing at the attacking warrior, while using my wings to sweep Mattei’s target from his rearing mount. “Stay back, lad,” I cried as the unhorsed warrior scrabbled quickly to his feet. A few strokes later and the Derzhi choked on his own blood and fell to earth, trying to prevent his entrails escaping through the gaping hole I’d left in his belly.
I spun on my heel. Mattei was staring at me as he crept backward over the rocky ground. I reached out my hand to haul him up, feeling like smiling for the first time in hours. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get you someplace less dangerous.” But my simple gesture scribed his young face with mortal terror, and uttering a whimper, he scrambled to his feet and ran off into the darkness.
“Mattei, wait ...” No time to go after him. I had to hold back the attacking Derzhi while the Yvor Lukash fighters got the Suzaini women away.
Another sweep of the front showed me that the Thrid woman had positioned her fighters securely among the trees, and her archers and bold swordsmen had slowed the Derzhi advance and stretched the enemy’s lines. A small victory, but the best prospect I’d seen. I raced back to Aleksander and Blaise, who were being sorely pressed by a Danatos second lord. The Derzhi noble was screaming at his men that the Kinslayer was among them.
“Go left!” I shouted, pointing the Prince toward the Thrid. “W’ Assani’s people hold the way.”
While I used fire and sword, wind and terror to prevent the Derzhi from closing ranks behind him, Aleksander fought his way toward the valiant Thrid. A half an hour later, a path of fallen Derzhi behind him, he broke through into the heart of the battle. From the center of the valley a murmuring tide of sound swelled to drown out the screams and shouts and the roar of the flames. “Aveddi!” The cries echoed from the cliffs, and soon the very shape of the combat changed. Outward pressure from the center halted the Derzhi advance, and before another hour had passed, the rear guard began to fall back toward the hills. Once there, they had to deal with me.
Every hour that I fought in my golden form I felt stronger. Yes, I was tired. Yes, I had a dozen bleeding gashes and punctures. Yes, I still felt a tearing fire in my side whenever I raised my right arm. But with every passing moment, my reactions grew faster, my strokes more powerful, my movements quicker and more sure. I had been born to wear that form of light, to fight such battles, to use the power I had been given to protect those who needed it. I could sense the slightest movement behind me, and I could hold a part of my mind outside the combat, using it to ready my weapons of enchantment. I could see with such clarity—the fighters at my hand, the shifting lines of combat, the dark, surging mass of Blaise’s people. The bony outlaw himself was leading the right, with the two Manganar Yulai and Terlach beside him. The Thrid woman held the left, and in the center stood Aleksander, the Firstborn of Azhakstan, his red hair flying, fighting with the measured fury of a king defending his citadel. Behind his sword my child was safe, as was his own, but only if no Derzhi left this valley with the tale of its location. Let them fear me. And so I gave myself willingly to combat, and killed every warrior my hand could reach.
Everything wore
the varied colors of blood—the dark, gore-soaked earth beneath my feet, my naked flesh smeared with red and rusty brown, even the rocks above and beside me, flushed with the scarlet dawn. Quiet had descended on the valley, but I hadn’t noticed, for the battle raging in my veins had only now found its final release. I yanked my sword from the twitching body at my feet, then dropped to my knees and made sure of him, driving my knife into his heart. “Not my son, you bastard,” I said, the hoarse whisper that grated in my throat all the sound I could muster. Blood matted his dark beard and his striped haffai. His sword hilt slid from his limp hand, and I kicked the weapon away when I stood up again, as if to be sure he could not rise from the dead and bring more treachery into the world. “Never him.”
“Holy gods, Seyonne, what have you done?”
I whirled about and saw them standing there—Blaise, the stunned accuser, cradling one arm, his paint half washed away by sweat and blood, and gray-faced Elinor, her blue skirt stained and torn, a well-used sword at her side, her hand steadying her wounded brother. Elinor gazed at my last victim expressionless, as if the burden of horror that she already wore could not accept yet another portion. The sight of her there, in such a state, set off a firestorm in my soul.
“Tell me!” I bellowed. Flames burst from my hand and sword, and the two stepped backward, almost tumbling down the steep path. I summoned the dregs of my strength to restrain my fury.
“Please tell me ... Evan ...”
“He’s well,” said Elinor. “Safe with Magda. Safe.”
Blaise was still staring at the dead man in the striped haffai. Heavy footsteps brought Roche and Gorrid to join him, their tired faces glazed with shock and dismay. And behind them, surveying the sea of corpses around me until his gaze rested on the dead man at my feet, came Aleksander.
