“Those vows have been bravely kept at great cost. We have been united in our efforts to weaken the enemy, and we have succeeded beyond hope. That so many have perished to reach this point is a bitter measure, but like the taste of hard liquor, let that give you fire. For we have come to the decisive moment. Everything hinges on the actions we take tonight. If we falter, all those who have given their lives will have died in vain.”
Sansyra felt a lump form in her throat.
“But if we triumph, the enemy will be driven from our sight, and our people will live, free once more. This night we must let loose the beast of war, red handed and merciless. And if this be our numbered day, we must rejoice, that we fall in so noble a struggle.”
There was a rustle behind her as one soldier came to attention and saluted, and then the remaining Alantrans followed. Quickly, Sansyra called the squires to attention and presented her own salute, and she felt rather than saw the outpouring of emotion from the squires with her.
She would have liked, so much, if that shared humanity had somehow pierced the strange bubble that surrounded her commanding officer and provided comfort to the person within, she who was ever befuddled by the imperfect resolve of those around her.
Instead Varama gave only the slightest of nods, and ordered them to their stations. Men and women filed past. The alten, though, beckoned her close, and they stepped to the pool, under the shadow of a single lantern.
“That was nicely said, Alten,” Sansyra offered. At Varama’s blank look, it occurred to her that Varama was already thinking beyond the speech. The compliment passed over the alten with an eye blink as her officer got to the point.
“I want you to have this.” Varama pulled her hand from her pouch, opened her fingers, and revealed a semblance stone. Sansyra felt a little dejected at the sight of it. She looked up at her mentor’s face. Did she expect her to take on the semblance of an alten as she and her troops secured the gate?
“I know your own magical stores are scant. You can tap this not as a way to disguise yourself, but as a source of energy to power your weaving. It’s like a limited hearthstone.”
“Don’t you need it?”
“I have Belahn’s old stone, the one N’lahr sent, and I will tap it well this night. Take the semblance. Drain it dry. It might make the difference.”
“I will. Thank you.” The gesture touched Sansyra deeply, for it was tantamount to a deep embrace.
Varama continued, “It’s vital you win your gate and hold it. This should be an assignment for an alten, but you’re nearly there—”
“I’m not sure I want the ring,” Sansayra blurted out in confession.
Varama looked startled at last, then quickly recovered. “That’s your prerogative, and something about which we should speak at a later time. Assuming we have one.”
Sansyra nodded but didn’t interrupt further.
“Whatever happens from here, I wish you to know that I appreciate your aid. Yours was a challenging role. I told you the numbers needed for a task, and it was you who had to pick the names. And often it was you who saw them fall.” Briefly Varama’s invisible veil slipped and Sansyra glimpsed a hint of anguish.
It was gone so swiftly she might have imagined it. “Thank you,” Varama said, for once meeting Sansyra’s eyes with something approaching warmth.
“It is my pleasure, and honor, to serve you, Alten. There is none with whom I would rather work.”
“That is kind,” Varama said, and it might be that just this once she actually registered the compliment, for she hesitated a brief moment before continuing. “I’ve wished for years we could outfit the higher-ranked squires in better armor, because too often we have to send you into places where we’d go ourselves, and without so fine a protection.”
There was no way around that, owing to expense and lengthy preparation of the fibers used to fashion khalats, and the slow growth of the trees from which they were processed. “That’s how it’s always been. You know we couldn’t have gotten to this moment without you, Alten. Please be careful. We may need you yet.”
“I will do what must be done. Just as you will. Now we’d best be on our way.”
So saying, Varama stepped past. Sansyra followed, and they headed forth to free the city or die in the trying.
23
The Fire in the Sky
Vannek hadn’t drawn in the new road. He could have, if he’d wanted the map to reflect the current situation, but he’d left the huge sheet of paper unmarred. Mostly this was because he thought his brother Koregan’s plan to build a road straight through the midst of the city stupid, and he meant to restore the preexisting roadway with its better defenses shortly.
But part of his hesitation lay behind a reluctance to alter what was a stunning piece of work. He knew the dangerous allure of the soft arts, and how the Dendressi corrupted and weakened their society by encouraging a reverence for pointless, pretty things. This map, though, wasn’t useless. Some unknown artist had drawn out an immense lovingly detailed image of the entire city, noting each and every dwelling, road, waterway, and change in elevation. Even the teeth in the walls were minutely delineated.
He had bade Syrik pin the masterwork drawing very carefully to the wall. The mage had suggested the map be placed upon the conference table, but Vannek knew it would be ruined by the kings that gathered, even if he agreed with Syrik’s assessment that they’d prefer to be closer to the drawing.
He wished Syrik was here, at his side. But with the death of the last dragon lord under his command, there was only one junior mage tutored in their use, and so she had ordered Syrik to find a way to master control of the animal himself, lest the final beast be rendered completely useless.
With Vannek instead were two scarred, grim brutes from his newly swelled corps of personal guard; most of Rolk’s followers were furious to learn of his demise and duly impressed with Vannek’s swift slaying of the old man’s assassin, so had pledged their swords. Nearly everyone seated at the table in the high white room was a similar somber, scarred man.
As night fell that evening, Vannek had gathered the nine highest kings of his expeditionary force. He hadn’t bothered serving a dinner first—that’s what Koregan would have done. It wouldn’t have impressed any of these suspicious men, just given time and a forum to test their veiled insults.
Now they waited at the table, silently watching. Probably they hoped he would suggest a policy they could deride, or a tactic they could question, seeking only to prove themselves to one another.
Outside, the sun had set. The two lanterns hung from the chandelier glowed low by prearrangement, and the two suspended above the map brought out a florid hue in the parchment. Vannek preferred the dim conditions; it was less obvious then that he looked like a woman. There was nothing he could do about his voice, save to speak with gruff directness.
He slashed out his hand toward the paper. “Our enemy left us an exacting map of our new home. Until now we’ve but crouched here, like a dog.” He pointed to the main gatehouse and quarter of the outer ring, and the raised second ring, with the manor house they occupied.
“We claim to hold the city, but we brawl over the bones we’ve already chewed. We own the Dendressi and yet we cower in their walls.” He said the last with a snarl and drove his fist into an open palm.
“What do you suggest?” This question came from velvet-voiced Kavnat, the deceptively casual master of the Shakni people, famed for their fierce axemen. “Please don’t tell me you want to send our men out on foot to attack the Dendressi horsefolk. We saw what happened yesterday. We must be patient.”
There were a few chuckles and a smirk or two, but others around the table weren’t willing to give Kavnat even that small amount of support. They waited for their own line of attack.
Vannek had anticipated Kavnat’s response would come from someone. “Patience. Old men plead for patience. What I lack is bold warriors who are impatient. It is high time we truly made this city ours! We are
careless with its riches. We trample the grain fields. Our men piss in the canals that water the crops, and throw filth into the wells. Soon they’ll be unfit for anything. My brother kept us from the great temples and their wealth, thinking we needed Chargan to secure them from curses. We are Naor! We have wrestled life from lands with little more than rock and sand! It is time to act!” Vannek jabbed a finger toward a point just off-center of the map. “I will occupy the citadel tomorrow. From there I will rule. Who is brave enough to master the temples?”
“My people will see to the temples,” young Stilkar said. “I do not fear.”
“That’s because you’re stupid,” Kavnat said, to a laugh from those nearest.
But Trelk, Red Feather chieftain, thrust up his hand. “I will see to the farm lands.”
Kavnat sneered at Vannek. “And you want me for the river, I suppose? What power is that?”
“The power is in pleasing me through serving me well,” Vannek said, and didn’t wait for the reaction. “He who controls the water has a hand in both our food, and our defenses. But perhaps that is too much for you, Kavnat.”
“I’ll take the north ring,” Mazhrel volunteered quickly.
That was too large an area for one man. Vannek shook his head and pointed to one portion on the northern area of the map. “You can take this region from the gate to the fruit groves.”
He didn’t mind the smile creeping over his face. It was working even better than he’d suspected. They were suddenly eager for his favor, for he’d demonstrated his power to distribute wealth. They would quarrel among themselves to set their own regions prospering, rather than unite against him.
Kavnat seemed suddenly to realize he’d best get involved and was shouting for attention about the southern pasture just when there came a loud knock at the door.
“Wait,” Vannek ordered, and pointed to one of his sentries, who stepped out, closing the door behind him before conferring with a concerned-looking messenger.
“I wish to pledge a location,” Kavnat shouted, but others called as well.
“Wait!” Vannek snapped, and the door came open and the sentry waved him over.
He walked into the hall, shut the door behind him, and gave his sentry his best “this had better be good” look. The sentry merely nodded to the messenger, so Vannek looked to him. “Report.”
The youth spoke quickly. “There are fires, floating in the sky. Above the city.”
Vannek struggled to attach meaning to the words, then realized that even if he didn’t fully understand, the Resistance must be up to some kind of attack. Wordless, he reentered the room. One of the kings must have already spotted something, for they were all crowded about the windows.
Vannek pushed his way through. Night had fallen, and the sky was hung with strands of clouds through which pockets of stars shone coldly down. From his vantage point on the second tier of the city, Vannek looked across the wide first circle of Alantris, glimpsing the fields and towering arches of the old aqueducts, the streets and the clusters of buildings, the canals in their stone channels, the gardens that sprouted seemingly everywhere, and the distant city wall. The invasion entry point was out of sight to the left, along with the dragon landing field.
Between clouds and ground, some forty yards to his right and at most a half mile out, a flame hung in the sky. He felt a chill as he realized it drifted closer by the heartbeat. Behind it, advancing over the abandoned expanse of an arena that was built along the edge of the second tier, were a score of additional sky flames.
While the kings muttered worriedly about sorcery, Vannek noted that something above each of the fires blotted the lighter shape of clouds. Each flame was suspended beneath some thing that drifted in the darkness. Might their enemies have conjured beasts of their own? Magic was surely involved, for the flames traveled against the wind.
An alert horn call sounded from the north, and seconds later another rang from deeper in the city.
“They’re trying to distract us with multiple fronts again,” Vannek declared.
The kings talked excitedly among themselves, ignoring him. One pointed to the stadium watchtower. It sat sheer on the side of the cliff looking down upon both the lower ring of the city and the stadium grounds. A lone figure stood upon its battlement performing grand sweeping gestures with his arms, as though he encouraged the wind. Upon his hand was a glowing blue ring.
“It’s N’lahr!” Kavnat cried.
“Yes,” Vannek said, though he wondered if it was true. Kavnat seemed less frightened than eager.
The closest flame veered to the right and slid toward the slate-roofed stables across the street. One of the kings gasped and jabbed a finger at the inverted vaselike shape revealed by the flames suddenly eating it. Then the object crashed down in orange agony on the roof, which instantly blazed into life.
Vannek swore. His brother Koregan had allowed the chieftains and kings to lair in the city’s government buildings, perched here in a cluster. Fiery doom could shortly engulf all their wooden command buildings. Another flame already sank toward the mansion where Kavnat had set his headquarters. Nearer still, the flames dropped beside a trio of headless statues and began consuming the homes on either side of the street.
Vannek grabbed Trelk’s arm and shouted at him to organize his men in bucket brigades. He called the cavalry commander close. “Ride like the demons are on you to secure the gates!”
“The gates?” Kavnat scoffed. The cavalry commander was already running for the door.
Kavnat wasn’t usually this stupid. “They’ll try to draw us to internal problems while they assault from outside!”
Kavnat’s brows rose in surprise, and for a brief moment he looked on Vannek as though he were an equal. “The clever bastards. All right. I’m going to go kill N’lahr,” he vowed.
Almost surely that alten was a lure, for she knew Altenerai could move with secrecy and had no need of letting their rings shine, even when they practiced sorcery. But he’d be damned if he’d let Kavnat take command. “Good—come with me.”
The stables were an inferno. A small band of attendants had managed to pull a few animals free, but the rest whinnied frantically from within the fiery death trap.
While Kavnat complained that there were no saddles, Vannek’s chief bodyguard helped calm a stone-white stallion. Vannek thought the animal ready enough to mount, yet waited for his honor guard to join him, watching the twenty men of Kavnat’s squad as their troublesome leader climbed onto his own horse and kicked it forward. His men raced off at his side.
Only then did Vannek mount, crying for his men to hurry. He had no intention of catching up to Kavnat, though. If there was a trap he’d let the king find it.
The Altenerai amphitheater was carved into the cliffside, the seats descending toward the long field where knee-high grass rose. A wall curved along the rim; beyond it was the fifty-foot drop to the first ring below.
The tower where the alten had stood rose on the far end of the stadium, built along the curve of the wall, just in front of a row of outbuildings. Vannek saw no sign of the alten atop the tower, and visibility was simple, for the fire to their rear stained the clouds with crimson and lit the sky like sunset.
Kavnat advanced his horse at a trot, his men running along beside. “Come on, boys! We’re going to go kill the king of the Altenerai!” His men shouted enthusiastically, and Vannek wished more of her people showed such spirit at mention of N’lahr.
As Kavnat drew within twenty paces of the tower, his horse screamed in pain and then reared. Five of his warriors faltered, and two leapt back, one hopping on his foot. Kavnat dropped from his mount rather than hanging on to be thrown. It galloped awkwardly into the darkness, one leg stiff.
“Watch your footing!” Kavnat cried. “They’ve scattered spikes!”
As he and his men picked their way carefully toward the tower, constantly glancing down, Vannek held his men behind, waiting for the inevitable. And it came. A pair of figures poppe
d up along the tower battlement. Each held a bow.
“There are only two!” Kavnat screamed. “Charge them!”
As Kavnat shouted, an arrow found him and he dropped with a shaft buried in his face. Two of the soldiers fell to their knees to check on him and the rest charged the tower door.
Vannek got a faint whiff of oil as he drew close to the point where Kavnat had encountered spikes. He urged his soldiers to ready spears.
The archers sent a few more shafts, then dropped from sight. Four of Kavnat’s men were taking turns banging into the sturdy door with their shoulders. Another had reached the tower’s side and called for his companion to scale his back to try for a low, deep-set window. Others simply milled around, staring upward, fingering their axes.
“The Dendressi archers are going to return at any moment,” Vannek said to his men. “I want you three to aim at the archer on the right, you others for the one on the left.”
His soldiers nodded their assent. The battlements were just barely in range.
The archers stepped back into view and Vannek’s men cast their spears. Both archers dropped. One cried out.
And then someone else fired from the second-floor window. This arrow was aflame and it seemed unlikely to hit anything or anyone, for it passed over the heads of Kavnat’s men, and it was well clear of Vannek’s soldiers.
When it struck the ground, flame erupted and flared out through the grasses to left and right.
Vannek’s horse pitched in terror. He fumbled to grab its neck as fire blinded his view. He dug fingers into the stallion’s mane, realizing the Altenerai had spread oil along the ground, cursing himself for failing to realize the import of the smell. He nearly lost his seat as his mount spun and bolted free.
His men ran, but they were in the midst of the flames. Their long pants caught fire, and they screamed in pain and fear. They ran as far as they could, then fell writhing in the burning grass.
Upon the Flight of the Queen Page 37
