For the Killing of Kings

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Elenai pushed the memories forward, one after the other in quick succession. M’lahna’s words, M’lahna’s death, Cargen’s denials and his memory of the tower, the long, long ride through the Shifting Lands, the recovery of N’lahr, the discovery of Belahn, the perilous flight into chaos. She gave her all of it, then traced it back to herself, lying in the mud while M’lahna spoke with the motionless Kyrkenall.

  Gyldara shook. Had she been party to it all? Was this some kind of trick or had she simply been blinded by vengeance and deceived by Denaven? Seeing the woman’s stricken expression, Elenai thought she knew, and dropped the link.

  Kyrkenall stepped back, Lothrun lowered but teeth gritted, very much like a wolf waiting for his moment. He breathed heavily without much noise.

  Gyldara’s eyes glistened with tears. Her voice was low, trembling. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” Kyrkenall rasped.

  “That my sister murdered Asrahn. That she tried to kill you both.” Gyldara searched Elenai’s eyes, as if for confirmation. She must have found it there. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Gods. What have I done?”

  “What have I done?” Kyrkenall repeated. And his gaze swung to his right, where Decrin lay. N’lahr was there now, kneeling by the man as his life force faded, and Tretton looked on, haggard, right arm stiffly at his side. It was scarlet with pain.

  Kyrkenall moved toward them almost mechanically.

  Elenai tore her eyes from Gyldara and looked over to where Ortok now loomed, shoulders heaving from exertion, beside Lasren. The young alten was struggling to his feet, eyeing the kobalin with distrust and fear. She couldn’t know if N’lahr had shouted something or if Ortok and the alten had come to terms on their own. And somehow she felt it difficult to care, for the music of the hearthstone was so alluring. Now that the combat was over and she was no longer focused each moment upon life and death, she heard its siren call, and wanted to hear nothing else. At some level she knew that she was hypnotized by its sweet sound, but that didn’t matter. She wanted to lose herself within it, leave this scene of devastation, as though she were sinking into a warm tub of water.

  A question from Gyldara pulled her back. “And that’s really Commander N’lahr?”

  “Yes.” Wasn’t it obvious? Why was she asking such irritating questions? Why was any of this, here, in the regular world, of interest in any way?

  “Are you all right?” Gyldara asked in a tiny voice. And then something in Elenai’s look must have warned her that she wasn’t, for the other woman reached out to grasp one arm, and then the other, staring into her eyes. Elenai felt herself rigid in Gyldara’s hands, unable to breathe. “Squire?”

  For reasons she didn’t fully understand, that human contact was the release she needed. She relinquished her hold on the hearthstone, or gave it permission to release her, and cycled it closed. Her body was her own once more. It was as if she’d stepped out of a role she’d adopted for the stage, a demanding one, for she had to shake her head to clear her thoughts. To Gyldara’s questioning look, she nodded her thanks. The alten released her and then the two, wordless, joined the knot about Decrin.

  Kyrkenall and N’lahr sat on either side of him. The prone alten still had his shield strapped across his left arm. His khalat had been unhooked and N’lahr pulled back from examining the wound, an ugly vertical opening driven right through the center of his chest. He reeked of blood, and he’d lost a lot of it, because his broad square face was pale. Even without her inner sight, Elenai could see he was dying.

  Kyrkenall, head bowed, gripped Decrin’s right hand tightly in his own.

  Decrin’s face was ghastly as he smiled. There was blood on his lips, and his voice cracked as he rolled his head to better see Kyrkenall. “Varama never doubted you. I should have believed her. She was always the smartest.”

  Kyrkenall seemed to grow conscious of Elenai and Gyldara, though he ignored the other woman and fixed Elenai with a stricken stare. “Can’t you do something? Stop the blood?”

  She started to say she might try, but then admitted to herself she had no healing skills. She barely had proficiency in field dressings, let alone their magical counterparts. And this wound was beyond any she’d seen trained healers struggle with. She shook her head no.

  Decrin grinned up at Kyrkenall. “You were too good,” he said with a wan smile. “I didn’t know my guard gaped that wide.”

  “It only takes a little opening,” Kyrkenall said in a small voice.

  “Why did you stay away, Kyrkenall?” Decrin asked. His voice was so quiet, the question so raw and honest that the big man sounded like a little child. “I missed you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kyrkenall said. Tears coursed unashamedly down his cheeks.

  “I would have helped, if you’d come to me,” he said. “You could have trusted me.”

  “Would that I had,” Kyrkenall said, choking.

  “I don’t know how he convinced us. Every time I was suspicious, he showed me I was wrong. What was it all about, anyway?” Decrin asked. “I’d like to know that, before I die.”

  N’lahr answered him. “Denaven and the queen traded my ‘death’ for hearthstones from Mazakan. They trapped me with magic, although that might have been an accident.”

  “There’s a lot we don’t know,” Elenai added.

  “Hearthstones,” Tretton observed bitterly.

  “What does she even want them for?” Decrin asked.

  “Belahn thought it was all about some lost goddess,” N’lahr replied. “But the hearthstones had driven him half mad, so we don’t really know.”

  Elenai had once heard Decrin roar orders on the practice field, and his voice was a ghost of that strength, though he tried to raise it. “Gods damn it! What a time to die.” He gritted his teeth and shook his head, weakly. “The Naor invading, N’lahr back, that shit-sore Denaven dead.” He looked between his friends. “Hey, you’ll visit my vault, won’t you, sometimes?”

  “I will,” Kyrkenall vowed. His eyes had filled with tears.

  N’lahr nodded once.

  “Every year,” Tretton promised solemnly.

  “Leave some bottles there,” Decrin muttered toward Kyrkenall. “But don’t put me in. Burn me up. Somewhere with clean wood. I want my soul launched pure and proper, right?”

  “Right,” Tretton answered. Ekhem’s traditions would no doubt be upheld.

  Gyldara stepped closer, wiping tears from her face.

  Elenai had never known Decrin well. By the time she’d reached third rank, the alten was rarely to be found in Darassus. Yet he was a legend, as famous for his booming laugh as his prowess on the battlefield, and his loss was a blow not just to the corps but to the realms themselves. Gyldara had squired with him, which explained the depth of her grief, but Elenai found herself weeping as well.

  “Gyldara,” Decrin said, brightening as if he’d only now noticed her. “It’s him. It’s really N’lahr.”

  “I know,” Gyldara whispered.

  “Should have known the truth when Kyrkenall shot Tretton’s Naor.” Decrin’s voice was failing.

  “We all should have,” Gyldara said.

  But Decrin of the Shining Shield couldn’t hear her anymore.

  Kyrkenall let out a soul-searing cry of anguish. He stood, searching them all, as if he hoped to find an enemy. But there was none.

  “I killed my brother!” Kyrkenall raged. He shouted at N’lahr, “I slew Decrin Henahdra!” He slashed through several nearby branches before launching Lothrun spinning from his hands into the distant grass. His hands went to his hair and pushed it wildly back. His eyes were mad as he broke into verse, facing Gyldara: “Even with the lies laid bare, I faced you, and longed to see your blood upon my sword. I lusted for revenge, all reason lost.” He looked as if he invited attack, and she recoiled. Then he turned, sharply, and his words grew almost incoherent as sorrow garbled his speech. “Wind back time’s march, you useless, pointless Gods. Surely you have cursed me; I curse you all!�
� He sank to his knees, head low, and his shoulders shook with grief, framed by the endless void.

  Elenai feared he’d cast himself into the abyss, but N’lahr approached, alone. “All battles are fought in darkness,” he said softly. “And blood stains all who still move. Only right action can redeem the necessities of survival.” He put a hand to his friend’s shoulder and helped him rise. They embraced briefly before the commander pointed and Kyrkenall left to retrieve his sword.

  N’lahr looked over to her at last, and nodded once, gravely. “You did well.”

  She bowed her head in acknowledgment, appreciating the compliment and wondering why she did not blush, as she would have done only a few days before. Perhaps it was her fatigue. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I should like my sword back.”

  She’d actually forgotten she still held it, and looked down to see it gripped tightly in her hand. “Yes, of course.”

  She passed it over, glumly, and he considered Irion for a moment before he bent to wipe Denaven’s blood on the grass.

  Elenai grew conscious that Lasren had limped forward, Ortok a cautious five paces to his right. The kobalin’s furry torso was crossed with blood, but she couldn’t tell if he himself was in much pain. He licked the fur of his left forearm like an injured dog.

  “Two of the squires are still alive, sir,” Lasren announced meekly. “One of them’s hurt pretty bad.”

  “Are any of you healers?” N’lahr asked.

  Gyldara and Lasren both shook their heads no. “We’ve trained to dress battle injuries, though.”

  “She’s better at it than me,” Lasren admitted.

  “See what you can do for them,” N’lahr replied to Gyldara’s questioning look. “I’ll be along momentarily.”

  “Yes, Commander.” She turned and walked off. Lasren stared wonderingly at N’lahr for a moment, then limped after.

  N’lahr looked briefly after Kyrkenall’s direction, then over to Ortok. “How are you?”

  “The pain is not bad. I will live.” He indicated Decrin with a bob of his head. “Is that one really Kyrkenall’s brother?”

  “All who join the corps are brothers and sisters,” N’lahr explained.

  “I’m sorry I killed one, then. But they were trying to kill me.”

  “You did what you had to do, Ortok. No apology is necessary. I thank you for your help. I’ll take a look at your wounds in a moment.” N’lahr shifted his attention to Tretton. “Shouldn’t you be bleeding? You haven’t had time to bandage yourself.”

  The old soldier spoke with the faintest suggestion of amusement. “You youngsters always think you’re the only ones with enchantments. I know how to keep the blood in my body.”

  “Is your arm broken?” Elenai asked.

  “Something’s been damaged,” Tretton said dismissively. “I can’t move it very well. Perhaps you can explain, N’lahr, why’s there a kobalin with you?”

  “Long story,” N’lahr said tiredly.

  Elenai, thinking of Kyrkenall, pulled out a quote from Selena. “‘Some whom we thought our friends were enemies. And some whom we thought enemies are friends.’”

  She expected Tretton to question further, but he merely nodded, sagely.

  “How did you track us?” Elenai asked. “I had the hearthstone off.”

  “Denaven knew the general direction you’d been heading. And I followed the signs. Getting us here exhausted everyone. While we recovered, Denaven hatched plans for an ambush and quickly put them to action when he detected your approach. He was clever, you know.”

  “More’s the pity,” N’lahr said.

  The final toll could have been worse, but given the state of the corps and the challenges before them, the deaths here were a blow that could ill be afforded. In addition to Denaven and Ortala, they’d lost Decrin and two squires. A third was suffering from agonizing pain where Ortok had struck him in the shoulder, and Yeva, who Elenai had helped tutor in sword drills, had narrowly escaped death from one of Kyrkenall’s arrows, for it had struck the meat of her throat but miraculously avoided both windpipe and major vessels.

  Tretton’s arm had been pierced and suffered some sort of nerve damage. The best hope for both him and the most severely wounded squire was a talented healer. Any of those, though, were days away.

  Ortok’s wounds were mostly superficial but required a lot of tending. He hadn’t approved of that, and had liked N’lahr’s sewing even less, though he’d submitted to treatment and bandaging in the end.

  Lasren’s thigh was bruised and swollen thanks to a glancing blow he’d taken from Ortok’s hammer. He could barely walk, but insisted that he would ride with the rest of them as N’lahr explained what must be done. The commander had shared his plan, the steps they had to take to enact it, and the speed at which they had to travel, and Tretton reluctantly agreed that he would follow behind with the wounded. There was no horse that would seat Ortok, so he, too, would have to catch up later as N’lahr intended to make up time with an even harder ride.

  “We can’t stay for funerals,” N’lahr said soberly. He glanced to Kyrkenall, but the little archer stood drained and vacant-eyed beside him, and did not react.

  “We’ll bear the others to hallowed ground but we’ll consign Decrin to the flames,” Tretton said, “once we reach a land with good timber.”

  N’lahr nodded. “We’ll drink to him, should we meet again on this side of the line.”

  By that, Elenai knew he meant the line separating life from death.

  N’lahr’s gaze roved over to Ortok, then to Gyldara. How much the bright-eyed woman had changed, since the last time Elenai had seen her. Her sister’s death and the long chase and the unveiling of the lies had left her gaunt and shadowed with grief and shame. Gone, too, was Lasren’s insouciance. A pall hung over him, as though he felt chastened. Kyrkenall looked the worst of all, as though burdened by all the world’s wrongs.

  Only Tretton appeared much as Elenai had always seen him, save that the arm slung across his chest in an off-white bandage was held immobile.

  “Before we go, there’s one last thing that must be done,” N’lahr said. “I hold that Elenai has reached our circle.” Without pausing for breath, he began the formal recitation of the ceremony of the ring. “I know her character, I have seen her deeds, and bear witness to their virtue. She shall shield the defenseless. Who stands in accord with me?”

  At these words, these ancient ritual words, Elenai felt a start despite fatigue. She looked in surprise at N’lahr, wondering why he should do this now. What had it been, exactly, that brought her to this? She’d always imagined the day she’d won the ring would be filled with glory, and that she would stand exultant after accomplishing some impossible deed.

  Today she only felt numb, and that wasn’t how she’d dreamed it, not at all. In any case, how could she ever have envisioned that a man she’d thought dead would nominate her, or that it would occur on the field of battle after she’d slain an Altenerai commander?

  Kyrkenall spoke next. His words might have been rote, but he delivered them with such conviction that they seemed spontaneous and entirely natural. “I stand with you,” he said, and his eyes flickered to weary life as he turned to N’lahr. “I have seen her skill with sword, and spell, and bear witness to their excellence. She shall defeat our enemies. Who stands with us?”

  Gyldara spoke last, her voice remote and almost ghostlike. “I stand with you. I have seen her reason fairly and bear witness to her wisdom. She shall mete justice to high, and to low.”

  N’lahr met her eyes, his weary face strikingly solemn. “Elenai Dartaan, we three nominate you to our ranks. You know well the standards of the corps. You stand ready to carry mighty burdens, and to walk a narrow path trod only by the brave. Do you pledge to honor the laws of our people, the traditions of the corps, and to emulate the conduct of the best who have worn the ring before you?”

  She thought of Decrin, lying still and silent under the blanket only a dozen pac
es off, and nodded once, formally. “I do.”

  “Then join us in recitation of the oath.” N’lahr spoke first, but she joined in with him. The others took up the lines, quickly adapting to his rhythm.

  “When comes my numbered day, I will meet it smiling. For I’ll have kept this oath.

  I shall use my arms to shield the weak.

  I shall use my lips to speak the truth, and my eyes to seek it.

  I shall use my hand to mete justice to high and to low, and I will weigh all things with heart and mind.

  Where I walk the laws will follow, for I am the sword of my people and the shepherd of their lands.

  When I fall, I will rise through my brothers and my sisters, for I am eternal.”

  Tears, unwanted, stood in her eyes. She had thought she’d be elated when she won the ring. Why was she crying? She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  “Hail, Alten Elenai.” N’lahr put his palm to his heart in salute and set his sapphire ring blazing.

  Kyrkenall, Gyldara, Lasren, and Tretton already had hands to chest, and set their own rings burning. Their voices rose as one. “Hail, Alten Elenai!”

  “Long may you wear the ring,” Kyrkenall said.

  “I…” She fumbled with speech only for a moment, then bowed her head, wishing eloquence might come to her. But sometimes the simplest words were best. “I thank you.”

  “I’ve had Lasren ready Ortala’s khalat for you,” N’lahr said. “You’ll find it a better fit. We’ll remove the exalt piping later. Don it, and mount up. We’ve far to ride.”

  23

  Wind Rider

  The bed was soft, the sheets warm and smooth. Rylin opened his eyes in the morning sun and stretched his arms and legs, luxuriating.

  He had awakened in a rectangular stone room they’d given him in the citadel, and the air within was cool and fresh. Light from the curtainless window streamed through slats and threw lines over the covers that hid his legs. He was naked apart from his undergarments. His Altenerai khalat and pants lay folded on the small dressing table with the rest of his clothes, where his sheathed sword and knife leaned.