“How shall I sing? With your words?”
“Don’t spurn offers of help, girl.”
He pretended the insult didn’t affect him. “I don’t think your offer comes free.”
Rolk grinned without mirth. “Wisely said. Hear me out, and judge the worth of my advice.”
“Before we talk price?”
“My price is that you keep me at your side. I think you see the worth of that. I’m legitimacy. I was with your grandfather; having me eases the transition for you. You must have a child, several children, to cement your hold.”
“I will have no children.”
“Exactly. I will provide the children. I have three grandchildren of the right age. We’ll find some woman to claim that they were hers, and how you bedded her with your man parts and how bloody stunning you were. Like a stallion, with a cock as long as my arm.”
“No one will believe that.”
He snorted. “You don’t know how stupid people are. Maybe the kings and chieftains won’t believe, but the people will. You’ll be safe.”
“Until your grandchildren come of age.”
“That’s the future. Right now you may not last the week, and you worry for twenty years later?”
If he had learned one thing from his father, it was to think further than other men, but he nodded as if Rolk made complete sense, knowing the while that Rolk would use him only so long as it was convenient, and until Rolk’s family was entwined completely into the power structure of the empire. Like a vine that grew so gradually about your throat that you wouldn’t notice until you were choking to death.
“Fair enough,” Vannek said. “But I want only intelligent, capable children.”
“Of course.”
“And your advice?”
“Stop keeping out of the way. It’s worked to your advantage so far. You have mystique, and whenever you’re visible, you’re seen doing something competent. But now you have to be seen leading.”
Vannek thought he was already doing that.
Rolk spoke on. “Fortify your alliances with the kings already kindly disposed to you. And the mages. Your Syrik has been good about keeping that connection open. Circulate among the troops and the junior officers. Be there at odd times of day—the worst shifts. Like the middle of the night. They’ll see that you’re tough and aren’t sitting back pampered like the rest of their officers.”
“That’s why you’re here at night.”
“Yes. And to get your attention. But mostly because you’ve no time to waste. In a half hour your last dragon lord is going to begin his rounds. Head out and make his rounds with him, then cycle through the sentries.”
“Is that an order, or a suggestion?”
“It’s a suggestion. If you don’t take it, though, you’re worthless.” Rolk stood and stepped away from the bed. “I don’t think you’re completely worthless. So I’m going to wait outside these quarters for a few minutes. I’ll assume you’ll meet me out there. If you’re not out in a quarter hour then I know you’re stupid and I’ll go to Stilkar.”
“Stilkar’s a craven weasel.”
“Maybe so. But he knows it, and values good counsel. Of all your warlords, he’s the one most likely to be a firm ally.”
Vannek nodded slowly. “Very well. Leave my chambers, and you will see what you shall see.”
Rolk’s seamed face revealed a little curiosity. He bowed stiffly, showing both formality and a little age, then shut the door behind him.
Vannek stared at the closed portal for a long moment, sorting through observations and conditions and possibilities. Though completely aware of his feelings, he divorced himself from them all, the better to reach wise conclusions. This, too, was something his father had attempted to instill within them all.
Dressing was no great feat. He did this quickly, as he had done uncounted hundreds of times. He was no woman, to linger at the mirror.
If he’d cared about Rolk’s approval he would have been disappointed, for he greeted Vannek’s emergence with no obvious pleasure. Vannek considered the two sentries waiting outside the door, knowing that these two had allowed the old general within his chambers without first alerting him. They were traitors, or lacked judgment. In either case he would remove them from his service.
Vannek himself led the way down the stairs.
“I think you should move into the citadel at the earliest opportunity,” Rolk said quietly.
“I’m told it’s still not secure. There’s talk of hidden tunnels.”
“We’ll fill the place with soldiers,” Rolk countered. “Your brother was wary of occupying it. You will boldly do so. Or at least claim to. Instead you can be visiting with the troops all over the city at odd times, and sleep wherever you happen to be.”
“Sounds unsecure.”
“Or maybe more secure, if the enemy can’t predict your movements.”
Well reasoned.
The new young dragon lord was already dressed in finery, including a feathered helmet, when they walked up to the row of houses that housed him and the remaining mages under his tutelage. Apparently he was fastidious about his appearance, possibly to distract from his otherwise lacking physical attributes.
“You want to round with me?” The mage sounded suspicious.
“The general thinks that his predecessor was not in close enough communication with important assets, like yourself,” Rolk said.
“I want to see how everything works,” Vannek said shortly. He didn’t need Rolk to translate for him.
“Oh, of course.” The man couldn’t hold back a self-satisfied smile.
Rolk addressed him once more. “You should be honored. General Vannek’s beginning with you because you’re one of the most vital members of his command.”
The young mage shined a little at that, and Vannek nodded. He’d been about to say something similar. To demonstrate competence and interest, he kept the young man busy with questions as they left the grounds for the checkpoint into the new dragon security area. Syrik, now overall commander of the dragon and its mages, had located it to a smaller and better defensible position, a large empty rectangle. It had once been some kind of fae marketplace accessible from multiple streets. Syrik had ordered all the homes upon the block but those ringing the marketplace dismantled so that there was no way to approach the place unseen. All but a single entry point between two stone houses was blocked off.
Vannek looked directly at the four soldiers manning the checkpoint as they walked up, for his brother had never paid enough attention to the rank and file unless they were sucking up to him. The lantern light was dim in the passage, and all four of the soldiers stood away from the fire rather than beside it. Was that so that they’d be less convenient targets? Maybe they were being overcautious.
The four men came to attention on either side of the dark entryway, saluting as Vannek and Rolk and the mage came up and drew even. The mage was still gabbling when the first guard shoved a knife into his chest; Vannek had been watching the mage’s face, so he happened to see the blood spurt forcefully from the murderous attack. The second blow caught the mage in his back.
Rolk was likewise fending off a slice and Vannek drew his sword and turned a thrust more by instinct than plan.
The Resistance again! How had they gotten in so far?
Rolk let out a choked roar and one figure stumbled past Vannek, blood spraying from a nearly severed leg. The attacker collapsed with a hissing scream.
The light showed Vannek the square face of another attacker with a long bulbous nose. Vannek thought to himself that the attacker’s beard wasn’t quite long enough to pass for a Naor soldier, which was probably the real reason they’d hidden in the darkness.
“It’s the general!” A woman’s voice cried this warning, and it came from the figure behind the big-nosed man with the short beard.
Vannek worried about being flanked, was dimly conscious that Rolk, bellowing like a wounded eshlack, fought for his life against a fourth
. The old man staggered on a wounded knee, effectively spoiling attack from another rebel on Vannek’s left; Rolk bumped into Short Beard.
And this put Vannek’s assailant off balance. It was the tiniest opening, but for a practiced swordsman, it was all Vannek required. He swung for his throat.
But Short Beard was no easy mark. He slid back so that Vannek’s sword only clipped his chin. Blood sprayed, but it was hardly a mortal wound.
A horn blast sounded. Someone must have heard the commotion and raised the alarm.
“Retreat,” the woman warrior ordered, and it was only then Vannek realized with a jolt of envy that she was in command.
Vannek drove at Short Beard, beat his sword down, then stuck him in the thigh with her blade point. It was a debilitating wound but not, she thought, a killing one. Maybe this time they’d have a prisoner.
The man fell, groaning. Rolk had driven his small hand axe through the fourth rebel’s chest. There was the sound of running footfalls from outside.
The woman rebel cried out a name, Lemahl, as if it was ripped from her, then nimbly leapt past Vannek’s slice and dashed past him into darkness.
Vannek saw guards running toward them at last, but Vannek shouted and pointed at the woman dashing diagonally away. “After her, fools! Catch her alive!”
The soldiers swung away and followed the rebel into the darkness.
Rolk limped over to the wounded man, lying now on his side, and stared down before putting his foot to him and kicking him over. He bent down by the limp body.
The old man cursed. “He’s bled out.”
“Nonsense. I didn’t hit an artery.”
“No, fool, he jammed his knife into his own throat.”
Rolk didn’t see his death coming; Vannek drove his own blade into the side of his neck, just above an old nick on the graybeard’s shoulder armor. Rolk gasped and the hand clamped up toward the weapon, bloodying his fingers on the edge as Vannek withdrew it. Rolk slumped, but kicked at Vannek as he stepped away.
“It was all good advice,” he told the old man as he died. “And I’ll take it. Except for the part where I’m beholden to you. I am no man’s lackey. And if you’re so fond of your grandchildren, I’ll send them after you, on the pyres.”
He wasn’t sure that Rolk heard the last, because he’d stopped moving. It didn’t matter.
Vannek bent down and wiped his blade on the sleeve of the dead rebel. He stared into unseeing blue eyes fixed forever in proud defiance, then sheathed his weapon and stepped from the dark corridor to join in the search for the surviving assassin.
22
Gathering in the Dark
Sansyra would have expected to be racked with grief, but after insensate rage it was numbness that overwhelmed her. All during the long, difficult return journey to their hiding place, and the terrible report, Sansyra doggedly carried out her duties. It was almost as though she was one step removed from herself, a dispassionate observer watching her body work. She was even able to rest, although she hardly felt connected or refreshed after she woke in the afternoon. When Varama asked if she would guard while contacting N’lahr, she agreed without reservation.
The two altens swiftly compared states of readiness. N’lahr couldn’t help revealing apprehension when he learned noises had been heard outside one of the tunnel entrances deeper in the city. The Naor had begun to probe another access point so Varama had once again collapsed the entire tunnel. It would take the Naor a very long time to clear that obstacle.
From N’lahr they learned additional details about last night’s significant Naor defeat outside the walls, including a summarized description of Alten Gyldara’s battle with a wounded Naor dragon.
Once the two Altenerai had traded information, N’lahr changed subjects. He’d gotten a little better at masking his feelings, but there was no missing the concern in his tone. How’s morale?
Varama’s answer was blunt. It’s low. We’ve lost almost all of my original lead officers, and nine warriors. The Alantrans shift constantly between anger and despair, for their city is being destroyed and their people suffer and they feel that our actions are futile.
It was worse than that, Sansyra thought, and was a little ashamed that Varama noticed and wove it into her conversation.
Sansyra is correct in that some feel our actions actually exacerbate the Naor depradations. At least one of the Alantrans blames me for slaying Denalia, although if she had been captured alive she would have suffered terrible anguish and may have been forced to reveal our position besides.
Will they follow your plans? N’lahr’s simple words belied the serious edge behind them.
By contrast, Varama was coolly controlled. They need follow me this one last time. The plans will see us through. There is nothing more that can be done.
You are wrong, for once. Speak to them, Varama. Tell them you’re aware of their suffering. Let them know that you’ve suffered, too, for some will be too self-involved to realize how well you conceal your reactions.
That sounds like what Renik would have said. Sansyra thought she detected an echo of some ancient loss there, different from grief in a way she didn’t fully understand. And then Varama’s feelings were opaque once more. Sansyra struggled to keep her speculations to herself, but couldn’t help wondering a host of things that she had never before suspected.
N’lahr was briefly pleased. If I sound like the Commander, N’lahr communicated, then that’s all the more reason to heed my advice.
I shall take it under consideration.
Following that pronouncement, the surprises were complete, and the two touched briefly upon their timetable before concluding their conversation. Varama shut down the stone and sat for a time staring into space. Sansyra wondered if she was expected simply to depart, but held still in the chair across from her superior.
Finally the alten met her eyes.
“All of us have had our hurts,” she said. “I believe it often surprises the young that their elders have a number of tragedies in their accumulated experiences. But I think the old often forget how painful wounds can be while fresh. I couldn’t help but notice yours, Sansyra. How is your morale?”
In attempting to put her own thoughts into perspective, Sansyra’s discipline faltered, and before she knew it, she’d begun to cry. This shamed her, and she struggled to put an apology together as she kept her face low to minimize its scrutibility.
“Dialogue is a poor salve to many hurts,” Varama observed sadly.
Sansyra fought to master her feelings, and to curtail regret, and to put aside those last comforting moments with Lemahl, with her head upon his shoulder. She wanted another memory like that, and not to constantly see him fall, hand tightly gripped to the hilt at his side. She’d known what he would do if he couldn’t rise and follow.
“And it’s generally more devastating to watch death take those who are dear, or those depending on you,” Varama added, “than to brave a deadly direct assault.”
“How do you find the strength to go forward?” Sansyra managed to say softly.
Varama looked away before answering, her gaze directed at something beyond the wall. “Renik once said that when there is no avenue of retreat, and you cannot hold your ground, the only choice is to advance.”
That hadn’t helped. “I’m tired of advancing,” Sansyra admitted quietly. “I want to be somewhere where people’s lives don’t hang on every choice we make, and to be someone who doesn’t have to make those choices.”
Varama faced her. Her overbright eyes held a fierce look in an otherwise haggard mein. “We’re fighting so that other people, and maybe even ourselves, might reach that place.”
“That’s what you should tell the others.” Sansyra wiped at her eyes. She’d finally managed to regain control.
Varama eyed her coolly. “I suspect that they’ve heard enough from me already.”
“No, Alten. I think you need to talk to them as you’ve talked to me. They’ve seen your strength. Som
etimes people need to see your weakness as well. It lets them know you’re … human. That you’re able to see things as they do.”
Varama smiled faintly. “I am all too human, Sansyra, and also weary of the choices to be made here.” She regarded Sansyra quietly for a time, then addressed her courteously. “It’s time we both rested. Your counsel is appreciated. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, Alten.” Sansyra rose. “Thank you,” she said, but to that Varama only nodded distractedly. She left the alten there and returned to the welcome oblivion of sleep. That afternoon, those who remained met in the cavern with its wide pool. Sansyra tried not to dwell on their diminished numbers. The squires and soldiers were drawn up in formation, by rank. In the last days they had blended freely, united in their struggle, and their loss.
Varama faced them and told them to stand at ease. Her eyes were dark rimmed and deeply lined, as they had been for days, but for once her hair was properly brushed. Her khalat was clean and her boots, if not quite shining, held a dull luster that reflected torchlight. Sansyra felt a pang, sensing something in Varama’s gaze that was lost and fragile and bewildered before the door slammed shut again. What, she wondered, might Varama say to allay their worries?
The alten spoke in her high, clear voice, thinner with fatigue. “If I’ve asked much of you, it is in part because there was no one else to ask. We few were in this place, at this time. None of us wanted bloodshed, but the enemy brought it, and they are resolute in their aim.” She paused and let her regard roam over them. “They mean simply to end us—body, mind, and soul. They end us not only at the points of their weapons, through their depraved degradations, and in the fires of their wanton destruction, but by ending the freedoms that we usually take for granted; that so long as it harm none, we may choose our vocation, our loves, our dwelling places, even our customs. These freedoms are defined in our laws and define us to friend and enemy alike.
“Those of you who pledged, like me, to the Altenerai Corps, swore not only to defend these laws, but to shield the people who practice them, unto your dying breath. And those soldiers of Alantris who stand with us vowed to defend their city and their homeland with their lives.
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